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Draco Lucius Malfoy is six years of age when he goes missing from the hours of 12:30 pm to 7:15 pm.

He and his parents had made a trip to Diagon Alley and he had wandered off. He does not remember why. It was simply one of those moments in our earliest youth where we act on an impulse we have yet to even feel. A blink and you are somewhere else, with no memory in your mind but a memory in your limbs of the move.

Draco Lucius Malfoy is six years of age and a curious soul when he wanders off and finds himself lost in Muggle London, loud blaring horns filling his head and the bizarre smells of food and pollution warring in his nostrils.

He does not know where to go, but he also does not know he should be afraid. Not yet. He knows he is confused and frazzled, and he needs to find something familiar to ground him, so he continues to wander.

Draco Lucius Malfoy is found after he walks back into the Leaky Cauldron nearly seven hours after his disappearance. He is unharmed and content, but strangely quiet about his time away. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy only care that they have him back. For weeks afterwards they do not let their son out of their sight, showering him in gifts for his stressful time around all those filthy Muggles, for that must be the reason he will not speak on it.

Draco Lucius Malfoy goes missing in Muggle London for almost seven hours and when he is found he is welcomed back home with few questions. His family is only happy to have him back, after all. Their wonderful, young son is returned and safe, completely unharmed despite having trudged through the filthy, Muggle streets for the better part of a day.

No one ever notices the radio stashed away in the six-year-old’s robes.

~ ~ ~

Dobby was giving Draco a very strange look. Draco doubts he realizes he is doing it, since he would have immediately realized how rude he was being and given himself a proper smack for it. No, Dobby has been thrown so much for a loop he can’t even notice his own actions.

“Young Master Draco is… thanking Dobby?” the little house elf enquires quietly, like he cannot believe it. Which is fair. The notion is preposterous, yet somehow Draco had been bullied into doing it. Verbally bullied. How foolish.

“Yes. I did. Do not expect to hear it again if you intend to keep gaping at me like a fly trap,” Draco snaps before he turns on his heel and marches back to his room, nose held high. He hears the unmistakable noise of Dobby squeaking frantically before tripping over something and toppling to the floor.

Once back in his room Draco quietly shuts his door, does a cursory look around to make sure no other house elf is present, then scurries to his bed and crouches down. The underside of his bed is filthy with dust, toys, and forgotten books. It is the one place the house elves are not to clean or rummage through, on Draco’s orders.

He pushes aside a few of the books and reaches between a stack of old, stuffed animals. With familiarity he finds the plastic object hidden within and pulls it out, then scampers off to the en suite, locks the door, opens the window, and sits in the tub just beneath it. He had found the bathroom was significantly more secure than his own bedroom - he could lock the door without looking suspicious, after all - plus the window only need be opened by a single latch rather than the scraping pull of his bedroom window.

It was easier to use the radio with the window open. Draco didn’t know why, but Max said it was because of the “sat-e-light” signal.

“I did as requested,” Draco says into the black device the size of a brick, finger on a little red button on the side. He releases it and waits for a familiar crackle.

“You’re supposed to say ‘Draco to Max, come in, over’,” the young voice comes through, distorted but young and nasally. Draco narrows his eyes at it.

“I most certainly will not. I already had to degrade myself once today, I refuse to do it again.”

“What seven-year-old says ‘degrade’? Besides, you should be thanking your butler on a regular basis, anyway. Not just when you lose a bet.”

“I still believe you cheated.”

“My papa has a NeXT computer! That’s not cheating! Not my fault your parents won’t take you out of the Stone Age.” Draco knows what most of those words mean individually. Together, however, he is left baffled. He has no intention of asking for clarification, however. It would not do to show weakness to the enemy.

“Do not expect to be victorious again,” Draco growls, glaring even harder at the radio in his hands. He had to hold it with both, otherwise it got too heavy.

“I’m going to make you keep being nice to people. You need to learn already! Mama always tells me to have some curtsy, even when I don’t like the person.”

“I suspect the word you are searching for is courtesy… And I am plenty nice!”

“Only to the people you like, maybe. Mama says everyone deserves respect so long as they walk on God’s green earth.”

“Your mother is weird.”

“Tell me about it. She yelled at me the other day for not making my bed! Like… I’m going to get in it again tonight. Why make it all over again? Are we having guests? What guests are you bringing into my room, woman?!”

The conversation neatly changes into idle chatter and Draco is left wondering why he even still talks to this Muggle child. Two years of “researching the enemy” has led to nothing but long-range, late night chats in his bathtub with a fellow seven-year-old half-way across the globe. He is wasting his time, and he knows it.

He doesn’t stop, though.

~ ~ ~

Draco Lucius Malfoy is six-years-old when he goes wandering in Muggle London all on his own, in search of something he can find familiar. Certainly, there are landmarks, famous landmarks, that he’s heard of or read about, but they offer little comfort. Most are Muggle, or have been appropriated by the Muggles, his father claims. They are no longer of the Wizarding World.

It is with a great stroke of luck that he stumbles upon a building with WW painted on the front. Draco is quite good at reading, a very quick learner according to his tutors, but he still has to pause and give the letters a good look to process them.

London, England’s National WW2 Museum

Draco does not understand the purpose of the “2,” but he knows for a fact that WW stands for Wizarding World. A museum, however? Why would there be a museum like this in the middle of all these… What had his father called them? Filthy ingrates.

Muggles were moronic, filthy savages. That’s what his father had said. Draco did not know what that meant precisely, but he knew it was bad. Thus, he knew that a museum like this could be no good. What about the Statute of Secrecy? Did the Muggles have no decency?

Feeling the heroic sort of righteousness only a young child can truly appreciate, Draco marches into the building, ready to demand answers as to why the Muggles were not letting the wizarding folk be secret. Magic, however, is not what Draco finds within.

Everything is so… alien. Metal birds, grainy pictures that won’t move, plastic mannequins dressed in drab colors and holding huge wands made of metal. Draco stares in awe around him as people mill about. They leave him be, assuming he’s just someone there to enjoy the museum, and Draco idly begins to wander.

There are massive machines everywhere, jeeps and planes they’re called, and Draco is first drawn to them. Plaques in bronze give names and dates - it appears most everything is centered around the 1940s - while laminated signs on podiums give more extensive details.

Apparently, Muggles had a different meaning for WW. “World War 2.” Draco wants to scoff. A world war? Oh, please. A war that spanned the globe, not one but two, and he had never heard about it? What a joke. Muggles were probably just entertaining themselves with some made up story. He’d admit, it was probably famous if it was getting its own museum, but it seemed ridiculous. Muggles were ridiculous.

Why was he still looking around, then?

It is while Draco is standing in front of a floor to ceiling photo of a man in uniform dipping and kissing a woman, trying to figure out why Muggle photos can be so emotional even when they don’t move, when someone his age appears at his side and gags.

“Oh gross! Why’s this here? This is supposed to be a war museum, jeez!” the kid has their tongue sticking out, brown hair a mess, and is eying the picture like it’s hippogriff dung.

Draco narrows his eyes at this child, affronted they have the gall to dare approach him, let alone speak to him. Although… he supposes he should play along. He is incognito in this Muggle environment after all.

“It is titled ‘The Kiss’ by Alfred Eisenstaedt,” he informs the idiot child, pointing directly at the name plate beside the photo. The kid looks at him, blinks slowly, and Draco is certain they are mentally impaired.

“You dress funny.”

“You sound funny,” Draco snaps back. The kid has the gall to shrug.

“I’m from America. Playing tourist with my parents and my stupid older brother.” The kid turns to motion towards what must be the rest of their family. The father is making a fool of himself, his oversized glasses slipping down his nose as he excitedly examines every single plaque, sign, and exhibit. The mother is smiling at her husband, her features round but elegant, which surprises Draco. Muggles aren’t meant to be elegant. The apparent brother is standing even farther away with weird earmuffs on that have a string attaching them to a little, black device.

“Are you here with your family, too?” The kid is still talking to him.

“They know where I am,” Draco lies.

“Boring place, huh?” the kid smirks, wiggling thin eyebrows.

“It is educational,” Draco berates on instinct. As silly as Muggles may be, a museum is a museum and it deserves some respect.

“I like the guns, though.” Draco doesn’t know what a gun is. He doesn’t ask. “I’m Max, by the way!”

The kid - Max - is suddenly sticking out their hand, smiling brightly. Draco eyes the hand nervously. Even as young as he is, Draco has shaken many adult’s hands. Aristocrats, the cream of the crop, high society.

He knew a good handshake was firm. Flimsy wrists meant a flimsy backbone. He also knew Muggles, as filthy as they may be, they were also crafty. His father said so. Muggles gaining magical abilities while squibs are born into pureblood homes? It had to be tied together. Muggles were jealous. They lacked what Draco and his people had. They wanted what Draco and his people had. They were dangerous, and Draco didn’t want to be a squib.

“Come ooooon. Mama says this is how to greet new friends! You’re being rude!” Max whines, hand wiggling in front of Draco’s face, and the six-year-old’s sharp but young mind latches onto one word.

He’s never had a friend before. And he didn’t want to come off as rude. He was a high bred child. He was poised and in control, not sloppy or rude. He was better, just like his mother and father said, and it would not do to let them down.

Draco reaches out, taking the Muggle’s hand, face set firmly with determination. “My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“That’s a weird name.”

The handshake is firm.

~ ~ ~

Draco had private tutors. Every kid he knew had them. They didn’t teach him magic, though, but they showed him. He couldn’t wait to get his wand and start doing magic himself, but that was still years away.

All of the kids Draco knew - Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Parkinson - had private tutors too. Draco thought, therefore, every kid had tutors, but Max apparently didn’t. No, apparently Max went to something called elementary school with other Muggle children.

It sounded dreadful, being surrounded by so many Muggles on a regular basis. Draco supposes they all must be accustomed to it, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to do anything like that. He’d surely catch something dreadful and die on the spot.

It did lead him to asking his parents if all wizarding children had tutors, though.

“Some parents tutor their children,” his mother had offered over the breakfast table.

“Because they can’t afford a proper tutor, usually,” his father tacks on, eyes on the morning paper. Draco’s mother hated when Draco read at the table, but apparently his father was exempt from that rule. Maybe it was an adult thing.

“Why?” Draco asks. That was his favorite question, but his parents didn’t like him asking it very often, so he tried to keep them to a minimum.

“Their own incompetence,” Lucius Malfoy sneers, eyes distant, and Draco wonders why he’s so mad. “They lack the drive to do anything beneficial in our society, and whine when they are not pampered. The Ministry, thus, spoils them until they are quiet.”

“You’re in the Ministry, father! Could you get them to do something ‘beneficial’?” Draco brightens, eagerly waiting for his father to reply. His father was powerful and demanding, both at home and at work. Draco wanted to be just like him.

“Oh, I intend to,” his father finally lowers his newspaper to smile at his son. It’s a small, thin movement and looks more like a smirk, but it means the world to Draco. “But these things take time. It is a game of patience and strategy.”

Draco nods vigorously, trying to show he understands even though he doesn’t entirely. “What about magical Muggles?” He asks out of the blue.

“Do you mean Muggleborns, darling?” his mother asks, brows slightly pinched, and Draco nods. “What about them?”

“Does the Ministry spoil them, too?”

“Mudbloods,” Draco looks back to his father, the sneer back on his pointy face, and he is looking off in obvious agitation. “Disgusting things. Yes, they will certainly be the first things to go once I have my say.”

Draco decides not to mention that his question was never answered. He can tell his father is now in a mood and it would be unwise to push anything.

That evening he decides to tell Max about it all. With obvious censoring for his Muggle audience, of course.

Draco brags about his father to all the other children, eager to prove how much better he is than their fathers. Power, after all, was most important, and it was important to remind others just how much more powerful you truly were.

“Papa says politicians are a bunch of liars,” Max hums over the radio and Draco cocky smirk slips from his face. “That it’s hard to find a decent one.”

“My father is not a liar,” Draco snarls, but it clearly has little effect on the Muggle.

“How do you know? What if he lied about being a liar? Plus! You just said he wants to kick out a bunch of people for no reason except that he doesn’t like them.”

“That is not why he wishes to rid us of them!” Draco’s voice rises, fury boiling within his tiny body and his cheeks turning splotchy and red. How dare this Muggle insinuate he knew anything about this situation. Max didn’t know the whole story, couldn’t know it, since he was part of the very issue Draco’s father currently faced.

“Why, then?” Max sounds genuinely curious.

“These people are dirty and dangerous. They want to disrupt the traditions long kept sacred by my ancestors. They--“

“So what? Traditions suck anyway.”

“E-excuse me?!”

“Yeah! Like, every Sunday I get dragged to church in these scratchy clothes and I have to sit around for, like, forever and they talk and talk and talk about really boring stuff because it’s ‘tradition’,” Draco thinks he can actually hear the air quotes, “Then the singing is awful and I’m not even allowed to drink the wine and I have to go to Sunday school afterwards while all the parents go and chat and eat donuts! It’s super unfair! And that’s all tradition, so…”

Draco has no idea what he has just listened to, but it still makes him pause. He gathers himself, trying to find the will to be indignant, but it is getting harder and harder to do with Max.

“These people… you just don’t understand. They’re still dangerous,” he tries to get Max to understand. Max may be a Muggle, but a Muggle that minds their own business. Not like Muggleborns. “Mudbloods,” his father had said.

“How?”

That pulls Draco up short. How? That was certainly an interesting question. How were mudbloods dangerous? Draco had been repeating what his parents and tutors all said, because they knew what they were talking about, but he couldn’t recall ever being told the reasoning behind it all.

There was the theory that Muggles stole magic from proper wizarding families to give their own children magic, but it was a feeble explanation that extended exposure to Max and the subsequent lessons in Muggle culture had taught Draco could not be true.

Muggles did have weapons. Great, terrible weapons… Draco had seen them at the museum. But the Muggles seemed more interested foolishly pointing them at each other than pointing them at the Wizarding World.

“They…” Draco begins, but stops when he isn’t sure what he actually wants to say.

Max gives him time to respond, but after a while of silence the Muggle decides it is their turn to speak again. “I think your dad might be scared of change,” Max says, voice soft despite the crackle of the radio.

“My father fears nothing!” Draco immediately springs on the defensive, eyes flashing dangerously at the radio in his hands. He wishes Max could see his face, could see just what a dangerous path he was treading.

“Everyone’s afraid of something. My mama told me so.” That draws Draco up short. Max’s mother? Muggle or not, a mother was a mother, and they knew far more than anyone could ever fathom. Draco’s own mother had proven that. “Maybe your dad is scared of everything changing, like with those traditions and junk. Maybe that’s why he’s trying to get rid of them.”

“Change can be quite a frightening thing,” Draco admits, but he is still having a hard time grasping the idea that his own father would be frightened of anything like that.

“I know, right? Just the other day my friend at school had to move and it was so scary and stressful! Well, it was only a few streets away, but now I can’t walk to their house anymore, I have to get my bike, and…”

Draco stops listening.

~ ~ ~

“Mother,” Draco says softly as he approaches Narcissa Malfoy in the manor’s library. She sits, prim and proper, on a fainting couch made of dark stained wood and beige cushions embroidered with gold. She looks beautiful, the most beautiful woman Draco has ever seen, and she turns to look at her son with a relaxed expression.

“Yes, Draco?” she urges, watching her son.

“You know everything, right?”

A small, humorous smile plays at Narcissa’s lips, her eyes twinkling with an openness she dares not show to the outside world. Here with her son, however, her edges soften. “I do,” she replies lowly, “What would you like to know?”

Draco fidgets with his robes for a moment, standing before his mother, as he suddenly feels anxious. “Do… Do adults get afraid of stuff, too?”

Narcissa’s well shaped brows rise in surprise, having not expected such a serious question, before she motions for Draco to join her. The young boy climbs onto the couch beside his mother and she puts an arm around his shoulders, holding him close to her side. Her nails are perfectly shaped and long, painted a deep shade of blue that goes well with her black robes and sapphire-encrusted jewelry.

“Are you afraid of something, little dragon?” Narcissa asks softly, a hand brushing away some of Draco’s bangs.

It makes the boy puff out his cheeks and look up at his mother indignantly. “You didn’t answer my question,” he whines, and his mother arches a brow. A reprimanding poke in the shoulder from one of Narcissa’s blue claws makes Draco relax his face.

“Yes. Adults can be frightened,” Narcissa finally says, voice calm. So, Max’s mother had been right. Draco doubted she knew everything like Narcissa did, but it was good to know that there was at least someone in that Muggle household who knew what they were doing.

“Even you and father?” Draco asks after a few beats.

“Even your father and I,” Narcissa gives a single nod, “Now tell me. What has brought on these questions? What has frightened you?”

Draco wants to say that nothing has frightened him, but that isn’t true. Something has certainly shaken him, at the very least, and it is the very same thing that Max suspects Lucius of fearing.

“Change,” Draco admits, hanging his head low, and his mother brushes her fingers through his hair. “Are Muggles as bad as you and father say they are?”

Draco cannot see his mother’s expression where he’s lowered his head, but he feels her fingers pause in his hair. “Darling…” she begins quietly, pauses, then takes a quiet breath. “We are all human, but Muggles live in a world bereft of magic. They cannot understand its beauty and complexity. They cannot offer it the respect it deserves.”

Narcissa reaches down and tilts Draco’s head up to look at her, her expression patient. “This can make them reckless and dangerous, Muggleborns in particular. They do not belong in our world, not on a fault of their own, but because they threaten a very delicate balance. Even if it may be unwitting… we must always be cautious until something can be done.”

“Why can’t we teach them, then? That way no one will be in danger anymore,” Draco asks, voice quiet, a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

“It is impossible to teach where one lacks respect,” Narcissa replies and her face looks sad. Like she actually mourns the failed opportunity.

Despite knowing that his mother knows best, that his mother is the wisest, smartest woman in the world, and he should never question her better judgement… Draco still feels like this sounds a lot like giving up.

~ ~ ~

“Max, bring your new friend over here and look at THIS!”

Max’s father was a strange, strange man. He apparently was some kind of “tech wiz,” which made no sense to Draco because Muggles couldn’t, by definition, be wizards. In addition, he did not know what “tech” meant. He suspected it was short for something, but he wasn’t certain for what.

Nonetheless, it meant Max’s father had a ton of bizarre little machines and inventions with him at all times. He had a crossbody bag full of “disposable cameras,” “GPS’s,” and “pens.” It also meant he was incredibly excited to examine every piece of machinery in the WW2 museum, dragging his family, and subsequently Draco, along for the ride.

“What is it now, Papa?” Max whines and Draco can’t help but agree with the tone. He had been in this museum, following around this strange, American, Muggle family for the better part of an hour, and he still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet. Perhaps it was curiosity, fascination at these bizarre beings, like they were animals at a zoo. Perhaps because Max said friends should get to know each other and had jabbered Draco’s ear off.

Perhaps because they were warm and friendly to Draco in a way he was unfamiliar with…

Nonetheless, he was with them now and getting to learn a lot more about this fantasy war the Muggles were so obsessed with.

“A map showing the Normandy landings! It shows the strategy the soldiers took and all the numbers and…“ Max’s father could ramble just as badly as Max, Draco had learned, so he ignored him and instead moved over to a display Max’s mother was reading. She seemed to be the only sensible one in the group.

The display in front of her seems strangely more solemn than the other parts of the exhibit with maps and charts hanging on the wall around a plaque. Draco furrows his brow at one of the few photographs, a black and white image of what looks like a mushroom cloud, then looks to Max’s mother in hopes of understanding.

She has a solemn look on her face that even a six-year-old can recognize.

“Hiroshima,” she says, glancing down at Draco. “A dark day in history.”

Draco doesn’t know what she means, but he feels a weird pit in his stomach. He turns to try and read the displays, but even with his above average abilities he is still slow. He scowls and instead turns back to Max’s mother. “What do you mean by that?”

She gives Draco a strange look, one that isn’t quite judging but like she expected him to have known this. He does not. This is obviously Muggle business, why should he care?

“At the end of World War 2 America-- “

“Your people,” Draco cuts in just to show he isn’t as clueless as this woman must think he is. She hesitates, but then nods.

“We dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima,” she points to the photo of the mushroom cloud again, expression tight. “On the sixth of August, 1945 at least 90,000 people, mostly civilians, lost their lives.”

Draco stares for a long moment at the photo again, wanting to say something, but not exactly sure what. Before he can come up with anything, however, Max’s mother has stepped to her right, to an equally solemn plaque, but with slightly different information. “Three days later it happened again, in Nagasaki, and at least 39,000 people died.”

Draco feels light-headed all of a sudden, staring at these two displays. For a fantasy story this felt incredibly horrifying. “W-why…?” he whispers up at Max’s mother, who takes a steadying breath before finally looking down at Draco.

“Because they were scared, I suppose. We do a lot of terrible things when we’re scared. Evil, awful things.”

“I thought you were American?” She and her family certainly had the accent for it. Why would she call her own nation’s actions evil? Shouldn’t she support them?

She smiles, but it doesn’t look right. She looks so sad. “Well, Draco, I’m afraid that’s a part of growing up. Recognizing that you can love something, be a part of something, and still understand that it will have flaws. Sometimes very deep, very visceral flaws.”

“What does visceral mean?”

“It means something that is very deep within. Instinct, in some cases.”

“Oh…”

Draco stares at the photos for a long moment, thoughtful, and Max’s mother thankfully does not ramble like her husband or child.

“Was America the villain?” Draco finally asks.

“America, and the Allied Powers, were the winners.”

“But were you the villains?”

“We were the winners.”

~ ~ ~

Lucius Malfoy did not like Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy did.

When he had first heard of Harry Potter, Draco was six and had become enamored. He sounded like a fairy tale, defeating You-Know-Who and saving the world. Draco wanted to meet him. He wanted to be his friend. He wanted to be just like him and go around being a hero.

Lucius had put a stop to that nonsense early on.

He did not like Potter, did not like how everyone immediately thought he was a hero, but never told Draco exactly why. Draco didn’t understand his father’s hostility, but he made sure never to bring up Harry Potter in front of him unless he had to.

His mother didn’t mind unless he spoke on it too long, so most of the time Draco’s excited talk about playing hero fell either on the house elves or Max.

“Who is he again?” the Muggle had asked during one of Draco’s imaginative stories. He had been thinking about a scenario in which he and Harry Potter went off to fight dragons together.

“He’s, uh… just someone famous.”

“Must be an English thing ‘cause I’ve never heard of him.”

“Yes, I suppose you would not have.”

“And your dad doesn’t like him? Why?” Max had far fewer misgivings about asking “why?” than Draco did, he had noticed.

“His reasonings are surely profound… But, I am uncertain. He simply is very vocal about his distaste for him.” Draco shrugs, despite Max being unable to see him, and he leans back in the tub. He had begun bringing blankets in to pile into the tub whenever he planned on having longer chats with Max.

“You should ask him.”

“I would prefer not to be yelled at, thank you.” Lucius Malfoy didn’t so much as yell as he insinuated he would prefer to be. And while he did not often grow upset enough with Draco to raise his voice, the occasions were beginning to increase in frequency.

“I don’t think he should yell at you for asking questions…” Max mumbles, sounding irritated, and Draco shrugs again then changes the subject.

He does not find out his answer until a large Ministry party at the end of October. It was meant to be a Halloween party, but it was not being held on the actual day. Still, many officials and their families were expected to show, so of course the Malfoy’s would be there.

Dressed in elegant, black robes trimmed with silver Draco arrives to the party with his parents. He is told to mingle with the children of well-esteemed families by his parents, which he has every intention of doing, and if he had listened to his parents and only his parents he would have stuck to that all night. He would have been perfectly polite and cordial, while implying he was significantly more powerful than any of the other children here.

And he certainly would have stuck his nose up at the lesser families. At first, he does that anyway, especially while conversing with the high society folk, but his parents aren’t the only ones that gave him a mission.

“A fancy party? Oh! There must be other kids there if YOU’RE going, right? Make sure to try and make new friends! You need more than just me.”

Perhaps Max’s message being called a mission was giving it a bit more importance than Draco should be giving it, but it fit the bill. In his parents’ eyes they were not here to make friends, they were here to make connections, but Draco figured he could find a loophole.

They wanted him to mingle with the rich kids, so he would do that, but the other children? They should be fair game. Besides, considering he had only ever made friends with a middle-class Muggle from America while only really having Crabbe and Goyle as lackies, not friends, it was safe to say Draco would probably have better chances with the poor children.

Halfway through the evening, when they aren’t paying attention, Draco slips away from his parents and makes his way over to a gaggle of gingers near the buffet table.

Their mother, a portly woman, is wagging her finger at one of her children, who has spilled some kind of food onto the front of his robes, while her husband sneaks more food from the buffet onto his plate behind her.

Draco zeroes in on the one child out of many that looks to be about his age and walks over. “Good evening,” he greets with a nod to the boy, who looks bored out of his mind. His robes are raggedy and look frayed at the edges. “My name is Draco,” he does not use his family name. Max hadn’t told Draco their family name when they’d first met and that had seemed to work.

“Ron,” nods the other boy, who looks especially suspicious as he eyes Draco and his fancy clothes.

“You looked rather bored,” Draco observes the obvious, head tilting, and Ron huffs and crosses his arms.

“No kidding. I hate these stupid parties. There’s nothing to do!”

Draco’s brows pinch together, and he crosses his own arms, mirroring the other boy. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so defensive. “You could talk to people.”

“What, like with you? Don’t you want to keep talking to your rich friends?” Ron sneers and it is quite the impressive sneer for a six-year-old. It is almost as impressive as Draco’s.

“What would you know? Have you ever even met them?” This was going downhill quickly.

“Dad says rich folks are just a bunch of pillocks.”

There’s a pause, like a sudden screech to the conversation, and Draco’s brows furrow. “What’s a pillock?”

“No clue…” Ron admits grudgingly.

“Sounds like a pill bug. Rich people aren’t pill bugs.”

“Maybe I heard it wrong…”

They lapse into silence, animosity deteriorating into awkward contemplation. It appeared mutual confusion was a good way to diffuse a conflict.

“So… Do you like Quidditch?” Ron asks after a too long wait, his eyes lowered as he scuffs his shoes. Draco can almost feel the relief wash over him because yes, yes he does like Quidditch.

For a few minutes they talk back and forth about the game, speech awkward and stiff, but at least on common ground. Draco thinks things might be going well, compared to most of his other encounters, until conversation veers towards families.

“My family’s a bit much,” Ron says with a sigh, looking over at the crowd of gingers. He makes a pinched, confused face before looking around, mumbling something about a “Fred and George” and wondering where they went.

“I am an only child. It is far more relaxing,” Draco preens, smirking, not noticing the stiff set to Ron’s shoulders.

“Right… only children are pretty normal with folks like you…” the ginger boy says slowly, then looking around at the massive hall the party is taking place in. “So, which family is yours anyway?”

Draco looks behind him in search of his parents. He spots his father first, charming some Ministry official no doubt, and he points him out. When he turns back to Ron, beaming with pride, he finds that instead the boy looks rather ill.

“You’re a Malfoy?” he demands, Draco’s family name sounding like venom on his tongue. Immediately Draco jumps back on the defensive, eyes narrowing at the other boy.

“Yes. Is there a problem?” he demands, but Ron doesn’t seem put off. Instead he actually looks even more unhappy.

“A problem?! Of course there is! You were You-Know-Who supporters! Mum and dad told us all about it,” Ron says furiously. It makes Draco pause, but not for long, his tiny hands curling into fists.

“Watch your tongue! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he retorts.

“You guys were--” Ron is winding up, ready to spew more ridiculous lies and drivel, and Draco is ready to fight back and defend his family, when a firm, cold voice cuts them off.

“Leaving.” Draco spins around, eyes wide, before he ducks his head in the immediate shame at being caught by his own mother. Narcissa Malfoy is a vision, cold and collected, staring down both boys with a stare that is somehow both blank and disapproving. “We were just leaving. Draco.” She extends her hand and Draco dares not argue with her. He takes it and is quickly whisked away before more damage can be done.

“Do not wander off like that again, Draco,” Narcissa says, voice firm, but her face and posture showing nothing as they walk through a crowd of her peers. “It has only been two months since you last--” Since Draco went missing in Muggle London, he finishes in his head when his mother cuts herself off.

“I’m sorry, mother,” he whispers.

“And do not speak to those Weasley’s,” she continues, her hiccup already forgotten. “They are beneath you.”

“Yes mother,” he lowers his head in mounting shame. He was a fool to have listened to Max so readily. What did some… annoying, magicless Muggle know anyway? They’d only been talking for two months. Draco should have known better.

Narcissa says nothing more, but there will surely be more words when they return home. For now they are in public, with plenty of influential people that they need to impress and dazzle. Draco does his part, being the perfectly behaved son, and he hardly leaves his mother’s side.

Near the end of the evening, however, exhausted and weary from the day, Draco turns to his mother when they get a moment alone, tapping her hand until she looks down at him. “That Weasley boy… He said something I didn’t like,” he begins and Narcissa’s eyes narrow just marginally.

“What did he say, darling?”

“He said that our family used to support You-Know-Who…”

Narcissa stiffens, face flicking immediately to a neutral and closed off expression, and Draco wonders what he could have done wrong. “We will not speak of this here,” his mother says firmly, looking back out around the hall. Many of the guests have begun to leave, tired and content, while Draco feels something cold run down his spine.

For a long, tense moment mother and son stand side-by-side, not a word passed between them, and a dark feeling settling in Draco’s gut. When Narcissa finally sets a hand on his shoulder it startles him so hard he squeaks.

“We will speak when we return home. Your father should also be a part of this.”

Not too long after that the Malfoy’s do return home to their manor, but it offers little comfort for the small six-year-old. He is young and growing, but even he can tell he is about to learn a lot about his parents he isn’t sure he wants to know.

They all settle down in the sitting room, Narcissa sitting beside her son on the couch as Lucius stands very still and very serious. The house elves bring them tea and then leave them alone. They talk for a very, very long time, neither parent growing frustrated with Draco’s many questions for once.

Afterwards Draco feels drawn, but strangely content. Not happy, but respected. A bigger picture of his parents, and the world around them, has been made for him and he feels better in knowing it.

The world is broken and falling into disarray. Men like You-Know-Who had aimed to fix it but had gone about it too quickly. Too bluntly. And in the eyes of the Ministry, too violently. It was because of this that they aimed to cut him down. They didn’t understand how necessary he was and feared him for it. Feared his power and his ideals. He was a fearful man, a powerful man, but the Ministry was weak. The public were just sheep, too afraid to do anything, and condemning a man for trying to make a difference.

Draco was also warned that they had to be careful. Despite agreeing with You-Know-Who’s greater purpose as a whole, saying such things aloud was bound to jeopardize their family’s standings. They had to play into the public view.

Draco could do that. He could be a good son. He could play his role and make people sympathize with them. The Weasley’s were a lost cause, he saw that now, but the important people he would be able to convince.

He still thought Harry Potter was pretty cool, though…

~ ~ ~

On his eighth birthday Draco gets his very own racing broom. He adores it and goes flying for hours on end, even convincing his father to come into the air for a little bit and pass around a Quaffle. Lucius doesn’t stay long, but it still is positively invigorating.

When it is time to come down Draco cradles the broom to his chest, having no intention of parting with it that day, and takes the towel offered to him by Dobby to wipe some of the sweat from his brow.

He tosses the towel at the house elf’s head as he hurries back inside for dinner, smirking when he hears the elf fumble to see again. He doesn’t even get reprimanded for setting the broom on the dining table when he reaches the dining room. Probably because it’s his birthday, so it is sure not to last long.

That evening he hurries into his en suite, locking the door, opening the window, and plopping down in the tub. It’s too hot to pull the blankets in.

Max greets him immediately with an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” loud and exactly what would be expected of the Muggle. This is followed by the radio being passed around to Max’s family, who all offer their own birthday wishes before it returns to Max. Draco talks about his day in as much detail as he can, especially focusing on his new “racing bike.” He has learned enough of Muggle culture to know some good substitute terms for his magical experiences.

“A new bike! I’m so jealous,” Max sighs wistfully.

“Do you not have a bike? I swore you have mentioned it before…” Draco taps at his chin in thought, trying to remember.

“Oh, I do, it’s just old and used to be my brother’s.”

“Why do you not get a new one?”

Max scoffs, which has been happening a bit more often lately. Draco thinks they’ve gotten it from him. “We ain’t poor, but we ain’t exactly rich neither. We just don’t have the funds for a brand-new bike.”

Draco remembers a distant memory of his father talking about people not being devoted enough to get better standings in society, of lacking a drive and wanting the government to pamper them. He doesn’t know why he remembers it, since it obviously doesn’t apply here. Draco has met Max’s parents, has even spoken to them a few times over this very radio, and he knows for a fact that they are very driven. Stubborn, even, and would deny any kind of pity.

That has also been happening a lot lately. A memory of his parents, or his tutors, or one of his family’s rich friends pops into Draco’s mind, followed immediately by some memory of Max, or Max’s family, or the museum. It is very confusing to Draco, and he isn’t sure he likes it, but it happens anyway.

“Can’t your parents get better jobs?” he asks Max anyway.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Acting like a spoiled brat who doesn’t understand how the real-world works.” Draco feels his face heat up, shoulders stiffening, but before he can retort Max is continuing with a laugh, “But you’re MY spoiled brat of a friend, so no worries. I’ll help you figure it all out.”

Suddenly Draco feels as elated as he had been when he had been up on his broom.

~ ~ ~

Draco cannot ask many questions in his household. “Why?” is the most heinous of questions, he has learned, and he is very careful when he asks it.

There is one individual, however, that he can pester as much as he pleases. The only issue there is he does not come to visit very often.

“Uncle Severus, why are you so obsessed with potions?” Draco questions his godfather. They are down in the basement in their potion’s lab, which Severus Snape uses on occasion when he needs more refined ingredients or better tools. He claims he also wants the peace and quiet, but he rarely gets it once Draco discovers he’s visiting.

“I am not obsessed,” Snape says dryly, not looking up from his cauldron where he is dutifully working. Draco had originally been running circles around him and his things until the man had summoned a stool and parked Draco into it. The young boy’s legs dangled and swung as he spoke, like he wanted to be up and moving, but knowing he shouldn’t push his luck with his godfather.

“Okay, why are you not obsessed with potions?”

“I am good at it.”

“Why?”

“I understand the intricacies of manipulating every aspect of a potion to produce exactly what I want.”

“Why?”

Snape finally turns away from his work to shoot Draco a scathing glare over his shoulder and Draco smiles back. He doesn’t ask questions for a few moments, letting Snape work, his legs kicking, before he reaches for one of the shelves surrounding the room and picks up a sphere of crystallized amber. Inside it sits a fossilized lizard of some kind.

“Are you good at potions because it’s tradition?” Draco asks, rolling around the smooth sphere, watching how the faint torchlight makes it look like maple syrup.

When Snape does not answer immediately Draco looks up. The man is peering back at him down his long, pointy nose, his brows pinched together. “No…” the man says at length. “Why do ask?”

Draco gives a weak shrug and looks back down at the fossil trapped in the amber. “Do you think if we could melt the amber this lizard would still be alive?”

Snape’s hand suddenly appears in Draco’s view, snatching up the ball of amber and setting it back on the shelf where it belongs. He does not look amused. Rather he looks agitated and impatient.

So, no different than usual.

“Ask your real question,” his godfather demands, then turns back to his cauldron. Draco knows he’s listening, but it doesn’t make this any easier.

“Why are mother and father so obsessed with traditions?”

Snape says nothing for a moment, but he looks stiffer all of a sudden, which is impressive since he always looks as stiff as a board. A very greasy board. “Sometimes…” Snape begins slowly as he flicks his wand and lifts a few pieces of chopped crow’s feet and a bowl of crushed daffodil petals into the air. They go into his cauldron and he stirs the concoction a few times before he continues.

“Sometimes traditions are all some people have left,” he finally offers.

“Are mudbloods a threat to them?”

Snape’s robes very nearly crack like a whip as he swings around, pointing the spoon he had been using directly at Draco, a very cold fury deep in his eyes. “You will not use that word around me again,” he says, his voice far too controlled for the look on his face. It sends dangerous chills up Draco’s spine and he stiffens, eyes widening in shock. “Do you understand, Draco Malfoy?”

Draco nods quickly, frantically, shocked at the sudden behavior. No one talked to him like this, and if it were anyone else Draco probably would have thrown a fuss, but this was his Uncle Severus and he was terrifying.

“Good,” Snape lowers the spoon then turns back to his cauldron, back fully to his godson, but he continues to speak in a clipped tone. “Your father is uneasy with the idea of traditions changing.” Draco suspects Snape means “afraid” instead of “uneasy,” but he dares not say it aloud. “Do I believe Muggleborns might change our society? Yes.”

“Should… Shouldn’t we stop them, then?” Draco whispers, eying Snape’s back.

“I never said that change was bad, Draco.”

Draco doesn’t ask many more questions after that, instead just sitting and watching Snape work. He does eventually get bored and wanders off. He’ll see Snape at dinner before he leaves, surely.

He can’t help but think, however, that there’s no way a change to his and his family’s lifestyles could be considered a good thing. They’re at the top of everything… so wouldn’t a change only lead to something bad for them?

Draco ends up distracting himself for the rest of the evening by flying around outside on his shiny, perfectly kept racing broom.

~ ~ ~

Draco was learning far more about this World War 2 than he ever expected to, but he had to admit, for a Muggle story, it was incredibly complex. For every piece of the story, two more unique missions or fact cropped up. For every war machine there were three more crazy inventions.

He had learned that Hitler was the main antagonist in this story, with his lackies in Japan and Italy, and they were fighting against the protagonists in the UK, America, Russia, and China.

Apparently, America and Japan were especially unhappy with each other because Japan had attacked Hawaii while America had been minding their own business. Or something like that.

At least, that’s what the plaques said. Max’s mother had offered further details while her family had been distracted, her tone solemn like it had been while she and Draco looked at the atomic bomb displays. Nothing she said put her country into the best light, if Draco was being honest, especially the part about the camps for the Japanese within the States. Wasn’t America supposed to be on the side of good?

“The Allied Forces were responding to a great, great evil, Draco. No one is in disagreement there,” Max’s father suddenly speaks up. Apparently, he had been listening the whole time while he had rambled to his two children. It would have been impressive if it didn’t unnerve Draco so much. “But a lot of awful, terrible things happened on both sides of the war.”

“What evil were they responding to?” Draco asks instead of lingering on the idea of a story where the good guys could screw up so badly, too. The question, however, is met with sudden silence, the whole family staring at him like he had just grown a second, horrifying head. Which is something Draco has heard of before, but he doubts happens around Muggles.

“Dude,” begins Max’s brother, slipping off his weird earmuffs and turning his gaze towards Max. “What is wrong with your friend?”

“Eric!” Max exclaims, looking as affronted as Draco now feels, “Mama, Eric’s being mean!”

“Eric, behave,” Max’s mother orders and Eric scoffs, but says nothing more. Draco feels completely out of the loop now, the reaction to his question making him blush and puff up, defensive. What did these Muggles know, anyway? What right did they have to belittle Draco in this way?

Draco is rearing up for a tantrum to end all tantrums when Max lays a hand on his arm. “Come on, I’ll show you,” Max says, properly ending the oncoming storm, and Draco nods. For all their faults, Draco liked that this Muggle family was so willing, even eager, to answer his questions. Even the ones they apparently thought were so bizarre.

He is led to another room connected by a hallway that is dimly lit. Draco suspects it is meant to be for atmosphere and not a lack of power. The other rooms had been perfectly lit, after all. Along the walls are a few signs Draco and Max stop to read. It’s a lot of history on pre-war Germany, how they were after the first World War, and the rise of Hitler and his Nazi soldiers.

The room they eventually find themselves in, however, gives Draco pause. The displays are well lit, but the room itself is darkened. Much like the hallway. The guests that mill about seem particularly quiet and withdrawn. One woman near the far side of the room even has tears in her eyes as she reads over a display.

It feels more like a funeral than a museum.

Draco walks around quietly, reading over signs and looking at pictures of horrible-looking housings and emaciated people. There’s a display with some kind of arm-wrapping that has the star of David on it, which even Draco manages to recognize. It is with some more research he realizes that it is a symbol associated with the Jewish people and was thus used to identify them.

Identify them so they could be taken away and…

Draco gulps, looking back at Max with wide-eyes. “Why…” Draco pauses to swallow, “Why did they do this?”

“Because Nazi’s are evil…?” Max offers with a helpless shrug. Not even they seem to know what could have possibly led to this level of hatred and torture. “Mama and Papa say that some people just hate other people because they’re different…”

Draco turns quickly back to the displays and marches forward, forcing himself to continue even with a very heavy feeling growing in his gut. Some of the photos Draco has to look away from, others he can hardly take his eyes off of. Despite how morbid it all is, he has to give the museum credit for how respectful it feels.

Finally, Draco gets to the display that really stops him dead. It’s a single plaque next to a series of very thick books chained to a table. The plaque makes that pit in Draco’s stomach start turning in coiling spirals.

“Holocaust Death Toll: approx. 5.75 Million Jews”

Draco quickly moves to one of the books, the thickest one with the name “Auschwitz” on the front, and opens it. Inside are names. Name after name after name. Each with a nationality, birthdate, gender, and cause of death. The book beside it, “Treblinka” written on the front, has the same. “Bełżec” as well, and all of the following books.

Draco, in a moment of horrifying clarity, realizes that this isn’t a Muggle fantasy after all.

~ ~ ~

The underside of Draco’s bed is clean. Spotless, even, with the toys and books he’d stashed underneath now neatly put away in their rightful spots.

For a long stretch of time the ten-year-old crouches beside his bed, staring at the vast expanse of nothingness, a numb kind of panic settling into his bones.

He had been out with his parents for the day, shopping and running errands. He’d enjoyed his time greatly, especially when he’d whined enough to convince his parents to buy him a new record player. Draco knew very little about Max’s brother, Eric, but he knew that the “CD player” he’d had when they first met was incredibly cool and Draco wanted one. Of course, Draco couldn’t tell his parents that, so he would have to settle for the next best thing.

When he returned home, he had spent an appropriate amount of time with his family before excusing himself to his room. He wanted to play around with his new record player and brag to Max all about it.

Except the underside of his bed is clean. The one thing he’d ever ordered the house elves not to do, and they’d done it anyway! It was gone. His radio was gone. His “sat-e-lite,” two-way radio that had apparently cost Max’s father so much money… was gone. Just like that.

To cover up his mounting panic Draco is quick to begin yelling. “DOBBY! GET IN HERE!” The manor houses many house elves, but Dobby is the one usually in charge of Draco’s care specifically. Even if he hadn’t been the one to go directly against Draco’s orders, he will know which house elf did.

Doppy pops into Draco’s room not a second later, big eyes wider than usual. “Young Master Draco is back! This is a good thing. Dobby is--”

“What did I say?” Draco snarls, leaning towards Dobby with a dangerous look in his eyes. The house elf startles and shrinks back, floppy ears turning more downwards than usual at the sudden animosity.

“Dobby does not know, Young Master…”

“I gave EXPLICIT orders never to touch ANYTHING under my bed! Look. Look! I order you to look! What do you see?”

Dobby, looking properly shaken, does as ordered and looks underneath the bed, then stands back up again. “Dobby sees nothing, Young Master, but that is because the Mistress ordered it so…”

“My mother?!” Draco questions, baffled. Oh no… did his mother know about the radio? This wouldn’t do at all. Draco would be in so much trouble if she knew, and…

Dobby suddenly snaps his fingers and a brick-like object appears in his thin hand. Draco’s downward spiral screeches to a halt as he stares at the familiar device in Dobby’s hand, before he lurches forward and snatches it away, hugging it to his chest as if he is daring anyone to take it away from him again. He stares at Dobby with suspicious eyes.

“How did you…?”

“Mistress Narcissa saw dust bunnies under Young Master Draco’s bed and ordered us to clean it while you were away. The Mistress’s orders outrank the Young Master’s, so Dobby and the other elves had to do as she wanted. But Dobby knew to hide this, even… even…” Dobby’s lip quivers. “Even if it would have been against the Mistress’s orders!” Before Draco can say a word, Dobby is rushing over to his wardrobe, opening the door, and smashing his head with it.

“Dobby! Dobby! Merlin, punish yourself later! I want answers!” Draco demands, marching over and grabbing his wardrobe’s handle to hold the door still. Dobby makes a high-pitched, whining noise, but does as told. “Why? If it would have been against orders, why keep something like this from my parents? Are you hoping to hold this over me, then? Huh?!”

“Dobby would never!” the house elf quickly says, eyes somehow widening even further. He already has a lump on his head where he beat himself with the wardrobe door. “Dobby saved the Young Master’s radio,” Draco wonders how he knows it’s a radio, “Because… because Dobby knows it makes the Young Master happy.”

Draco stares at the house elf, silent and shocked, and clutches the radio closer to his chest. Dobby had defied an order, unspoken as it may have been, from Narcissa and Lucius… because he wanted to keep Draco happy?

“That…” but the blonde’s voice catches before he can even decide what he was about to say and he looks away, scowling at himself. What was he doing? Getting all emotional over some house elf. Of course Dobby would want to see Draco happy. It was his purpose, after all.

“The, uh, person that I speak to,” Draco begins slowly, looking at the far wall, then adds for clarification, “On the radio… They’re the one that made me thank you a few years back. It was hardly my idea.”

“Oh!” Dobby’s voice seems to brighten, despite Draco’s attempt at dismission. “Dobby remembers that! That is Dobby’s happiest memory!”

Draco thinks that is rather sad, even for a house elf. Rather than say that, however, he scoffs and marches towards the sitting area in the corner of his room, radio still hugged close to his body. On top of the table is his brand-new record player, brought up by the house elves already. “Shut up and help me figure out how this works,” he demands, voice sharp, and Dobby squeaks in surprise before scurrying after him.

Later, after listening to a few classical songs and dismissing Dobby, Draco contacts Max. He’s laughed at for still being stuck in the stone ages - again - but he shoots back plenty scathing comments of his own. Plus, he can’t be too upset when Eric comes on and tells Draco he’ll send him his old Walkman sometime, since he obviously needed some “culture” in his life.

Now Draco just has to figure out what a Walkman is…

~ ~ ~

Draco wonders, sometimes, what he would be like if he had never wandered into Muggle London.

He always had his parents’ words at the forefront of his mind, always aimed to live up to the standard they set for him. He would be confident it was the right thing for him to do, and then all of a sudden that Muggle’s voice would pop into his head and make him pause. Make him hesitate and wonder if he was really doing the right thing.

If his parents were right…

It’s a frightening thought, that if he had never gone out into Muggle London, Draco would probably be following his parents, his father especially, without question, because questions were frowned upon.

Then again, if Draco had never gone out into Muggle London, perhaps he still could have considered himself a perfect son. A perfect heir. A perfect pureblood.

But he can’t. Not when he talks on a regular basis to a Muggle. Not when that Muggle’s voice pops into his head and makes him question everything he’s ever been taught. Not when said Muggle has no fear of calling him, a powerful young wizard, out on seemingly pointless matters.

“Quit your rambling. I said nothing wrong,” Draco says to his radio with a roll of his eyes. Disagreements - Draco refused to call them arguments, they weren’t worth the title - like these were hardly uncommon between himself and Max. Usually they were mixed in with significantly more pleasant topics, but sometimes they got so heated they wouldn’t speak to each other for days. This one was gearing up to be one of the latter.

“Nothing-- Are you serious? Draco, these people need help, they aren’t asking for the moon!” Max’s retort comes through frustrated and sharp, which only makes Draco’s tone more dismissive.

“’These people’ are mooching off of the system because they refuse to do something productive with their lives. They cause more issues than they’re worth. If we take away these so-called benefits that spoil them so much, it will be an incentive for them to get out and actually do something for society.”

“How much of that was your dad, huh?” Max snaps, and Draco straightens up, eyes blazing. “How much were you quoting your dad there? Because he’s wrong! Those people struggling with their money aren’t asking for hand-outs, they’re asking to survive, and usually they have to ask the very system that dropped them where they are to begin with!”

On multiple occasions they had been told by Max’s parents that they sounded very mature for their ages. Draco was expected to grow up quickly, to embrace his family’s high standing as early as possible, and thus be able to hold extensive conversations with adults even at an early age. Max, on the other hand, just didn’t like being left behind and had done everything in their power to keep up with Draco.

“If these people honestly wanted better jobs they would have gotten them,” Draco scoffs, sounding as flippant as he can since he knows it will infuriate Max.

“Oh, you mean like that family you’re always complaining about? The Weasels, or whatever their name is?”

“The Weasley’s are a stain on--”

“You honestly expect them to just get a better job when there are people like you and your family tearing them down all the time? You’re always criticizing them over blood, or some other useless garbage!”

“They made their choices, and now they must live with them.”

“Their choices are not your business! And you JUST SAID they should just go out and get a job, but then tell them they’re hopeless anyway! You are such a hypocrite!” That was Max’s new favorite word. “Hypocrite.” Draco had been impressed at first, but once it started getting thrown at him, he’d become significantly less happy.

“They, and anyone like them, are seeking out to destroy our way of life.”

“OH! Well, then I guess it’s okay to let them starve! Because they don’t match the status quo!”

“That is…” Draco has to take a breath, because that one had hit him more than he’d expected. He didn’t want anyone dead, he wanted his society as productive as it could be. Just like his father was always saying. “That is not it at all what I want, you are being ridiculous. These people want to tear down--”

“Your traditions? Were you going to say your traditions? I bet you were about to say your traditions. Because you’re always talking about your stupid traditions!” There’s the sound of banging on the Muggle’s end, like something getting knocked over, before Max continues. “Who cares about stupid traditions! These are human lives we’re talking about. Forget about making people happy or productive, this would be sentencing people to death, and you don’t even care!”

“That is not what I am saying at all!” Draco begins, but Max is on a roll.

“It’s exactly what you’re saying! How can you not see that? How can you not look at the world outside of yourself and not realize how selfish you are? I’m fine when you’re a jerk. You’re always a bit of a jerk. But I can’t talk to you when you’re being such a… such a…” Max growls, frustrated, “Such a monster!”

It stings more than Draco will ever admit and it leaves him speechless. His mouth opens and closes a few times, his bathroom silent as both children catch their breath. A cold feeling has spread in his stomach and Draco’s eyes begin to burn, but he refuses to acknowledge them. “I’m… I’m not a monster…” he eventually whispers, hating how his voice breaks. Suddenly he sounds like the child he really is. He sounds like himself, not like his father.

“You’re not,” Max admits, just as quiet, “but you act like one sometimes…”

They don’t say anything for another stretch of time until Max sighs over the connection and says, “I’m gonna head out now. Gonna try to do some homework or something… Bye, Draco.”

“Good day, Max…”

These arguments are the hardest, not just because they are sure not to talk for a while, but because they always leave Draco with so many questions that he can’t bring forward to his parents. Questions he’ll never get answered unless he sucks up some of his boundless pride and asks Max. He’s stopped asking Snape questions…

They’ll talk again, and they’ll be okay, but until then Draco will be in a horrid mood, stuck in his thoughts and lonelier than ever. He’ll attempt to play with Crabbe and Goyle, strike up a hopeful conversation, but they’re so useless he wonders why he keeps them around.

The crackle of the radio startles Draco and he looks down at it.

“Also, the only difference between blood is blood types and I bet you don’t even know yours.”

There’s a forced lightness in Max’s tone and Draco quickly snaps, “Shut up, peasant,” before turning off the radio to Max’s giggles.

~ ~ ~

Diagon Alley is always a busy, lively place, but in the weeks before school starts it becomes a madhouse. People bustling everywhere, vendors along the streets, children screaming, and so much noise it almost hurts Draco’s ears.

Narcissa and Lucius have always been anxious about bringing Draco back to Diagon Alley ever since he was six. Over the years it has become easier to convince them that he’ll be fine and he won’t run off, but it has taken a lot of whining, complaining, promises, and crup-eyes to get them to understand.

This is a special occasion, though. Draco is getting ready to go to Hogwarts. He was accepted immediately, no surprise to anyone, and demanded to be present for the entire process of getting his school supplies. After all, this would be the first time he would be going to school. He wanted to be a part of every aspect.

His mother still manages to convince him to head into Madam Malkins while she gets his books, though. He’s been in the bookshop plenty of times, so he isn’t too put out, even though he makes a show of pouting up a storm.

Narcissa makes sure the workers at the robes shop know not to let Draco out of their sight, gives him a kiss on the cheek, then hurries off. Draco is almost immediately ushered up onto a stool, robes floating over his head as the workers get to work. He’s familiar with this process, thankfully, and he allows his mind to wander as pins stick into the robes, sizing them perfectly.

He hardly even notices another child has joined him until he hears the creak of another stool and he looks over. The child beside him looks a right mess, his hair a black, bird’s nest, round glasses askew and cracked, and clothes hanging off his body like a second, very unhealthy layer of skin.

Draco sneers, nose wrinkling, before he schools his features and nods. “Hullo,” he says, chipper. He’d offer his hand, but both of them are stuck in their positions while their robes are sized. Draco takes a glance at the black robes almost identical to his own. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Uh, yeah…” the other boy says quietly, only glancing over, and Draco comes to the conclusion he must be shy. With that realization Draco decides he’ll take the reins of the conversation, going on and on about his racing broom and how unfair it is they won’t be able to take their own to school this year. He sprinkles in a little piece about his father, hoping to impress the boy with just how powerful he is, but it does nothing. If anything, he seems to withdraw in on himself.

He also doesn’t seem even remotely aware of what Draco is talking about and something clicks in his mind. Muggleborn. Has to be. What else would he be? No wizarding child would ignore Draco like this.

“Brooms are like flying bicycles,” he suddenly says, which garners the other boy’s attention. It is quite clear he’s clueless, so Draco will simply have to inform him so he can appreciate just how dazzling Draco truly is. “No wheels, obviously. They just,” Draco wiggles his fingers like that means something, “fly.”

“I don’t know how to ride a bike,” the boy admits quietly, giving Draco a slightly more at ease look.

“Me neither,” Draco shrugs, nonchalant, “Heard it’s easy though. Lots of stuff gets compared to it.” The boy snorts, evidently finding something humorous, and Draco continues, “I’ve grown up flying, though. Practically a pro! I’d fly circles around everyone else at Hogwarts without any issue.”

“Really,” the boy mumbles and he suddenly doesn’t sound as interested anymore.

“Oh, yes! One time I nearly got taken out by a Muggle fighter jet, I was so high!” At one point his story had been a helicopter, but then he’d remembered those cool planes at the museum when he was six and he’d made a much more appropriate adjustment.

“A fighter jet…?” the boy repeats slowly, looking both disbelieving and concerned.

“Yes! A Supermarine Spitfire, actually. Vintage. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?” Draco smirks, positive he’s properly amazed the Muggleborn now, but the boy just frowns and shakes his head.

“No, not really…”

“Oh…”

They lapse into awkward silence for a few beats, Draco trying to think of a way to salvage this mess of an interaction. He questions the boy what house he’s looking forward to being in, brags a bit about Slytherin, but that hardly works either. Draco kicks himself. Of course the Muggleborn wouldn’t know about the houses yet, he was basically completely clueless about everything important to Draco. How frustrating…

Draco tries to think of something Max may have mentioned that might peak the other boy’s interest, and ignores the little voice in his head that sounds like Lucius to stop talking to this mudblood.

“Do you… like Star Wars?”

That has the Muggleborn looking at him strange. “I’ve heard about them, but my Aunt and Uncle don’t let me near the television.” That startles Draco. According to Max the television was a near divine invention with all kinds of entertainment one could watch on it. If you had one, why would it be something to forbid? “I didn’t realize wizards knew about Star Wars, though.”

“They don’t,” Draco mumbles, only half listening, but is then pulled out of his thoughts by a tap at the window. Both boys look over at a giant, hairy man holding ice cream cones that look comically small in his hands. He’s smiling in at the other boy and, before he can consider his wording, Draco comments, “Look at that! What does an oaf like that want?”

Judging by the Muggleborn’s very unpleased expression that probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but Draco’s question still stands. He never gets an answer, though, because the other boy’s robes get finished up right then and he gets ushered away.

Draco wonders if they’ll meet again at Hogwarts. Maybe Draco can do some research and make a better first impression.

~ ~ ~

“What is it?”

“Dobby does not know, Young Master.”

“It’s so small.”

“There are instructions on the box it came in.”

“Hey, what does this button-- ACK!”

Draco covers his eyes as a bright flash erupts from the little device in his hands and he drops it onto his bedspread. Lights dance behind his eyelids and he scrubs at them furiously. “What was that?!” he exclaims, but then remembers to keep his voice down.

“A ‘camera flash’,” Dobby says slowly, holding a colorful box in his hands.

For all the years Draco and Max had known each other they had never sent each other any packages, letters, or gifts. There were plenty of ways mail could be transferred from the magical system to the Muggle system and vice versa, but that hadn’t been the issue. No, the issue was that Draco didn’t ever want his parents to find a package addressed to him from Muggle America. That was a recipe for disaster.

Max thankfully accepted that Draco simply had strict parents. Max had accepted a lot of Draco’s explanations over the years, and this was one of the tamer ones.

Now, however, Draco had an ally on the inside. Kind of…

Dobby was eager to be of service to Draco whenever he needed it, hoping to make him happy much like he had done when he saved the radio, so Draco had told him to hide away any packages from Max whenever their mail came in. It wasn’t hard. All the mail that wasn’t a direct owl was presented to Lucius and Narcissa in the mornings by the house elves, so Dobby could intercept anything with ease.

Which was how they found themselves in Draco’s room, after everyone else had gone to sleep, trying to figure out Max’s gift. Max had said it was for Draco’s upcoming “adventures in preppy boarding school,” whatever that meant.

Finally able to open his eyes Draco snatches the box from Dobby’s hand and gives it a proper look over. “Kodak Disposable Camera,” he reads aloud. This tiny, plastic thing was a camera? Well… that explained the flash. But how could such a tiny thing really be a camera? And why was it disposable?

He flips over the box and reads the instructions, slowly going over every word, before finally raising up the black and green piece of plastic and pointing it at Dobby. “Let’s give this a shot then. Hold still,” he orders the house elf, then raises his hand and presses the button. The flash blinds him again, making him yelp.

“Young Master Draco!” Dobby exclaims in worry, but Draco raises a hand to keep him from approaching. When he finally manages to open his eyes again Dobby is holding the camera out to him, but this time the other way around. “Dobby thinks it may have been backwards, Young Master.”

Draco snarls and snatches the camera away, making Dobby flinch back, and readjusts it in front of his face. He peers through the little eyehole, this time able to see through to the other side and line up his shot and presses the button.

The flash makes Dobby yelp this time, much to Draco’s satisfaction, and the next few minutes are spent just sorting out all the little buttons and switches on the device. Draco takes pictures all over of his room and even allows Dobby to take a few, until it is time for Draco to finally go to sleep.

The camera is stashed underneath a loose floorboard under his rug with the radio. It hadn’t been loose before, but Dobby had managed to upend it after they’d realized Draco would need a new hiding place. There is a blanket within to keep everything cushioned and safe.

Dobby makes sure everything looks perfect as Draco climbs back into bed. Draco will be going off to Hogwarts in only three days and it wouldn’t do for his parents to dig up his devices before he could leave.

With a large yawn Draco sinks into his bed and Dobby snaps his fingers to turn out the lights. Before he hears the sound of his house elf apparating, however, he mumbles in a half-asleep daze, “Thanks, Dobby…” before fading completely away.

~ ~ ~

“He’s dreadful, Max! I’m telling you, Harry Potter is a right git!” Draco paces angrily through the Astronomy Tower. It was night out and he was supposed to be down in his dorm, asleep at the moment, but he couldn’t get his mind to shut off. Sneaking around the castle was hard, but thankfully Peeves avoided the dungeons and the entrance to the tower wasn’t too far away, so it had become his late-night hideaway.

The open air also made the radio work perfectly.

“Aww, but I thought you wanted to be his fwiend!” Max teases, not at all offering the sympathetic ear that Draco really shouldn’t have been expecting.

The whole year had been a complete mess. Not only was the boy Draco had met at Madam Malkin’s THE Harry Potter, but he also apparently hated Draco’s guts for no good reason. Draco suspected that Weasley brat had said something about him that set him off, but he didn’t exactly have proof.

It also didn’t help that everyone apparently loved Potter, showering him with gifts and affections he didn’t deserve.

Allowing him to have his own broom just because he’d caught a stupid Remembrall? What a joke. And now he was apparently the world’s best Seeker or some garbage because he’d nearly choked on the stupid Snitch on his stupid first match.

Draco wishes he had choked. Would have made his life a lot easier.

“Please tell me you’re not still being mean to him,” Max questions, a smile very clearly in the tone, and Draco scowls.

“The real world is a cruel mistress.”

“You’re a cruel mistress. Seriously, though, he doesn’t sound like a bad guy. You used to gush about him all the time. You at least stopped with all the parent comments, right?”

“Yes, since you cried about it so much,” Draco groans, sitting down on the stone floor of the tower and leaning back against a stone wall. When Potter had first declined Draco’s very generous offer of friendship, Draco had been appropriately insulted. Thus, he had responded appropriately, too. He made sure Potter knew he wasn’t happy, and he would regret this obvious insult, but when Max had heard what he was doing they’d thrown a hissy fit.

By the time Max had finished their rant Draco had been boiling with embarrassment and fury. They’d snapped at each other a bit more, getting nastier and nastier, until ending the call and not talking for nearly two weeks.

“There are some things you just don’t use to insult someone,” was Max’s point, “Things too low of a blow to even consider.” Draco had been angry for a long while, but he’d stopped picking on Potter’s parentage. Or lack, thereof.

His appearance was fair game, however, and so was his academic inability.

“He’s a pompous jerk, thinking he’s so important just because he…” he recalibrates to a Muggle alternative, “scored the winning goal at futbol.”

“Y’know, we call that soccer here!”

“I don’t care. I’m complaining here, let me finish.”

“Yes, your highness!”

Draco pulls the radio away to glare at it before continuing. “He thinks he’s so special just because of some garbage like sports or movies,” he had told Max Harry Potter was a famous child actor, “but he’s not! He thinks he’s better than me, but he’s off playing nice with losers like Weasley and Granger! A blood traitor and a mudblood! Does he not realize what that will do to his standing--”

“Okay, no, stop.”

Draco blinks in surprise, both at being so rudely interrupted and for the suddenly serious tone in Max’s voice. “What?” he demands, but then Max’s voice is sharp.

“Stop. Jeez, Draco, what… what is wrong with you?!”

Draco stiffens, hands tightening around the radio and eyes widening. “N-nothing is… wrong with me! What’s wrong with you?”

“You tell me that those words… that I won’t get them, or something. That it’s an English thing, but I’m not an idiot, Draco! I know something like ‘blood traitor’ or ‘mudblood’ is bad. A slur, I bet, but you just spew that garbage without even thinking about it!”

Draco is dumbstruck, staring at the radio as Max’s angry voice continues to come through, beating down at Draco with every word.

“We’ve talked about this kind of thing, too, but you never listen. Blood is just blood. It’s what keeps us alive. It doesn’t MEAN anything! But you’re so desperate to give it a meaning because you want someone to hate, and I don’t know why.”

A traitorous, evil part of Draco’s brain pulls up a memory from five years ago, Draco standing in the Holocaust room in the WW2 museum, asking why anyone would hate a group of people so much. Max had said they didn’t know why people were like that. Didn’t know why someone would actively choose hate for no reason but to hate.

“I don’t… hate them. They just--”

“THEY! Right, it’s their fault, right? For being born? For living? You wanna blame them for something that isn’t even their fault! You can’t blame someone for something they didn’t even decide… But plenty of people can blame you for your crappy attitude! You wanna know why? Because you had to decide to act like such a complete knob!”

Draco feels ice down his spine. It feels a lot colder up in the Astronomy Tower all of a sudden, but he can’t bring himself to move. Can’t bring himself to do anything.

He had just wanted to complain to Max. He had just wanted to share how much of a pest he saw Potter to be, and how his social standings were sure to crumble if he continued to associate with such undesirables. He hadn’t thought…

Well, he didn’t think about a lot of the stuff that came out of his mouth, he was realizing. Much of the pleasantries he used with people of high standing he’d learned to recite on instinct, but everything else? Sometimes it didn’t even feel like they were his own words. He didn’t know why, nor when it happened. Maybe he had always been like this.

He thinks back to all his disagreements with Max and thinks that maybe that might be right…

The silence has stretched on far too long. At this point Draco’s window of opportunity to defend himself has closed and they find themselves unable to come up with something appropriate to say. Nothing feels serious enough to match the heavy mood permeating through the radios themselves.

“I didn’t realize you said ‘knob’ in America.”

Max lets out a desperate kind of wheeze and Draco smirks sadly. Well, at least he wasn’t being ignored.

“We don’t. I must have gotten it from you. You’re a bad influence.”

“Yes… I suppose I am.”

~ ~ ~

Draco had no idea if he was any good at taking pictures, but he had his disposable camera on him at all times while at Hogwarts. He had to be sneaky about it, snapping pictures without the flash when no one was paying attention, getting candid shots of the Slytherin common room, Crabbe and Goyle rushing ahead of him to class, the castle grounds, the Gryffindor table during breakfast.

At least, he thinks that was what he was getting. He wouldn’t be able to see the photos until he had the “film developed,” which he could get Dobby to mail out to some place for him over the summer.

Nonetheless, it was quite fun to play as a secret photographer. Max said he was like a private detective, out scoping a case, taking scathing photos of his targets “in the act.”

“What act?” Draco had asked at the time.

“I dunno… the act! They say it all the time on television…”

Draco mostly took photos of landscapes, since it was easier to get away with, but there were a few people that were pretty easy to catch a shot of on a regular basis.

Crabbe and Goyle were obvious. They were morons and hardly counted as friends, but they were by his side regularly and both completely clueless. They made convenient subjects of his photos, but were often messy, making surely distasteful images.

Just about any Ravenclaw was good as well, since they often had their noses buried in research of some kind and wouldn’t pay attention to Draco. He’d even managed to get nearly a foot away from a Ravenclaw in the library, one time, without her noticing. But that was all they did. Research. And as interesting as that might be when he, personally, was doing it, it didn’t make a very interesting subject matter.

While not a person, the animals around the castle were good for photos too. They were interesting, didn’t rat him out, and it gave Draco an excuse to walk around the grounds without Crabbe and Goyle. The best creatures seemed to hover near the Gamekeeper’s hut or the woods. The former Draco was fine with, so long as he avoided that hairy oaf, but the woods were definitely a no-go.

Lastly, and most unfortunately, was Harry Potter. Draco didn’t know if it was his disdain for the blonde or if he was just that clueless, but he very often would ignore Draco and go about whatever he was doing. It was also possible, having grown up with Muggles, he was desensitized to cameras, but Draco couldn’t be certain. Whatever the reason, Potter was an easy person to get photos of, and he was always doing something. He wasn’t boring, he wasn’t disgusting, and he had a remarkable talent of standing in the perfect lighting.

Draco really hated to admit it, but out of all the candid photos he had of people, he probably had the most of Potter… It was all practice, he tried to remind himself, and it didn’t really matter who it was in the photos. That excuse didn’t appease much of his nerves, though.

Nonetheless, Draco carried the camera everywhere, stashed away in his robes, and if he spotted Potter, completely unaware, then he wouldn’t hesitate to snap a quick picture, usually followed by calling out taunts to the boy before walking away.

~ ~ ~

“It’s official. I hate this,” Draco says not for the first time as he trudges through the Forbidden Forest, alone with Potter and the Gamekeeper’s cowardly dog, in the dead of night, searching for a unicorn killer. Yes, that sounded perfectly sane. Why wouldn’t you send a bunch of children to do this?

“I heard you the first hundred times,” Potter grumbles, walking beside him with a lantern in one hand. Both boys have their wands out as well, ready to throw up sparks if they need to.

“Lovely. Because I really do hate it. Have I mentioned I hate it? Because I hate it. I hate this task. I hate this forest. I hate this dog. And I hate you.”

“You could really stand to lighten up,” Potter scowls over at him and Draco puts on his best “fake realization” face.

“Oh, yes, I’m so sorry, completely uncalled for,” he says overly sweetly, then pats Fang’s head. “I don’t hate the dog.” He even had a few pictures of Fang somewhere in his undeveloped film.

“Just focus…” Potter sighs, sounding miserable, “Neither of us want to be out here with each other, but SOMEBODY ratted us out and got us all detention.” The pointed look Potter gives Draco shows exactly who he blames for this situation, but Draco simply shrugs.

“Now, now, no blaming Longbottom. It would be inappropriate to have bad blood in the same house,” he wags his wand at Potter, like a disapproving teacher.

“Hm, yeah, we wouldn’t want to be another Slytherin house,” Potter snarks right back, and now Draco scowls.

“You would be so lucky.”

Their back and forth peters off after that, the two continuing their search in grumpy silence, lamp light bouncing off the silvery blood of their injured unicorn.

Except that injured unicorn isn’t doing so well when they finally find it. The pure white of its coat is stained with reflective blood and Draco feels an instinctive stab of sadness when he realizes that it isn’t moving where it lay on the ground.

“Must be dead…” he whispers, ready to raise his wand and let the other search party know where they are.

“Had to have been recent since…” Except Potter doesn’t finish. His gaze has frozen on something beyond the unicorn and Draco tilts his head to see what it might be. That’s when he sees a shape. A moving shape. Something definitely alive and shifting. Draco freezes, Potter beside him not much better, and Fang whines.

The shape then begins to move, appearing humanoid but distinctly not, and whatever face it might have is hooded in shadow, but it is definitely looking right at them.

Draco screams. He can’t help it and he turns to run away, back the way they came. Not even a second later Fang goes barreling past him, just as frightened and a completely useless dog. He was supposed to keep Draco and Potter safe…

Where was Potter?

Why wasn’t he right beside Draco?

The blonde frantically turns back around, eyes wide when he realizes Potter isn’t moving why isn’t he moving he should be moving! The thing is getting closer and Potter is going to die. He’s actually going to die! That pest of a boy is going to lose his life if he doesn’t just run already.

Draco doesn’t even realize he’s moving until after he’s already rushing back to Potter’s side, reaching frantically into his robes, and yanking out his camera. Potter doesn’t seem to realize he’s there, instead crying out and grasping at his head as Draco flicks a switch on his camera and raises it.

“Go away!” he yells, arm shaking like a leaf as he snaps a picture, the flash startling the creature enough that it momentarily reels back. Draco grabs Potter’s wrist in the meantime and yanks him back. “Run, Potter, you moron!”

Apparently shaken out of his terror Potter is quick to start sprinting away from the mysterious attacker, not even caring that Draco has his wrist in a vice grip or that Draco keeps up a litany of insults the whole way through the forest.

They skid to a stop somewhere in the trees, hopefully far from the monster, but definitely not where they should be either.

Draco leans against a tree, wheezing for air, as Potter bends down and clasps his hands on his knees. They both try to catch their breath, but while they are no longer running the terror is still alight in their veins.

“What was that thing?” Potter looks up through his messy hair at Draco, green-eyes still wide and panicky.

“No clue. Definitely not good, though.”

“No kidding…”

They’re silent again, their breathing finally evening out and the very unnerving noises of the Forbidden Forest invading their senses. Except Potter doesn’t look that bothered by it. Instead he’s eying Draco like he’s some kind of puzzle he can’t piece together. It unnerves Draco more than the forest.

“What?” Draco snaps, getting fed up quickly, and Potter’s eyes narrow.

“You saved me,” Potter finally says, crossing his arms over his chest, “You could have gotten away, but you came back to get me. Why?”

“Because you would have died if I didn’t?” Draco says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and he thinks it is. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I thought Slytherins were supposed to be selfish.”

“Everybody’s selfish, Potter, get off your high horse.”

“I will when you do.”

For a moment the two boys glare at each other, silver meeting green in some kind of mental duel of chicken. Too exhausted to deal with this crap, Draco folds first.

“This isn’t some school assignment or prank or a bid to get you in trouble,” he says sharply, setting his hands on his hips. “You could have died back there, and I may be a jerk, Potter… but I’m not a monster.”

Potter examines Draco for a moment, like he’s seeing the blonde in some strange, new light, and Draco hates it. “No… I suppose you’re not. You’re just as human as me.” Draco hums in absent agreement, looking around at the trees that surround them. “Still a complete knob, though.”

He can’t help but snort at the word choice. “Glad we got that sorted out then.”

With all of their apparent drama dealt with, the two boys are prepared to send up sparks for the other search party to come and find them, but are interrupted by the arrival of a centaur.

As it turns out the centaur, Firenze, managed to scare off the hooded figure after Draco and Potter had absconded, then rushed to try and find them. The forest was no place for children, he’d said, and Draco couldn’t have agreed more.

They end up having to ride on Firenze’s back, the centaur, and Draco, thinking it wise to get them all out of there immediately. Draco doesn’t even care that he has to hold onto Potter for the trip, he just wants to get away.

Perhaps it is because of this mindset that means he hardly pays attention to Potter’s conversation with the centaur. It is clearly not about Draco, so why should he care? No, he just wants to go back to his dorm and fall into bed for a month.

Until one thing Firenze says puts a spike of unpleasant dread through Draco’s heart, and he stiffens.

The implications that You-Know-Who is far from dead, and far from happy.

Chapter Text

Draco Lucius Malfoy was not a happy boy. It was his eighth birthday today and he had made it abundantly clear he wanted a wand. He didn’t care he wasn’t technically old enough, he knew he could handle it and he deserved the opportunity to try one out.

His mother had offered to let him try some acceptable, beginner spells on her wand, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what he deserved.

“So… they didn’t give you some toy you wanted…?” Max questions slowly that evening over their radio. Draco wasn’t sure how to translate a wand to Muggle speech, so instead he’d simply claimed it was an English thing and Max wouldn’t understand. It had gotten them into a bit of a tiff, but that hardly lasted long.

Draco sighs overdramatically, rolling his eyes skyward and leaning back in the tub. “Something like that…” he concedes, even though it is nothing like that. A wand isn’t a toy, it is the ultimate tool for any witch or wizard. Max couldn’t know that, though.

“And you’re throwing a hissy fit because you didn’t get it…”

“I am most certainly not throwing a ‘hissy fit’! I am completely within my rights to be upset.”

“Within your rights does not make it appropriate, Draco my boy!” Draco startles at the over-excited voice of Max’s father, then immediately scowls down at the radio. He had been talking to Max, he didn’t want to talk to this weird, cheerful man.

In the background Draco can hear Max whining and demanding the radio be returned immediately because, “Papa, you are so embarrassing!”

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Max’s father says through the connection, voice wobbling in and out like he’s moving around, probably trying to avoid Max. “It’s fine to want things and be upset when we don’t get them, but you need to recognize that you are a very well-off young man. There are people out there who don’t even get what they need, let alone what they want.”

“So, you’re saying I should just suck it up?” Draco snaps, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to be at least a little respectful. Stupid Muggle as he might be, Max’s father was still an adult.

“I’m saying look at all the good stuff you already do have. You’ll be a lot happier,” Max’s father sounds like he’s smiling and Draco can practically imagine it.

Somewhere in the background Eric’s voice calls, faint but recognizable, “Check your privilege!” followed by Max yelling, “Stop saying that! It’s not gonna catch on!”

Draco sighs deeply, realizing he isn’t going to get much more substantial complaining in today. The Muggle family seems set on being blunt with him, even if it appears to be in his best interest. It is touching, in a weird way, at the same time as it is infuriating.

Nonetheless, the following day Draco takes up his mother’s offer to practice with her wand, even if he is huffy the entire time.

~ ~ ~

The Quidditch pitch seemed so much bigger when he actually got to walk on it himself. The stands reached high into the sky, looking like they might just snag on a cloud from this angle, and Draco’s brand-new Nimbus 2001 felt like power in his hands.

It certainly only got better when he saw the stricken, furious looks on the Gryffindor team’s faces when the Slytherins emerged.

The two captains are griping at each other, Wood demanding the Slytherin team leave while Flint’s smug responses only seemed to make the lions angrier. “Professor Snape gave us permission to use the pitch today,” Flint is saying, handing over a permission slip. Draco smirks even more viciously as Wood reads it.

Watching his godfather mess with the Gryffindors at every turn was one of Draco’s favorite pastimes, but this was even better. This time it was because of Draco that these self-righteous felines were getting what was coming to them.

“You have a new Seeker?” Wood questions, eyes wide, and Draco steps forward, smirk sharp. He spots Potter almost immediately, the boy seething, his green eyes thinned. Just behind him it looks like Weasley and Granger are approaching.

“Draco’s father has graciously offered to sponsor our team,” Flint is saying and the whole Slytherin team lifts their new Nimbus 2001’s, showing off the sleek brooms, knowing it will get a rise out of their rivals.

“But that’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair, Weasley,” Draco shrugs, loving watching the ginger’s face turn red with anger.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” Granger snaps, looking more irate than furious. “They got on with pure talent!”

Draco feels his hackles rise, his mouth twisting into a sneer at the bushy-haired girl and her know-it-all voice, and he feels the word bubbling up. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. But he stomps it down along with his anger, taking a breath and instead turning to Potter, smirk back in place.

“Talent, she says,” he hums, purposefully patronizing, and he sees Potter’s shoulders stiffen and his hold on his broom tighten. “Very well. A Seeker’s game, then. You and me. Winner’s team gets the pitch for the day.”

For a moment Potter simply looks at him, sizing him up, suspicious but interested, before he’s smirking too and turning to his team. “Start warming up, guys. This won’t be long.”

Draco scoffs at that, rolling his eyes skyward, and turns to retrieve a Snitch, Potter not far behind. Their teams are left to glare at one another.

“You’re seriously okay with your father buying you onto your team?” Potter questions when they get to the cases holding the game balls. He’s giving Draco a very dark look, but the blonde shrugs nonchalantly.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I know it’s all very confusing for that black and white brain of yours,” he teases, reaching out to mockingly pat Potter’s head, only to have his hand smacked away. It doesn’t bother him. “But this is how society works. Besides, I know I’m good enough to be here. I always have been. My father merely took the blindfolds off my team.”

“Blindfolds? Is that why they’ve always been such awful players?” Potter questions with fake innocence and Draco shoots him a glare, before sighing deeply.

“Suppose I walked myself into that one…” he mumbles to himself, but Potter will hardly let it go.

“You really did.”

The Snitch is in Draco’s hand by now, but a commotion behind them has them turning to see their two teams yelling at each other. “Don’t you call her that!” Weasley is yelling at one of the Slytherin Beaters, his poorly repaired wand out. Draco has a moment to wonder why his wand hasn’t been replaced, but the voice in his head that, infuriatingly, sounds like Max reminds him not everyone has the resources to get what they need all the time.

Potter is rushing back before Draco fully processes what must be going on, but it’s too late. Weasley has already tried to send out a curse that backfires, sending him tumbling. When Draco approaches at a much calmer pace he finds Weasley on the ground, spitting up slugs.

He can’t help but smirk at the idiot, the rest of Slytherin team laughing outright.

Potter and Granger are helping Weasley up and quickly ushering him away. Draco, unable to help himself, calls after them, “What? No Seeker’s game, Potty? You know this counts as a forfeit!”

Potter shoots a scathing glare over his shoulder, all fire and fury, and it only makes Draco smirk bigger.

The pitch, after that, goes to the Slytherins. Draco makes note of all the Gryffindor’s furious faces, locking them away in his memories, before he’s in the air and focusing on his strategy.

It isn’t until later that he finds out the reason for the argument was because the Slytherin Beater had called Granger a mudblood.

~ ~ ~

Marcus Flint was sitting in the Malfoy Manor drawing room with Lucius Malfoy across from him. Draco did not understand why he was here. He had been called down by his father in the middle of the day to find the Slytherin Quidditch captain sitting there, seemingly out of the blue.

“I have decided to sponsor your Quidditch team,” Lucius says in way of greeting and Draco’s brows rise. He looks over to Flint who has a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The captain nods at him.

“Your father has offered to supply our team with a new set of Nimbus 2001’s each, so long as we assure you a place as our new Seeker,” Flint explains and a bright, warm excitement fills Draco’s body. A place on the team? As a Seeker? This was almost too good to be true!

He ignores the tiny little pit in his gut that feels cold and heavy, burying it with his joy.

“Father! This is amazing!” he turns to smile at his father, who smirks and nods once.

“You were so interested in Quidditch last year,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “This way we can show everyone the might of the Malfoy line. Draco… Make me proud.”

Draco immediately puffs up, standing straight and proper, before bowing to Lucius. “Thank you for this opportunity, father.”

A few more pleasantries are exchanged before Flint must return home, and then Draco is rushing at his father to wrap him in a quick hug. He doesn’t stay long, hugs aren’t to be drawn out, nor common, things, but he is so overwhelmed with emotions he can’t help it.

Lucius must understand this because he allows the gesture. He even pats Draco on the head.

“Perhaps now you will stop complaining about Mr. Potter for a few days and focus on your new position,” Lucius says flippantly, making Draco snicker in embarrassment. He didn’t complain about Potter that much, did he?

“I will do my best, father,” Draco says with a nod, still smiling.

“I expect you to. Perhaps now Hogwarts will understand what proper greatness is and stop humoring these… blood traitors and mudbloods.”

Something in Draco’s chest twists very sharply at that and he flinches.

“Father…” he says lowly, trying to keep his tone light and nonchalant, but failing miserably. “Do you…” Have to say those words? Everyone else thinks they’re bad. Everyone else thinks their cruel. A Muggle, who doesn’t know what they even mean, calls them slurs.

Everyone else thinks You-Know-Who was evil. Why don’t you?

He doesn’t say any of it, however, and instead forces a smile on his face and asks, “Do you think I could go out and practice my broom work?”

Lucius smiles at him and nods, letting Draco scurry out the door and out of sight.

Draco flies for a much shorter amount of time than usual and, after dinner, he hurries straight to his room. He doesn’t know why, or even when it started, but suddenly he finds himself in his bathroom tub, curled up with his radio, crying desperately as Max’s mother tries to sooth him with soft, kind words that aren’t filled with blind, pointless hatred.

~ ~ ~

Potter had to be doing it on purpose, Draco was sure of it. Everywhere he went people fawned over him, gushing about his great accomplishments and how he was destined for great things, and Potter just gobbled it all up. The modest act wasn’t fooling Draco.

And now he had to be privy to THIS shameless display? Draco could gag.

Gilderoy Lockhart was a mess of a man. Good looking, sure, but a mess. Anyone with half a suspicious bone in their body could tell that something smelled awfully funny when it came to the famous wizard. And now he was dragging Potter, of all people, into a photoshoot in the middle of Flourish and Blotts? Draco could throw up. He had only wanted to get his shopping in before the beginning to his second year but life couldn’t be easy for him, could it?

He watches the shameless display for a while, hidden in the shadows away from the insane crowd. He spots the gaggle of Weasley’s, trying to get their favorite little savior back, but doesn’t say anything. He may have taken a photo, relish in Potter’s surely fake but still funny, disgruntled face, if he weren’t so disgusted.

The second the bespectacled boy finally escapes the clutches of fame and photos, Draco makes his move.

“Have fun up there, Potter?” he jeers, smirking when he gains his target’s attention. “You really need to work on your bad boy glower. That? Up there? That was terrible! I could see right through to your candy floss heart.” Potter glares up at him immediately, only making Draco smirk wider. “Yes, yes, that’s the one! Just imagine the camera’s me and you’ll do splendid.”

“It wouldn’t do for him to start punching cameramen,” Weasley sneers at him viciously.

“Oh, I would pay to see that. You should be interested, Weasley. If you were his manager maybe you would be able to pay for a new uniform.”

The back and forth gets worse after that, partly because the youngest Weasley, a girl with a far too shrill voice, butts in to defend Potter, and it only manages to irritate Draco even further. And then Lucius arrives and, quite abruptly, everything goes straight to hell in a handbasket.

The Weasley father actually ends up trying to attack Lucius, much to Draco’s shock, and that oaf of a Gameskeeper has to step in to physically separate them. Draco stares, dumbfounded, as his father rights his robes, makes one final jeering remark as he returns the girl Weasley’s books, then leaves, surely expecting Draco to follow.

For a moment the blonde is still, and he exchanges a look with the other children his age. No one seems entirely sure where to go from there. Draco’s jeering hadn’t been that vicious, had it? Certainly, Potter and his lackies deserved to be put in their place every now and then, but had he sounded like that?

A while back, sounding like his father would have been a highlight to Draco’s day. Now though… Now he didn’t really want to know…

So, with a deep, resolved sigh Draco shakes himself out, rights his posture, and follows his father out, ignoring the curious stares that follow his back.

~ ~ ~

“Why are you here if you clearly wish to be somewhere else?” Draco Malfoy, age six, looks up at Max’s odd older brother. Eric is tall and spindly, with brown hair the same shade as Max’s but with a purposeful messiness to it that Draco can’t understand.

Eric lowers his weird earmuffs. They are called headphones, according to Max, but Draco isn’t sure he believes them. “Mom and pops’d kill me if I left,” he says with a shrug, then glares over at a random tank display he’s standing beside. “This is so boring…”

“What are you doing with that, then?” Draco stands on his toes and points at the device in Eric’s hand.

The older boy looks at him strangely, lips twisting like he thinks the question is insane, but he at least answers. “I’m listening to music… It’s a CD player… How do you not know these things? Are your parents stuck in medieval times or something?”

“Of course not! I am just… less familiar with your ‘e-lek-tron-ick’ devices,” Draco says in his defense, crossing his arms tightly across his tiny chest.

“Are you guys Amish, or something?” Eric questions absently, moving to put his headphones back on, but when Draco says nothing and just stares at him blankly, he sighs. “Guess not… Still, I can see why you ran away.”

The blonde boy stiffens, eyes widening as Eric proceeds to tune out the world around him once more. “I did not run away! I told you, my parents are perfectly aware where I am,” he lies.

Eric eyes him before snorting. “You may have fooled my family, kid, but a punk will always recognize a punk.”

“A punk…?” Draco repeats quietly, not sure if Eric is being serious or picking on him. Usually, when Draco heard someone was being a punk, it wasn’t considered a good thing.

“Yeah, a punk. A group of like-minded youth who refuse to be made into mindless, consumer sheep by the desperate bourgeoisie who struggle to remain relevant by belittling those who cannot fight for themselves. We are aware of the hypocrisy within our society that sustains the upper class on a foundation of colonialism and death. We, then, strive to tear it down.”

Draco stares at Eric. Eric stares back.

“What?”

Eric sighs dramatically. “We’re rebels, but cool.”

“Oh…”

~ ~ ~

There was writing on the wall. Red, foul smelling writing on the wall, and water on the floor, and a petrified cat hanging from a sconce. Draco, and plenty more students, are crowded into the corridor, trying to get a good look at what was going on. The blonde had been lucky, if one would call anything about this situation lucky, and ended up near the front.

No one notices as he slips his camera out of its hiding spot and snaps a picture, flash off.

“THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE,” reads the writing, and Draco immediately knows exactly what legend it is referring too. Any Slytherin would.

For whatever reason this fills Draco with dread instead of the eagerness on some of his housemate’s faces.

The Golden Trio are there, because of course they would be, and they look shaken and confused. No one could blame them. Apparently, they’re the ones that found the scene first and Draco wonders why they were even out on their own to begin with.

He’s distracted, though, when one of the Beaters on his team, one he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of, yells, “Look at that! Lookit! Enemies of the Heir, huh? That’s you, mudbloods!”

A murmur of discomfort erupts through the gathered students, a few seeming in agreement with the older boy, but most obviously uncomfortable. Draco doesn’t know what comes over him, however, as he turns towards the Beater and says, icily calm, “A dreadful Quidditch player and a dreadful trash bin. All your garbage is coming out.”

He doesn’t say it very loud, the murmur covering his voice up pretty well, but every student near him gives him a startled look. No one, from any house, expected Draco Lucius Malfoy to speak up for Muggleborns.

Even if, technically, he’s not. Right? He’s not… He just… The word was out of style and had no place in modern, intellectual conversation. That’s all…

When Draco turns around Potter is staring at him, eyes wide, and Draco immediately scowls at him.

Without another word he grabs Crabbe and Goyle, who apparently missed his sharp words, and turns away, marching towards their dorms in the dungeons. He was done here, anyway.

An absent, quiet part of his mind wonders if this is what makes someone a punk…

~ ~ ~

“I don’t think he’s all that interested in being famous,” Max says one evening, cutting into one of Draco’s many, long-winded rants about Potter and his insatiable appetite for fame. He’d ended up pacing around the Owlery, petting owls as he passed them or tossing treats up in the air to watch one or two swoop to catch it.

The Astronomy Tower, the Owlery, isolated spots on the grounds of the castle, and very occasionally the Greenhouses were Draco’s main hideaways to talk on his radio. They were all quiet and abandoned when classes were out, or just out of the way enough it would be easy for Draco to cover what he was doing if someone ever did approach.

“You have never even met him. How would you know?” Draco demands, pausing in his steps to allow his own owl, Columba, to flit onto his shoulder. He reaches up to scratch at her chest feathers, the eagle owl puffing up in gratitude.

“Guess not. You just gripe about him so much I feel like I know him already,” Max hums.

“You are correct. You don’t know Potter. He’s spoiled, full of himself, and nearly impossible to be anywhere near.”

“So, he’s a mirror?” Max says, probably grinning.

“Your humor leaves much to be desired, Max,” Draco deadpans, continuing to pace and allowing Columba to return to her perch.

“I just think you’re thinking too hard on this! This guy sounds like he doesn’t actually enjoy all the attention. And if I’m able to gather that from your clearly biased stories, well…” Max leaves the rest unsaid, but Draco gets the picture.

Rather than actually approach the real issue at hand, however, he instead says, “I resent that. Since when have I ever overthought anything?”

“Remember when you were first learning how to play the violin?” Max replies without hesitation, “You nearly cried because you thought you couldn’t do it right and you’d never be a master, but it turns out you’d just not tuned it.”

“I was seven!”

“You were on the brink of tears because you, and I quote, ‘have failed miserably at the simplest of chores! Paganini, forgive me!’”

“…I’m hanging up now.”

~ ~ ~

Crabbe and Goyle couldn’t catch a break. Draco hardly noticed them much anymore, they were just always on the edge of his periphery. They made good guards, keeping away any undesirables, and they also were good for Draco to rant to, but most of the time Draco went to Max for any form of substantial conversation.

Still, after the whole scene in Potions with the Swelling Solution and now both boys stuck in the hospital wing with horrendous stomach problems, Draco was beginning to wonder if they were even dumber than he previously thought. Or just had the worst possible luck. Maybe they’d been dropped on their heads as infants. It would certainly explain their need to share a single brain just to get through the day.

It bothered Draco a lot less than he had expected, though, going a few days without the two morons. He’d gotten a few jibes for being without his bodyguards, but a well-aimed jinx or a cutting remark proved he was not one to be bothered no matter the circumstances.

Without his usual lackies in tow, it also gave Draco plenty more room to do as he pleased. He didn’t need to stay behind and help Crabbe and Goyle with their homework or come up with some convincing excuse to go off on his own and take pictures or talk on his radio. He could just go.

Which is how he found himself out on the grounds, near the lake. It was a Saturday and many of the older students were off at Hogsmeade, leaving the castle remarkably empty. It was also getting significantly colder, winter beginning to take its hold, and so many of the remaining students were inside, staying warm.

Draco, though, quite liked the cold, and the greying, chilly atmosphere really was beautiful. With a brand-new disposable camera in hand - Max had sent him a new one for the year since, apparently, they were cheap and “disposable for a reason” - he snapped photo after photo of the lake, the forest in the distance, the castle. He even managed to get a picture of one of the giant squid’s tentacles breaching the surface of the lake for a moment.

He was foolish, however, and hadn’t been paying attention around him. Sure, people usually left him alone out here, but he shouldn’t have let his guard down so readily when anyone could find him out here and put their hand on his shoulder.

Draco shrieks, jumping back from the offending touch, and whips his hands and the camera behind his back faster than a billywig beetle. He turns his huge, startled eyes on none other than Harry Potter, who is looking just as startled by his reaction.

Quick to save face Draco sneers, brows turning downwards. “What do you want, Potter? I was certain even Muggles know it is rude to sneak up on someone like that!”

Potter is quick to return Draco’s ire, his hands lowering to his sides and clenching into fists. “You’re hardly an expert on Muggles, Malfoy,” he says lowly.

‘More than any other pureblood,’ Draco thinks to himself, but certainly has no intention of saying that aloud. “Ah, so Muggles really ARE barbaric enough to disregard the personal boundaries of others?”

“What? No, that’s not-- Uhg! Stop making this difficult!”

“Make something easy? For you? Why, Potter, it’s like you don’t even know me,” Draco smirks, expecting Potter to squirm even more, but all of a sudden the dark-haired boy’s face settles into stony seriousness.

“I know you’re not a monster,” Potter says lowly and the air around them feels quite thick all of a sudden. Draco’s brows raise and he swallows, not liking how he doesn’t know where this conversation is going anymore. He doesn’t even know why Potter approached him to begin with, and without his ginger-haired nor buck-toothed shadows.

“What do you want, Potter? I am busy.”

“Ron and Hermione think you’re the Heir of Slytherin,” Potter, thankfully, cuts to the chase. It eases some of Draco’s nerves, but the subject being presented ramp them right back up again.

“I almost feel flattered,” he hums, covering up the twist in his gut, “Such a dazzling display of your ineptitude in deductive reasoning. Hogwart’s own Sherlock Holmes.” There’s a long stretch of silence as Potter simply looks at him, like he’s waiting for something, and then his exact words come back to Draco. “You don’t believe them, however…” Disbelief drips off every word with the realization.

Potter’s lips part into a patronizing grin. “And look at that! We found our Watson. Surprised you even know about those stories.”

“I’m eccentric,” Draco immediately scoffs, flicking his head and looking out over the lake. He hadn’t been paying close enough attention to his taunts. He needed to be more careful if he didn’t want people catching on.

“You’re something,” Potter sighs deeply, also looking out over the lake. “That’s why I don’t think you’re the heir. I heard you tell your own housemate to stop saying ‘mudblood,’ you saved me last year in the Forbidden Forest, and you don’t shy away from Muggle stuff like other Slytherins do.”

Draco peers at him from the corner of his eye, suspicious, and Potter glares back when he sees him. “I’ve seen that camera of yours, you know. I’m not blind.”

Draco makes a point of eying Potter’s glasses before snarking, covering up how his heart speeds up, “Are you sure about that?”

Potter groans, eyes rolling skyward, before saying through grit teeth, “Could you take this seriously? There’s been a kid petrified, now!”

“Colin Creevey. Yes, I heard,” Draco nods. Everyone had heard, of course. The first-year, Muggleborn Gryffindor had been found frozen the night after the first Quidditch game of the season. “You were in the infirmary with that noodle arm,” Potter scowls unhappily, “so I’m sure you must have seen him?”

“Yeah, I did. He was looking through his camera when they found him, but the insides of the camera were all melted.”

Well, that was curious. Curious indeed. It still raised a question, however. “Why are you coming to me with this anyway? It warms my heart knowing you worry what you and your friends think of me,” sarcasm drips off every word, before he switches to something more serious, “but I do not see why you needed to speak to me.”

Potter eyes him for a moment before saying, abruptly, “I hate you.”

“Thank you.”

Draco smirks as the response apparently throws Potter slightly off his rhythm. “I hate you… but I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think your personality is crap, but not your morals… probably.”

“Ah, I see. You despise me, but you trust me. A poor decision on your part but do go on.”

“You’re a Slytherin. You must have some idea who might be doing this. The Heir of Slytherin could attack anyone next, and what if it’s worse than petrification next time?”

“Some people have suggested you are the Heir,” Draco hums conversationally and Potter opens his mouth to deny it, but Draco cuts him off. “Preposterous, really. Simply because you were first on the scene on Halloween? Does that make anyone who discovers a dead body the actual killer?”

Potter is giving him a strange look, like he doesn’t believe Draco, but also like he’s a little relieved. Draco hates it. Potter being relieved by something Draco says doesn’t sound right. “So, then, do you have an idea who it might be?”

“Probably not a Slytherin.”

That surprises the other boy enough to get him to step back. He’s back to looking suspicious and frustrated. “Seriously?”

“Of course. Come now, Sherlock, think about it. I do not deny that the Chamber was originally created by Salazar Slytherin, but that doesn’t mean it was either his heir nor a Slytherin who may have opened it. Slytherins, however, are an easy target.”

“I wouldn’t really think of Slytherin as the type to be a target,” Potter says scornfully, looking particularly unhappy, but at least a tiny bit thoughtful.

“Tell me, Potter. When it was insinuated that a Slytherin was the one who was petrifying the student body, did you have even a single moment of doubt?” Draco questions, tone relaxed, “Now, if we went back in time and I told you that Professor Quirrell, a former Ravenclaw, would be kicked out of Hogwarts for practicing Dark Magic,” for that was the official story, “would you have a moment of doubt then?”

Potter has the good grace to at least look away, face stony, so Draco continues. “My house is not weak, nor would anyone forgive you for insinuating we are victims in any manner, but it does seem convenient that everyone’s eyes are on the first house everyone is far too eager to place the blame on.”

For a moment the two boys are silent, just standing in the grass, the chilly air around them causing goosebumps to appear on their arms, listening to the wind whistle over the lake.

“They’re jerks… not monsters,” Potter mumbles, repeating Draco from that night that felt like years ago.

“Well…” Draco hums, tapping his finger against his chin, “I wouldn’t say they ALL match that criteria, but… essentially, yes.”

“So you really don’t think the culprit is in Slytherin?”

“I didn’t say that. Just that they probably aren’t. All I’m saying is we shouldn’t rule out the other houses just because the attacker, who certainly wouldn’t want to be caught, wrote they were the Heir of Slytherin on the wall in blood. At the very least we can assume this person is quite unwell.”

For another stretch of awkward silence the two stand there, unsure exactly where to go from here.

“Hermione’s making a Polyjuice Potion,” Potter very abruptly blurts out, making Draco arch a brow.

“Truly? That is quite an advanced potion. Plus, where would you get the ingre… di… ents…” Draco trails off, thinking back to the exploding Swelling Solution incident. Then he thinks about Crabbe and Goyle in the hospital wing, sick from something they ate. Certainly not something from the Hogwarts kitchens.

He turns a deadpan glare onto Potter, who is looking in the completely opposite direction. “Did you poison Crabbe and Goyle just to talk to me?”

“I didn’t… poison them…”

Draco stares at the other boy for a long, quiet moment before he throws back his head and guffaws, unable to stop the hysterical laughter as the whole scene puts itself together. Potter is looking at him like he’s lost his mind, and perhaps he has. “You, Potter, are unbelievable! Quite the Slytherin streak you’ve got going there!” Potter looks distinctly unhappy now, face twisting into a scowl.

“I think all that hair gel has finally gotten to your brain, Malfoy.”

“Am I right to assume the Polyjuice Potion is to be used to infiltrate my lovely house?” he questions as his laughter subsides, ignoring the jibe, spirits too high to care.

“Good job, Watson,” Potter grumbles, “I’ve told Ron and Hermione I don’t think it’s you, but they’re convinced, so they want to make sure.”

“Oh, well this should be fun,” Draco smirks and Potter gives him an unhappy look, “Oh, come now, I won’t be too dreadful. After all, you had the good graces to warn me. But if you think I am going to make this easy for you--”

“Then I must not know you. Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,” Potter waves his hand dismissively at him.

Conversation seemingly coming to a close, Potter takes a few steps back in the direction of the castle. There is no way to know how they should truly end this. This is the longest they’ve ever managed to speak to each other without biting the other’s head off, and they’d come close a few times. Was there even a civil way to end a conversation like that? If there was a guide somewhere, Draco didn’t have it.

“Listen… Malfoy…” Potter says slowly, scratching at his neck. “You must have a reason to keep it quiet so… I promise not to tell anyone about your camera.”

The rush of relief Draco feels is embarrassing, but undeniable. He had almost forgotten that Potter had noticed that… “That would be wise,” he says, a little breathy, “Seeing as, if it got out, I would know exactly who to hunt down and maim.”

Potter’s face looks a little stricken there, like he isn’t sure if Draco is being serious or not, and the blonde raises up his camera from where he’d been hiding it and snaps a quick picture. Not like Potter didn’t know he had it, after all. “Lovely face, there. I think I’ll mount it on my dart board.”

“Don’t take pictures of me,” Potter says with more emotion than Draco thinks is necessary for this reaction. He eyes the boy suspiciously, trying to understand that, before he smirks.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He takes another picture, this time Potter looking very frustrated. “Oh! And one other thing. Since you’ve been oh so friendly today, something that might help your investigation.” This seems to perk Potter’s interest, his shoulders also relaxing when Draco stashes the camera away. Curious.

“Every Slytherin knows this, but fifty years ago the Chamber was opened as well, except no one was petrified. Instead, a single Muggleborn was killed right here in Hogwarts’s halls.” Potter’s eyes have widened, horrified, while Draco shrugs nonchalantly. “No clue how helpful that will be to you, but do sort this out before the entire school becomes a madhouse. It’s exhausting.”

Potter swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment, and when he looks back up he seems to have gathered himself. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Our hero,” Draco coo’s, making Potter scowl.

“Maybe tell your henchmen not to eat food they don’t recognize off the floor, by the way.”

Draco blinks once. Twice. “They ate poison off the ground?!”

Potter’s laughter as he retreats to the castle is backdrop to Draco’s realization that he really, really didn’t like Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

~ ~ ~

One things Draco Malfoy was quickly learning about Muggles was that they were violent. His parents had insinuated as much before, but standing in the WW2 museum, looking at all the different kinds of machines built, specifically, to kill another person… it was a little horrifying.

Especially now that he understood it was all real.

Max was enamored by the guns and missiles, gushing over the different ways they were made or how quickly they could shoot or what their blast radius was. Max’s father also gushed over the vehicles, which could be mounted with artillery - which was a word for big guns used in war - and driven over all kinds of terrain. ‘Or bodies,’ Draco’s unhelpful mind conjures up.

Eric doesn’t appear to care much about any of this, scoffing at most everything his father tries to show him, but Max’s mother thankfully appears to pick up on Draco’s unease.

It is not for the first time that Draco has edged away from an over-eager Max when they start going on and on about Thompson submachine guns. He feels queasy, and the dainty hand on his shoulder helps center him.

“We haven’t had any lunch yet, have we, darling?” Max’s mother says, her eyes on her husband, but her hand squeezing Draco’s shoulder.

“Oh! We have not!” Max’s father says brightly, pushing up his too-large glasses. “Let’s get some Linner!”

“Linner?” Draco repeats, confused, but thankful to be talking about something else.

“Lunch-Dinner,” Max offers brightly, popping up by Draco’s side and hooking their arms together.

“There was a diner just across the way,” Max’s mother offers, releasing Draco’s shoulder, “Why don’t we visit there. Will your parents be alright with this, Draco, or should we stay here?”

“They won’t mind,” he lies, and then they are off.

The diner is a little farther down the block and across the street with a bell that jingles when they open the door. While he was aware there would be no magic in this place it still throws Draco how strange it is not to see dishes cleaning themselves, chairs floating around, or some kind of decorative charm on the ceiling.

Instead the diner makes up for these things by being warmly lit, brightly colored, and filled with the sound of music. The walls are covered in black and white, non-moving photos and newspaper clippings, there is a long bar on one side of the room with yellow stools all along it, the booths are red, blue, and yellow, and all of the lights hang from the ceiling in little, red balls of glass.

“Help me find a booth, Draco?” Max’s mother speaks lowly, “Let Max order for you.”

Draco, completely uncertain where to even begin with the massive menu in front of him, agrees readily. He and Max’s mother find a booth with yellow colored seats right beside the front windows.

“Feeling better?” Max’s mother asks once they’ve slid in and settled.

“I wasn’t really that hungry,” he replies slowly, “but I am looking forward to the meal.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

For a moment they sit in silence, Draco kicking his dangling feet and not looking up at the woman across from him. When he offers no immediate answer Max’s mother continues. “It’s okay to feel scared of what you saw in the museum.”

“I’m not scared!” Draco snaps, still not looking up, and a thin, feminine hand lays itself atop his. Her nails are short and jagged, unlike Draco’s mother’s.

“Okay. You weren’t scared. But I want you to know that if you ever are, it is okay,” Max’s mother squeezes his hand, then let’s go. “And it is okay to talk about it. Fear is not something to be ashamed of. It is completely natural and burying it inside us can only lead to problems down the road.”

Draco says nothing. At every chance he got, Lucius Malfoy made sure to remind Draco how a man was supposed to act. He would turn away from his crying on occasion, but for the most part he did not humor weakness. And according to his father, fear was a weakness. Tears were a weakness. Too much of just about any emotion was a weakness. Power came from control, and that was final.

“Do you know why we feel fear?” Max’s mother suddenly asks and Draco peaks up at her. She’s smiling patiently at him, expression soft.

“Why?” he mumbles.

“Because when humans were still hunting and gathering emotions developed in order to keep us alive. Fear is our brain indicating that there is danger and we need to be aware of it. If we did not know something was dangerous, how would we know to avoid it, fight it, or lessen it?”

“Is mama talking about the brain again?” Max’s voice springs suddenly into Draco’s ear as the Muggle child slides into the booth beside him. “Mama’s a brain scientist!”

“Neuroscientist, dumbie,” Eric hisses, shoving Max further down the booth and into Draco so he can sit too.

“That too!” Max chirps.

“She’s an absolute genius,” Max’s father sighs wistfully, bending to kiss his wife on the cheek before sitting down beside her. She smiles back at him, returning the gesture with a loud smack of a kiss that has both of them giggling, and both of their children gagging.

“This place is built for tourists,” Max’s father says brightly, then grins at Draco, “Hope you like chicken and waffles!”

“They’re delicious!” Max adds, grinning just as brightly. Draco eyes them suspiciously, considering the strange food combination. That didn’t sound very delicious…

“Breakfast for Linner?” Max’s mother questions, but she’s smiling.

“Time is a human construct, mom. Don’t let it confine you,” Eric says in reply, looking far too serious.

Draco, for a while, just watches the Muggle family interact. They were so animated and open, unlike Draco’s parents, and they didn’t seem ashamed of it at all. Draco knows his parents would turn their noses up to it all, but Draco can’t help but feel happy being around all this life.

Eventually Max pulls Draco into a mostly one-sided conversation about something called an Atari, followed shortly after by their food arriving.

Turns out chicken and waffles really are delicious.

~ ~ ~

Draco Malfoy wasn’t present for the celebratory feast at the end of his second year at Hogwarts. After everything, one thing after another, he didn’t want to be around anyone.

So much fear packed into a single year, no one sure if they were safe within the walls. Potter turning out to be a Parselmouth and everyone positive he had to be responsible for something, Dumbledore being removed, the Gameskeeper going away to Azkaban, Ginny Weasley going missing… And then Dobby had shown up.

Draco had only just been going back to his dorm, having heard about the feast and wanting to at the very least change out of his sleepwear, when he’d found Dobby.

The little house elf had been freed. He’d been freed because “Harry Potter saved me, Young Master!” He’d been freed, so now he was free to tell Draco everything. That it was his own father who had set into motion the chaos of this year. His own father who had slipped a dark diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron at Flourish and Blotts. His own father who had helped set loose a basilisk on innocent students because… what?

They were mudbloods? They were a threat to his precious traditions? They would change everything?

They were children! Just like Draco. And he’d… He’d…

Draco wanted to throw up.

He didn’t even feel angry when he’d found out his father had been sacked from his place as school governor. If anything, he felt a disturbing sense of satisfaction. Disturbing because he had never felt happy for his own father’s plights.

He was upset Dobby was free, however. His only ally when it came to Max. But Dobby made a promise that the house elf named Tana, also within Malfoy service, would be happy to help Draco with any deliveries or packages.

That should have at least been some good news, but it hardly helped Draco’s mood.

No, he didn’t want to be anywhere near that feast. He wanted to be alone with his radio and the sound of his friend’s voice, but not even Max was picking up. Sometimes that happened - Max would be too busy or just nowhere near the other radio - but after everything… after all the fear and worry and horror, after all the dark magic and hate, Draco just wanted to talk to his friend.

Instead Draco sat in silence up in the Astronomy Tower, shaking hands hugging his radio close, and cried.

~ ~ ~

“¡Hola!”

Draco sighs deeply at the radio, one hand coming up to scrub at his face. “Hola,” he says back, not at all sounding pleased. He doesn’t even make a good attempt at pronouncing it correctly.

“¿Como estas?” Max continues, voice chipper but slow, making sure every syllable is pronounced perfectly.

“Fine,” Draco sighs in response. His bedroom door is locked, which he’s been doing a lot more of recently, and he’s sitting on his bed trying to organize he school supplies for his new year at Hogwarts. He has his books arranged by subjects, his supplies arranged by color and size, his clothes set out and folded, and now he is carding through his “miscellaneous” section.

Right this second, he’s flipping through the photo album he keeps stashed away with his radio and camera. Tana had been just about the only good thing to come out of the summer, Draco grudgingly had to accept. The little house elf was more than happy to help Draco slip a few items past his parents here and there, so long as neither Lucius nor Narcissa asked directly what she was doing. It seemed Tana did not strive for freedom like Dobby had, but she also seemed more than comfortable exploiting loopholes.

So that was one issue out of the way, but Draco’s parents seemed particularly set on making the rest of his life difficult.

After the last school year Draco had found more comfort in his solitude than anything else. Crabbe and Goyle were more frustrating than ever and he denied every offer his parents gave for them to drop by or vice versa. And speaking of his parents, they wouldn’t stop “reassuring” him that all would work out for their family in the long run. They were right to assume Draco was pulling away from them. They were wrong to assume why.

Having his eyes opened, truly, to his family’s blind hatred was terrifying. He had attempted to deny it, attempted to keep being a good son, but then he would feel sick with himself, or they would make some witless comment about superiority, and it was just easier for Draco to retreat.

His mother worried, which he did regret. She always was doing what she believed was best for him, supporting him where his father did not, but he had even felt betrayed by her when, one evening in July, she had approached him about his future.

Draco knew a lot about what was expected of him in theory, but to keep being presented with it in the worst possible ways was wearing him thin.

An arranged marriage.

He was still young for any promises to any families to be made, but it wouldn’t hurt to start looking and making connections. His mother had suggested he start looking at Hogwarts, hoping he would be excited to have some say in the matter rather than leave it all to her and Lucius.

And if this had come up not even two months prior he would have been honored.

Now he just felt ill.

Thankfully, due to his recent behavior, no one questioned his locked bedroom door anymore. Small victories, he supposed.

“You know, you’re no help if you don’t actually, y’know, speak Spanish back,” Max grumbles at him, cheerfulness quickly replaced by frustration.

“It’s your summer work, not mine,” Draco shrugs, flicking to the next page in the photo album. Sitting beside him is a new disposable camera, this one bright yellow. Tana had been true to her word and gotten all the film from last year developed in remarkable time and had placed them into the album in chronological order, much as the first batch from his first year.

“You didn’t even let me get to ‘como te llamas,’ or ‘de donde eres,’ or…” Max goes on for a while, listing off more and more Spanish phrases, and Draco listens with half an ear.

“You’re the one that picked Spanish as your language elective. If you’d picked French, I could have helped you, but you didn’t listen.”

“Well, I figured that when we’re adults and we go exploring the world and we need a translator you can cover French and I can cover Spanish!”

“And if we end up in Germany?” Draco hums. This wasn’t the first time they’d daydreamed about meeting up again, after so many years, and travelling somewhere fun. It was an enjoyable idea, in theory, but Draco was in such a sour mood lately it was hard to get his hopes up.

“I will leave the honor of learning German to you,” Max sing-songs.

“Very well, but you have to learn Chinese in return. I have always wanted to visit China.”

“Deal!”

Draco rolls his eyes at the over-eager response and goes back to sorting out his things. The train would be leaving in two days’ time, and he wanted to be prepared and ready to go at the drop of a hat. He was ready to get out of this stifling manor and have himself a nice, normal school year.

~ ~ ~

With a beautiful, well-practiced flourish the seven-year-old Draco Malfoy takes a deep bow, holding his new violin in one hand and the violin bow in the other.

Narcissa, who is sitting on the edge of a couch in their sitting room, claps regally for her son as his performance comes to a close. Beside her, standing at the arm rest, Lucius Malfoy says nothing.

“That was beautiful, Dragon. You have practiced very diligently, and it shows,” Draco’s mother says warmly, her smile soft and relaxed but so full of pride it makes Draco puff out his chest.

“Thank you, mother.”

“It is quite the beautiful instrument,” Lucius says at length, expression drawn, “I believe Madam Iguala at the Ministry speaks very highly of her daughter’s aptitude at the violin.” Draco does not understand his father’s emphasis on “daughter,” but mostly he feels disappointed that he does not even comment on Draco’s own performance.

Narcissa looks over at her husband, something going unsaid between them, and Lucius turns to step out of the room. Draco watches him go, his shoulders sagging, but then Narcissa is crouching before him and setting a manicured hand against his cheek.

“My talented son,” she says quietly, urging Draco to smile back, before gesturing to his violin. It’s made of a shimmery white material that almost looks like marble. “Tell me where to find all of the chords,” she tells him, and he is eager to show her.

A few months, and a few more private performances, later, with no further comment ever leaving Lucius Malfoy’s mouth, Draco stashes the violin away in his closet, swearing to never pull it out again.

~ ~ ~

There’s a Muggleborn in Slytherin.

Weirdly enough, with escaped criminals and dementors at their doorstep, THAT is what surprises Draco most upon his arrival back to Hogwarts. She’s not even a new student, she’s a year older than him, but Draco had never noticed.

And he probably would have gone on not noticing if he hadn’t been fleeing from Crabbe and Goyle on the Hogwarts Express. He didn’t want to sit with them and listen to them talk, surely lowering his brain cell numbers with every word. Max’s mother swore that wasn’t possible, but she’d never met the two idiots, so what did she know?

He’d hidden away in a compartment in the back, getting plenty of strange looks from more familiar faces as he passed, and met a girl with short, black hair styled into sweeping, fashionable spikes, blue eyes, and already sporting her Slytherin robes.

They’d awkwardly exchanged names - hers was Eve Hushburn - shaken hands, then sat in silence to read until they reached Hogwarts.

Save for the stop and the dementor appearance, it was by far Draco’s favorite train ride to this day.

It did make him wonder how he’d never noticed Hushburn before now. She didn’t look average, in fact she was quite pretty, especially with her carefully styled hair, yet somehow Draco had missed her. In his own house, no less. Although… that was probably his answer right there.

She was a Muggleborn in Slytherin. That couldn’t be safe. As much as Draco would prefer to defend his house, even he knew that. She would be too much of an easy target if she were open about her heritage. She was at risk in her own house, and didn’t that twist his gut this way and that?

Damn it all, being aware of his family’s flaws in tradition was making his life a hassle, because Slytherin’s traditions were essentially the same. He couldn’t escape the reality that he was living in a very damaged system, and he had been an active member in the corrupting.

He looks down forlornly at the Slytherin crest on his robes. They could do so much better than that… He knew they could.

During the Welcome Feast Draco walks straight past his usual seat, a determined fire in his chest, and sits down beside the Muggleborn Slytherin without a word.

~ ~ ~

No matter how hard Draco tried he could not free himself entirely of Crabbe and Goyle. They were like two dogs chasing their master, and he doubted he’d ever truly be free of them until he got them a new owner.

They didn’t even seem insulted by him avoiding them, they just seemed confused. It would have been a lot sadder if they were only big idiots, but no. They were big idiots who were still as blindly hatefully as their parents, and after everything, Draco just couldn’t stand to be around that attitude for very long.

Draco wanted nothing to do with that hateful behavior anymore. He even was finding his Uncle Severus Snape’s classes difficult to deal with what with his blatant favoritism and mistreatment of the Gryffindors. He’d once loved these classes, but there was a fine line between cruel and teasing, and Draco wasn’t sure how to identify Snape yet.

Draco, however, knew exactly where he, himself, stood. Teasing behavior, after all, was fundamentally his backbone, his defense, and Potter made it so easy for him. It felt familiar, like bantering with Max, and Draco didn’t pass up any opportunity to poke fun.

He was becoming more aware of the Gryffindor’s reactions, however, along with his friends, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. It was like a map in his head. This thing got this reaction, this comment was off limits, this joke got no response, and so on.

Plus, and Draco isn’t entirely sure who might have changed to cause this, their jeers didn’t feel… desperate anymore. Something had shifted, but no one could tell what. Their words hardly changed, their tones remained vicious or icy or anything in between, but it was like Draco wasn’t doing it out of obligation to his Slytherin pride anymore.

It felt foreign and familiar all at once, but Draco was desperately trying not to overthink it too much. Max had been right, he overthought too many things and ended up stressing himself out with whatever his brain could, or could not, come up with.

It was a little freeing to just allow things to be.

Now if he could just find a way to get Crabbe and Goyle to leave him alone, everything would be perfect.

~ ~ ~

“Hypothetically…”

“Oh! I love your hypotheticals! Hit me, hit me.” Max’s voice comes in and out as they most certainly bounce up and down.

Draco paces the Astronomy Tower, his Care of Magical Creatures textbook sitting on the floor a few paces away, a deep rumble emitting from the surely evil thing.

“Sentient book.”

“Okay…”

“With fangs.”

“Gotcha…”

“And doesn’t like you.”

“Story of my life.”

“How would you open it?”

“Pet it.”

Draco eyes the living book dubiously. “Pet it? Really? You don’t want to think about that?”

“Nope! No think, only do!,” Draco scoffs at that. Max would make a splendid Gryffindor. “A living, angry book? With fangs? Probably just grumpy and needs some love! Like a puppy!”

“A puppy…?” Draco inches towards the textbook but jumps back when it snarls at him. Yes, this was certainly lovely. He didn’t even know why he signed up for this class, he was dreadful with animals, but compared to some of his other options it had felt logical at the time. Divination was completely not happening, he knew that was a load of garbage before he’d even heard more about it. Muggle Studies would be a waste, since he had Max to tell him everything. And Ancient Runes he was already near fluent in thanks to his tutors.

That left Arithmancy, which he actually was quite interested in, and Care for Magical Creatures.

“I don’t even know why I picked this stupid class,” Draco complains a few minutes later, having not moved closer to the growling book.

“You have an elective where you learn how to treat exotic animals… and you have the GALL to complain?” Max demands, flabbergasted, before grumbling something like, “Stupid rich kids in stupid posh boarding schools…”

“I’m dreadful with animals…”

“Why does this not surprise me?” Max snickers, “Listen, you just gotta be calm around ‘em, alright? Animals can smell fear, so if you’re chill, they’re chill.”

“It is not merely the beasts that concern me, but the instructor as well. He’s a big oaf with no experience teaching whatsoever!”

“What do you mean by ‘oaf’?”

“I mean he’s… you know. He’s always… you know…”

“No… I don’t know,” there’s a pause and Draco can almost feel the atmosphere getting tenser as the seconds tick by. Great. What issue with Draco was Max going to have now? “Waaaaait… Is this you labelling someone for some asinine reasons just so you can feel better about yourself?”

“I am impressed you know what ‘asinine’ means.”

“Draco…”

“And a little disappointed you didn’t assume I was repeating my father again.”

“Draco!”

“What?!” he finally snaps, taking his eyes off his stupid textbook to glare at the radio, “What would you like me to say? He’s a bumbling buffoon that gets along better with the worms in his garden than he does with people.”

“Sounds like he’s the right guy to teach a class about critters then, don’t’cha think?”

Draco’s glare hardens and his free hand curls into a fist until his knuckles turn paper white. He’s ready to retort, snap back that Max doesn’t know anything about this situation, but as quickly as his ire rose does it fall away. He takes a shaky, frustrated breath.

“I’m doing it again,” he says, before Max can say it, because of course Max was going to say it eventually.

“Being a complete knob? Yes. Yes, you are,” Max replies.

“Stop smirking.”

“Stop spying!”

~ ~ ~

Draco’s boggart was himself.

Except not exactly.

Draco’s boggart was himself, but slightly to the left in terms of… everything. Like everything about him had been shifted. He looked the same, except his eyes were so much sharper, his posture stiff, and his nose high.

Draco wonders if the boggart is broken, but then his doppelganger starts to speak.

“Look at you,” and the voice that emerges is not Draco’s, but Lucius Malfoy’s, “Getting outsmarted by a mudblood, allowing this…” the boggart looks at Professor Lupin, “disgusting wretch to instruct you, failing at every turn.”

Draco’s grip on his wand tightens and for a moment he is hyperaware of his housemates behind him, waiting for their turn.

The boggart wearing his face and using his father’s voice scoffs, sounding venomous and cruel. “You can’t even rebel correctly. All you want to do is hide away and make friends with scum like that Mu--"

“Riddikulus!” Draco exclaims and suddenly his clone is turning paler and paler, skin and robes melting into a single white, cartoon ghost that flies around the room in loop-de-loops. The rest of the class thankfully laughs. Draco doesn’t.

He retreats to the back of the classroom, silent, and hardly pays attention to the rest of class. Most everyone else’s fears are bugs or clowns or vampires. Why did Draco’s have to be so… different?

When class is finally over Draco moves to get his bag as quickly as possible, but Professor Lupin stops him, requesting he stay behind, and the blond sags. Figures he wouldn’t have been able to escape so easily.

“Are you alright, Draco?” Lupin asks once all of the other Slytherins are out of the room. Draco had noticed their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher rarely called anyone by their surname, yet somehow it didn’t feel unprofessional. If Draco was being honest, as unique as Lupin seemed, he was by far the best DADA teacher they’d had so far, and they’d only had him for less than a week already.

“Fine,” the blonde says on reflex, not wanting to talk about his boggart, which was surely what Lupin wanted. He wanted to forget about this entire day, please and thank you.

“There is no shame in fearing what one might become,” Lupin says, instead of leaving this be. “I find it quite admirable, really, that you concern yourself so much with being the best you that you can be.”

Draco eyes the man suspiciously, his eyes thinning, and Lupin’s smile is serene. “I have heard stories from the other teachers,” is all he offers, “Now, off with you. You have another class after this and I won’t keep you.”

Without a word Draco turns away, heading for the door, but pauses when he grabs the handle. He looks back, hesitates, then says meaningfully, “You know, the boggart was right…” Lupin’s expression turns concerned and curious, his head tilting as he waits for Draco to continue. “You really are a mess…”

He says it with enough sincerity and earnest meaning in his eyes it takes a moment for Lupin to realize he’s pulling his leg. Once he does, though, he barks a startled laugh, finding the comment funny instead of disrespectful. Draco smirks to himself and quickly slips out the door, heading to Transfiguration.

~ ~ ~

“What are you doing?”

Draco shrieks, nearly flinging his camera in surprise at the voice that appears right behind him, then spins around to glare furiously at Harry Potter. “Why do you insist on sneaking up on me like that?!” he demands, voice shrill, and Potter grins at him.

“When you stop insisting on sneaking around,” is the reply and Draco’s eyes narrow. With a swift movement he raises his camera and snaps a picture of the obnoxiously grinning Potter, the flash now making the boy wonder shriek.

He watches in satisfaction as Potter grumbles and pushes up his glasses so he can rub at his eyes. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles. Draco eventually turns back to what he had been working on, thankful the grouping of hippogriffs hasn’t moved away from all the commotion they had been making. He moves to sit on the ground and wait for them to get closer, however.

“Seriously, what are you doing? Why aren’t you at Hogsmeade?” Potter questions again, standing a few paces to Draco’s side.

It was Halloween day and the first Hogsmeade trip for all third years. Draco, of course, had his permission slip ready to go, and had even been looking forward to it, but at the last moment he had changed his mind. He would go next time, but for now he wanted to enjoy the solitude of the Hogwarts grounds without all of the hustle and bustle of students.

“I am, quite obviously, attempting to get some good photos of the hippogriffs,” Draco tells Potter.

“You could always move closer. You managed to get one to bow to you in class, I remember,” the other boy says, sounding confused, and Draco looks up at him with an unimpressed look.

“I want them to be acting normally, not paying attention to me. Do you not know what ‘candid’ means?” he says with a huff, then scowls and flaps his hand at Potter, “And sit down, already! You’re making me anxious.”

Ungracefully, and after a short hesitation, Potter plops down in the grass beside him, leaving plenty of space between the two. “And you snuck by Hagrid to do this?”

“While you may firmly believe me a duplicitous and ‘sneaky’ individual, I did not, in fact, sneak out here. The Gameskeeper gave me permission.”

“He… gave you permission? He knows about your camera, then?” Potter questions, sounding disbelieving.

“The Gameskeeper…” Draco’s voice begins confidently, but then abruptly fades into embarrassment, “Uh… caught me taking photographs of his dog…”

“Fang?” Potter clarifies and he’s grinning again. He looks like he’s about to start laughing, so Draco turns his camera on him again. Before he can hit the button, Potter raises his arms to shield his face. “Okay, okay! Merlin, you’re testy today.”

“What are YOU doing, then?” Draco snaps, lowering his camera, and Potter peaks out through his arms. “Since we’re sharing, why aren’t you at Hogsmeade with your little posse?”

Potter’s arms fall into his lap and he looks down. He looks crestfallen, actually, and a string in Draco’s heart actually has the audacity to get tugged. “I was never able to get my permission slip signed.”

“What? Did you actually forget?” Draco scoffs, but then Potter glances away. Nothing more is said, so Draco sighs and drops it. Whatever the reason is, Potter doesn’t appear up to talking about it. “Oh, very well, since you asked so nicely,” he says over dramatically, finally getting Potter to look up, “I suppose you may accompany me today.”

“What?!” Potter looks stricken and shocked, his green eyes widening into saucers, “Why would I want to hang out with you?!”

“You look so miserable,” Draco says with a wave of his hand at Potter, one of his brows arching derisively, “I’m doing you a favor, really. You clearly need some peace and quiet, and you won’t be able to do that if you are left alone to your thoughts.”

Draco turns his attention back to the hippogriffs when it appears Potter has no intention of replying nor leaving. For a while they are completely silent, just sitting in the grass, and Draco eventually raises his camera to take a few pictures of the winged beasts across the grass.

He isn’t sure how long they are out there, but eventually Potter moves to lay on his stomach, settling into the grass while Draco starts taking pictures of the surrounding area. It is when he is pointing his camera at a line of thick trees that he sees a dark shape.

“Huh…” he says, curious, and Potter peaks open one of his eyes.

“What?”

“There’s a dog over there…”

Potter shifts his head to look where Draco is looking without getting up. Sure enough there is the distinct shape of a large dog slinking through the woods. It is black and mangy and clearly thin with hunger.

“That dog… looks really familiar,” Potter says slowly, finally sitting up. Draco, momentarily distracted, quickly snaps a picture of Potter with copious amounts of grass and leaves sticking out of his hair.

“Truly? I’ve never seen any dogs around Hogwarts save for Fang,” Draco muses, looking back at the animal.

“No, I saw this dog back when I ran from my Aunt and Uncle’s house.”

Draco wonders why Potter would need to run away from his family, but chalks it up to youthful rebellion. Then, for some reason, he remembers the unsigned permission slip that Potter didn’t want to talk about. It all formed the beginnings of a picture Draco already knew he wouldn’t like if he delved any deeper.

“Probably not the same dog, then.”

“Probably…” Potter sighs, still looking at the animal. He looks kind of nervous, but not so much that anyone would be concerned.

“It looks like it’s starving…” Draco says quietly. The creature was big, but even from this distance he could tell it was all skin and bones.

“Maybe we could leave some food out for it?” Potter suggests, “Lunch should still be out, we could grab a plate of meat.”

“’We’?” Draco arches a brow at Potter and the other boy gives him a blank look.

“Fine, I will get the food,” Potter rolls his eyes and stands, brushing off grass from his casual, Muggle clothes and as he heads for the castle Draco notes how they don’t seem to fit properly on his frame. Potter would have gotten those clothes outside of Hogwarts, while he was with his Muggle Aunt and Uncle. It felt like another piece to that puzzle that was looking less and less pleasant.

Draco shakes himself, berating his overthinking head. It could be possible Potter simply liked baggier clothes. They were probably just comfortable…

A few minutes later Draco spots the shape of Potter exiting the castle and heading over to the line of trees. The dog is gone by now, but he still lays a plate of food on the ground before turning and trudging back up to Draco’s spot in the grass.

They exchange a few jibes, the familiarity relaxing, then fall into silence save for the sound of the shutters on Draco’s camera and, later, the soft noise of Potter’s breath as he falls asleep in the grass.

~ ~ ~

On Draco’s twelfth birthday he received his new disposable camera from Max, but also a surprise gift from Eric.

Dobby had brought the gifts up to Draco’s room, as was their plan, and later that evening Draco got the opportunity to open them. He examined his new camera first, curious if it had any new features, and when he found none he moved to Eric’s gift.

It turned out to be a vinyl. A vinyl with the picture of a naked baby boy floating in water and the name “Nirvana” written on the bottom left. Draco had stared at the picture in baffled, disturbed awe before picking up the note that had been inside.

“Time to get you started on a real music collection. I’m sending the Ramones next time,” was all it read and Eric’s messy signature sat on the bottom.

Still a little shell-shocked Draco had to stash away the vinyl with his collection of classical music and wait for an opportunity where his parents wouldn’t be around. That opportunity came a few weeks later, his father away on Ministry business and his mother at a brunch with some friends, and he nearly sprinted up to his room to finally put the new record on his record player.

The song that began playing first was intense, a heavy guitar rift coming through the player, and the words that followed were nonsensical. Not nonsensical like when Max, or one of the other Muggles, says something baffling that needs clarifying, but nonsensical in that the words were a mumbled, gibberish mess.

He could pick up a few phrases here and there, but when Draco looked at the vinyl sleeve he couldn’t find a list of any lyrics. All he could find was that the song was titled “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

Draco still ended up listening to it, and the rest of the record, on repeat any chance he got.

~ ~ ~

“You look chipper today, Potter!” Draco calls over the roar of wind and rain. He floats as casually as one can when soaked to the bone and constantly having to slick his hair out of his eyes. The storm isn’t enough to stop the first Quidditch game of the season, but it certainly drenches everyone’s moods.

Potter, however, still somehow manages to look particularly miserable. Like a fluffy cat that just got dumped in a tub, his wet hair and clothes making him look like he’d lost the majority of his weight.

“Oh, yes, I’m especially looking forward to getting struck by lightning,” Potter retorts, having to raise his voice to be heard. The two are circling each other loosely now, keeping an eye out for the Snitch as the game plays on beneath them. “Tell me, Malfoy, do you intend to actually play this year, or should I just anticipate an easy win?”

“Oh! Boy wonder has jokes today!” Draco throws his head back and claps a few times, “Could you let me know, though, when you actually come up with a funny one?”

“When I do, I’ll make sure to tell you how I figured it out. You need all the help you can get.”

They don’t see the Snitch for a long while, and then a time out is being called. It does little to boost anyone’s mood, the rain sure to soak them through to the bone. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if any of them ended up with a cold.

“Malfoy, do us all a favor and catch that bloody Snitch already so we can be done with this,” Flint tells Draco on their way back onto the field. Draco says nothing, but he nods. He was doing his best, but even a professional Seeker would have issues in this weather.

Minutes and minutes tick by as the game continues, the cheers from the crowd muted by the wind, and Draco keeps having to push his hair out of his eyes.

He doesn’t know who starts moving first, if he’s being honest, but one second he and Potter are flying in weird formations around each other and the next they’re both bolting after a flash of gold in the sky. Draco blinked and he was moving, that was all there was to it, and he doesn’t hesitate to knock roughly into Potter’s side.

Potter responds in kind, the two neck and neck, circling the pitch once before the Snitch takes a sharp turn upwards. Potter has a quicker response, pulling roughly up on his broom, and Draco is just a breath behind him.

They climb and climb and climb until they’re passing through dark cloud vapor, the pitch far below them. Draco’s breath puffs in front of his face, which is surprising, since it really shouldn’t be that cold up here, but he hard;y cares.

Then frost is forming on the end of his broom handle and that gets his attention. Judging by the way Potter’s head starts flicking around the same must be happening to him.

What was going on?

Draco still manages to catch up to Potter, though, ignoring the strange cold that permeates into his very core. Side by side with Potter, both have their hands stretched out for the Snitch. It is right there, but it looks like Potter might be pulling ahead. A dark shadow passes in front of them, but Draco is too hyper-focused on the Snitch and Potter’s hand is slipping back, the perfect opportunity, and Draco’s own encircles around the golden ball.

His eyes widen in amazement, a cheer bubbling up in his throat, and he turns his head to look back at Potter to rub his victory in his face, when he realizes why the other boy had suddenly pulled back.

Dementors are everywhere - how the hell did Draco miss that?! - and they are near swarming Potter whose eyes have rolled back in his head and he’s lilting to one side and--

Draco yells out in horror and lurches, moving faster than he thinks he ever has before, and his free hand shoots out to grab Potter’s wrist. He isn’t prepared for the momentum that the other boy had already begun to build up and, while he’s holding the Snitch in his other hand, he can only brace himself against his own broom with his chest.

Potter’s weight yanks viciously down on his arm, something popping loudly and a searing pain shooting through the entire appendage. He keeps his hold on Potter though, cringing and crying out against the agony, but the Gryffindor Seeker is no longer plummeting to his demise.

“You need to lay off the treacle tart, Potter,” Draco grunts to himself, trying to keep from losing his balance, but then, because the universe can’t give Draco a break, Potter’s spiraling Nimbus 2000, now without owner, nails Draco right in the face. It flings stars into his vision and makes it very hard to breathe through his nose all of a sudden.

Somehow, in a daze of confusion and pain, he manages to get them away from the encircling dementors still above them and down to the pitch. He is having trouble concentrating on the cries around him and about a foot from the ground he drops both himself and Potter to the wet grass.

There are people taking Potter away, checking over the unconscious boy and dragging him to the hospital wing. Draco doesn’t care. He stays crouched on the ground, clutching his arm, breathing raggedly through his mouth. He thinks someone eventually calls his name, followed by a touch to his arm that has him flinging himself away and crying out.

He has no idea who manages to get him to his feet and start moving him in the direction of the castle. Someone manages to get the Snitch out of his good hand, however, so at least there’s one less thing to think about.

His awareness is coming back bit by bit by the time he arrives in the hospital wing, which is dreadful because the pain really is excruciating, but it also comes as a shock that it is Angelina Johnson who is helping Marcus Flint get the blonde to Madam Pomfrey.

Across the room lays Potter, unconscious and surrounded by his team and friends, but seemingly okay since Pomfrey only frets over him for a moment before hurrying over to Draco.

His nose is pouring blood, he finds out, and seems to be broken, but that is quickly fixed by a swish of the Madam Pomfrey’s wand. The snapping noise of his nose righting itself has Johnson hissing in sympathy and even Flint flinching.

The arm is a bit more difficult. It needs to be put back into its socket, then treated slowly so as not to aggravate any nerve damage or strain any muscles and tendons. Draco is only half aware of the crowd around Potter’s bed turning to watch, eyes wide, as Pomfrey raises her wand again to set his shoulder. She commands Flint to hold Draco down, since this will be the hardest part.

Draco releases a sharp shriek in pain, which he will refuse he ever made for as long as he lives, and Pomfrey swiftly ties up his arm once it has been relocated. She gives him a concoction of medical potions and rubs a salve into his shoulder. He’s bound to bruise something fierce, both on his nose and his shoulder, but he should be fine if he takes it easy.

Even with the potions in his system, however, Draco’s mind still hasn’t fully recovered from the rapid-fire events of the last… however many minutes. He doesn’t hear the door to the infirmary open, nor does he see Dumbledore enter and speak to the resident mediwitch. He only notices Dumbledore when he has stepped up to his bed, a twinkle in his eyes, and a very soft smile on his face.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he says quietly, proudly. “That was a very brave thing you did today. If it weren’t for you Mr. Potter would have surely fallen to his death.” Draco thinks he might be exaggerating. After all, Dumbledore had been present. He probably wouldn’t have let anything really bad happen… “For these heroic actions I will be rewarding Slytherin house fifty points.”

Draco, feeling woozy and exhausted and confused beyond measure, actually gives his headmaster a thumbs up with his good hand and says, “Coolio…” before passing out from the pain.

~ ~ ~

There was a room in the museum that was all about inventions that had come from the midst of World War 2. It appeared to be Max’s father’s favorite room, to the point his over-eagerness even drove Max to back away. Instead, Max and Draco stood beside each other, ambling around the room, looking at all the displays.

Draco wasn’t as loud or obnoxious as Max’s father, but he was beginning to think this was his favorite room too. So many devices he had never even heard of, from jerrycans to pressurized chambers, but that appeared normal for the Muggles. He didn’t even need to ask what each device did, since the displays did a good job of that.

They momentarily get caught up in a conversation with Max’s father, unable to avoid him forever, when they find themselves in front of a table covered in strange machines. They have knobs and switches and gauges. “Radio and Navigation” is the name of the display and Max’s father opens up his big bag full of wonders to show Draco a black device the size of a brick. He hands one to Draco and pulls out another that looks exactly the same.

“Eagle 1 to Little Ghost, Eagle 1 to Little Ghost, do you read me?” Max’s father speaks to his own device and, to Draco’s amazement, his voice comes out of the device in Draco’s own hands.

“It’s my papa’s satellite radio,” Max says to the blonde, leaning against his side. “He’s always going on and on about it.”

“Most radios have a very finite distance, Draco,” Max’s father explains, then motions to the display covered in what are surely old radios. They are so much bulkier than the one in Draco’s grip. “But these use the satellites up in our orbit to talk to people much, much farther away. Why, I bet I could talk to you from all the way back in America!”

He stares in awe, shocked that the Muggles have found a way to communicate like this without the use of magic. In the Wizarding World, if someone wishes to speak to someone immediately, they have to use a floo, and those are sedentary installations in one’s home. Other than some form of charmed communication, which usually was quite limited, witches and wizards had nothing like this Muggle radio.

“This is amazing…” Draco whispers, eyes wide, and Max beside him groans while their father beams.

For a few minutes Max’s father shows Draco how to use the radio, what each button does, how it is powered by solar energy but has battery backups. Most of the words go over Draco’s head, but he listens anyway.

He had always assumed Muggles were just stupid barbarians, but now he was beginning to wonder if, in fact, they were simply unpredictable. They had gotten the short stick in life, after all, yet had somehow managed to scrape together a way of life that far exceeded expectations.

Eventually Max drags Draco away, wanting to get away and keep looking at the rest of the exhibit. Draco is momentarily huffy, having not been done learning about this “sat-e-lite” radio, but had changed his tune as they kept going.

Radars were interesting, and closely tied to radios, and also led to the eventual invention of something called a “microwave oven,” but Draco took an interest in something called “penicillin.”

It was an antibiotic shot, according to the display, that fought off all kinds of infections that previously would have been proven fatal. It was actually discovered in the late 1920’s, complete by accident no less, but was distributed and became a vital feature within WW2.

“I like that he found it by mistake,” Max giggles, pointing at the part of the sign that outlines its original discovery. “Wonder if I’ll ever discover something crazy by accident!”

“Sir Alexander Fleming was still a scientist beforehand,” Draco deadpans, pointing directly to the line detailing penicillin’s founder, but Max ignores him.

“Maybe I could accidentally discover something super cool. Maybe… What makes marshmallows so fluffy? Why CAN’T dogs have thumbs? Where do your socks go when they go in the dryer?”

“Those are stupid,” Draco says, but it doesn’t seem to bother Max, who just shrugs.

“Who knows what I’ll discover by accident! Maybe I’ll even discover world peace!”

“You can’t discover world peace.”

“How do you know? It’s hasn’t been discovered yet!”

Draco groans and turns to walk to the next display, Max laughing and hurrying to catch up.

~ ~ ~

When Draco wakes back up the sun is setting and the crowd of Gryffindors around Potter’s bed is dissipating. The sound of rain still murmurs outside the hospital wing, giving the room a quiet, relaxed atmosphere that wasn’t present last time he was conscious.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey says firmly, appearing by his bedside, her expression stern. “Glad to see you awake again. You passed out, but thankfully not due to blood loss nor a concussion.”

“Yeah… My pain tolerance is trash,” he says, voice nasally. He can tell his nose has been fixed, but it still aches and feels a little rough to breathe through. He hopes that will disappear soon. He dares not even try to move his left arm, unsure how that will feel.

“You’re doing quite well, but you will be staying here for the rest of the weekend to properly recover. The first few days are always the most vital.”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” Draco groans, in no mood to even attempt to build up a tantrum of any kind. He was awake, but at what cost? He felt utterly spent and he desperately wanted to get some more sleep in. Who knew healing was so exhausting?

The mediwitch nods in approval before she turns away and heads into her office. Across the room a pair of identical grins are being thrown his way.

“You hear that, Harry?” says one of the Weasley twins, turning to Potter, “You get to spend aaaaaaall weekend with Prince Charming over there.”

“Alright, Malfoy?” asks the other twin, but he’s still smirking so Draco doesn’t think he’s actually trying to ask after his wellbeing. The Weasley’s and the Malfoy’s despised one another. It wouldn’t do to start showing concern over each other.

“If I have to be Prince Charming I want an Abraxan steed,” Draco grumbles, laying his head back and closing his eyes. “And a sword. A big, sparkly one with emeralds. I will accept no less.”

“You are the poshest asshole I have ever had the misfortune of meeting,” Ron Weasley says roughly, sounding less cheerful than his brothers.

“You’re welcome.”

“I dunno. After that whole scene outside, I think there’s a better word for Malfoy, wouldn’t you say, George?” says the twin apparently named Fred.

“Well, Fred, I think you might just be right! Why, I think the best word to describe little Malfoy now would be…”

Then, together, after Draco has opened his eyes to look at the two, they say, “Coolio.”

Memories of the “conversation” Draco had had with Dumbledore right before he passed out come back to him and he groans. “Please let that die. I beg of you.”

“Never,” both twins snicker.

“Can someone make Weasel Dee and Weasel Dumb go away now? They are detrimental to my recovery.”

The Gryffindors find great enjoyment out of making Draco agitated, even though he’s the one that saved their golden boy, but eventually the twins do have to leave. They make some over-exaggerated exit, even for them, but it only succeeds in getting their younger brother to roll his eyes and Granger to offer a tense smile. It is then that Draco realizes Potter has been particularly silent.

“Crabbe and Goyle stopped by,” Granger suddenly speaks after some time spent sitting in silence. It is the first time tonight she’s spoken to Draco directly. When she nods to the bedside table to Draco’s left, he looks over. Sitting there is a half-eaten box of Every Flavour Beans and a chocolate frog, surely from the two boys. He blinks in surprise at that, not really surprised they couldn’t keep from eating their get-well gifts, but also strangely touched they brought him anything at all. He’s been especially dreadful to them all year, after all…

Next to the candy is a book that he can’t reach from this angle. Granger says nothing as she comes over, picks it up, and hands it to him. It is called The Hobbit and it is by an author named J. R. R. Tolkien. Draco has never heard of this book before, which surprises him.

“A girl in Slytherin robes dropped by as well,” Granger explains, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

“Did she have styled, black hair?”

“Yes, she did.”

Hushburn, then. He certainly hadn’t been expecting anything from her. And, logically, that must mean this was a Muggle book. It made sense. He wondered if Max or Granger had ever read it.

Granger returns to her seat on Potter’s right, her hands fidgeting in her lap, while Weasley and Potter look tense. No one is looking at Draco, which would be fine if it weren’t for the tense atmosphere permeating from them all.

With a resolve to act as normally as possible Draco decides to just ignore them, opening his new book and beginning to read about the adventures of a character named Bilbo Baggins. At some point he manages to maneuver the half empty box of jellybeans and the chocolate frog onto his lap, which took some rather painful jostling, before he settles.

About ten pages into the book and he hears hissed whispers across from him. He glances up to see the three Gryffindors leaned in close to one another, looking frustrated as they bicker about something, until finally Potter sighs in defeat. His green eyes turn towards Draco, his expression drawn, and he says, “Listen, Malfoy--”

“If you are about to thank me,” Draco cuts him off, throwing his head back and looking down his nose at the trio. It makes Weasley bristle. “Then don’t. I don’t want your sappy approval.”

Potter, surprisingly, actually looks relieved. His shoulders loosen and his face relaxes for the first time since he’d fallen off his broom. “Actually, I think an apology is in order,” Potter begins, even sounding more at ease.

“For what? My arm? My nose?” Draco’s eyes narrow.

“No, no, I wanted to apologize that now you know the only way you can beat me to the Snitch is if I’m unconscious.”

Draco’s mouth falls open and Potter grins, looking like the kneazle that got the cream. Weasley is trying to hold snickers back behind his hand while Granger holds a hand to her head and shakes it in disbelief.

“Excuse you!” Draco says, voice cracking in his affronted anger, and it sets the Gryffindors off, Potter and Weasley laughing outright while Granger looks away to giggle. In retaliation Draco scoops out a handful of jellybeans and chucks them across the room at them.

~ ~ ~

The next Hogsmeade trip Draco makes sure to go. Crabbe and Goyle are still obnoxious to him, but after his stay in the hospital wing he figures giving them a chance isn’t the worst thing he can do. Plus, they are joined by Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini, giving Draco significantly better company once he tires of his two shadows.

The trip goes well enough, buying sweets and talking and finding the best possible table at the Three Broomsticks to sit at, scaring off the kids that were already sitting there. He even swears he sees Potter’s mangled hair bouncing around through the crowds at one point, but chalks it up to his imagination. The boy still didn’t have a signed permission slip.

It is also incredibly exhausting, the whole ordeal. His nose is completely fine now, and his arm feels better but remains in a sling, but these aren’t why he is so tired. As spectacular as he is at social gatherings, every time, without fail, he always leaves feeling tired. Parties, dinners, dances, whatever it might be, they always sap his energy. He was great at faking it, though, and no one knew during the actual events, but after…

Well, Draco would just say he was thankful the other Slytherins didn’t say anything as they returned to Hogwarts and he abruptly disappeared.

He ended up in the library sitting at a table in a far corner across from Eve Hushburn. The Muggleborn was charming and shrewd when she needed to be, but on her own she was quiet and constantly reading. She was the perfect companion when Draco got in a mood.

There is a pile of licorice wands in the middle of the table that the two nibble on, hiding them any time Pince walks nearby, and Draco cracks open the first Lord of the Rings book. He’d loved The Hobbit so much he’d demanded the continuation, which he only knew existed thanks to Max.

For a few hours Draco is left alone, quietly reading, munching at his candy, when a shadow is cast over the table. He looks up, expecting Pince or a fellow Slytherin, but instead finds Potter looking drawn and lost and like he’s about to start crying. Not even Potter looks like he knows why he’s standing there, but it is clear he’s in a bad way.

“Potter,” Draco says slowly, with a nod. The other boy glances at him. It feels like the other boy’s world may have just come crashing down and he’s in shock. Draco desperately wants to know the details, either for his own curiosity or for future gossip, but even he can tell that this isn’t the time.

“What are you reading?” Potter says quietly, his voice rough. It is clearly not what he really wants to say, but Draco decides to humor him.

“Lord of the Rings,” he lifts the book from his lap to show the cover.

“That’s a Muggle book.”

“And the sun is hot and the night is dark. Are you going to sit down, already, or just keep stating the obvious?” The sarcastic tone seems to do something to Potter, because he just seems to sag, before sliding into the seat beside Draco without another word.

Hushburn, who has said nothing and hasn’t even looked up from her own book this entire time, reaches out to pick up a licorice wand without looking and holds it out to Potter. The downtrodden boy takes it gratefully and begins to gnaw at it slower than a sloth.

Silently, but with a few glances sideways at Potter, Draco returns to his book.

He never finds out why Potter was so upset. None of them say a single word for the rest of the evening and all Potter does is chew at their licorice wands. His face does keep morphing through a series of complex emotions. Mostly he seems shocked, drawn in and void, but occasionally his eyes scrunch up like he’s fighting tears, or he frowns so deeply in thought it looks like he’ll develop sagging jowls, or his face twists in such vicious, unadulterated fury that it sends even Draco’s blood rushing with ice. Occasionally there’s a mumble of “…can’t believe they…” or “kept this secret…” or “he was their friend,” but Draco has no idea what they all mean.

Eventually, though, Potter ends up pressing his side into Draco’s, seeming unaware he is even doing it, and he rests his head in his folded arms on the table.

Draco doesn’t know why he suddenly feels the urge to run his fingers through the other boy’s hair, but he represses the urge and returns to his reading.

~ ~ ~

“Okay, okay, so… basically your school has four dorm buildings, but they organize you all based on…” Max pauses, trying to formulate the right wording, “How you act?”

“More based on what we value,” Draco corrects with a half shrug. The greenhouses are vacant since every student is preparing to head home after a busy school year. Everyone was talking about their former DADA teacher, Professor Quirrell, and how he had been found out for practicing dark magic. Most everyone was shocked and claiming they were glad he was gone. Most of the Slytherins were saying how they wished he could have taught them something.

It was enough of a reason for Draco to flee and find solitude with his radio, all his things already packed, ready to be done with his first year at Hogwarts.

“Gotcha, gotcha,” Max replies, eagerly attempting to sort out how Draco’s school worked. “And you get points for good stuff, lose points for bad stuff?”

“Fundamentally,” Draco replies, walking through the plant life, examining some of the blossoms on a shrub in the corner.

“And this… Griffin-door-handle,” Draco snorts at the name, “Totally juked you at the last second?”

“I do not know what ‘juked’ means, but if it is anything like ‘stole our victory out from under us at the last second,’ then yes. Our Headmaster is biased and gave just enough points to his former house for them to win during the last feast.”

“What a jerk!” Max shrieks immediately and Draco arches a brow at the radio, despite his pleased smirk.

“I’m surprised… usually you are eager to berate my frustrations and assume you know my peers better than I.”

“Well, yeah, because you’re usually being a knob,” Max cackles, making Draco roll his eyes, “But… you do know that if I was there, and we ran into all these people that bother you so much, that I’d back you up, right?”

Draco blinks at that, stunned into momentary silence, before he says, “Oh?”

“Duh! We’re best friends! I may not agree with you all the time, but I’m still gonna stand up for you any chance I get! Then, when it’s all over and it’s just you and me, I’ll tell you how much of an idiot you are.”

Draco smirks, snorting a weak laugh as his heart does happy little flips. He shakes his head and presses the top of the radio to his forehead. “Thank you, Max.”

“Anytime, Dray-Dray!”

Draco scowls, immediately irritated as he pulls the radio away and glares at it. “You ruined it.”

“Papa says I have a talent!”

~ ~ ~

Draco doesn’t want to go home for Christmas, but he does, and it is about as awkward as he expects it to be.

Thankfully neither of his parents push him like they had over the summer, which makes things a bit more bearable, but they insinuate plenty. Mostly it comes back to tradition, tradition, tradition.

Lucius is sure to have a better hold in the Ministry soon.

Draco has no reason to fear Muggleborns and should be aiming to humiliate them.

Narcissa keeps bringing up well-off families with available daughters around Draco’s age.

At one of the last dinners of the holiday, in a surprise show of bluntness, his mother asks if Draco has considered any of the students at Hogwarts like she’d asked him to do. Reciprocating that bluntness, he replies, “Penelope Clearwater,” who is an older half-blood girl. This obviously doesn’t please his parents, so he pushes his luck. “Well, it was either her or Evangeline Hushburn or Hermione Granger.” Both Muggleborns.

His father immediately looks furious while his mother just looks sad.

He gets sent to his room after that, where he locks the door and hardly comes out for the rest of the holidays. Luckily, to better his mood, Tana brings him a package from Max and their family. There is a Christmas gift from each of the Muggles.

A well-loved, obviously used device called a TalkMan from Max, which Draco cannot figure out the purpose of, but is still intrigued by its sleek design and many buttons. He’ll need to get a full explanation from Max later in the day.

A new vinyl from Eric by a band called Green Day, the record titled “Kerplunk!” and a note from Eric listing out the songs from best to worst.

A pack of rechargeable batteries from Max’s father, with a charger that is meant to plug into something called an “outlet,” which Draco most certainly does not have, but the thought is still nice.

And an impressive stack of books from Max’s mother.

After speaking to Max about The Hobbit and learning about The Lord of the Rings, Max’s mother had taken it as her personal mission to introduce him to all kinds of literature. Mostly, she had only had the chance to give him suggestions, but now he had the actual, physical copies of Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli, Angels in America by Tony Kushner, The Giver by Lois Lowry, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin, The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, and The Lord of the Flies by William Golding.

The sheer number of books makes it clear that Max’s mother may have gotten a little overexcited. It is still a touching sentiment, however, so Draco is sure to stash each one into his trunk back to Hogwarts. With finals coming up, however, he isn’t sure how many he’ll be able to finish.

When it is time for Draco to return to school, Lucius Malfoy doesn’t accompany him to the train station. It seems remarkably childish to Draco, but at least his mother is there, and she smiles down at him and straightens his robes and gives him a good-bye kiss before he goes.

Whatever he had done to so royally piss off his father apparently does not bother his mother so much.

When the students arrive back at the castle they have the Sunday before classes begin again to reintegrate. Draco’s quick to stash away all his things where they belong, all his Muggle possessions hidden away under clothes and supplies, then snatches one of the books Max’s mother sent him. She’d written a note that said her personal favorite was The Outsiders, so he’d begin with that.

Heading to the library for some peace and quiet, eager to take advantage of nearly everyone being in their dorms, he is surprised to find a bushy-haired girl already sitting at a corner table, her shoulders slumped, and completely alone.

Draco falters, eying Granger and the table he had been hoping to snag, but smirks when he realizes he can take advantage of her unexpected isolation. She doesn’t have Potter nor Weasley to defend her now.

“You are in my spot, Granger. Do me a favor, and…” he stops when she looks up, her hair, despite being everywhere, does little to hide the puffiness around her eyes. They aren’t wet anymore, but the pages on the book beneath her are, and she sniffs as she looks at Draco.

For a moment they simply look at each other.

“Huh…” the blonde says, head tilting and tone light, “I must be getting better. You’re in tears and I’ve hardly even said anything.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Granger sniffs, the usual bite in her words gone, and she looks back down at her book. It’s a textbook, it seems.

“If you’re going to ruin the mood with your whimpering, at least do it with your lions. This is just pathetic.”

“You would know,” Granger grumbles and Draco rolls his eyes skyward. He really wanted this table, damn it. It was perfectly hidden away from everyone else and got the best light.

“Do you need Potter and Weasley to make you feel better?,” Draco coo’s, stepping around the table to Granger’s side, a smirk on his face. “Does ‘ickle Granger need her big--” He’s cut off when the girl reaches out and, with little preamble, strikes him across the face. She’s baring her teeth and tears are forming in her eyes again.

Draco, shocked, raises a hand to his stinging cheek, eyes wide as saucers as he watches Granger slump back into her seat. He’s taunted many, many people with a lot worse than that, but he’s never been slapped before.

Slowly, like he might spook an animal, Draco backs away, shimmying around the table until he can sit at a seat farthest from Granger. He still wanted to keep some of his pride, and that meant sitting at the table he’d originally wanted, but he was going to make sure he had a clear path to the exit if Granger snapped any further.

With his eyes flicking periodically at the Muggleborn, and one hand still rubbing his cheek, he pulls out his book and begins to read.

“They hate me; Harry and Ron,” Granger suddenly speaks, her voice cracking, and Draco looks up at her in mild alarm.

“Oh, no, me sitting here wasn’t an invitation for you to--”

“I was only trying to help,” Granger continues, ignoring Draco.

The blonde throws his hands out in a disbelieving gesture, his eyes rolling skywards. What was he? The Golden Trio’s councilor? What next, was Weasley going to come to him with girl troubles? This was ridiculous.

“Granger, I really don’t care. I just wanted to read in sile--”

“Harry got a Firebolt on Christmas.” That does manage to garner some of Draco’s attention and he rolls his eyes again. Of COURSE Potter already had a replacement broom, his Nimbus 2000 reduced to toothpicks after his fall, and it was a Firebolt, no less. “But it was sent to him from an anonymous sender and…”

Draco looks over, brows furrowing in confusion. An anonymous sender? That sounded ominous. Draco may not have been part of all the drama, but he knew quite a bit about his estranged cousin, Sirius Black. Everyone knew he was out for Potter’s blood, but Draco knew far more, personal details from both his mother and father.

“If I had someone out to murder me, I definitely wouldn’t be excited to get any kind of anonymous presents,” he says honestly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. Granger looks up at him, looking startled, before her expression is shifting to something close to hopeful. It makes Draco ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Precisely! Except Harry and Ron are idiots--”

“No arguments here.”

Despite the interruption, Granger now seems even more confident. “--and they wouldn’t do anything with it. They were close to waxing poetic about it, and I was worried, so…”

She doesn’t need to finish, Draco can sort out the rest. “So, being Hogwarts’s local #1 teacher’s pet, you informed a professor and they… confiscated it, I assume?”

Granger hangs her head and nods.

“And now Potter and Weasley are… what? Bullying you? Are they not aware that is my job?”

Granger’s shoulders jump as she gives a weak, wet snort, then wipes at her eyes with a palm. “They’re ignoring me…”

“What shit friends.”

The blunt comment very clearly startles the Muggleborn, because she sits ramrod straight, looking at Draco with wide eyes, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “P-pardon?”

“They’re shit friends. You were very clearly trying to keep them alive,” Draco waves his hand dismissively and turns his gaze back to his book, sensing the conversation is coming to a close. “Next time just let them break their necks and see if they want to ignore you then.”

“You seem quite confident about this…”

“Yes. And you don’t,” Draco says, matter-of-factly. He turns a page of the book. “I am quite the expert on being a shitty friend, you see, so it is simple for me to recognize the actions of one,” he smirks at Granger over the top of the book, “Takes an ass to know an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re a… bad friend…”

Draco frowns, eying the bushy-haired girl for a few beats, before rolling his eyes and returning to reading. He didn’t know what it was about Gryffindors always trying to play hero, but he wasn’t going to be a part of it. He didn’t need rescuing, and he didn’t need anyone trying to make him feel better.

“That’s a Muggle book!” Granger suddenly realizes, surprised once more.

“An astute observation, Granger. Tell me, have you noticed the sky is blue again today? Apologies if that blows your mind.”

“I’m just…” Granger pauses to sigh, “I’m happy you are broadening your horizons, Malfoy.”

“Granger…” Draco says slowly, feeling an unhappy pinch in his gut, and he lowers his book to glare at the girl. She’s at least not crying anymore, which makes his harsh tone a lot easier to come by, “You have no idea where my ‘horizons’ were to begin with.”

He goes back to his book, shoulders tense.

“You’re right… I’m sorry…” Granger says slowly, her hands fidgeting with the corner of her book anxiously. Blessed silence seems to finally be acquired, but Granger doesn’t seem eager to just drop everything already. “That’s a good book choice.”

Draco pauses and peaks up at Granger, one brow arched, and she gives a small shrug, saying, “Darry was always my favorite character. What about you?”

“I am only a few pages in.”

“Oh…”

“… I don’t hate Johnny.”

Granger smiles brightly at that and, finally, they both go back to reading in silence.

~ ~ ~

The sun and breeze feel heavenly against Draco’s skin as he lays out in the grass, all his finals behind him and he can finally breathe a sigh of relief. He’d felt confident in most of them, but still utterly spent from all the studying and papers he’d had to do.

For the most part his year has been uneventful since his return from Christmas hols. He was in the library a lot more often, either for schoolwork or to read some of his Muggle books, and sometimes he would be joined by Hushburn, Granger, or even Potter. This was always a quiet place, however, and very little snark was passed between any of them. It was like an unspoken truce was put over their table in the back of the library.

Granger and Max’s mother had been right, as well, and Draco had adored The Outsiders, though he wouldn’t have minded a warning about the ending. Thankfully it had been Hushburn with him when he’d finished it and she’d said nothing as he got choked up over Johnny and Dallas and their tragic ending.

“There’s also an Outsiders film, y’know,” Hushburn had informed him once he had calmed down. Thankfully, only because of Max, he already knew what a film was.

“Are they TRYING to kill me?” Draco had whined, laying his face on the table.

“Yes,” Hushburn smirks, “That was their goal. Killing some random teenager named Draco Malfoy ten years after it was released,” she looks back down at her own book, “Baby…”

“What’s wrong with Malfoy?” Granger whispers as she approaches a few minutes later. Draco hasn’t moved.

“He finished The Outsiders,” Hushburn deadpans.

“Aww, poor Malfoy,” Granger had said, patting the blonde’s back patronizingly.

“I hate you both.”

Now, however, he’d read The Lord of the Flies and The Metamorphosis as well and he was beginning to wonder if Muggles were… okay. Did they need help? Was a mass group therapy session in order?

But Draco didn’t want to think about that right now. He was enjoying the beautiful weather and an easy, relaxed conversation with Max by the lake.

“Mama’s sending me to camp in July,” Max is saying. They’d already talked about the difference in school years from one country to the other, plus differences in amounts of summer work, and were not moving onto personal matters.

“Any particular camp in mind?” Draco asks. Muggles had so many unique clubs and camps and organizations, it was intriguing.

“Space camp! I’m gonna build a rocket to Pluto!” Max sounds completely confident in their abilities, “People aren’t sure whether it’s a planet or not, so I’m gonna prove that it is! We need our pizza!”

Draco hesitates, eying the radio suspiciously, before he takes a deep, weary breath and asks, “I will regret asking this… What does pizza have to do with this?”

“The moo-monic… moo-vonic… new-tonic…”

“Mnemonic?”

“Yeah, that! The mnemonic device for remembering all the planets in the Solar System! My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. See? Pluto is our pizza!”

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto… Huh, I’d never heard that before.” That could be helpful in Astronomy class. Maybe he could tell Professor Sinistra about it and earn some bonus points…

“Cool, right?”

“What do you do in space camp?”

“Uh, build rockets? Duh?”

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Clam it, you! I can hear your pompous exasperation from here. I don’t know exactly what we’ll do, just that it has to do with SPACE! I’ll make sure to tell you about it all afterwards.”

“Afterwards?” Not during?

“Oh, stop pouting,” Max snickers and Draco quickly forces his face back to something neutral, refusing to admit he actually had been pouting. “There’s bound to be tons of machines there that’ll cause radio interference. Papa said so. We won’t know for sure until I get there, but...”

“Well, make certain that you--” Draco doesn’t get to finish because suddenly, from a distance, someone is calling his name. He turns, confused, to see two figures sprinting from the castle and heading right for him. “It would appear I am needed for something…”

“So soon after your tests? Lame! It better be important!”

Draco sees a very distinct tangle of bushy hair atop one of the figures’ heads and he scowls. “Doubtful. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Later!”

He turns off the radio and shrinks it with a simple charm he’d basically perfected by second year. He stashes the shrunken radio in his pants pocket beneath his casual robes and fully faces the now very distinct figures rushing towards him. He makes no move to approach them and make their trip any easier.

“Malfoy!”

“Potter. Granger,” Draco nods, clasping his hands behind his back as the two Gryffindors skid to a halt in front of him, Potter seeming to be leading the way.

Granger bends over to catch her breath while Potter, also breathless but seemingly more motivated, lunges forward and grabs Draco’s upper arms. Draco immediately tries to break free, squirming and grabbing for his wand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Unhand me!” he snaps, but Potter doesn’t appear to be in the right mind to listen.

“We need you and your camera,” the raven-haired boy says and Draco freezes and gets a proper look at his face. His eyes are wide and frantic, his cheeks flushed, and there is a definite quiver to him that doesn’t seem to match with the image of Potter that Draco has in his head.

“Excuse me?” Draco questions, not understanding the request or the reason behind Potter’s current presentation.

“PLEASE, Malfoy!” Potter near screams, making Draco attempt to take a step back, “We don’t have much time, we need to hurry, and we need your camera!”

Trying to cover just how unbalanced he feels over this, Draco smirks thinly and says, “I like you begging for my help. Do it more.”

“Malfoy, please, someone really close to me is in trouble and we need your camera to help him! Dumbledore said we needed more time and that if we hurried we might gain the ‘perfect picture of innocence’ and he must have been talking about you and your camera, right? Malfoy, please, we need--”

Somehow Draco manages to get one of his hands up and plants it over Potter’s mouth. His smirk is a scowl, now, and he grunts, “That was a lot less appeasing than I’d hoped it would be.” He glances over Potter’s shoulder at Granger, who looks shaken, but not as bad as Potter, and is giving her friend very worried glances. “Explain,” he snaps at her, and it is a testament to how shaken they must be when she, too, does as asked without complaint.

This just felt so wrong in so many ways.

“Sirius Black is innocent,” she says immediately, voice frantic, “Peter Pettigrew is alive and the real criminal. Pettigrew got away and Sirius was captured. We have no proof to say that Sirius is innocent, and they don’t intend to give him a trial--”

“Again?” Draco arches a brow, remembering Sirius Black hadn’t been given a trial the first time, either.

The hands on his arms tightening have him lowering his hand from Potter’s mouth.

“You knew about him?” Potter asked, incredulous, and Draco arches a prim brow.

“He’s my cousin.” With some satisfaction he watches as that sends Potter for a loop and he returns his attention to the girl. “Please, continue.”

“Dumbledore… insinuated we get proof, and that there was a way to do it if we had more time and…” With a sigh Granger digs out a golden pendant with an hour glass built into it. Draco’s eyebrows shoot up as he immediately recognizes the Time-Turner, which is currently ticking down after being used.

“You’re from the future,” he breathes, amazed. But why did Granger have that thing?

“Two hours and thirty minutes, to be more precise,” Granger says. “It took us a while to figure out what Dumbledore might have meant, getting a picture of innocence, but Harry figured it out.”

“If we can get a picture of Peter Pettigrew,” Potter says quickly, “maybe even one of him shifting into his Animagus form,” Animagus form? Merlin, these two had a lot to fill him in on, “then we can prove we aren’t lying and set Sirius free.”

“And you approached… me?”

“I suggested we get Colin Creevey,” Granger explains, which is precisely who would make more sense than Draco, “But I recalled magical photography can occasionally be tampered with by unique spells, which we do not know, but Fudge does not currently trust us and would surely use it against us.” Fudge? As in the Minister?!

“Muggle photos, however, a witch or wizard would be able to immediately detect if it has been tampered with, since it would be the only magic on the photo,” Granger continues.

“Plus!” Potter’s voice is far too high and Draco thinks he may be getting a tad hysterical, “If YOU present the photos, you’ll have a higher chance of being trusted. You’re unbiased in this situation, they’d only think you were in the right place at the right time, and your father’s in the Ministry.”

“Really, are you positive you aren’t secretly a Slytherin?” Draco asks conversationally. Potter says nothing, hardly even reacts, and Draco takes a deep breath. “You told Granger about my camera,” he says quietly, finally pulling out his disposable camera from the opposite pocket as his radio. He unshrinks it and holds it loosely in one hand.

“Yes and I am very sorry, now will you just help me?”

Draco and Potter stare at each other for a few, tense moments that feel much longer than they surely are. Draco has never seen the other boy like this before, desperately trying to save his godfather, trying to save his family, and Draco feels disgusted. Potter is not meant to beg so easily, to crumble. He’d be no fun, otherwise.

With a sharp movement he slaps Potter’s hands away and for a second the raven-haired boy looks devastated, like his world is falling away from him, and it pulls at two or three of Draco’s heartstrings rather violently.

“I told you that if I was going to play Prince Charming I wanted an Abraxan,” he says huffily, crossing his arms. “And a sword. I expect some form of payment after all this.”

He’s never seen Potter grin quite as widely, quite as purely, as he does in that moment. It’s like the sun had stepped onto the mortal plain for a visit. Draco’s fingers twitch, part of him wanting to snap a photo, but he holds back.

He follows after the two Gryffindors, heading around the castle grounds, as they fill him in on the truth of Sirius Black.

~ ~ ~

“You were rushing me all over the place…” Draco grumbles quietly, crouched behind some trees as he peers out at the Whomping Willow.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter groans, his personality seeming to have clicked back into its rightful place after getting Draco’s agreement to assist him.

“And act like the end of all life is approaching in the next two minutes…” Draco continues, undeterred. They’d already watched past Potter, Granger, and Weasley exit Hagrid’s hut after retrieving the redhead’s lost rat before getting attacked by a giant black dog and having to rush into some hidden tunnel under the Whomping Willow.

“Shut up, no I didn’t.”

“And look like you were just about to cry…”

“I absolutely did not.”

“Only for us to crouch around, waiting, for…” Draco flicks his arm to lower his sleeve and look at his bare wrist, “a shit-long time.”

“It’s a stake out.”

“It is bullshit,” Draco snaps back and Potter turns to glare at him. “I didn’t agree to crouching around, my legs getting cramped, and branches poking every last part of me!”

“You agreed to help. Stop complaining.” Potter turns back to watch the massive, destructive tree, trying to end the conversation.

“I am not complaining!” Draco complains, glaring at the side of Potter’s head. “This is just stupid! We could have gotten dinner by now if we’d wanted.”

“Malfoy, be quiet,” Granger hisses from Potter’s other side, her bushy head peeking out to give Draco an unapproving glare, and Draco throws his hands skyward.

“I should have seen this coming. Getting teamed up on by Gryffindors!”

No more is said, however, and Draco ends up just steaming in his frustration. They watch Professor Lupin and then Professor Snape each slip into the hidden tunnel, but that is about the only exciting thing to happen for a long while. The sun has set by the time Draco deems to speak again.

“Blimey, how long were you all in there?” he hisses and hears both Potter and Granger groan.

“Is all that comes out of your mouth complaints?” Potter snaps.

“No. Sometimes it’s insults. Now how much longer are we going to have to wait here, Scarhead?” Draco snaps right back.

“It shouldn’t be much longer now,” Granger says, glancing up at the sky. The moon is full tonight, but the clouds partly cover it. It still bathes the grounds in silvery light, however, which will help when Draco gets to finally take a picture. They were attempting to stay hidden, so a camera flash was out of the question.

To no one’s real surprise, Granger turns out to be right and, a moment later, a group of people emerge from beneath the Whomping Willow’s roots. Potter nudges Draco harshly, and Draco shoves him back, glaring, before bringing up his camera and starting to take as many pictures as possible.

His focus is on the portly man with a balding head, his whole body twitching like he’s prepared to jump out of his own skin. Draco angles it to get photos of the past versions of the Golden Trio as well, to show proof these aren’t old photos, and he even gets a few of Sirius.

His cousin looks awful, all skin and bones, and even from here he looks like a skeleton. “Cousin Sirius needs a sandwich,” is what he mumbles, earning a glare from Potter.

The cloud cover above finally clears, giving even better light for the photos, so Draco snaps more and more, and he doesn’t notice Potter and Granger tensing beside him.

He does, however, notice their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor writhing and changing into something big, vicious, and terrifying. Draco’s eyes widen in horror and he nearly drops his camera.

“Lupin’s a werewolf?!” he hisses harshly, but Potter shoves him again.

“Wormtail! Focus on Wormtail!” he hisses back and Draco, reluctantly, snaps more and more pictures of Peter Pettigrew as he shifts into a rat to run away. They can’t go after him, Granger explains, since that would be going against all rules of time travel, but he can tell by the way Potter tenses up that he wants to.

“You couldn’t have mentioned we were dealing with a werewolf?” Draco continues to snarl, keeping up his photos, and a hand grabs his arm. Draco ignores it. “Of all the things you should have told me, you forgot to mention the werewolf!”

“Malfoy…”

“No, Potter, screw you! We’ve been sitting out here for at least an hour and you didn’t mention a thing! Low blow, boy wonder, low--”

“Malfoy, RUN!”

Draco looks up to see Lupin running straight for the trees. Straight for THEM.

Potter’s grip on his arm tightens and he’s dragged to his feet as they start to run. They have to move quickly before the werewolf notices them, but where do they go? Where can they hide?

“Hagrid’s hut!” Granger says quickly, pointing to the small, wooden building with lights on inside. They don’t have to be told twice, quickly rushing as quietly as they can to the Gameskeeper’s hut. The front door is locked when they pull at it, but a few knocks later has it opening to a very confused-looking Rubeus Hagrid.

“What are ye’ three doin’ here?” the giant man says, baffled, and Potter and Granger begin to scramble together some kind of excuse, but Draco is in no mood to wait.

“I was wondering if you would allow me to take some photos of your local fauna during the night. You will? Splendid, let’s talk inside,” he says rapidly, not waiting for a response, before shoving past Hagrid and into his hut, Potter and Granger following and shutting the door tight behind them.

“Now, hold on jus’ a moment,” Hagrid is saying, looking completely lost as Draco pulls his camera back out and offers a charming smile up at him. Potter and Granger, meanwhile, skirt around the wall to a nearby window to watch outside, looking jumpy as they murmur to each other.

“Tell me, you mentioned having fairies in your garden, did you not?” Draco asks. “I’d imagine they must look stunning in this moonlight. What do you think?” Growing up in a noble house like Malfoy meant Draco knew how to talk to people to get what he wanted. Flattery and saying exactly what they wanted to hear.

Max claimed he was a master at bullshit. Draco couldn’t really argue with that.

“Well, now…” the Gameskeeper scratches at his beard, his whole demeanor changing the moment he’s presented the chance to talk about his beloved magical creatures. “They’re a vain bunch, y’see,” he begins. He goes into a short lecture on how to approach fairies, and how they love to be pampered and told how beautiful they look, and how he agrees that their wings would look stunning in this moonlight.

Outside, in the distance, is a howl that makes all three kids flinch.

“Would we be bothering them at this hour?” Draco questions. Fang has managed to lay across his feet by then, the huge, cowardly dog much more familiar with the blonde after he had requested to take so many pictures of him in the past.

“I won’ lie ter yeh,” Hagrid sighs, “They won’ be happy.”

“Perhaps there is something nocturnal we could consider instead?”

Before Hagrid can respond Potter and Granger are gasping, before the bespectacled boy is rushing out of the hut, his friend calling frantically after him. “What was that ‘bout?” Hagrid questions and Draco moves over to look out the window. In the distance he can see a hoard of dementors floating ominously through the air before disappearing into the forest.

He and Granger exchange a look, somehow communicating the exact same thought without words. That idiot! And then they are both rushing out after the boy, Hagrid’s confused calls following after them.

Potter has gotten a good way ahead of them, the boy much faster than Draco ever would have anticipated, but they do eventually catch up to him.

Just in time to see a huge stag made of beautiful, white light emerge from his wand.

The Patronus - because Draco can’t think of what else it could be - repels each one of the dementors from attacking, keeping past Sirius, Potter, and Granger from falling victim to their kiss. Draco and Granger watch in amazement, the light dancing off the trees, every last dementor fleeing into the distance. Past Sirius, Potter, and Granger have all passed out by the time the stag vanishes.

“It was me…” Potter whispers into the dead silence, looking back at Draco and Granger with wide eyes. “I was the one I saw. I was the one that cast the Patronus.”

“Oh, Harry,” Granger says softly, stepping towards him.

“It wasn’t my father, it was me,” Potter gasps.

“You thought you saw your father before?” Draco questions, arching a brow, and earning a glare from both Gryffindors. He shrugs, uncaring, before a noise draws all of their attention. They quickly hide behind the trees as Snape slips out from the bushes, hurrying over to check the pulses of past Potter and Granger.

“We should go,” Potter whispers and both Draco and Granger nod in agreement, the three hurrying away and towards the castle.

Once they are back within the safety of the castle walls, standing off in a quiet corridor, do they speak again.

“Did you get all of the photos, Malfoy?” Potter questions, looking at the blonde pleadingly.

“What kind of question is that?” Draco straightens up, crossing his arms defensively. “Of course I did, Potter. What did you think I was doing the whole time I had my camera out?”

“Alright, okay, Merlin you’re a jerk,” Potter scowls.

“How long until the film is developed?” Granger asks, cutting into what was bound to be an unnecessary bout of bickering.

“If I do a rush order about an hour or two,” Draco replies, and the two in front of him stiffen, their eyes widening.

“WHAT?!” Granger shrieks.

“You didn’t say it would take that long!” Potter steps forward, eyes blazing in fury and panic, “We don’t have that long!”

Draco gives him an unimpressed stare before stepping around him and going up to the bushy-haired girl. He reaches out a hand towards her but pauses a few inches from her face. “Excuse me, Granger,” he says with a nod, because she was still a lady and he wasn’t a creep.

She nods her permission for him to continue, despite looking confused, and Draco reaches closer and takes the chain around her neck between his fingers. He slips the Time-Turner off her head, the sands almost done falling in the little, imbedded hourglass. Granger looks somewhat sheepish now.

“Once the sands stop and you two have returned to the appropriate time, I will be able to use this to go back in time and get my house elf to develop my film. Correct?”

“One of us should go with you,” Potter quickly says, but Draco gives him a displeased look.

“And have three Potters or three Grangers running around at the same time? I think not,” he huffs, rolling his eyes as he slips the Time-Turner onto his own neck. He still has to wait for this particular session to finish, but it won’t be much longer now.

The two Gryffindors stare at him for a long moment, gauging his motives, and apparently finding nothing to say to stop him. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.

“Sirius is being held in Professor Flitwick’s office. West tower, seventh floor,” Potter says urgently.

“I know where our Charms professor’s office is, Potty,” Draco snaps.

“Don’t give the Time-Turner more than five turns,” Granger warns, offering significantly more helpful advice.

“I’ll stick with four.”

“And you have to return it to me as soon as possible.”

Draco considers that. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find him with a Time-Turner he wasn’t meant to have. He was supposed to be the trustworthy eyewitness in this equation and something like that would paint him in a very poor light. Worse, it would surely set his father on him.

“Where are you both going now?”

“The hospital wing. It is where we were originally,” Granger replies.

“When I travel back, I’ll hide the Time-Turner behind the jars on Pomfrey’s third shelf beside her desk,” Draco decides, “You can grab it as soon as you return in…” he looks at the sands in the hourglass, “Just about now, actually. You’re running out of time.”

Both Granger and Potter burst into a fit of motion, turning to run as fast as they can to the hospital wing, but Potter pauses just long enough to look over his shoulder at Draco. “We’re trusting you with this,” he says lowly, eyes dangerous.

“Don’t rub it in,” Draco rolls his eyes and he swears he sees a smirk on the other boy’s face as he runs off.

Left alone, Draco leans against the corridor wall, watching the full moon through the window, and waits. The sands fall one by one within the Time-Turner until finally it stops. The allotted time has run out and now it is ready to be used again.

With a mighty sigh Draco decides he may as well get this over with and turns the Time-Turner four times, watching as the world around him melts away.

~ ~ ~

“Hi there, Uncle Severus!” Draco sing-songs cheerfully as he leans against the wall beside the door that leads into Flitwick’s office. The sun has set for Draco twice on the same day and now the full moon gleams brightly through the windows once more. Under one arm he holds a manila folder, retrieved by Tana at Draco’s request, filled with the damning evidence to set his cousin free.

Hopefully.

“Aw, Uncie Snivellus is here?” Sirius Black’s mocking voice comes from just the other side of the door. He sounds significantly better than when Draco had first approached the room to speak with him.

“And Minister Fudge,” Draco says with a bright, charming smile as he spots the Minister and reaches out to shake his hand. Both Snape and Fudge look very baffled by his presence. “So marvelous to see you. We met once before, when I was much younger, and I do not believe I was able to properly appreciate the moment at the time. My father speaks very highly of you.”

Fudge straightens up at that, seeming to preen under the praise of a thirteen-year-old, but Snape isn’t falling for it.

“Mr. Malfoy, you are meant to be in bed,” his godfather says, a warning in his voice. Draco immediately puts on his best puppy-dog eyes. They never work on Snape, but Fudge seems like a highly emotional man.

“But Uncle Severus, I wanted to meet my cousin.”

“Yeah, Uncle Severus!” Sirius calls. He sounds like he’s holding back very loud, hysterical laughter. “He only wanted to meet his cousin!”

“While I can understand what must be going through your head, young man,” Fudge begins, cutting Snape off from whatever scathing comment he’d been about to make, “Sirius Black is dangerous, family or not. Whatever he told you is surely to be lies to garner sympathy.”

“Actually, Minister, I was the one doing most of the talking,” Draco says with a shrug. He sees Snape’s eyes narrow dangerously, so he decides to move this along a bit faster. He brings up his manila folder and opens it, taking out a few photos from an old newspaper clipping. He’d had a few extra hours to kill, after all, and rather than wait he had decided to go above and beyond with this.

He hands over the picture. “Do you know who this is, Minister?”

“The late Peter Pettigrew,” Fudge replies immediately, his browse furrowed. “Young man, I really do not think this is the best time for you to be playing detective. We have some very serious work to--”

“So, we agree that that person, right there, is Peter Pettigrew?” Draco cuts him off, voice harder than before. “Lovely. Then, if you would, please look at this.” Now he pulls out a glossy photo, the image unmoving, and he hands it over. Fudge and Snape both fall silent as they look at it. “Looks like Pettigrew, doesn’t it?”

The photo is one of many with Pettigrew being dragged up to the surface from beneath the Whomping Willow, looking ready to run at the first opportunity.

“There… there is no telling if this is Pettigrew,” Fudge begins, but he sounds doubtful. Without a word Draco hands over a much larger print of the same photo, followed by at least four more, each with a slightly different perspective on Pettigrew’s face.

“How… did you receive these?” Snape says slowly, a dangerous undertone to his voice, but Draco is long since used to him by now. He pulls his disposable camera from his pocket and shakes it for the two men to see. He would surely hear about this later, Snape wouldn’t stay quiet about him owning a Muggle camera, but Draco had known that would happen and he had accepted it.

He’d realized that, for some time now, he really didn’t care what his father thought about him.

“I enjoy taking photos. When I came upon this incident, I thought it prudent to record the following events.”

“Where did you get a Muggle camera?” Snape demands, but Draco will have none of it, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid that doesn’t matter,” he hums, “What does matter is that I have evidence that you have the wrong man, and anyone willing to actually look into the events preceding Sirius Black’s arrest would realize they were dodgy at best.”

“These photos could have easily been tampered with,” Fudge says sharply, looking far more bothered than is appropriate for a politician.

“They were taken, and developed, using Muggle means. Any tampering done would be immediately detectable by anyone half decent in magic,” Draco says sharply, then smirks thinly and bows his head, “Sir.”

“Young man, all this proves is that Peter Pettigrew is alive. We should be joyous of this, not damning him--”

“Without trial?”

Dead silence follows that, Draco staring at the two men before him with blank, cold eyes. All his life he tried to imitate his father, saying what he said, doing as he did, but now… Now he channeled every last bit of Narcissa Malfoy into his stare.

A muffled, gleeful, “Oh damn,” can be heard from the other side of Flitwick’s door.

“I suspected you would fight me on this, Minister Fudge. Professor Snape,” he pulls out a series of pictures and hands them over. “These highlight Pettigrew’s transformation into his Animagus form, a rat, formerly known as Scabbers.”

“The Weasley rat?” Snape questions, disbelieving, eyes thinned as Fudge looks over the new photos.

“Indeed. So not only is Pettigrew an unregistered Animagus, but he fled the scene. If he is truly as innocent as you wish to believe, why is he not here? Explaining the situation to us in full?”

“It is… curious,” Fudge swallows, sweating bullets.

“In addition, if Sirius Black were truly such a devoted member of You-Know-Who’s army… where is his dark mark?” Draco turns towards the door and calls, “Cousin Sirius, do you have a dark mark you aren’t telling us about?”

“Why, now that you mention it,” Sirius says through the door, sounding flippant, “No. I don’t.”

“That does not mean--” Snape begins, but Draco is on a roll. He’ll probably pay for this later, but for now he doesn’t care.

“In addition, it is said the only thing found of Pettigrew was a finger, correct? Curious, even someone who was obliterated in such a manner they would have left some kind of mess, wouldn’t you say?”

Draco takes the photos he had handed to Fudge and sets them back into the manila folder, rearranging them, then hands the whole folder over. “I believe this is proof enough that you have the wrong man,” he says firmly, a tight smirk back on his face. “Our legal system has failed this man, kept him away from his family for years, while the real monster has been out there, under your noses, the whole time.”

Draco’s head tilts, smirk fading to a neutral expression, “Why, I’d even say you owe Sirius Black an apology. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Fudge looks like he’s about to implode, his grip on the folder tight, while Snape is giving him a murderous look. Draco doesn’t flinch, he won’t allow himself to, and instead waits patiently for a response.

He gets one in the form of Headmaster Dumbledore appearing at Fudge and Snape’s side, a small smile on his face and his eyes twinkling. He is looking at Draco like he must be exceptionally proud. “That was certainly quite the detective work, Mr. Malfoy, are you considering an investigative position in the future?” the elder wizard says, his voice calm and relaxed. Draco smiles back at him pleasantly and shrugs. “I do believe this calls for a change in plans, don’t you think, Cornelius?”

Fudge glances down at the folder in his grip, then over to Dumbledore. His face is pinched unhappily, but he gathers himself rather efficiently. “We will need to send Aurors out in search of Pettigrew.”

“I agree,” Dumbledore nods.

“What of Black, then?” Snape demands, voice sharp with poorly concealed fury.

For a moment Fudge considers the options, the corridor falling silent as they wait. “Black… will not be returning to Azkaban. Nor will he be sentenced to the dementor’s kiss,” Fudge finally says, slowly weighing each word as he speaks, “He will be under heavy observation, however, but… so long as he cooperates, he may return to the Black family home.”

Dumbledore’s smile stays steady as he removes his wand. “I think that is quite reasonable. Wouldn’t you agree, Sirius?” he says and, with a flick of his wand, the door to Flitwick’s office unlocks and creaks open. Slowly, like he’s not entirely sure this is all real or not, Sirius Black steps out.

He’s still all skin and bones, and Draco isn’t sure why he expected that to change in less than an hour, but his eyes have a life to them that has doubtful been there in a long, long while.

“I think I can work with that,” Sirius croaks, his voice rough, then he’s smirking rather sharply over at Snape. “That alright with you, Snivy?” he says with fake cheer and Draco’s godfather boils with anger. Without a word Snape turns and marches away, robes billowing behind him. “So dramatic,” Sirirus snickers, half to himself.

“There will be quite a few things we need to discuss, Black,” Fudge is saying, looking to be leading into a lecture, but Dumbledore cuts him off.

“And we will most certainly get to that. However, Sirius is in desperate need of a proper meal, proper clothes, and proper rest.”

“Harry. I want to see Harry,” Sirius says, urgent, and Dumbledore’s smile softens.

“And you will. If you would accompany me to the hospital wing. Mr. Malfoy,” Draco jumps, having gotten momentarily comfortable just watching, and looks up at his headmaster with wide eyes. “Would you like to join us?”

Draco’s brows rise. He hadn’t been expecting to be allowed, but he wanted to see the Golden Trio’s response to Draco’s spectacular work, so he smiles and nods. “I would like that, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore looks particularly pleased by this.

“You have your mother’s smile,” Sirius speaks up, looking at Draco like he’d forgotten he was there for a moment. When Draco looks up at him, he looks a little dazed, but not in a bad way.

“Better than my father’s,” Draco replies and Sirius snorts. “Are you aware you look like Joey Ramone from the Ramones?” That turns Sirius’s snort into a surprised, booming laugh, his head thrown back. He throws an arm around Draco’s shoulder and they begin walking behind Dumbledore through the corridors of the castle.

“You, Draco Malfoy, are officially my favorite cousin!”

~ ~ ~

Lucius Malfoy never said he hated anything, he simply said he’d change it, or it needed to go, or it was a disgrace.

“Mudbloods are ruining our wizarding way of life.” “Albus Dumbledore is a fraud and should be sacked.” “This Ministry official is a complete joke. I will have them demoted immediately.” “Never speak to those Weasley’s, they are filthy in hygiene and in character.”

It took no one any time at all to translate it all into “I hate this,” “I hate that,” “I hate that I’m not getting my way.”

Hate hate hate. That was all Lucius spewed. Even when Draco would bend over backwards for his father he still grew tired of it all quickly.

How could one man function with so much hate? It was a mystery not even Max or Max’s parents had a ready answer for.

“Is his underwear scratchy?” Max questioned once, when they were little.

“Excuse me?!” Draco squeaked in shock.

“Sometimes, if my underwear gets really scratchy, I get really grumpy and I hate everything too.”

“I… don’t think that’s it…”

Still, technically speaking Draco didn’t know for sure.

Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t full of hate. She may express displeasure, or frustration in some rare cases, but she was mostly a private woman who focused more on herself and her son. She wasn’t hateful, but rather indifferent.

Finding out that Draco reminded anyone of her was perhaps the best compliment he had ever received and, inexplicably, Draco wondered if he could still play the violin decently anymore…

~ ~ ~

The corridors of Hogwarts are barren and quiet, but not lifeless. It is the final day before all the students will have to climb onto the Hogwarts Express and head home and most everyone is either finishing packing or off with their friends.

The sun filtering into the halls makes everything look warm and golden, but Draco is more focused on his destination than the lovely atmosphere.

Professor Lupin had been fired. Rumors had spread of his true nature, most certainly stemming from Draco’s own godfather, which meant this would be the last chance Draco had to speak to the man.

He doesn’t find Lupin in his office, however. Instead, the gruff-looking man nearly bumps into Draco as they both turn a corner, a packed suitcase already in his hand and a travel cloak over his shoulders. He was already leaving, Draco quickly realizes, but he stops to give Draco a calm smile.

“I hadn’t been expecting to see you again,” Lupin says honestly.

“I required a moment of your time,” Draco replies. Lupin had been his favorite teacher the whole year, nay, the whole time he’d been at Hogwarts, and it felt wrong to allow him to go without saying anything. They never had spoken much outside of class, save for that one time after the boggart, and now Draco wishes he had. He would have loved to pick apart the man’s brain.

“Well, you have it,” Lupin’s smile turns a little humorous and he shifts his weight to hold his case more comfortably.

“You were…” Draco hesitates. As soon as he’d decided to speak with Lupin he’d realized he would need to swallow quite a lot of his pride. He practiced in the mirror a few times, even ran by what he wanted to say to Max, but now that he was actually meant to be saying it, he felt horribly embarrassed and tense.

“Your teaching skills were unorthodox,” is what ends up coming out of his mouth in the end, which hadn’t been his goal at all, but Lupin looks pleased.

“Thank you,” the elder man nods.

“And while you are a complete mess of a man, you have proven to possess wit well-suited for the position of professor,” Draco continues, still not saying what he’d originally meant to say, but unable to quit now that he’d gotten going.

“That is very kind.”

Lupin appeared to be responding well to it, however.

“To have you sacked on the grounds of a condition that has little to no bearing on one’s character, and that, through basic logic, one can determine you did not deliberately acquire, is a repugnant affair that should be openly admonished.”

Lupin’s smile had slowly faded by now and his brows had shot up the longer Draco spoke. The blonde stood tall, head held high and nose up, with complete confidence that he believed every word he was saying.

There’re a few beats of silence, Lupin clearly not certain what to say, and Draco unsure what his life has become that he feels the need to reassure some scruffy, ex-professor werewolf.

Finally, after getting so tense he was near shattering, Draco moves, hands scrabbling at his robes before he pulls out a bundle of photographs from an inside pocket, tied together with string, and hands them over. “I have no use for these. Do with them as you see fit,” he says sharply. The photos are some of the ones he had taken when getting the damning evidence against Peter Pettigrew. These particular ones he had made sure to hide away, never to allow anyone but Lupin to see.

Lupin’s werewolf form is on display in each one, sometimes in focus, sometimes half out of frame, sometimes blurry. Lupin stares down at the photos, an unreadable expression on his face. He stops on one that has his full form visible, and in pretty good display, and just stares at it for a while.

“Terrifying,” Draco says casually, looking at the photo, and Lupin’s lips thin.

“It is.”

“Don’t get me wrong, completely badass, but honestly…” Draco arches a brow up at Lupin, “How long does it even take to get all the fleas out of your hair afterwards? It must be a living nightmare.”

Somehow that manages to startle a chuckle out of the man and he gives Draco a wry smirk. “That’s the worst part, I suppose. Werewolf fleas are particularly persistent,” he jokes. At least, Draco thinks he’s joking.

“As I said. Terrifying,” Draco shrugs and Lupin shakes his head. For a few beats the two stand in the corridor, Lupin quietly looking through the photos, before he takes a deep breath and sets them on the ground.

“Incendio!” he says firmly, flicking his wand out and pointing it at the pile of photos. They burst into flames immediately, Draco raising a brow at the unexpectedly violent response. When the fire dies and Lupin catches his expression, he smiles and shrugs. “I’m afraid I am not your teacher anymore. Being a good example is no longer an explicit requirement of mine.”

“I am beginning to see how you, Black, and James Potter were all friends…”

Lupin doesn’t have a response to that, but he does offer a large smile. Then he’s stepping around Draco and giving his hair a tussle, which earns him a very indignant squawk as Draco lurches away and tries to fix his hair.

“Have a good summer, Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin laughs and then he is disappearing down the hallway, never to return to Hogwarts as the best Defense Against the Dark Arts professor it has ever seen.

~ ~ ~

The train ride back home is quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because Draco decides to sit with Hushburn again. Well, “Eve.” She had snapped at him something fierce a few weeks back to quit with the surnames and, having never seen the girl even so much as mildly irrate before, he had been rightly terrified and had agreed.

Crabbe and Goyle had attempted to join them, but once they’d realized Draco and Eve were just planning on reading and staying completely quiet, even they hadn’t wanted to stick around. They were, thankfully, getting better at hanging around other people. Draco had seen them snickering with Theodore Nott before, or getting bullied into having their nails painted by Pansy Parkinson, or stealing food from the kitchens with Millicent Bulstrode and Sophie Roper.

He wasn’t necessarily proud of them, he didn’t really care, but he was happy he didn’t have to work as hard to get them to leave him alone. It wasn’t like he needed his guards anymore, either. His taunts rarely escalated into physical violence nowadays, and usually it was only with Potter that they did, and a few thrown hexes tended to solve the issue quick enough.

Today, with a good few hours ahead of them before they reach the station, Draco has cracked open Pride and Prejudice, his feet thrown up to rest on the bench across from him. Eve mirrors him, sitting on the opposite bench, her own feet thrown up beside Draco’s hip, and a book in her hands that doesn’t look to be written in English. It is kanji of some sort, and Draco is just attempting to piece together where it must originate when the door to their compartment opens.

“No room,” Draco immediately says, looking over, and finds Potter standing with his hand still gripping the compartment door. Green eyes look around the space, eyes falling on the free seats Draco and Eve are currently using as footrests.

“No room, my ass,” Potter snorts, and he moves inside. He shoves Draco’s feet out of the way, sitting across from him, but Draco stubbornly shoves his feet back into place against the Boy-Who-Lived’s gut. Potter grunts, then scowls, and Draco smirks.

“What can I do you for, Potty?” the blonde hums pleasantly.

“I never got a chance to thank you before,” Potter says quickly.

“Well, don’t start now,” Draco retorts, an uncomfortable feeling quickly spreading through his gut and his smirk drops.

He knew exactly what this was about. Despite having joined Sirius and Dumbledore to the hospital wing those few night ago, Draco had hardly had a reason to be there. Sirius and Potter had only been interested in hugging and talking and having emotions. In the end, Draco had only been able to stand off to the side and watch, and that had gotten old quickly, so he had quickly made sure Granger had retrieved her Time-Turner and then had slipped away without a word.

“No, Malfoy, I really need to do this. This is serious.”

“Was that a pun? It sounded like a pun. Because it was an awful pun.”

Potter makes an exasperated face, but then Eve is speaking, her own expression bored. “He’s completely useless at receiving positive feedback.”

“I noticed,” Potter nods, looking to her, and she offers a coy smirk before returning to her book. Potter’s attention quickly turns back to Draco, a more determined, and slightly mischievous light filling his eyes. It has Draco narrowing his own.

“Draco Malfoy,” Potter begins, speaking slowly, and Draco stiffens with suspicion. “Thank you so much for all you did in helping save my godfather Sirius Black.”

“Stop…”

“You were so spectacular, protecting your cousin like that, and giving me a family I get to love again. Your soul shown bright that night, showing its true nature.”

“Stop that…”

“So brave, so kind, so witty. Why… Draco Malfoy… I’d even go so far as to say that you…” Potter pauses for dramatic effect, which he is awful at and should just leave to the professionals, before he sets his hands over his own chest, eyes big. “Have a heart of gold.”

“That’s it, Potter!” Draco scrambles to grab his wand, Potter quickly springing to his feet, grinning, and ducking out of the compartment. Half-hysterical laughter escapes the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Infuriate-Draco-Malfoy as he runs down the hall, Draco leaning out the compartment to fire hexes after him. He only returns to his compartment, shutting the door tight behind him, when other students’ heads begin peeking out into the hall, looking for the source of the commotion.

He plops back into his seat with a deep scowl, a tight feeling in his chest, and a bright red flush of embarrassment over his face. “Heart of gold,” he scoffs, “Cannot believe that specky git would stoop so low. Heart of gold.”

Eve glances up at him over her book, blue eyes twinkling, before she looks back down and says, “You two are cute together.”

Draco’s spluttering fills the room and, rather than acknowledge that comment with a response, he angrily picks his discarded book back up and goes back to reading in utter silence.

~ ~ ~

There is the faint sound of clapping through the radio and Draco sets his violin down so he can pick up the device where he’d laid it on the table. His bedroom door is shut and locked tight, though he doubts his parents have any attention of approaching him ever again now that they know he somehow had snuck a Muggle camera in from under their noses.

Still, a habit’s a habit.

“Beautiful, Draco, positively beautiful,” Max’s mother is saying, her voice a little faint since the entire family is trying to speak through their radio.

“And you say it has been years since you last played? Bravo, young man! Bravo!” Max’s father is cheering, voice over-excited as usual.

“You only started summer break five days ago,” Eric is saying, sounding impressed.

“You are such a show off!” Max whines, though there’s no heat behind it, just familiar teasing. “No human should be that good!”

“I require plenty more practice. I’m still horribly rusty,” Draco shakes his head, looking over at the violin, and he feels exceedingly warm in his chest and cheeks, almost on the verge of embarrassed.

“Are you kidding?!” Max yelps, “THAT is what you considered rusty?! My dude, you need to reconsider your friction.”

“Diction,” Draco corrects.

“That too.”

Max’s mother hushes her child gently as Eric says, “Hey man, can’t just sit still, right? No fun if you can’t keep improving.”

“And I think it is particularly impressive that Draco is aware of his limits and aims to,” Max’s father makes a cheesy karate noise, “BUST through them!”

“Uhg, dad,” Eric groans, clearly embarrassed by whatever his father must have done, and Draco smirks, momentarily glad he can’t see the man’s antics.

“We are so proud of you, Draco. It can be hard, sometimes, trying to return to something like this, but we believe you’ll be able to do amazing,” Max’s mother’s soft voice becomes louder, indicating she has complete control of the radio now, and Draco smiles faintly. “We will be expecting further performances at later dates. Now, tell me… have you gotten around to those books I sent you?”

“Mamaaaaaa!” Max’s voice can be heard in the background, but Draco simply snickers before starting a glorified, but entertaining, book report for Max’s mother on all the books he had managed to read up until that point.

Chapter Text

Out of all the things in the World War 2 museum, few displays had really made Draco question its validity. With the realization that this was all an actual event that he had never even heard of before, he had become a bit more receptive and accepting of each explanation.

This, however, was pushing it.

He peers dubiously at the photos on the wall beside small replicas of vehicles meant to travel through space. Most are labelled as “satellites,” which Draco remembers Max’s father mentioning, but there are also “rockets” that Draco had first assumed were missiles. ‘More weapons,’ he’d immediately thought, but then became confused as he read.

The display sat in the room that housed all the inventions that came from WW2. It was unique, however, in that it went into much greater, historical detail on where some of these inventions eventually went.

Space travel.

What a joke! Draco knew that Wizards and Muggles shared a good deal of knowledge when it came to the study of space, but that was all it was. Study. Draco’s father had made it very clear that any story he heard about Muggles travelling to space, circling the planet, and landing on the moon was simply propaganda. Muggles were too stupid to accomplish something like that.

But these photos seemed remarkably realistic. Draco squints his eyes as he looks at them. Fake. They had to be fake.

“Everything okay?” Max asks at his side. They’d been looking very closely at a series of models labelled “Mars versus Lunar Rovers,” which sounds even more preposterous.

“Why is something like this present in a place of learning?” Draco questions, crossing his arms and glaring at the photo of an astronaut walking on the moon. “Although, I suppose it could serve to show the problems caused by propaganda, but I see nothing on such a subject.”

When he receives no reply, Draco looks over to Max, finding the Muggle child just staring at him with wide eyes and a mouth hanging open. “What?” Draco demands, eyes narrowing, and Max actually is beginning to look kind of frantic. Had he said something particularly un-Muggle-like?

“P-papaaaaa,” Max suddenly calls and Draco looks over as Max’s father approaches, his smile bright and curious.

“Don’t yell in here,” the man warns his child softly, but doesn’t seem too upset, before he stands up straight and sets his hands on his hips. “What do you need, Max Speed?”

Max points a finger straight at Draco, making the blonde scowl at how rude it was, and says, “I don’t think Draco believes in the moon landing…”

Max’s father goes bug-eyed, turning to Draco, and the boy straightens his back defensively, immediately unhappy with this treatment. What had gone wrong in Muggle society to leave them with little to no manners like this? “It is not a question of belief, but a question of knowing.”

“Oh no, no, no, no, no, this won’t do at all!” Max’s father says frantically, looking even more horrified than Max had, and he crouches down in front of Draco. “Why do you think the moon landing isn’t real?”

“Well…” Draco hesitates, glancing at the photo. He did not have a clear, concise answer to that, since his father had never given any clear, concise reason to mistrust this Muggle event. “Is it not obvious?” he says smugly, not allowing this Muggle the satisfaction of rendering him speechless, “Such a thing was simply used to boost the morale of your country.”

“It was a boost of morale to all of humankind,” Max’s father says gently, then points to the model of “Apollo 11,” which seemed like an ironic name since it was apparently supposed to go to the moon, not the sun. “Humans used centuries of knowledge and pride to build this, not just Americans. Up in space there are no nations, only the vast openness of the cosmos.”

“Surely this image is staged,” Draco pushes, rolling his eyes at the highly sentimental response. “Look at it. It could have so easily been crafted right here on Earth.” Judging by all the other inventions Draco had seen just today, he would be surprised if Muggles didn’t have such forms of technology.

“Ah, actually, no,” Max’s father says, looking to the photo, “That would be very impossible back then.”

Draco’s narrows his eyes suspiciously, awaiting an explanation, then snarling when one is not readily given. “Explain!” he snaps, and Max’s father reaches out a hand to point at the photo. Specifically, the ground.

“See these shadows?” he begins, “The shadows are parallel to one another because the sun is 93 million miles away. I think that’s… 150 million kilometers? Shadows made by any kind of studio lights would diffuse and sit at angles.” Indeed, the shadows are straight, but Max’s father isn’t done. “In order to get these kinds of shadows here on Earth, you’d need a board of millions of multi-colored lasers.”

“Then that must have been what was done,” Draco retorts with a decisive nod, but Max’s father makes a high-pitched “not really” noise.

“Except that would have cost more than the entire United States budget, let alone NASA’s Apollo project.”

“Plus, plus, plus!” Max suddenly springs forward, eyes sparkling with excitement as they remember something important. Draco takes a cautious step away, uncertain of the young Muggle’s enthusiasm. “Papa told me this, too, and I remembered that the astronauts put these mirror do-hickeys up on the moon so when you shine a laser at them they’ll bounce back at you!”

“That… that sounds completely preposterous!” Draco snaps, but he’s having a tougher and tougher time defending his stance, so he stubbornly shoves past the two Muggles and heads to a new display altogether.

Five years later on the eve of Draco’s first Astronomy class at Hogwarts, the young pureblood stays behind and approaches his teacher. Sinistra looks at him with a blank expression, she very rarely seemed to emote, as Draco asks if there really were mirrors on the moon.

“Yes. They were set there by the Muggle astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin during the first moon landing,” Sinistra replies calmly.

Even later that night Draco digs out his radio and immediately snaps at it, “Screw you, Max!”

Max, completely lost as to what is going on or as to why Draco is upset, still bursts into a fit of laughter at Draco’s expense.

~ ~ ~

Teenage rebellion. That’s what his father had called it, snatching away Draco’s disposable camera and destroying it with a quick curse. Then he had snarled at Draco, a very improper thing to do, and said a bunch of mess about being a good son and representing the Malfoy name.

Do better, was basically what he was saying, and Draco had simply stood there, silent, fury building in his body as he stared at the remains of his camera.

All the film had already been developed, and he would surely be getting a new one before the next school year started, and he still had the ones from the previous years, but to have his father destroy his son’s possessions without a second thought… Draco felt himself growing angrier and angrier, resentment mounting.

Years and years of emotional training kept Draco from exploding, quietly letting his father chew him out as Narcissa Malfoy stood off to the side, waiting and watching. Her expression was completely unreadable, and Draco quickly attempted to mimic it.

When Lucius finally stormed out of the sitting room, a pompous whirlwind of self-righteous bullshit, Draco took a shuddering breath before kneeling down to pick up the remains of his camera.

“The elves can get that, Draco,” his mother speaks softly, stepping closer, and Draco gives a single shrug.

“So can I,” he replies. It felt wrong having anyone else pick up this particular mess. Every single Muggle product in the entire mansion was Draco’s. The cameras, the photo album, the satellite radio, the punk vinyl records. They were Draco’s and they were his responsibility.

“Darling,” Narcissa says once Draco has stood back up, his hands full, and she reaches out to grip his forearm. She squeezes slightly, before releasing him and looking at him pleadingly. “Please, tell me, is there anything else you have that is Muggle? Your father is sure to go hunting through your room once he has gathered himself.”

Draco quickly looks to the door, half expecting Lucius to storm back in waving the radio over his head and demanding to know what it is, but his mother’s grip now lays on his shoulder, forcing him to breathe. “I… I have a photo album,” he begins slowly, glancing back at his mother through the corner of his eye. “And… records of Muggle bands.” He was not going to mention the radio. Never ever. He could not lose it and he wasn’t going to take the chance.

Narcissa has to take a slow, steadying breath, her brows pinched in mild agitation as she thinks, before she looks at Draco with a very stern look. “I am not happy with you for lying to me,” she says sharply, Draco flinching immediately and ducking his head. “But…” He glances up, his mother still looking tense as she picks up a piece of the broken camera in her son’s arms. It looks like the lens, and she studies it a moment.

“But, I can see the necessity of your actions,” Narcissa says softly, setting back the broken lens, then sweeps past Draco and walks towards the hall. “Come. I want you to show me these photos and records.”

Draco nervously follows after her to his room. He was able to manage his father with ease, his ire inconsequential to Draco, but his mother’s judgement still would lay a heavy toll on his heart. If she demanded he get rid of his Muggle things… then he doubts he would ever be able to say no. He wouldn’t be capable of such a feat.

But, much to his shock, when they reach his room she takes a seat in one of the ornate chairs in the corner and waits. She does not have any intention of disposing of Draco’s things, he realizes as she flips through the photo album he offers her. She speaks critically on his photos, like they were an art piece rather than the idle creations of youthful curiosity, and then she is handing it back and waiting patiently for Draco to play one of his records.

He plays The Offspring’s new album “Smash” that Eric sent to him for his fourteenth birthday. His mother very clearly does not like it, but she sits through two songs, before taking out her wand.

For a moment Draco tenses, certain he had misjudged and he was about to lose everything, but then Narcissa is muttering a silencing charm at his walls and door, turning a smile to her son as she slips her wand back into her sleeve.

“For when you practice your violin,” she says simply, an understood wink in her tone, and Draco wants to cry. He knows his mother doesn’t approve, it has been written all over her face since he got home, but more than anything she wants her son to be happy. She believed that this was best achieved through their family’s long-standing traditions, but she wasn’t going to tear these things away from her son just to be right.

He can’t find the words to truly express just how much he appreciates her in these moments, for they happen often over that summer before fourth year, but she always looks like she understands.

~ ~ ~

“I am not kidding, Max, the World Cup is a spectacular event, I truly wish you could accompany me,” Draco says into his radio the night before the Quidditch World Cup is set to take place. He will be accompanying his parents there, more on the request of his mother since his father is still being dreadfully childish, but he will take what he can get.

“You’re sappy when you’re giddy,” Max chortles, obviously amused by Draco’s excitement. “Is soccer - sorry, futbol - really that big of a deal over there?” There were plenty of things Draco had to translate into Muggle terms when speaking with Max and their family, and while it used to give him pause as he attempted to recalibrate, nowadays it was almost second nature.

Hell, he even knew a decent amount about actual Muggle futbol now. Not any of the teams, mind you, but the general rules he was aware of.

“Yes. Do not speak your blasphemy aloud ever again,” Draco replies with a flourish of his hand as he sinks further into his tub. He could easily speak on the radio in his own room now that he had his mother’s silencing charm and no one questioned his locked door anymore, but there was something so soothing about dragging his comforter into his tub and reclining back. He was bigger now, and his feet had to rest on the edge of the tub, but it made little difference. This was familiar to him.

“Sorry!” Max chirps, not sounding sorry at all. “I think it’s sweet, though, y’know? How excited you get. What teams are playing?”

“Ireland versus Bulgaria,” Draco replies, glossing over the “sweet” comment.

“Bulgaria…?” Max repeats slowly, thoughtful, before humming, “Sounds made up, but okay.”

“I can assure you, Bulgaria is a real place,” Draco deadpans, rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sure it is, Draco,” Max says sarcastically.

“Go ask your mother, I will wait.”

There’s a rustling noise from the radio as Max goes to do just that. Draco shimmies further into his nest of sorts, more comfortable than he has been since returning to the manor at the beginning of summer. A few moments later Max returns, the sound of their heavy stomping indicating their arrival followed by Max’s pouty voice saying, “Shut up.”

Draco smirks, victorious.

“It sounds made-up, alright? Sue me,” Max continues, not needing to hear Draco to know he was being smug. “How’s the candy I sent you, by the way?”

“A smooth transition from conversation topics, Max, you are truly a master,” the blonde says, but leans over the side of the tub, arms momentarily flailing, until he gets ahold of a small, cardboard box sitting on the tile.

A new development that also came during the summer was the Muggle care packages. Although… perhaps “care package” was a bit too generous. Really, it was just Max finding out about a Muggle candy Draco had never tried, assumed it was because he was English, then sent him a small box stuffed hazardously with bags of all kinds of sweets.

It was still entertaining to receive them, despite their usual disarray that spoke of Max’s personality. The last time Draco had received anything like a care package would have been the chocolates from his mother during his first year at Hogwarts. Those had been rich in flavor and in quality and, though Draco did not have a good frame of reference, he had a feeling all this Muggle candy was rather cheap.

Somehow, though, he still liked them. They didn’t do anything special like magical candies did, but they were still sweets, and how could a growing boy say no to sweets?

“Mike and Ike’s and Gushers are disgusting,” he says, looking into the box and he hears Max huff.

“Whatever, you just have a snooty tongue or something,” Max grumbles, “Don’t like anything unless it’s gourmet Belgian spice chocolate from the mountains of Everest, oh ho ho!”

“How can it be Belgian if it is from Everest?” Draco questions with an arched brow, smirking at Max’s disgruntled reaction.

“Hush, you, you know what I mean. You didn’t even like twinkies!”

“Proper sponge cake does not taste like that!”

“Of course not! Twinkies are meant to last for decades without change, and you expect them to taste like legit sponge cake?”

“It is disturbing what you find acceptable in what you consume.” Draco pulls out a new bag of candy as he speaks, eying the bright packaging. “What are PopRocks, then?”

“Oh, you’ll probably hate those, too. They’re fun, you see, and you clearly hate the very concept--”

“Just tell me how to eat them,” Draco snaps, earning a snicker from the other line.

“Just sprinkle ‘em in your mouth.”

Draco opens the packaging and does just that, pausing for only about a second before he startles, jumping as the pellets of candy begin to crackle and pop in his mouth. “Oh. Oh! What on earth?!” he yelps, mouth full, the snapping causing a tingling feeling on his tongue.

He thought Muggle candy wasn’t supposed to do anything!

Max is laughing hysterically through the radio as Draco grows more and more frazzled, until he finally just forces himself to chew and swallow. Were they popping in his stomach now? He couldn’t tell, but a part of his brain was positively sure they had to be.

“You couldn’t have warned me?!”

Max only ends up laughing harder.

~ ~ ~

Draco isn’t entirely sure how his mother had managed it, but he had learned early in his life never to question her. She was a force of nature, that woman, and anyone would be a fool to even attempt to go against her. Including Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius had wanted to go to the Quidditch World Cup right as it was starting, completely avoiding the crowds and the vendors, but Draco had wanted otherwise. This would be Draco’s first time going to a World Cup and he wanted to walk around, particularly away from his father, and enjoy the entire evening, even though it was sure to be filthy and exhausting.

“That’s just part of the full experience,” Max had assured him when he’d voiced his concerns on the sanitation.

Only a year or two ago Draco probably would have thrown a tantrum at his father, making demands that would surely be granted after he’d worn down enough of Lucius’s patience, but that was no longer an option. He knew he wouldn’t garner any favors from his father right now, even though he’d been on pretty good behavior, and he didn’t want to either. He was all for taking an opportunity when it came to him, but he also had his pride.

His mother had solved things, however, and told him to head to the festivities early and to enjoy himself. He knew this was stressful for her, teenager or not she still worried he would vanish again one day and not come back, but she had put on a brave face. She claimed she would deal with Lucius, and that was final. Draco didn’t know what she planned to do, but he knew better than to ask.

So, he had stashed his newest disposable camera into his pocket, sent earlier than usual from America so he could use it at the World Cup, along with a few bags of Muggle M&Ms and PopRocks (he may have gotten a bit too invested in that one). Everything was shrunk down to fit into his trousers pocket and then he was off.

Usually, if he had gone with his mother and father, they would have apparated straight to the stadium, Draco having to side-along with Ministry permission.

Now, however, he uses a portkey, also provided from the Ministry, that takes him straight to the grounds outside the stadium. The sun is out but beginning to make its trek down the sky, while most everyone has already set up their tents and is running around, enjoying themselves.

Most everyone is also wearing Muggle clothes, which Draco had been in no hurry to even attempt, but he’d realized too late he would need to wear something that wasn’t robes. They were on Muggle ground, after all, and as little attention as one could garner was probably best. He wouldn’t have had to bother if he’d stuck with his parents, but that was no longer the case.
In the end he had still worn clothes straight from his very wizard-y closet, but they were innocuous enough he should be fine.

Black trousers, black button up with the highest buttons undone, black loafers, and a grey trench coat that hung open and low, similar to a robe. He also had a thick, silver ring on each hand.

It was all pointedly colorless, since Draco couldn’t properly decide who he wanted to cheer for. Obviously, Viktor Krum was one of the best Seekers the world had ever seen, but Draco felt like he might be betraying his own people if he didn’t side with Ireland.

He hands his portkey off to a Ministry official, ignoring them when they ask where the rest of his family is, and he walks out onto the grounds, weaving through hordes of people and looking around. There are all kinds of vendors that peak his interest, mostly selling cheap trinkets that have been doubled or tripled in their prices. Draco doesn’t immediately purchase anything, but the roar and laughter are invigorating.

“Malfoy?” calls a mildly familiar voice from off to his side and when he looks over, he sees Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan making their way towards him. Thomas has an Ireland scarf on, while Finnigan is decked out, head to toe, with Ireland merch.

Draco arches a brow at them, saying nothing. Why were these Gryffindors talking to him? He hardly even acknowledged them at school, let alone held any pleasant conversations with them.

“Weren’t expecting to see your rich ass out slummin’ it with the common folk,” Finnigan says loudly over the crowds. He has to tilt his head back so he can see out from under the rim of a massive, foam hat.

“Quite,” Draco says sharply, crossing his arms. He desperately wanted to leave this interaction and get back to looking around. He had nothing to say to these two.

“You here for Bulgaria or Ireland?” Thomas questions.

“I am here for the game. Who wins is of little interest,” Draco responds, then narrows his eyes. “Why are you speaking to me? Have you nothing better to do?”

His sharp tone does not have the reaction he had been looking for. No, instead of rearing back, looking hurt, or even getting angry, Finnigan and Thomas almost look entertained. No, scratch that, they definitely look entertained.

“You can drop the tough guy act with us, you know,” Finnigan says, smirking, and Draco turns an icy glare on him.

“Yeah, a bunch of Gryffindors already know you’re a lot nicer than you act. Harry told us at the end of last year.”

“Excuse me?!” Draco most certainly does not shriek, but he does raise his voice.

Potter had been spreading blasphemous drivel about him to his fellow lions. Oh, this was just typical. And he had probably done it right after Draco had proven Sirius’s innocence, too. What a way to pay him back.

“He didn’t really NEED to tell us anything, though,” Finnigan shrugs, “We saw you guys heckling each other on the train home. It’s pretty clear you’ve lightened up since first year.”

“You consider attempting to hex one another is heckling? And that such a violent act would be classified as friendly behavior?” Draco demands, baffled and irritated more than he’d certainly planned to be today. “Tell me, then, what secret message all your explosions have, Finnigan.”

“Clearly they’re a love confession,” voices someone behind Draco, far too close for comfort, and making him jump in startled shock.

“Potter,” he snarls, turning around to glare at the smirking boy. “What a surprise. Tell me, do you have any intention of approaching me like a normal, human being any time soon? Or should I continue to expect ape-like behavior from you?”

“Ape-like behavior, probably. No fun, otherwise,” Potter keeps smirking. Behind him approach Granger and Weasley, the former looking particularly more at ease by Draco’s presence than the latter.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Granger greets with a polite nod. Despite her finding it much easier to be around Draco now, there is still a stiffness to her shoulders. This isn’t like their silent meetings in the library, where they hardly speak unless it is about homework or a book. This is a loud, crowded social gathering, and neither was prepared for small talk with each other.

“Granger,” Draco gives a sharp nod. “Weasley,” he offers the same to the tense, ginger boy. Potter seems to be the only one who isn’t, on some level, upset to see him. And isn’t that baffling?

He turns his glare back to the bespectacled boy. “Stop spreading scandalous lies about me to your den of lions. It is a new low even I dared not believe you could reach.”

“All Harry’s said about you is that you’re not that bad of a guy,” Weasley snaps, obviously thinking he needs to defend his friend, and Draco scowls at him.

“Precisely!” he says with feeling.

“Okay, okay, sorry I told people you were actually alright,” Potter rolls his eyes, giving Weasley a look as if to say, ‘Can you believe this?’ Weasley rolls his eyes back, returning an unspoken, ‘I know, right?’

“As you should be,” Draco graciously decides to ignore the silent conversation.

“I’ll make sure to tell everyone you’re a prissy little git with no sense of decency and a penchant for social murder.”

“I would not word it like that,” Draco glares.

“I would,” Potter shrugs, and, in a huff, Draco turns away to frown deeply at Granger.

“I have begun reading a new book titled The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Speak to me before I start throwing curses,” he demands and, thankfully, Granger seems perfectly fine with talking about books to ease the tension, even if Weasley groans at her.

Finnigan and Thomas eventually leave, heading off after surely enjoying watching their Golden Trio torment Draco, and it looks like it is about time for Draco to continue his exploration. Except Granger, Weasley, and Potter aren’t leaving, and instead Potter is giving him a thoughtful look.

“Where are your parents?” he asks, and Draco scoffs.

“I wished to enjoy myself this evening. I assure you, if you had heard my father’s expectations for the night you would have slipped away, too.”

“You’re avoiding your mother and father?” Granger asks, her brows curving in what looks like concern.

“I am avoiding my father,” he corrects, “Mother is helping.”

“So… what? You’re just playing tourist or something?” Weasley demands, sounding disbelieving. It is clear he wants to leave already, not at all happy with Draco’s presence, and the blonde gives him an assessing look before answering.

“In a sense. Am I not allowed, Weasley? I did not realize such affairs were left only to the dreck of society. I will have to remember that for next time.”

Weasley fumes, clearly furious, and both Granger and Potter have stiffened. They need not worry, however, because after Draco has enjoyed watching the ginger wizard stew for a moment, attempting to come up with some witty retort, he sighs dramatically.

“Now, now, Weasley, I only jest. It would not do to pick a fight in a place like this,” he says with a roll of his eyes. It mollifies Weasley enough he doesn’t look like he wants to castrate Draco, but the boy is still clearly displeased. “Perhaps a peace offering?”

That perks his interest, Weasley crossing his arms and tilting his head suspiciously. “What kind of peace offering?”

Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of red PopRocks, holding them out to Weasley with a flourish. The ginger eyes the bag with uncertain curiosity, but before he can decide to take them or not Granger is gasping.

“Oh, PopRocks!” she says in wonder, eyes widening, “That’s the American version of Fizz Wiz. My parents never let me have any, but I always wondered...” That is plenty reason enough for Weasley, it seems, to accept the bag from a now-smirking Draco.

“Don’t think this makes us mates, Malfoy,” Weasley snarls, glaring at Draco.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Weasley,” Draco shrugs. Potter sidles up next to him, then, the two watching as Weasley fumbles to get the candy open, Granger assisting and pouring handfuls of the candy into both of their hands.

“I’ve only had Fizz Wiz once,” Potter admits, eyes on his friends. “Wasn’t a big fan, honestly. Always more of a chocolate fan, myself.”

“Or treacle tart,” Draco snorts. Granger puts her pile of PopRocks into her mouth first, immediately giggling around the popping sensation.

“Obviously,” Potter snorts as he watches, next, Weasley mimic Granger, only to yelp in surprise and slap a hand over his mouth. He’s wide-eyed and shocked, which makes the rest of them grin at him, but he’s too focused on the new candy to notice or care. A moment later he swallows, then pours another pile into his hand.

Draco rolls his eyes and finally turns away from the display to pull out his other bag of M&M’s. Potter eyes him with an arched brow.

“What?” the blonde demands when Potter keeps staring, not saying a word, but the other boy only shrugs.

“You want to join us? We’re walking around some, too, you may as well avoid your father with some company,” as he says this, Potter reaches out to stick his hand into Draco’s M&M bag.

“Hey!” Draco smacks at the offending hand sharply, but when Potter retracts it he has a few of the chocolate candies between his fingers and a victorious grin on his face. He pops the chocolate into his mouth before Draco can snatch them back. “I have no intention of spending my time with some petty thief.”

“I promise to ask permission next time?”

“Lies,” Draco snaps, and Potter just shrugs, clearly not having a defense for that.

Somehow, however, as the Golden Trio make their way towards the Bulgarian side of the camp grounds, Draco finds himself within their midst without ever properly agreeing. He claims it is simply because they are all intent on looking around, it means nothing personal, but that is difficult for even him to defend when the tension that had permeated their conversation earlier is nowhere to be found.

~ ~ ~

“Are you a Wiccan?”

Draco, age thirteen and just arrived home from Hogwarts for the winter holidays, furrows his brow at the strange question. He’s curled up in his tub, comforter, blankets, and pillows a warm nest around him, and Columba perched in the open window. Occasionally he pets the eagle owl’s feathers, but mostly she seems content to nap.

“A Wiccan?”

“Yeah, like… a nature worshiper or something?” Max says hesitantly, “A modern day witch, I guess?”

A spike of panic strikes Draco’s heart, his eyes widening and his mouth opening and closing a few times before he can even think of what to say. Had Max caught on? After so many years? No, this couldn’t be happening. Max couldn’t know.

If Max knew they’d be furious, or they’d be afraid, or they’d be greedy.

If Max knew then the Ministry was sure to step in and obliviate the entire Muggle family.

“Did I say something rude?” Max questions after the silence goes on for too long, “I don’t know anything about Wiccans or nothing. You just sometimes say you’ll hex or curse people and I thought…”

“When,” Draco pauses to swallow, his voice breaking, and he scrambles to cling to the remains of his dignity. “When have I ever said that?”

“Remember when Joey Callahan was bullying me in third grade? He got everybody to gang up on me during dodgeball ‘cause I wouldn’t do our group project for him. You said you’d ‘jinx him’ for me?”

Draco did not remember that. He remembered the Callahan kid, but he didn’t remember offering to jinx anyone.

“Or the time my math teacher failed me because I didn’t show my work and you said you’d work on a curse for her?”

Okay, Draco kind of remembered that, but not very well.

“Or when Becky Barron invited everyone else to her birthday party last year except me because I was ‘weird,’ and you said they ‘all deserved a hex to the face’?”

Draco remembered that one, probably because it was so much more recent than the others.

“Or that time when--”

“Alright! Okay. I get it, I threaten people a lot.”

“With curses! I mean, you’re a weirdo, and I know you don’t share everything, but I just thought… it made sense. Right? Cause Wiccans are… magic-y and stuff? Did I say something wrong?”

Draco took a few, deep breaths. He had no idea what a Wiccan was, but it was clearly not the same as the witches Draco knew. He hadn’t screwed up, not really, even if he should really pay more attention to how he spoke to Max and Max’s family.

“It is a seemingly logical assessment,” he admits, “But I am not a Wiccan.”

“Oh, okay, you’re just a dweeb.”

“I resent that.”

A few days later he and his mother take a small outing to Diagon Alley, his mother needing to be fitted for a new gown his father was getting her for a Christmas party, and Draco slipped into Flourish and Blotts. The Muggle section was drastically smaller than the rest of the other genres, but it had a decent amount of variety.

He hadn’t been hoping for much, but to his surprise there does appear to be a book on Wiccans and Wicca practices. With a cursory glance through the pages he wonders if Wiccans are just Muggle versions of Herbologists, but there appears to be a lot more to it than that.

He purchases Wicca for Beginners: Fundamentals of Philosophy & Practice by Thea Sabin, stashing it away in his robes, then continues with his mother through Diagon Alley.

He may not be a Wiccan, but it won’t hurt to do some research.

~ ~ ~

Not for the first time, and doubtfully the last, Draco smacks Potter’s hand away from his bag of candy. It has become something of a game, Potter attempting to steal M&M’s while Draco attempts to stop him. They’re at a pretty even match.

Weasley also managed to weasel - pun not intended - another bag of PopRocks out of Malfoy. He had had four shrunken down bags in total when first arriving, and now he had two. He hadn’t wanted to hand over another bag, but Granger had given him a very pathetic pair of puppy-eyes and Potter had picked that time to lunge for an M&M, distracting Draco.

So, the weasel and the muggleborn were back to laughing dumbly over popping chunks of sugar in their mouths.

Eventually Potter ends up purchasing his two friends a pair of Omnioculars each, having to fight pretty hard to make sure Weasley kept his, plus a third pair for himself and a fourth that he claimed would go to Sirius.

“Is he here?” Draco asks, honestly curious. He’d thought of his cousin on more than one occasion during the summer, hoping he was alright and that Draco’s hard work hadn’t been for nothing, but he hadn’t heard anything. It made sense, however, since Sirius had been disowned from the Black family. Of course Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t talk about him.

“He is,” Potter brightens immediately.

“He’s back at the tent,” Granger tacks on, the four of them stopping off to the side of the crowds to speak without getting in anyone’s way.

“How has his negotiations with the Ministry been going?”

“You mean Malfoy Sr hasn’t told you?” Weasley huffs. He’s significantly more bearable with candy in him, but he’s still a Weasley and thus still a pain.

“Do I really have to repeat myself?” Draco says with an agitated glare, “He and I are not, currently, on the friendliest terms.”

“Talks are going well, I think,” Potter answers Draco’s original question, “At least, that’s what he tells me. They have to sort out all his possible inheritance and legal papers, which are taking forever since they screwed him over so much to begin with. I…” Potter pauses, takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “They want to make sure he’s fit to have full custody of me, too. I get to see him all the time, and every other weekend I get to stay with him, but…”

Draco hums thoughtfully at the explanation, head tilting.

“Still seems like complete nonsense to me, mate,” Weasley says, voice distorted from how his mouth is full with yet another fistful of PopRocks. “Lot of bureaucratic bullshit to keep Sirius busy.”

“That’s a big word, Weasley, are you sure you know what it means?” Draco smirks and Weasley throws an inappropriate hand sign at him in retaliation.

“I don’t know, Ron,” Granger says softly, “We all want this to be sorted out quickly, but even Professor Dumbledore has told Harry it is best to wait.”

“Remarkable how much less flippant with their rules the Ministry becomes once they are presented with an opportunity to be petty,” Draco drawls with a roll of his eyes. Potter and Granger look a little torn, while Weasley is nodding and pointing at Draco as if to say, ‘See? What did I say?’

Draco does not like being on the same side as Weasley…

“It was right funny, though, you know,” Weasley says after swallowing his candy. On instinct he pours a bit more out for himself and Granger, offers it to Potter, and Potter smiles and shakes his head ‘no.’ They’ve begun walking again, weaving slowly through the crowds. “When Sirius first came to the Burrow he nearly gave mum a heart attack!”

“She hadn’t heard, yet, that he’d been freed,” Potter explains, snickering at the memory.

“She tried to hex me!” Draco yelps in surprise at the new voice, springing away and a hand flying to his wand as he spins around. Sirius Black walks leisurely behind them, one hand tapping at his chin thoughtfully. “Lovely woman.”

Potter and Weasley, to Draco’s side, are nearly doubled over laughing at Draco’s misfortune, having to hold onto each other for support.

“Why?! What is wrong with you people?!” Draco demands furiously, waving his wand wildly in Sirius’s direction, who looks especially pleased with himself for startling the blonde.

“Well, if it isn’t my impeccable ‘lawyer,’ Draco!” Sirius says brightly, making Draco scowl.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Black. Did Potter tell you to--” He is unable to get more out because a still grinning Sirius Black has just stepped into his space and given him a tight hug. Draco freezes, eyes wide, and Sirius gives him a squeeze before letting go. “W-what was that?” he demands, voice breaking slightly.

“I believe the common colloquialism is ‘hug’,” Sirius laughs and Draco glares.

“Were you hoping to look around as well, Sirius?” Granger asks and Sirius’s attention changes to her. It gives Draco a breather to actually get a look at him.

He’s still thinner than Draco thinks is particularly healthy, but has certainly filled out in his time spent free. Color has returned to his skin, and his eyes, while still haunted deep down, are brighter and more alive than before. His clothes aren’t a torn-up mess, either, but Draco would hardly call them “fancy.” He looks kind of like some of the pictures inside the punk vinyl sleeves in Draco’s room…

Which Draco definitely does not think is cool. Absolutely not.

“Been a while since I’ve been able to have some fun like this,” Sirius says with a half shrug. “No worries, won’t cramp you kids’ style for long, just wanted to say ‘hi’.” He reaches out to roughly ruffle Draco’s hair, who quickly stabs the man’s ribs with his wand, scowling viciously.

What was it with these Marauders and ruffling Draco’s hair? Was it a Gryffindor thing? If any of the Golden Trio even thought of touching his hair, he was going to hurt someone.

“Stick with us for a bit,” Potter pleads, looking so happy with just the appearance of his godfather. It is a little endearing, if Draco is entirely honest.

“I saw a Twin GalaxTea stand just down that way,” Sirius offers, smiling back at his godson with so much clear adoration that Draco’s endearment begins to feel remarkably cheesy.

“Ohhh, I haven’t had a GalaxTea in ages!” Weasley says brightly, their group already heading for the stand.

The stand they find is dark in color but lit up by the sheer mass of glowing GalaxTeas. The drink consists of a cup of black tea, spiked with something a bit stronger, with what appears to be a miniature galaxy spiraling above the top. A simple but beautiful charm.

Sirius makes three orders, each order consisting of two cups, and hands one out to each of them, Weasley getting greedy and snagging the sixth. Sirius has a lavender spiral galaxy above his tea, while Potter has a red pinwheel galaxy. Granger’s is a blue lenticular galaxy, Draco’s is a green irregular galaxy, and Weasley has both a yellow elliptical galaxy and an orange ring galaxy.

The brilliant colors dance off their faces as they each hold their cups, Draco taking a moment to marvel at the beauty, before looking up. Granger and Potter are clearly in awe, having never seen this particular Wizarding product. It was usually saved for special occasions, so Draco isn’t too surprised.

“To friends!” Weasley says, raising up one of his cups, then the other, “And to Quidditch!” He then clinks both of his cups together and the yellow and orange galaxies merge and collide in a miniature explosion of colors and lights. Once the spectacle has dwindled away, Weasley takes both cups and drinks them both, Potter laughing at his friend’s antics.

“That’s how it’s done,” Sirius explains. “You give a toast, tap your glass with someone else’s, then drink.” He smiles as he looks to Potter, raising his cup, and says, “To freedom!”

Potter hesitates, eying his own cup, but then slowly raises it. “To loved ones,” he says, softer than most toasts Draco has ever heard, and taps his tea against Sirius’s. Their galaxies morph and explode as well, now in a mish-mash of reds and purples, and the two drink.

“To new opportunities!”

Draco looks over at that, finding Granger standing before him, a determined look in her eyes. She’s raised her cup, then lowers it towards Draco, waiting.

For a moment the blonde just looks at her, eyes flicking from her face to her brilliant, blue galaxy. This is an offering of something much greater than just a shared, GalaxTea toast, the tension in the air makes that clear, but for all he’s worth Draco can’t figure out what for.

He takes a chance, though, locking eyes with the muggleborn that has been such a pest to him for the last three years. “To change,” he says, raises his glass, then clinks it against hers. The blue and green blast of cosmic colors reminds Draco of a lagoon, for some reason, and he takes a content sip of his tea.

“Man, you guys went deep with yours,” Weasley suddenly whines, pouting up a storm as he pours the remainder of one tea into the other so he doesn’t have to hold two cups. Potter immediately starts laughing again while Draco arches a brow and Granger sighs.

“Ronald, you just toasted yourself. I don’t think you get to talk about depth…” Granger says in clear exasperation, making Weasley pout deeper and Potter laugh harder.

“I quite liked his friend toast, actually,” Sirius smirks. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh as well but doing a much better job of it.

“Please don’t patronize me,” Weasley sighs miserably, but still goes for a large slurp of tea while he mopes.

~ ~ ~

Draco’s ears are ringing as he drags himself off the ground, shaking his head in attempt to clear it.

There were screams all around him, horrifying things, as people ran for their lives, swiftly turning into a stampede. Someone had nailed Draco right across the temple in their hurry, knocking him to the ground, and dazing him something dreadful.

How had this all happened? What had gone wrong? Why were Death Eaters running rampant and tormenting the local Muggles?! Just a few moments before Draco had been enjoying himself, and now there was chaos!

Not long after running into Sirius on the grounds it had gotten to be about time for Draco to find his parents. They would surely be arriving at the stadium soon, since the game was almost ready to begin, so he’d hurried off.

He’d been having so much fun, lost in the humdrum of the crowd, happy even though he’d probably never admit it out loud. Not to the company that had put him in the mood and certainly not to his parents.

He ended up finding them just as they apparated into the Ministry-sanctioned, apparition zone within the stadium. Still, Draco had no idea what his mother had done to manipulate Lucius, but the man didn’t appear to be even a little agitated that Draco was already there.

They’d headed up to the top box, running into the Weasley’s and the Golden Trio all over again, the Minister seemingly blind to the tension that springs into the room. Fudge does, however, keep side-eying Sirius, especially when the ex-convict steps up to Narcissa and kisses the top of her hand.

“Narcissa,” he greets, and from an outsider’s point-of-view it is sure to look perfectly proper, but for everyone else it is blatantly obvious Sirius is being an ass. His expression, his over-dramatic motions, and his tone all speak to a mocking mood, surely repulsed by pureblood manners.

“Sirius,” Narcissa plays her part, though, nodding back to him.

“I see you brought my favorite cousin,” Sirius continues, looking to Draco and winking, seeming to already know that Draco’s little exploration earlier was a secret.

“Favorite cousin, mother,” Draco repeats, smiling playful at his mother, and she looks blandly back at him.

“Oh dear. However shall I recover,” she says flatly.

Lucius proceeds to make a right ass of himself, but this is no surprise to anyone and it takes everything in Draco not to roll his eyes or make a face at his father’s every word.

They take their seats after that and the game begins.

When everything is over, and Draco has hardly even cheered since he has to be well behaved right now if he even dares wish to survive the rest of the summer, Lucius is telling Narcissa to head home without them. He’d like some time with their son.

Which immediately sets off alarm bells in Draco’s head, thinking he is about to have to listen to the lecture to end all lectures, except once Narcissa is gone Lucius is simply telling Draco to retrieve the portkey he used to arrive earlier.

Suspicious, but with no blatant reason to argue, Draco goes down to retrieve the portkey. In a fit of rebellious, petty fury, however, he continues walking out into the grounds and through the cheering crowds.

Somehow or someway he ends up at the Weasley tent, yelling until Ron Weasley himself pokes his head out and glares at him. It takes some finagling and flattery and the offer of a third bag of PopRocks for Draco to convince Weasley to let him in.

Potter, Granger, and Sirius all seem perfectly content to welcome him to their festivities, Sirius even clapping him on the shoulder when he tells them he was hiding from his father. The twins call him “coolio,” which is humiliating, while just about everyone else is desperately trying to pretend like a Malfoy amidst Weasley’s is a totally normal affair.

Then, like a bucket of cold water, the Death Eaters arrive and Draco is out and running without a second thought. He momentarily feels bad for the Muggle family being tossed through the air and tormented, but then Draco is reminded that these are Death Eaters, the wizarding equivalent of Nazis, and Draco no longer cares to even attempt to step in. Let the Aurors do that.

He doesn’t expect to get knocked over, but a hand on his arm is yanking him off the ground non-too-gently. The Golden Trio has arrived, Granger behind, Weasley nearly hurling Draco onto his feet, and Potter retrieving his dropped wand from the mud.

“Come on!” Potter yells at him and Draco doesn’t have to be told twice.

Tents have been lit ablaze around them, setting the whole environment into a decent representation of a hellscape, and Draco chances back a look at the scene. Then he’s reaching back, grabbing Granger, and dragging her forward.

“Run in the middle!” he snaps at her, not caring how harsh his words or his grip are. “They’re targeting Muggles!”

“I’m not a Muggle, though!” Granger says back, her eyes wide and frantic.

“Doesn’t matter to them,” Draco says darkly and Granger doesn’t try to fight him any further.

They end up making it into the forest to hide, separated from all the other Weasley’s and Sirius, it would seem. Draco keeps far back from the edge of the trees, eyes wide as he keeps backing up until he hits a tree trunk.

No, this couldn’t be happening. This could NOT be happening!

“Malfoy?” Potter questions, stepping towards him like he might frightening him off. “I don’t think you’re breathing…”

Draco takes in a gulp of air, gasping on it for a second before his horrified expression is morphing into something far more murderous. “Death Eaters…” he snarls to himself.

“What?” Potter questions, clearly lost and rattled as the riot continues just beyond the woods.

“Death Eaters, Harry. They were You-Know-Who’s followers,” Granger says softly.

“Followers. Soldiers. Fanatics,” Draco spits, “My father…” He looks up sharply, glaring out at the glow of fire, his own eyes blazing in return. “My father is out there. He wanted me to stay behind to… to watch his work!” In a fumbling flurry Draco begins patting himself down, searching for something, then spots it hanging from Potter’s hand.

“Potter, give me my wand,” he demands sharply, stepping forward, and Potter steps back.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Malfoy,” Weasley says, looking anxious, and Draco’s glare intensifies.

“I swear to Merlin, Salazar, Godric, and to any other dead wizard willing to listen, Potter, Weasley, I will ruin your lives if you don’t--”

“MOSMORDRE!”

Draco doesn’t know who yells the spell, only that they are close enough to be heard and now, gleaming sinisterly in the sky above, is the Dark Mark. HIS mark, reappearing again for the first time since the dark lord’s demise.

Draco feels horribly sick.

He can’t do anything but look up at the ghastly, green image, mortified, and wanting desperately either to curse his father or disappear forever. He’d thought, after all this time, that his father was just a bigoted ass, but a smart bigoted ass. Draco never imagined he would actually return to Death Eater service, not because he was empathetic, but because he was supposed to be more strategic than this.

Before Draco can even begin to sort through his emotions, though, a chorus of voices yell, “STUPEFY!”

Potter manages to get Granger and Weasley down immediately, they’re right next to each other, but is yelling out, “MALFOY!” right as the stunning spells are colliding with Draco and he’s out cold before he knows it.

~ ~ ~

When Draco comes to, an unknown amount of time later, he’s in his own bed and his father is looking down at him.

Draco doesn’t have a clue what happened after he was knocked out, but he has to assume things worked out well enough since he’s home and not in some Ministry cell or St. Mungo’s.

Then again, it can’t have worked out THAT well if Lucius Malfoy is still walking around.

“I hope, after tonight, you have learned your lesson, Draco,” Lucius says in a disturbingly calm voice, his hand coming out to pet his son’s hair in a tender gesture.

Draco has nothing to say to that, but he does offer a small nod. He certainly has learned a lesson this night, and that is that he can no longer trust his own father.

~ ~ ~

When Draco dislocates his arm in third year he doesn’t expect Max to become so frantic. He’s never injured himself to this degree before, only the occasional bump and bruise from his Quidditch practice, and he’s never had to consider all the things one must do while recovering.

“Have you iced it regularly? You need to keep the swelling down, but put a towel between your shoulder and the ice pack,” Max is listing out, Draco sitting on the ground of the Astronomy Tower, his brows raised as he stares at the radio. “Ibuprofen will help with inflammation as well. Once you get out of the sling make sure to do plenty of stretches, too, so you can get mobility back. And you better not do anything physical and screw something up!”

“You are very devoted to my recovery…” Draco says, baffled by the change in Max’s behavior.

“Of course, I am! Injuries are serious business, and recovery might even be the most important part!” Max says with feeling. They’re so invested in this Draco is almost frightened to tease them. “Now, listen, this is important, if you have a cast you must refrain from stashing anything inside it. It may seem like a good idea at the time, but you’ll seriously regret it when you forget about those gummy bears and now you have a sticky cast!”

Draco arches a brow. “I do not have a cast, and that example is shockingly specific. Are you speaking from experience?”

“That is neither here nor there! Focus!” Max snaps, probably pouting, but Draco does as told. The sooner this conversation is over, the better, he thinks. Even if Max’s concern is rather touching.

“You’re down one arm, so I’m sure you must have someone helping you with your things?” Max doesn’t wait for an answer, “You BETTER have someone helping you with your things!”

“I am not an idiot, Max. Crabbe and Goyle have assisted me plenty since I was released,” Draco sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

When Draco had first returned to class it had been Potter to approach him. Despite their apparent agreement that no thanks needed to be offered to Draco, he didn’t want them, Potter still seemed to want to show his appreciation in some way.

When he’d gone to help carry Draco’s books, though, Draco had kicked him so hard in the shin he didn’t ever offer again.

Good. Except, Draco did still need help carrying his things… Lucky for him, Crabbe and Goyle were still at his beck and call, and they had become his personal caddies for the last week.

“I still can’t believe your friends are named ‘Crabbe’ and ‘Goyle.’ They sound like STD’s,” Max says thoughtfully and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you have mentioned this before, and they are most certainly not my friends.”

“Guard dogs, then, whatever!” Max huffs, “I’m glad you have someone to help you. Now, where was I…? Oh, yeah! So, take painkillers, stretch when you can, and when you go back in for a follow up I want to know how the tissue around the socket looks! If there are any tears I have a few other notes.”

Draco sighs deeply, sliding further down onto the floor, realizing this conversation was far, far from over.

~ ~ ~

“Your hair is purple.”

Eve looks up from where she is looking over her luggage, almost ready to head onto the Hogwarts Express, and gives Draco a flat look. Then, in the most bland, emotionless voice one can muster, she replies, “No. It cannot be. Who could have done this? I cannot go on.”

Draco rolls his eyes, gaze lingering on the purple tips to Eve’s styled hair. “Alright, point taken. You can be quiet now. Good morning, Miss. Hushburn,” the last greeting is offered to Eve’s mother, a tiny wisp of a woman in a baby blue pants suit, who looks at Draco and nods.

“Draco. I have heard much of you. You sound like a good boy. You treat my Evangeline right,” Miss. Hushburn says in a clipped, Japanese accent, nodding once at Draco.

“Okaasan,” Eve hisses, glaring at her mother, who hushes her sharply, gives her a kiss on the cheek, then ushers her off to the train.

“What a peculiar Muggle,” Draco’s own mother says, coming up behind her son and watching the mother and daughter walk away. “She could have stayed to properly introduce herself.”

“I think they were preoccupied,” Draco says with a one shoulder shrug.

He says his good-byes to his mother, kissing her cheek and wishing her luck dealing with Lucius alone for so many months. She gives him a disapproving glare at that, discreetly pinching his bicep until he squirms away, smirking.

He sits with Eve, Crabbe, and Goyle for the beginning of the ride, but much as his last trip on this very train, eventually Crabbe and Goyle slip away. A little faster this time, which Draco is thankful for, and so too does Eve.

“I apologize for my mother,” Eve says, lowering her book to look at Draco.

“Is that what ‘okaasan’ means? ‘Mother’?” Draco asks curiously. Eve hums an affirmative then looks back at her book and Draco thinks that is the last of it.

A moment later the muggleborn is speaking again, eyes still on her book. “She has begun hinting about looking for a future husband. And her version of ‘hinting’ is basically, ‘When I was your age I knew who I want. Why do you not know? Go figure it out! If you get pregnant, though, I will kill you’.”

“Fun,” Draco cringes, knowing full well what it felt like to have a parent more obsessed with his future betrothed than he ever would be.

“Oodles…”

“Why is she asking for a husband, though…?” Draco asks, something not quite adding up. “I thought you preferred women?”

“I do.”

Draco watches Eve for a long moment, waiting for further explanation, and his face darkening as more time slips by. “Don’t tell me… she doesn’t approve?” he says, voice low.

“She doesn’t know. I only found out last year.”

“Do you think she won’t be happy?” Draco asks, his dark mood lifting and replaced by a striking sense of unease.

“I know she won’t, but she’ll get over it. And if she doesn’t she’s not the loving mother I thought she was and I’ll just go get adopted by someone better.”

Before Draco can respond to that, probably demand how Eve can be so flippant about possibly being abandoned by her own mother, the compartment door opens to reveal Gryffindor’s Golden Trio.

“No room,” Draco immediately says, almost on instinct, and Potter rolls his eyes and shoves his way in anyway.

“No room, my ass,” he says and it all feels fairly familiar. He plops down beside Draco, Weasley on Potter’s other side, and Granger sits beside Eve and across from Draco.

Draco has absolutely no idea what is going on right now, his eyes widening as the three Gryffindors settle into his compartment like they own the place.

“Excuse you,” he snaps, deciding to glare at Potter since he’s their leader, “but we finally got rid of Crabbe and Goyle. We do not require any more bumbling buffoons.”

Granger makes a sharp, offended noise and Draco rolls his eyes at her. “You hang out with these two. You’re an honorary buffoon, Granger.”

“Weasley, perfect,” Eve says swiftly, looking to the ginger expectantly, “Your mom is brilliant, I hear, makes excellent food. If my mother disowns me for being a lesbian can yours adopt me?”

Weasley’s gone bug-eyed, staring at the Slytherin girl in terror, a very eloquent, “Uhhhh,” leaving his mouth, and Draco groans.

“Ignore her. She’s being outlandish,” he grumbles.

“Your hair is purple,” Potter comments, looking at the purple-tipped spikes atop Eve’s head, and the girl gives him a bland look. Then she looks slowly to Draco, then back again, then back to her book.

“You two were made for each other,” she mumbles, but Draco pointedly ignores her from that point on.

“What do you three want? Don’t you have your own compartments to occupy yourselves with? Probably gaudy red and gold, just for the special little Gryffindors.”

“The train isn’t house-coded,” Granger says sharply, sitting up straight.

“Considering Dumbledore’s favoritism, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Draco rolls his eyes, but shrieks in affronted shock when Potter smacks his arm sharply, looking distinctly unhappy at any kind of ridicule directed at their Headmaster.

“We came to check on you, you prat,” he snaps.

“You were taken away pretty quickly after you were stupefied,” Granger offers, calming down some and speaking at a much more concerned level. “We didn’t know what happened to you after that.”

“I was returned home, where I awoke to my very-free, very-self-entitled father standing over me,” Draco says with a deep sigh, finally sagging into his seat. There was no getting out of this confrontation, was there?

“I think I would have preferred to stay stupefied,” Weasley grumbles.

“They never caught anyone,” Potter says lowly, clearly displeased by this as well. Was he just always displeased now? Was this a thing Draco would have to maneuver through?

“Father praises that the Death Eaters had the good planning to remain completely disguiesed through their entire ‘display’… As if he wasn’t there, the lying shit heel.”

“I swear,” Granger begins, her expression intense and frustrated at the news, her hands curling into fists atop her knees. “All that man does is spit cruelty and curses this way and that. It’s dreadful!”

“Are you surprised?” Weasley says, “That man has a wand so far up his own ass he’s probably ONLY capable of spitting curses.”

The vulgarity and suddenness of the statement startles Draco, and thus he is unable to stop the bubble of hysterical laughter that comes from his mouth. He leans around Potter, smirking viciously at Weasley as he demands, “You absolutely must allow me use that sometime.”

“Sorry, that one has the Weasley seal on it. Only true Weasley’s are allowed access to such top tier insults,” the ginger boy smirks triumphantly and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Can you two quit flirting, please?” Potter says, poking at Weasley’s ribs and making him squirm away.

“Jealous, Potter? Would you like some Malfoy brand ‘sweeping you off your feet,’ or a Weasley styled serenade?” Draco hums, smirking, and Potter glares at him.

“You’re awful and we only wanted to check on you,” Potter snaps, sharper than seems necessary, but Draco brushes it off and shrugs.

“And now you have. Why are you still here?”

Potter groans, angry, then flops back where he’s sitting and crosses his arms defiantly. “I don’t even know anymore! But I’m not leaving, if only to piss you off.”

“I am pretty certain you are only succeeding in pissing yourself off, Scarhead,” Draco arches a brow.

“Not gonna lie, I wanted more PopRocks,” Weasley says after a few beats.

“PopRocks?” Eve echoes as Draco growls in clear agitation and stands, reaching up to his bags above.

“American Fizz Wiz,” Granger offers as explanation.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Malfoy?” Eve says, displeased.

“Bloody hell!” Draco exclaims, disbelieving he has somehow managed to become these people’s candy dealer. He chucks a bag of PopRocks at Weasley, Eve, and Granger, then falls back into his seat with a box of Junior Mints.

“Would you like to talk about what you’ve read over the summer, Eve? Malfoy?” Granger asks, smiling between the two, and the conversation delves into that. It is thankfully familiar territory and Draco finds himself easing into it.

He has to continuously slap at Potter’s hand, though, whenever he goes to snatch any of his chocolate.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, sweet Merlin,” Pansy half gasps, half whispers, eying the Durmstrang boys sitting at their table to eat.

“Heel, Parkinson,” Draco smirks over at her, fork halfway to his mouth, but his eyes are constantly flicking over at all the Durmstrang students. The Beauxbaton students as well, mostly congregated to the Ravenclaw table, have drawn many people’s interests.

Everyone has been abuzz since the Triwizard tournament had been announced at the beginning of the year, Draco amazed and excited that the legendary competition would actually be returning during how own lifetime, and with the arrival of the other two wizarding schools that excitement had skyrocketed.

It wasn’t much of a bummer for Draco that there was an age cap for the tournament, either, since he had no intention of risking his life for something like a single trophy, but he would certainly be enjoying getting to watch the proceedings. It was bound to be all kinds of entertaining.

“They’re all so… sturdy,” Pansy continues, fluttering her lashes and leaning her cheek heavily against her palm.

“The girls look like they could kick my ass,” Theodore Nott says, sounding awed, and Blaise Zabini snorts.

“Everyone looks like they could kick your ass,” Blaise says with a roll of his eyes.

“It must have its advantages, right?” Theodore continues, ignoring Blaise completely, “Being so broad. What do you think all those muscles could be used for?”

“Kicking your ass?” Draco offers sarcastically, glancing again at all the new students currently inhabiting the Great Hall.

“Punting your butt?” Pansy suggests, tilting her head towards Theodore with a smirk.

“Drop kicking your derriere?” Blaise adds, looking bored.

“You’re all terrible and I hate you,” Theodore grumbles, grumpily returning to his meal as Pansy snickers at him.

~ ~ ~

A few days before Draco’s eleventh birthday his father comes to sit with him in the manor library, a book in his hand. Draco, always happy to spend any amount of time with his father, immediately perks up and smiles brightly.

“Good afternoon, father,” the young wizard greets with a nod, quickly setting down the history book he had been daydreaming over.

“And a good afternoon to you, Draco,” Lucius replies back, clearly in a good mood. “I have come to tell you your mother and I have decided to send you to Hogwarts for your magical education. It was where we both attended, and despite its questionable choice in leadership, it will be a fine place for you.”

“What of Durmstrang? Was it insufficient?” Draco asks curiously. His father and mother had been debating for some time where to send Draco for his schooling. Draco knew very little, personally, about either and thus did not much care where they sent him.

“No. I suspect your mother simply wished you to remain close,” Lucius says, smirking in a very rare, playful manner. Then, in a blink of an eye, he’s schooled his features and is setting the book he had brought in down on the table. It is quite thick and looks somewhat like a textbook.

“Nonetheless, I believe it prevalent you have this to study. Hogwarts, I am afraid to say, lacks any form of tutelage on the matter.”

The book is a dark maroon, with Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts written across the front in metal writing. The tome is heavy, too, and has a metal bar across the spine with a black tassel tied to the top.

“Be careful who you read that around. You know as well as I that many witches and wizards do not understand the dark arts, and thus are frightened by them,” Lucius warns as Draco drags the book into his lap, his eyes wide in interest.

“Yes, father,” he says, voice dripping with gratitude. His parents were always telling him how important the dark arts truly were, and that society was full of cowards unwilling to see or accept this truth. Despite this, his parents never sat him down and told him of any, actual spells save the Unforgiveables.

And now he was being given this gift, the world of dark arts being offered on a silver platter, and Draco couldn’t help but dig in. He may not be able to practice them yet, and some of them probably never even with a wand, but he found himself enraptured by the possibilities as he flipped through the thick tome.

~ ~ ~

“Potter, Potter, Potter,” Draco shakes his head, slipping out from behind a corner just as he hears the Boy-Who-Lived making his way down the corridor. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Constantly hungry for more and more fame that you would even stoop this low.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter snarls, head low as he tries to push past. Everyone else has been ushered off to bed in their dorms by now, spooked by the evening’s turn of events. Harry Potter, Hogwarts’s second champion, and not even of age yet.

“How’d you manage to do it, then? It would surely take a powerful spell to alter the Goblet of Fire. Why, maybe even a dark spell,” Draco purrs, following Potter as he shoves past him. The boy had been locked up, talking with all the judges for the Triwizard Tournament, probably begging for forgiveness for a long while now, and Draco had nearly fallen asleep waiting.

“I didn’t cast any stupid spells on the Goblet. I didn’t go anywhere near it. I didn’t put my bloody name in the Goblet of Fire!” Potter fumes, voice raising slowly, glaring ahead as he tries to march faster than Draco. It won’t work.

“Oh, I believe you,” Draco hums, then nearly runs into Potter when he abruptly stops. The bespectacled boy spins around, looking at Draco in disbelief, his hands clasping and unclasping at his sides.

“You do? Why don’t I believe you?” Potter speaks lowly now, the volume he’d been building before dropping into something dangerous. Draco shrugs, nonchalance generally good at infuriating the other boy.

“Do you recall in our second year when you approached me to inform me you did not think I was the Heir of Slytherin?”

“Yeah, it… it didn’t make sense…” Potter says carefully.

“Well, I must say our positions are quite reversed now,” Draco offers another shrug, “It does not make sense to accuse you of these… ridiculous claims. And, because I am fully capable of admitting when I am wrong, you are not, truly, obsessed in fame and glory.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“That you care not for fame and glory?”

“No, that you were wrong. I want to frame it.”

Draco gives Potter an unimpressed glare for a few beats before continuing, ignoring his comments. “As I was saying,” he sighs, then pulls out his wand to fiddle with it. “When everyone had fled the Great Hall, it gave me ample opportunity to examine the Goblet. I used a grey spell to--”

“Grey spell?”

“Oh, I forget how useless you are sometimes,” Draco sighs deeply and it is Potter’s turn to glower. “A grey spell is merely a spell that, depending on your intention and use, can be either a dark spell or a light spell. If you truly wish to be technical, all spells are grey spells, but that is a debate centuries in the making.”

“Not the Unforgiveables,” Potter says firmly, eyes narrowing as he looks at Draco like he may turn on him at any second, which is terribly rude.

“Killing Curse to put someone out of their misery. Cruciatus Curse in controlled jolts to reignite damaged nerve endings. Imperius Curse to get someone from killing themselves,” Draco lists off in agitation on his fingers, then sets his hands on his hips and glares at Potter. The other boy glares back. “In addition, there is a dark spell that turns a target’s blood into knives that then pierce their own heart. No offense, but I find that a tad less forgivable than, ‘Boom, you’re dead’.”

“Then what ‘grey spell’ did you use?”

“A variation of the Revelio Charm,” Draco explains, “The Emfanizo Charm forces the truth out of inanimate objects. Weaker objects, however, have a pesky habit of melting after the spell comes to a close, but the Goblet is far too ancient for that.”

Potter’s eyes have widened, looking hopeful. “And it told you who put my name in it?”

“No, the Goblet does not retain this information. What it did tell me, however, was why your name emerged.”

“Clearly it was a curse,” Potter huffs, but stills when Draco points his wand meaningfully at him.

“Clearly, but not simply a curse to make your name appear,” he says, waggling the wand, then lowers it. “The Goblet does not think there are two Hogwarts champions, it still thinks Cedric Diggory is the only one. But it also firmly believes that there are supposed to be four champions, one from each school.”

“There aren’t four schools, though.”

“Precisely. Logically, then, we must assume the Goblet thinks there is a fourth school, a nonexistent school, partaking, and you were the only candidate.”

“Okay… So, what does that matter?”

“Honestly, Potter, have you learned nothing?” Draco snaps and Potter glares back at him, crossing his arms. “The Goblet wasn’t just cursed, its very ‘mind,’ if you will, was rewritten. Someone would have to go to extensive lengths to do that.”

With meaning Draco steps forward and leans in. He has to lean down some, too, seeing as he appears to have begun to grow taller than the other boy.

“This was not some flippant prank, or even some scandalous plan to make Hogwarts look bad. Someone did everything they could to ensure you were picked by the Goblet, without a shadow of a doubt. Harry Potter, I do believe someone is attempting to kill you.”

Potter stares up at him, breathing deeply, his arms tightening across his chest before he throws his head back and exclaims, “Again?!”

~ ~ ~

Tana brings Draco a new, manila folder upon his request. He has work to do, and it would be good to keep all his notes and findings in one, organized place.

He also calls on her while he’s in the library, which earns him a nasty glare from Pince. He can only be thankful Granger isn’t present, otherwise she would surely blow a gasket seeing the Malfoy house elf. She’d been so wrapped up in her SPEW nonsense Draco hardly knew how to come close to handling her. How could the Gryffindor kids deal with this on a regular basis?

Today, however, he is alone, making notes on a piece of parchment as he tries to list out possible subjects.

It is kind of invigorating, looking for the person in charge of throwing Potter into danger like this. It feels like the year prior, when he had helped release Sirius.

Granger, the day after Draco had offered his assistance to Potter in that corridor, had approached Draco in the library between classes, demanding to know what he was up to.

“Saving your golden boy’s ass… Again,” Draco hums, not looking up from his book on the history of the Triwizard Tournament. Nothing helpful was popping out at him, but he figured every piece of information had the possibility of coming in handy.

“But why?”

“Simple, really. This school has had three years of nothing but chaos thanks to The-Boy-Who-Pissed-All-The-Wrong-People-Off.”

“He doesn’t do it on purpose!”

“The-Boy-Who-Pissed-All-The-Wrong-People-Off,” Draco says with more feeling, then both of them flinch and look around to make sure Pince didn’t hear them. “I just want a normal year, so the faster I solve this - and I know that I can - the better.”

So, he had gotten to work. He knew whoever had done this had to be powerful if they had altered the Goblet of Fire the way they did. It was highly doubtful to be a student, which probably meant it was a professor or ministry official.

And, hesitantly, considering Peter Pettigrew’s escape the year prior and the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup, Draco couldn’t just ignore the possibility of You-Know-Who’s involvement. If anyone wanted Potter dead, it would be him.

So, Draco had his list, with a few stars beside each name to indicate their level of suspicion.

Karkaroff and Maxime only had one star each. Despite being new arrivals, and Draco being aware of Karkaroff’s Death Eater background, it didn’t fit with either of them that they would sabotage their own school’s chances of winning.

Majority of the Hogwarts staff also only had one star.

Snape, unfortunately, had to be given at least a two. His clear hatred of Potter not doing him any favors. His Death Eater background wasn’t much of a concern to Draco, though, since it wasn’t for Karkaroff.

Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch, being judges, are also placed on the list, but Draco doesn’t know too much about their personalities nor reasons to hunt down Potter. Crouch may still be mad about the World Cup, where Potter’s wand had been used to cast the Dark Mark, but that hardly seemed reason enough to throw him at death’s door.

Still, it could be a reason, so Crouch was given two starts while Bagman stayed at one.

The final name on Draco’s list, their newest professor, Mad-Eye Moody, is given one star, but not because Draco wants to. The man is a menace, with absolutely no manners whatsoever, and a clear, blatant hatred for some of the students in Slytherin.

Particularly those with Death Eater parents.

In his very first class, when he had shown them all the Unforgiveable Curses, he had made a very blatant point that he wasn’t surprised they knew them already. He also made sure to only call on the Death Eater children when asking questions about them.

Part of Draco was actually quite embarrassed that each one of them knew all the answers… But, he reasoned, a dark family was a dark family, it wouldn’t do not to know about some of the world’s very worst curses.

Then, a few classes later, Moody puts them all under the Imperius, wanting to teach them how to fight it off. Unsurprisingly, most of the Death Eater kids had decent enough resistance, Draco hardly even moving save for a twitch when Moody demanded he “waltz through the aisles.”

“Strange, don’t you think?” Moody says as Draco takes his seat again. He sounds conversational, but everyone in the room knows better than to fall for that, “All your parents claimed to be so weak to that one.”

Tension had filled the room and then Moody had dismissed them.

The Slytherin common room had been frighteningly quiet that evening, and Draco had fled to sit and read with Eve in the library.

Despite the clearly mutual hatred between Moody and the Slytherins, and while Draco would desperately love to put that man in his place, he has to be logical and honest in his investigation, and right now Moody only earns himself one star on his list.

With his list done he begins writing out some of the facts he already knows.

The Goblet of Fire was altered by powerful magic. The Dark Mark revealed itself for the first time in over a decade. Likely You-Know-Who is involved. Likely Peter Pettigrew is involved. Ministry official, Bertha Jorkins, has been missing since before World Cup.

That last name gives Draco pause, looking at it as he attempts to recall what department Jorkins had been in. If her MIA status was to be believed as foul play, one had to ask why. If it was personal, Draco would be wasting his time, but if it was something else it could very well be due to her involvement in the Ministry.

Such things were honest concerns for the officials, Lucius had told Draco that in the past, so what could Jorkins have known? He recalled it had been Ludo Bagman’s department… Department of Magical Games and Sports.

She would have been privy to the Quidditch World Cup, but that would be a truly stupid thing to kidnap someone over. So why?

Just as Draco is deciding this train of thought is useless, he recalls that one of the very judges here for the tournament was Ludo Bagman, of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

With an ominous feeling Draco realized Jorkins would have known about the Triwizard Tournament coming back to Hogwarts.

~ ~ ~

Potter and Granger both begin joining Draco, and sometimes Eve, in the library after that. This both irritates and baffles Draco, but with his fellow Slytherin acting cool and collected it wouldn’t do for him to snap at them too harshly.

It doesn’t go by Draco, nor anyone within the student body, that Potter and Weasley aren’t talking. The formerly unbreakable bond between the two boys had somehow become a canyon ever since Potter had been made champion.

This meant Potter had no one to bitch to. At least, that’s what Draco figured, because all of a sudden he was the one being bitched to about every little thing. Usually it was some variation of “Ron did this,” and “I can’t believe Ron,” or “Ron is such a git.” He usually would stop when Draco told him to just kiss and make-up already, their lover’s spat was none of his concern.

Occasionally, however, Potter would gripe about the Tournament and everything to do with it. Draco even agreed with him that it was unfair that the champions weren’t even told ahead of time what the tasks were. How was someone meant to prepare with next to nothing?

The “Rita Skeeter problem,” however, Draco thought was hysterical. He even joked he would have to get in contact with her and offer her the best scoops, to which Potter retaliated by kicking him under the table.

Draco got so used to seeing both Granger and Potter when he was in the library, too, that it came as a surprise when only the bushy-haired girl appeared.

“Sirius came to visit,” she explains before Draco can even open his mouth to ask, and he tries not to appear miffed that she read him so easily. “He’s been trying to get a visit ever since Harry was announced as champion.”

“I should speak to him,” Draco decides, standing up and gathering his things. “My resources are limited here, I could use someone on the outside.”

“You sound like someone in prison,” Eve drawls as she walks up, sitting beside Granger, and Draco smiles overly sweetly.

“Only when I’m with you,” he says, then flees before either girl can retort.

He finds Sirius and Potter out on the grounds, taking a walk by the lake. It’s rather picturesque, so Draco pauses to snap a photo before approaching.

“Coolio! My favorite cousin!” Sirius says when he spots him, grinning brightly despite the tightness on his face. Draco hesitates, brows lowering before he continues forward.

“Those twins got to you, didn’t they?” he grumbles.

“They did,” Sirius shrugs, looking very pleased with himself, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“What sane man would ever let that die down?” Potter questions, coming up beside Sirius. He looks exponentially more at ease. The tension that had been building and building since the Goblet had spat out his name… well, it was still there, but it was like a faint flicker in the set of his shoulders.

All thanks to Sirius Black.

“I require a word with you, Black,” Draco begins, cutting to the chase.

“Sirius,” the man corrects, smirking, then throws an arm around Draco’s shoulders and drags him over. His other arm goes around his godson, who is clearly snickering at Draco’s uncomfortable expression. “Walk with us.”

“It is about my research into the culprit behind Potter’s unexpected enlistment into the Triwizard Tournament,” Draco says, finally wiggling free of Sirius’s arm and walking a few feet to his side. He straightens out his robes and dusts off any invisible dust that has surely found itself on him.

“Harry told me you were helping him in a letter not long ago,” Sirius replies with a nod of understanding. “Thank you, Draco, that means a lot to me. To both of us.”

Draco feels his face heat up but pointedly ignores the reaction. He refuses to believe he would actually blush after a simple thank you. “Refrain from such pointless twaddle,” he waves a hand dismissively at the two.

“Merlin, Malfoy, just take the thanks,” Potter says with an eye roll.

“I am here to talk business, Mophead, or would you rather I not help?”

“What can I help you with, Draco?” Sirius questions, cutting off Potter’s surely scathing retort just as he’s opened his mouth.

“My capabilities within Hogwarts’s walls are fairly limited. I do not know what I may need in the future, but it is possible I will require assistance from someone out in the world,” Draco explains and the three of them slow to a stop.

“Ah, I see. You need someone on the outside,” Sirius winks

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Draco sighs deeply, ducking his head. He despised asking for assistance in any manner, it meant he would owe someone later, but this was important. He needed to know, if there was an emergency or a break in the case, who he could contact to do what needed to be done.

“Alright, I’m in,” Sirius nods. “Most of my time is already spent trying to figure out who did this, anyway. We can swap information regularly.” Then the man is grinning, looking mischievous, as he moves forward to wrap Draco up in a hug. The blonde stiffens and he must be making some kind of face because Potter is trying not to laugh behind his godfather.

“Thank you for looking after Harry,” Sirius says lowly, cutting off Draco from snapping anything at Potter or from punching his cousin in the gut. “It’s good to know he isn’t alone here.”

“I’m not his nanny!” Draco snaps, slipping out of the man’s tight hug and looking rightly grumpy at the touchy-feely behavior. “He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. I am merely looking after the welfare of my own school career.”

“You’re all puffed up like a kitten,” Potter snorts, and Draco turns on him, pulling out his camera and snapping a picture with the flash on. Potter squawks, then makes chase after the quickly retreating blonde, yelling to stop taking pictures of him already.

~ ~ ~

The diner across the street from the WW2 museum is so much brighter than Draco expected a Muggle establishment to be, and the food is positively delicious. He supposes they have a lot to make up for without magic, and whatever they’ve done to do that, they have succeeded.

He’s a tiny bit embarrassed with how quickly he ends up finishing his chicken and waffles, but Max is right behind him so he doesn’t feel all that bad.

Once they are both done Max just about drags Draco out of the booth, begging their father for money for the jukebox machine.

“Don’t play the exact same song over and over again!” Eric calls at them, clearly citing some past event, but Draco doesn’t understand the situation enough to really comment.

The jukebox, as it turns out, is what is playing the music. It takes money through a little slot and then allows the customer to pick the next song. Draco is intrigued by its shape and design, all the lights flashing inside, while Max has the audacity to say, “This thing is so old!”

Draco looks over, wide-eyed. This was considered old? This stunning thing? Sure, it was big and tacky, but he’d never seen anything like it before. How was it considered old?

“Mama and Papa met around a jukebox,” Max rolls their eyes. “Tell us the story all the time. Let’s see what songs this one has, though!” Max slips a few, alien-looking coins into the machine then starts tapping the arrow buttons to sort through all the songs. Both children have their faces smooshed to the glass separating them from the interior of the machine, watching the songs scroll by.

“Oh! This is a good one!” Max announces excitedly. “You wanna listen to this one?” Draco wouldn’t know, he’s never heard of any of these songs, so he simply shrugs and Max hits select. The song doesn’t change immediately, the current one needs to end first, and Max clicks select on the same song a few more times.

“Is it not working?” Draco questions.

“No, it is, I get six song choices for the amount of money I put in, so I’m picking this for all of them,” Max turns to grin at Draco, “Eric’s gonna be so mad!”

Eventually their song choice comes on. Draco knows because Max leaps away, cheering, then starts squirming. Belatedly, with some horror, Draco realizes Max is trying to dance.

The song plays a lot of instruments Draco doesn’t know, with a violin mixed in somewhere, with a high pitched singer he thinks might be a woman, but he honestly isn’t sure, and he looks back at their selection again. “Night Fever” (1977) by The Bee Gees.

What kind of name is “Bee Gees?”

He has little time to consider it, however, because Max is grabbing his arm and yanking him out to the empty space that surrounds the jukebox. “You’re supposed to dance to disco, you know! Papa says so!” Max grins, then tries to urge Draco into squirm-dancing with them.

Despite every fiber of Draco’s very being telling him not to even attempt this, he still finds his feet tapping, then his head bobbing, and finally he’s spinning around with Max like a proper fool. His parents would be so disappointed in this behavior, but they weren’t here right now, and it was pretty fun…

Three plays into the exact same song, while Draco was perfectly happy to keep listening, Eric had had enough and had sprung up. “Max! I told you not to do that!” Max’s elder brother manages to scoop Max up only a moment later, giving them vicious noogies until they squeal and a worker asks all three of them to please sit down.

~ ~ ~

The day before the first task is a Sunday and Draco is using it to study. Triwizard Tournament or not, investigation or not, Draco is still a student and he has every intention of making the best possible grades that he can.

Textbooks surround him out on the grounds, he’d found a sunny spot to sit despite the cold temperatures. He felt not too different from a cat in a patch of sunlight by the window, content as he works. Occasionally he stops to snap a picture, he’s near enough to Hagrid’s hut to see some of the creatures moving about, but for the most part his focus is on his work.

That is, until the very embodiment of his every frustration plops down in the grass in front of him. Draco attempts to ignore him, continuing with his work, but the other presence keeps shifting and moving and won’t leave until Draco sighs deeply and snaps his book shut.

“What do you want, Potter?” he drawls, looking up at the other boy impatiently.

“Hogsmeade was yesterday!” Potter blurts out and Draco’s brows furrow.

“Yeeeees…? I was present. Your favorite reporter was walking around, too,” Draco replies and Potter cringes.

“Don’t remind me… But, uh… I got you this!”

Draco arches a brow as Potter rummages around in his pockets until he can pull out a small, figurine toy of an abraxan. Draco looks at it quietly as Potter sets it atop a book between them. “With Beauxbaton and Durmstrang around, a lot of the stores are selling themed products…”

“I am aware. Yet again, I was present,” Draco’s lips twist and he narrows his eyes at Potter. “What is the catch?”

“Catch? There is no catch. Clearly, I simply wanted to show my appreciation for your work so far, since you’re garbage at accepting anyone’s thanks like a normal person, and you always say you need an abraxan since you’re Prince Charming and…” Potter trails off as Draco keeps up his stare.

“Alright, fine, yes I need some help with something.” Draco’s triumphant smirk only manages to make Potter scowl, “To be fair, I bought this before I even knew I needed help…” He then reaches out and taps the figurine’s head, the little abraxan quivering before it begins to trot around atop Draco’s book like a miniature of the actual thing.

A Life-Mimic Figurine. Draco thinks it was Pansy who had a modest collection of them in her dorm room.

He reaches out and lets the little abraxan flutter its wings and hop into his palm. He brings it close to give it a proper examination, petting its flank with a finger. “This will suffice,” he decides, then peers up at Potter, “What is it you want?”

“How much do you know about dragons?”

“Potter… just because someone’s name means something doesn’t mean they are an expert on the subject.”

“So you don’t know anything?”

Draco glares at him then huffs, focusing back on his new figurine. “What do you want to know?”

It turns out the first task is dragons, which Potter learned from Hagrid the night prior after he and Moody had approached Potter and Granger at the Three Broomsticks. Draco finds Moody’s presence a little odd but decides to keep that to himself.

The issue is Potter has no skill with taking down something like a dragon. The closest thing he has had to deal with before was the basilisk, but he’d had all kinds of back-up then and a very unique set of circumstances.

“Getting Dumbledore’s fiery chicken to peck out the dragon’s eyes is probably not allowed, then,” Draco sighs, the abraxan figurine now trotting along his shoulders.

“Probably,” Potter sighs, sagging.

“Dragon hide is greatly resistant to most magical attacks,” Draco says after a beat of consideration. “You’d need a spell that effects them on a mental scale, since they are of a unique nature. Or aim for the eyes…”

Potter makes a face that clearly demonstrates exactly what he thinks of those ideas and Draco moves on. “You’ll just need to outsmart it, then. Do you know exactly what will be required of you?”

“No… Just… dragons,” Potter sighs.

“You’re useless,” Draco rolls his eyes and Potter rips out some of the grass to throw at him. “I may have a spell or two that are rather versatile,” he continues and begins digging through his bag, looking for something hidden deep at the bottom.

He pulls out Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts and sets it in his lap, Potter curiously trying to get a peek at the title before Draco opens it. “This is a dark arts book,” he says calmly and Potter stiffens. Draco could laugh. This boy was such a goody-goody it was pathetic.

“I’m not using dark spells,” he says roughly and Draco shuts the book, reaches out, and smacks the other boy’s knee with it. “OW!”

“This is a textbook, you cur. They use it at Durmstrang and it is far from evil,” Draco flips through the pages idly, scanning them. “Honestly, it is rather old, too. Some of these spells are not even considered part of the dark arts anymore, such as… Aha!” Draco opens the book to a two-page spread and smirks.

“As you are an expert on the Patronus Charm, allow me a moment to introduce you to the Militus Charm.”

Potter hesitates, eying the book like it, or Draco, might bite him, before he shifts and moves over to sit beside Draco, leaning in close to get a good look at the pages.

“Where the Patronus Charm is a defensive spell, the Militus Charm is its offensive variant,” Potter reads aloud from the introduction. “A Patronus is the embodiment of all things good, such as hope, love, and happiness, and is used to shield the castor from all forms of negative darkness. A Militus, once believed to embody all negative feelings in a destructive form, actually embodies the castor’s survival instinct, inner strength, and warrior mind.”

“We can do many dark things when we are struggling to survive,” Draco says with a resigned sigh, “Thus the Militus gained a dreadfully negative reputation.”

“I’m sure being the opposite of the Patronus did it no favors, either,” Potter mumbles, still looking uncertain.

“Quite.”

“And you think this thing could fight off a dragon, do you?”

“Salazar’s wand, no!” Draco turns to look at Potter in disbelief, “Not unless your Militus is a dragon itself, which it probably isn’t! I am suggesting it be used to distract the dragon, give it something else to fight with for a bit. Whatever you need to do, at least you’ll have some time with this.”

“With a Patronus I have to imagine my happiest memory,” Potter says, looking back down at the book, “What of this one? When I felt hatred? Helpless?”

“Powerful,” Draco says, ignoring Potter’s sarcasm. “You must think of a time where you truly felt powerful. Selfish, selfless, mundane, doesn’t much matter. You just had to feel powerful and self-assured in your actions.”

For a moment Potter considers this, maybe weighing his options, maybe imagining such a memory, before he speaks quietly, Draco only able to hear him thanks to their proximity. “What’s the incantation?”

“Expecto Militum,” Draco replies.

“Have… have you ever made one?”

“No. I’m afraid I have attempted very few spells in this book as many truly are the worst of the worst. This one, however, I was unable to come up with a powerful enough memory.”

“I’ll consider it…”

“The task is tomorrow.”

“I will consider it,” Potter’s voice is firmer this time and Draco drops it.

“Another spell that may be of assistance,” Draco flips through the pages again, coming to a stop on a smaller spell that only takes up half a page, “is the Hermes Charm. It creates whirlwinds under the castor’s feet that allow them to glide along the floor.”

“How is that considered a dark art?” Potter leans in close again to get a look at the page, Draco spluttering and leaning away when some of his wild hair gets in his mouth.

“It isn’t,” he says sharply, shoving at Potter. “It was created by a dark wizard, however, so it has a place in this book.”

Potter reads over the description for a moment, mumbling the incantation to himself a few times, then stands up. He makes a sharp motion with his wand, as shown in the book, then points it at his feet and says, “Pediceleri!”

His feet flicker with a light blue light before he’s yelping and looking startled. Draco smirks. “Did they get heavy?”

“Yes! What the hell, Malfoy?!” Potter looks stricken, attempting to lift his leaden feet and nearly faceplanting in the process.

“That’s what happens when you mess it up,” Draco chuckles, removing his own wand and reciting, “Finite Incantatem,” on the other boy’s feet. Potter breathes a sigh of relief and plops back down beside Draco.

“Maybe not that spell, then.”

“You do realize these take more than one attempt to learn?” Draco deadpans, then wrinkles his nose when Potter waves his hand in his face.

“And I’ll figure them out if I think I need them. Are there anymore not-dark-arts in your dark arts book?”

Draco flips through the pages and stops on a page nearly at the end. He smirks at it eagerly. “This one’s one of my favorites,” he says and Potter, yet again, leans in close.

Then he’s reeling back in horror, his green eyes blown wide after he’d read the beginning of the spell’s description. “No! Absolutely not! Are you a nutter or something?!”

Draco has begun to cackle uncontrollably, covering his mouth with a hand as his shoulders shake and he tries to regain himself. “No, no, wait, listen,” he gasps, thoroughly entertained and he can feel Potter staring at him.

The Earworm Jinx was one of the few spells Draco had learned from this book, formerly known as the “Se Occiden Curse,” or the fourth Unforgiveable.

“They,” Draco pauses to giggle, “they found the spell in some old tomes and didn’t know what it did and,” a bit more giggling, “Well, they used it on a mouse. But nothing happened! So, they kept using it over and over and over again until the mouse killed itself. Same thing happened with every mouse they used it on.”

“It’s a Suicide Curse?!” Potter nearly jumps up, looking horrified, but Draco just keeps giggling. It seems to be just enough to keep the boy from storming off and telling a professor that Draco has lost his mind.

“That’s why they thought it was a curse! It was on a path to becoming the fourth Unforgiveable, but then a dark wizard used it on an auror and,” giggle, “it didn’t make them want to kill themselves. It just got a song stuck in their head!”

Draco throws his head back and laughs. Potter’s stunned expression, and the story itself, finally being too much for him. The abraxan has to fly off his shoulder and lands back on his books.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Potter sighs deeply and falls onto his back with a groan.

The jinx was a simple, playful one. The issue was that a single jinx lasted thirty minutes, but if you kept using it, it would continue to add thirty minutes more to the original. Of all the things to drive a bunch of mice to suicide it was music.

“Can you specify which song?” Potter asks once Draco has gathered himself again.

“Obviously,” he says, looking down at the book in his lap. “You’re meant to. If you don’t, like the original casters, it always puts Richard Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” in your head, though.”

“Which one is that?” Potter asks.

Which is a dreadful mistake, really, because Draco is immediately pointing his wand at him and saying, “Canticum Viscosi!” Potter pauses for all of three second before he begins to hum. Then he stops, starts humming again, and then properly realizes the song has been stuck into his head.

“You bastard!” he roars, springing up and brandishing his own wand. Draco throws the jinx at him again, adding on the time, but then Potter is repeating the incantation and suddenly the song “Good Vibrations” by Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch - and by Merlin he feels sick that he actually knows that - is playing in Draco’s head.

The blonde shrieks, springing up, and the two start flinging jinxes and hexes at each other.

By the time they return to the castle, Draco’s study session a lost cause and a motionless abraxan figurine in his pocket, they both are still humming their respective songs, Potter has pimples tipped with wasp stingers, and Draco’s hairs are snakes that won’t stop biting his nose.

They both grin at Madam Pomfrey when they walk into the hospital wing together.

~ ~ ~

“We can safely assume Karkaroff is not the culprit,” Draco announces, entering the infirmary for the champions fresh after Potter’s magnificent flight around his dragon. At least, everyone was saying it was magnificent. Draco hadn’t been paying very close attention, instead getting tons of pictures and attempting to eavesdrop on some of his suspects.

He’d also managed, near the beginning, to hear about Ludo Bagman’s offer to assist Potter on his task, which was decidedly suspicious.

“How do you figure?” Potter questions, nursing a burned shoulder which Draco eyes in confusion.

“When’d that happen?” he asks, pointing at the wound, and Potter looks at him in disbelief.

“At the beginni-- were you not watching?!”

“Not really, no.”

“You are the worst friend!”

Draco feels his breath actually catch and he splutters for a moment, a tight grip around his heart as he says as firmly as he can, “Not your friend. Besides, I thought that one was the worst friend?”

“That one” turns out to be Ron Weasley, who is standing beside Potter, and looking like he might want to throw up. Or punch something, which seems more in character.

“Not anymore, we made up,” Potter says before Weasley can come up with something, “So the title is now bestowed to you.”

“Still not your friend,” Draco snaps, and the tightness squeezes even tighter. What even was that reaction?

He leans towards Weasley, attempting to distract himself, and sniffs around his mouth before leaning away with a nod. “Well, you certainly don’t smell like you’re eating shit anymore, so I suppose you must have finally pulled your head out of your ass.”

“Oi!” Weasley glares at him, but Potter’s hand on his shoulder stops him from lunging at the blonde. Potter’s humorous grin may also help ease some of the tension.

“Why do you not suspect Karkaroff anymore?” Potter asks, effectively moving on.

“His bias in your score,” Draco replies, “He clearly doesn’t want you here and wants his own champion to win. In addition, someone smart enough to pull this off wouldn’t want to appear like they overly like, or overly hate you. A middle ground, maybe with a tiny bit of leaning one way or the other, is significantly more efficient in keeping people off their trail.”

“So… because he hates me he’s no longer a suspect?” Potter questions, not looking like he fully believed Draco.

“Because he so openly hates you, actually. I have no doubts that whoever put your name in the Goblet of Fire despises you and wants you dead.” Or could benefit off Potter’s involvement. Draco thinks of Bagman and his obsession with placing bets. There may be a connection there…

“So you’re…” Weasley stops, reconsidering his wording, looking out of the loop. “Malfoy… you’re helping Harry with all this?”

“I consider it a kindness to my own school, but yes, by extension, I am helping Potter with his annoying little predicament.”

“You are such a prat,” Potter rolls his eyes and Draco, feeling a spike of immaturity, sticks his tongue out at him.

“Blimey…” Weasley looks between the two boys, his eyes wide and his eyebrows so far up they nearly disappear in his fringe. “You told me about his help last year, but to actually see it… I feel like I’ve fallen into the wrong timeline.”

“You can leave any time you like, if you were waiting for an invitation,” Draco says flatly.

To his side Potter says softly enough that Draco doesn’t immediately notice it, “Canticum Viscosi,” and then “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe is playing on loop in Draco’s head.

“Jokes on you,” Draco says once he recognizes the song. How many Muggle songs did he even know now? He’d never even noticed, but Max and Max’s family were always pretty eager to play him songs over their radio, not just the records Eric sent him. “I like this song.”

The three of them are silent for a few moment, Draco keeping a straight face, Potter smirking, and Weasley looking even more lost than before. Then Draco’s taking a deep breath and his head falls, “Nevermind, this is already awful.”

He shoots the Earworm Jinx at both of the boys as he leaves in retaliation, letting them listen to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for a while as he quickly flees.

~ ~ ~

Draco wasn’t very sure what he thought of Rita Skeeter, but he knew she wasn’t a huge concern of his. She wrote blasphemous pieces that any reader with half a brain could tear apart, yet still people salivated over her fictitious drama. Honestly, even Draco found entertainment in her articles, but never because he thought them real.

And now she was lingering around Care of Magical Creatures and it made Draco very curious indeed.

He would be even more curious if he wasn’t dealing with these dreadful Blast-Ended Skrewts!

“If a boggart were thrown at me right now it would probably turn into one of these bloody things,” Weasley says, attempting to help tame these monsters as they made a mockery of Hagrid’s garden.

Why did the oaf - Hagrid - even think these things hibernated? There was no reason to believe that they would. They were land-scorpion-lobster-fuckers. What part of that equation read “hibernate?”

“They’re like acromantulas had a baby with a wasp in the middle of a volcano and covered it with armor,” Potter says, having to maneuver around a stinger that strikes too close for comfort.

“Don’t say that! Why would you say that?!” Weasley yells, clearly disturbed by that mental image.

“Actually, Hagrid said they were a mix between a Fire Crab and a Mantic--”

“We know what they are, Granger,” Draco snaps, his robes getting singed by a blast from a nearby Skrewt, and he’s exceedingly tempted to blast it across the field. How had he even gotten dragged into helping with this? All the other students had hidden away in Hagrid’s hut, but not Draco. Of course, not Draco!

He blamed Potter. Everything was easier when he blamed Potter.

He keeps eying Skeeter, though, throughout the lesson, confused by her clear interest in Hagrid when the young champion Harry Potter is standing right there.

There’s a story there, clearly, and Skeeter is trying to figure it out. Draco hardly cares what that scoop might be, but it’s odd enough to see her he considers keeping a closer eye on her in the future.

Then he has to kick a Skrewt that gets too close, and dives behind Granger when it’s stinger strikes at him.

~ ~ ~

Columba’s wings give a mighty flutter as she takes off from Draco’s arm, a letter for Sirius tied to her leg.

“Is Bagman really a concern of yours?” Granger asks, walking out with him now that he’s done. They had just gotten finished with a very emotional reunion with a particular, rebellious house elf.

Draco hadn’t expected to ever see Dobby ever again, but to find out he was now working at Hogwarts, getting paid and everything, Draco had felt… something come over him. He thinks he may have been happy? Possibly? Maybe even a little excited to see the little elf again.

He didn’t even kick Dobby away when he’d sprung forward to wrap Draco’s shins up in a hug. Granger claims his eyes even got a little wet, but beyond that she refrained from teasing. Even Potter and Weasley hadn’t commented after Granger had gone to fetch them.

Dobby had asked how Tana was doing with their “arrangement” while they had been left alone, and Draco had assured him all was well. He would even tell Tana to come by and visit later, if Dobby wanted, which had Dobby near crying all over again and giving Draco’s legs another hug.

The Golden Trio had appeared shortly after, cutting off their conversation which Draco assumed they would pick up some other day, and Dobby had gleefully greeted Potter.

Then there had been Winky, who had once been Barty Crouch’s house elf but was now here. She was properly distraught by the predicament, despite Granger attempting to teach her about her rights, when she had mentioned how much she hated Ludo Bagman.

It was peculiar and Draco had been hoping to ask more questions for his investigation, but then Granger had managed to upset nearly all of the elves and get them kicked out.

After he’d voiced his obvious frustrations to her she had offered to, at least, accompany him to the owlery and brainstorm on the way.

“He is an unknown,” Draco replies, hands stuffed in his pockets to stave off the cold. He quite liked the cold, but usually because he liked bundling up and getting warm after the fact. “I do not like unknowns. I asked Sirius to do some research into him along with Bertha Jorkins.”

“Why her?” Granger’s brows furrow, clearly unhappy to not be part of the loop, especially if it has something to do with the safety of her friends.

“Whoever did this had to have planned in advance. To do that, they would have needed to know about the Triwizard Tournament returning. Bertha Jorkins was part of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, meaning it would not be out of the question to assume she knew about all this.”

“So she could have been captured for that information,” Granger nods, hand coming up to rub at her chin in thought. “Could it also be possible she’s a dark witch, though?”

“Unlikely, but always possible. I hope Sirius will be able to settle things.”

“And Bagman?”

“He has a gambling problem,” Draco says as they finally enter the castle. “I do not have proof, but after all the bets we’ve, personally, seen him make, would it truly be out of the question?”

“He and the twins made a bet during the World Cup,” Granger snaps her fingers. “I can ask them if they know anything.”

“Send them my way, if you can. I am fully aware how dreadfully uncooperative they can be…”

They enter the library and Draco smirks when he spots a familiar face lurking around their usual table. “Your boyfriend’s here,” he stage whispers as they sit down, Granger startling and looking around. It is Draco, however, who catches Viktor Krum’s eye when he glances over. The blonde immediately grins and waves obnoxiously at him.

“Quit that!” Granger hisses, lurching forward to smack Draco’s hands down, looking back frantically at Krum before shrinking into her own chair.

“Has he asked you to Yule Ball, yet?” Draco questions, pulling out his book. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck.

“That was only just announced. No one has asked anyone,” Granger says sharply, looking grouchy as she pulls out a textbook and begins to proofread an essay for Charms.

“He should hurry up before someone else does,” Draco hums noncommittedly.

“What? Were you hoping to ask me out, Malfoy?” Granger teases, and Draco arches a brow at her.

“You wish you could go to the Ball with all of this.”

“All of what? You’re a glorified stick.”

“Rude,” he holds a hand to his heart in mock hurt, “I will have you know I have great muscle definition.”

“Yes, it is defined as being nonexistent.”

Draco reaches across the table to grip Granger’s shoulder, looking at her meaningfully. “I say this for your own good. You are hanging out with me too much. Your snark levels have reached a point that I do not believe the world is ready for.”

“Quit that,” Granger pushes his hand off her shoulder, but she’s clearly smiling from humor. She attempts to return to her work, but a few minutes in realizes she has more to say. “I never thought you would turn out like this, Malfoy,” she says softly. “You’re still a complete prat, but I’m glad you grew up so much. I actually don’t entirely hate your company, anymore.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Draco says sarcastically, holding his book in front of his face to hide the very real blush that is creeping up his cheeks.

A few more moments pass, and Draco thinks they have fallen back into their regular silence, when Granger continues to find more to say. “It probably would have really made your father mad.”

“What?” Draco looks up, confused.

“Going to the Ball with a ‘mudblood’.”

“Don’t call yourself that…”

“I will not allow anyone to hold any power over me with a single name. I take back the ownership of the word, much as many minorities have done in the past.”

Draco sighs deeply, shaking his head, but says no more. Granger’s other comment has left him thinking.

He hadn’t been thinking very hard who he would take to the dance. Surely a Slytherin, one of his peers, but he’d forgotten that who that would be, and their status, would surely reach his parents at some point. He didn’t think he much cared, but…

This really would be a spectacular opportunity to piss off his father.

“Oh, Krum’s leaving,” he says, spotting the Durmstrang boy retreating from the aisle he’d been in, only to return down another aisle. “Oh, nevermind, he just wanted to get a better angle. Not sure why, though. Every angle all you see is,” he makes a motion at Granger’s hair, “poofy.”

“Canticum Viscosi,” Granger says sharply, flicking out her wand, and suddenly Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 is playing in Draco’s head on loop and he squawks, indignant.

“Potter taught you that!”

They get hushed rather harshly by Pince, and quietly go back to their work, with Draco occasionally humming the classical tune and glaring at Granger.

~ ~ ~

The first time Draco cries over his radio it is over something stupid. He cannot remember what for, he’d been seven at the time, and it wasn’t really what was important. What had been important was Max quietly soothing him, speaking kind words over their connection and urging Draco to take deep breathes.

The second time is over something equally stupid, but Draco remembers he had been being selfish at the time. Still, Max had urged him to calm down before they talked about the incident in full.

He didn’t cry too often over the radio, but after that he still lost count. Sometimes he was handed off to another member of Max’s family who was better suited for the particular problem. Eric was great with things to do with anxiety while Max’s father was just good at making Draco smile again. Max was good at simply calming Draco down enough to talk, but Max’s mother was the true MVP.

She dealt with the serious stuff, allowed Draco to cry without making him feel guilty for it, then helped him work through the problem afterwards. She was so soft and understanding, loving in a way a mother should always be.

Not to say that Draco’s own mother wasn’t loving. She was the most powerful, most amazing woman Draco knew. Sometimes, however, she could be cold, or even be the source of Draco’s distress. Never on purpose, but it happened nonetheless.

Like after she had, for the first time, pushed Draco to consider his future betrothed.

Something within Draco had felt broken and betrayed, but he couldn’t place why, and he had cried to Max’s mother that night for what felt like hours.

“You don’t have to go through with it,” Max’s mother spoke softly, “Your life is yours alone, and your parents will simply have to accept this.”

“What if they don’t? What if they hate me?” he’d wept, only recently coherent. It was the summer before third year, Draco had just become a teenager, and he was being pressured to pick someone, not to love, but to father future children with. He didn’t even know if he ever wanted children. He was still a child himself!

“Then they have failed as parents,” Max’s mother says firmly. She sounds like she wishes she could reach out and hold Draco, and Draco wishes she could, too. “It is a parent’s job to love and nurture. To give their children a better life than they had. Regurgitating the same, inane traditions and requirements they lived by will not bring about growth or satisfaction.”

Draco hiccups, wiping at his face with his sleeve.

“I know we’re far away,” Max’s mother continues, voice softer, “But you know that if you ever need us, we will always welcome you.”

That sets Draco off all anew and Max’s mother doesn’t hush him, just lets him cry. She hums some lullaby she’s used for her own children before and Draco ends up falling asleep in his tub, letting his Muggle family cover him in kindness and warmth from a single, satellite radio.

~ ~ ~

Draco repeats his plan to Max to piss his father off for the Yule Ball and Max, and Eric who had been listening in, are all for it. Eric says it’s “so punk rock of you,” while Max won’t stop laughing at how Draco might pull this off. They also pass on the message from their parents to “make sure to send them pictures. They want to see how handsome you’ve grown.”

With the support of his Muggle family, Draco decides to also bring up the idea while sitting in the Slytherin common room. It has become no secret that Draco is “playing through a rebellious phase with his father,” which, when phrased like that, bothers the pureblooded children a whole lot less.

In fact, it seems to intrigue them more than anything, curious over Draco’s thought process and some of the girls even calling him a “bad boy” while fluttering their lashes.

Draco suspects that once it has set in that this is surely not a phase, he will garner a lot less sympathy.

“I’ll go with you,” Eve says, sitting down beside Draco on the couch. She had grown, slowly but surely, a bit more comfortable around her peers within Slytherin. They still threw nasty comments at her every once and a while, but as she had gotten more proficient at hexes, so too did they become less eager to tease her.

“I thought you already had someone in mind,” Draco says, brows furrowed. “A girl. Which I am not.”

“Could have fooled me,” Theodore comments, lounging sideways in an armchair on the other side of the fireplace. Crabbe and Goyle are hanging around him today, which Draco has noticed them doing more and more of. Thank Merlin for small miracles.

“I am not quite prepared to tell my mother I am a lesbian,” Eve says, ignoring the other boy, focus on Draco. “I would rather tell her in person, anyway. If we send her pictures of you and me she’ll surely be pleased.”

“So, we go together to make YOUR mother happy, and MY father furious?” Draco reiterates.

“Win-win.”

“Sounds perfect,” Draco smirks, reaching out his hand, and Eve shakes it.

“That was the least romantic way to ask someone to a dance I have ever seen,” Millicent Bulstrode groans, rolling her head back. Daphne Greengrass, who has an actual romance novel in her hands, nods in agreement.

“I dunno, I saw Potter try to ask out the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, to the Ball,” Pansy smirks sharply, leaning in and looking vicious now that they’re sharing gossip. “Talk about a train wreck!”

“Did she say yes?” Draco asks a little too quickly, but no one seems to notice.

“Nah. Someone already asked her,” Pansy shrugs.

“Daphne and I saw Ronald Weasley yell at Fleur Delacour to go to the dance with him!” Sophie Roper says with a bright, loud laugh. Her hair, which she can never decide how she wants to style it, is tied into two braids that hang low down her back.

“Salazar, really?!” Pansy looks over, grinning in glee.

“That poor woman,” Eve shakes her head in sympathy. “She said ‘no,’ correct?”

“Obviously,” Daphne huffs, rolling her eyes, but still smiling.

“I still think you’re an idiot, Malfoy,” Blaise Zabini cuts in as the girls giggle. He’s only walking by, but had paused to listen to the proceeds. When Draco gives him a look with a questioning, arched brow he continues. “I’ll admit, your methods at infuriating your father are efficient, but I would never be caught dead going to an event with a…” he pauses, spotting the sharpening warning in Draco’s eyes, “muggleborn.”

“Lucky for me,” Eve says blandly, discreetly removing her wand from her sleeve, “I have no intention of going to any event with a potato like you.” She then, quickly, throws the Earworm Jinx at Blaise, which Draco has realized is becoming something of an epidemic as of late.

Blaise shuts his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath, attempting to center himself. “’Stayin’ Alive’ again, huh? I’m afraid that has little effect on me anymore, I’ve grown quite fond of it thanks to you.”

“Oh, I know what that’s called!” Crabbe perks up, earning everyone’s attention, “Stockholm Syndrome!”

That gets the room laughing and Blaise rolling his eyes before coolly leaving the room.

As everyone calms down, idle gossip picking back up again and Draco and Eve beginning to plan how their evening is going to go, Tracey Davis, who has black hair that falls in a curtain around her face, and reminds Draco of what Max had once described “The Ring” to look like, speaks up from her corner.

“Do you think anyone’s feet have ever fallen off from dancing too hard…?”

Most of the room falls silent to give the incredibly strange girl a look, but by now they have all grown accustomed to her bizarre, often morbid, outbursts. Draco still remembers when she’d approached him, asked if he knew a spell to turn someone’s skin to acid, then just walked away when he’d said no.

“I don’t know, Tracey,” Millicent says slowly and Tracey, blank-faced, nods once then goes back to mending a blanket with mismatching patchwork.

“She frightens me,” Goyle mumbles as everyone slowly goes back to their previous discussions.

“She frightens everyone,” Eve mumbles back, and they all share a mutual shudder before continuing with their conversations.

~ ~ ~

With the Yule Ball coming up Draco’s focus shifts. He still has his ears and eyes open for any suspicious behavior to add to his casefile, but he has been trained since birth to take social gatherings seriously. And this go around he has a personal drive to make sure everything is perfect.

Except everything isn’t exactly sunshine and roses for the Gryffindor trio, which is made abundantly clear when Eve and Draco join Granger in the library.

She’s upset over some truly dreadful things Weasley had spouted, to which Eve immediately jumps to her defense.

“That misogynistic barbarian,” she hisses, eyes narrowed in fury as all three of them pull out To Kill a Mockingbird. They’d been reading it together after they’d realized none of them had ever gotten around to it before. Granger had called them a book club. Draco had called her insane.

“We all knew he was the farthest thing from a gentleman,” Draco sighs, “I was not expecting such shortcomings to rear their ugly heads in such a manner.”

“Well, we are going to positively wow him at the dance,” Eve says with feeling, looking to Granger meaningfully.

“We?” Granger repeats, confused.

“You will be coming down to the dungeons to get ready with me and the girls. You need an appropriate crowd to vent to, and we Slytherins are always eager to gossip.” Granger is opening her mouth to protest, probably to cite rules about inter house boundaries, but Eve hushes her. “I refuse to take no for an answer. You’re coming.”

Draco smirks as he opens up the book in front of him, to the beginning of chapter three, and, with Granger in a supposedly better if flustered mood, they begin talking about what they had read.

~ ~ ~

On Christmas day, the day of the Yule Ball, Draco goes up to the Astronomy Tower to practice on his brand-new violin. A lovely gift from his mother. This one is all black with delicate, green vines decorating the sides, different flowers blooming depending on what kind of music Draco plays.

This would be the second time he would be missing Christmas with his family, but he didn’t feel as downtrodden as he had his second year at Hogwarts. He certainly hadn’t wanted to spend much time in the same manor as Lucius Malfoy, even if Narcissa would have played referee. He already had his summers to not look forward to.

He’d received another package from Max’s family filled with a new pile of Muggle books, a vinyl record for the Ramones album “Acid Eaters,” a device called a Walkman with tons of “cassettes,” and a substantial amount of American candy.

Dobby had even brought him one of the most hideous pairs of brown mittens he’s ever seen, but the house elf had been grinning so wide Draco could only offer a tight smile and nod back.

He’d also received two unknown gifts amongst the many from his mother.

The first was another book, but this one was wizarding in nature. The Pureblood Philosophy: Where it Falls Short and on the interior cover is written, “If you ever need some hard proof to use against your father. -Hermione Granger.”

The other is a box about a third of a meter long made of shiny wood. There is a card on top that Draco reads as he clicks the lock and opens the latch. “Pointy Prick. As Prince Charming you already have your abraxan steed, now all you need is the sword. It’s small, but I figured you wouldn’t be all that good at judging size. Don’t stab anyone who pisses you off. -Boy Wonder.”

Inside the box is a stiletto-style, silver dagger laying on green velvet. It has a black handle and is inlaid with red gems; which Draco thinks Potter did on purpose. He still can’t take his eyes off the beautiful gift, not caring if it was cheap or expensive.

Sitting in the common room with some of the other Slytherins, opening gifts early in the morning, Draco suddenly feels a presence at his shoulder and looks back. He jumps, heart leaping to his throat at the disturbing image of Tracey Davis hovering at his shoulder, a Santa hat on her head not lessoning the fright.

“I like your dagger,” Tracey says, voice faint and distant. “Can I have it?”

“No! Absolutely not!” Draco snaps, shutting the case and moving the blade out of her reach.

“Okay.” Then she walks away, like a ghost, and Draco tries to focus back on his gifts.

He spends most of his day up in the Astronomy Tower, though, talking to Max and practicing on his violin. He is told how to use his Walkman, which seems incredibly interesting, until everyone simultaneously realizes he doesn’t have headphones.

When he returns to his common room, before the rush of students getting ready for the Ball, Eve is waiting for him.

She’s standing alone in the room and smirks upon his arrival. “I do believe it is time I gave you your Christmas present from me,” she purrs, which makes Draco a little nervous. When she raises up magical hair clippers, turning them on with a buzz, Draco gets very nervous.

~ ~ ~

When the whole of Slytherin house is abuzz with life, people rushing here and there to get ready, laughing brightly and teasing and having a good time, Granger arrives. She has to wait at the door for Eve - who is wearing a sleeveless, high collared, form fitting mermaid dress that fades from black to purple, long black gloves, all kinds of silver bracelets and necklaces, silver hoop earrings, and a long, purple fur wrap - to fetch her, but she is let in with no fuss.

The whole of the remaining Slytherins were already told of her arrival, the strictest of prefects they knew how to avoid, and everyone was smart enough not to test both Eve’s and Granger’s wrath.

They enter the girl’s fourth year dorm, despite Eve being a fifth year, and Draco is standing in their bathroom when he hears a chorus of, “Granger’s here!” He pokes his head out to look, curious at the reactions. Millicent is the only one that seems exceptionally unhappy at a muggleborn Gryffindor being let into their room, glowering from a corner. Pansy is sure to be particularly passive aggressive, but is currently behaving herself. Sophie, Daphne, and Tracey, however, are circling Granger and pushing her to a stool.

They begin playing with her hair immediately, Sophie taking over the styling, Daphne helping plot out her accessories, and Tracey helping her apply her make up. Granger is immediately flustered but allows the assistance.

“Did Weasley really say that?” Pansy is asking from her place on her bed and Eve comes over to Draco.

“Has girl talk begun?” Draco questions, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. Eve smirks at him and Granger must hear his voice because she looks over.

“Malfoy? What are you doing h--” Granger cuts herself off with a gasp, finally seeing Draco and openly staring.

“I was kidnapped and attacked with hair clippers,” Draco drawls, running a hand through his hair.

Eve’s gift had been a haircut, one that would surely infuriate his father.

An undercut. If worn with slicked, well-kept hair it could still be seen as proper and pureblood-appropriate, but the purposefully messy style Eve had given him certainly wasn’t. Rather than have his hair be slicked back as he usually did, she’d styled it forward, some strands falling in his eyes and face, without getting in the way of vision. She’s also gotten Sophie to cast a charm on it to keep it in place without gel, allowing it to keep its volume and softness.

“Oh my… That isn’t what I was expecting to see today…” Granger says, mouth hanging open, and Draco scowls self-consciously.

“If you don’t like it, just go on and say it.”

The comment earns a few groans from the girls, which he quickly turns pink over. “No one’s saying that, you big baby,” Pansy says with an unimpressed gaze.

“The shaved part feels nice,” Tracey mumbles.

“When did you feel my hair…?”

“It feels nice,” she repeats, face blank, which is terrifying.

“Moving on,” Eve cuts in, hands on her hips, and gives Draco a stern look. “I’m through with you here. My focus is Hermione now. You go get changed.”

Draco rolls his eyes so hard he feels he could tip over. “Yes ma’am,” he grounds out sarcastically, heading for the exit.

“You should call me that more often!” Eve calls after him, but he ignores her and heads for his own dorm to get ready.

His mother and father had sent him robes for the occasion, the look perfect for a well-behaved pureblood, but he had gone ahead and ordered himself a new set. They were made up of black dress pants, a shiny pair of black oxfords, a black button up with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, a dark purple waistcoat with faint, silvery designs, a white tie, and a long, black coat - which mimicked robes - hanging off shoulders with purple interior.

The design was purposefully Muggle-like, further to infuriate his father, and of course matched Eve’s own color-scheme.

The plan was for them to get a few pictures taken together and would then arrive fashionably late to the festivities. A few dances in Eve would slip away to go and be with her actual date, whom she had only just told him was a Hufflepuff named Leandra.

He’d immediately begun poking fun at her romantic choices because, come on, a Hufflepuff? She had proceeded to hex him into next week and he’d woken up in the hospital wing, regretting his life choices.

“You ready for your mudblood evening, Malfoy?” Theodore teases as Draco is slipping on his rings, the thick silver shining after a good polishing charm.

“Who are you going with, again, Nott? Bulstrode? Hope she doesn’t step on any toes. You may just lose them.”

“Oi!”

“You don’t want me to insult your date, don’t insult mine,” Draco drawls blandly, then turns and walks out the door.

The other girls in his year slowly make their way out, joining their dates, taking some photos, and heading out. Eventually Eve comes out, hips swaying, and attempting to show Granger how to walk like her. It isn’t going well, but it hardly matters. Anyone would be a fool to think Granger was anything but stunning.

Her periwinkle dress and done up hair are beautiful, make-up delicate and elegant, and deep blue jewels are charmed into her curls. She has matching silver jewelry with inlaid sapphires - dangling earrings, a few bracelets, and a ring - that look an awful lot like something out of Daphne’s supplies, and the white, silk shawl around her shoulders also looks familiar, but Draco can’t remember if it was Pansy’s or Eve’s.

“You look acceptable, Granger,” Draco says with a smirk, bowing his head in greeting.

Both girls roll their eyes and Granger says, “High praise coming from you.”

“You’re stunning, dear,” Eve half-whispers to her, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, her dark lipstick thankfully not leaving a mark.

Granger offers to take Draco and Eve’s photos and a few passing Slytherins comment they look like a power couple. Even Granger has to admit they look like they belong in the mafia, which Draco does not fully understand.

Why wouldn’t they aim to look the best they could?

Granger then bids them farewell, thanking the Slytherin girls for their help before hurrying off to meet up with her date, who is probably, most definitely Krum despite her never telling them.

“And now, we wait,” Draco hums, taking a seat with Eve and giving the Yule Ball some time to get started.

~ ~ ~

Draco stashes his camera away in one of his pants pockets, shrunken so as not to ruin the lines of his suit. He hadn’t expected to use it often tonight, especially not with how much dancing he planned to do, but now he was glad he’d brought it.

When he’d arrived at the Yule Ball, Eve on his arm, the two with their head’s high as they enter, they have to fight not to smirk as eyes fall on them.

“People are staring,” Eve hums to him, winking over at some Beauxbaton student when she catches her eye.

“Obviously,” Draco replies, “I’m stunning.” Eve discreetly elbows his side.

He resists the urge to run his hands over the buzzed hair on his head, and instead hides the motion by adjusting the styled, long strands.

They sweep into the dancefloor with ease, dancing and spinning with the crowd, making a point of doing a few unnecessary dips and twirls when they’re sure too many people are watching. May as well give them a show, they figure.

Then they spot Granger dancing with Viktor Krum and immediately smirk at each other. Looks like they had been correct.

They dance over to the pair, greeting them and earning a smile from Granger and a nod from Krum. “Mind if we cut in?” Eve asks and the four of them pause dancing with their partners to temporarily switch up. Except, as Krum is offering his hand to Eve like a proper gentleman, Eve brushes past him and sweeps Granger into a spin, making the girl laugh in surprise.

Krum watches them, startled, then looks at Draco, who shrugs and grabs his still outstretched hand.

The new pairs still dance near each other, but make a full spin around the floor, when Krum spots something over Draco’s shoulder and his thick brows rise. “Your champion just spat out his drink.”

Draco glances back, curious, and spies Harry Potter sitting off to the side from the rest of the party with Weasley and the Patil twins. The twins look miserable, Weasley looks furious, and Potter is… Well, Potter is staring right at them, mouth open, and a goblet in hand. A moment later, when he realizes Draco is looking at him, he hurries to scrub off the punch that is clearly dripping down his chin.

“Well…” Draco says slowly, not sure what that could mean, “Bully for him.”

Eventually he goes back to dancing with Eve and Krum gets his date returned. Everyone seems in higher spirits and Eve pecks his cheek when she finally spots her real date.

Leandra Cass is a short, plump Hufflepuff girl with dark skin, straight, black hair, and a cute green dress with pink flowers adorning the base. When Eve makes her way over and Leandra sees her, the Hufflepuff beams, looking positively cherubic, and Draco can tell Eve melts a little, even from this angle.

Draco, not one to be left out of the fun, proceeds to dance with as many people that will have him. Mostly it’s the Slytherin girls that accept, twirling around with the resident “bad boy” for a bit of fun, but he also gets the opportunity to dance with Granger when Krum goes to fetch them drinks

“Breaking hearts, Malfoy?” Granger asks conversationally, surely meaning all the dancing he has done tonight.

“You are insinuating that Slytherins have hearts, you realize,” Draco drawls with a roll of his eyes.

“They’re not all bad,” Granger says with a disapproving frown. “I quite like Eve, and Sophie, Daphne, and Tracey were sweet. There’s also this pureblooded boy. Blonde, tall, particularly pointy for a human being. He’s okay, I suppose.”

“Sounds like a wanker.”

The two snicker and Draco has a moment, just a moment, where he is looking down at himself dancing with a Gryffindor muggleborn and wondering how he had gotten here. They’d, once upon a time, despised each other, but ever since third year… something had shifted, and Draco was pretty sure it had been within him.

“By the way, Malfoy…” Granger pauses, making sure none of the other dancers are paying very close attention to them. “I spotted the twins earlier. They had Bagman pinned and were talking to him rather urgently.”

“They never did tell us what had gone down with him,” Draco observes, glancing around and wondering what that could mean. “The illustrious Barty Crouch is also missing,” he notices with an arched brow, quickly spotting the absence.

“Apparently he’s ill. Percy is filling in for him,” Granger explains. It was an acceptable explanation, but with everything piling on top of each other Draco still felt suspicious. Not long after that he lets Granger head over to her date, who smiles as she approaches and hands her a goblet of punch.

Draco slips out of the Hall, needing a breather. Despite how much fun he is having he can feel his energy plummeting, so he goes in search of a quiet place to sit. He avoids what appears to be a confrontation in the making between Snape and Karkaroff, and instead slips into a quiet corridor. When he hears voices, he moves to check who it might be and whether he should leave or not. He’s all for snooping on a regular day, but he’s tired.

It is Hagrid and Madam Maxime, having what appears to be a very personal conversation. Draco lingers, curiosity overriding exhaustion, and hears snippets about giantess mothers and growing up with a human father. It isn’t overly surprising to Draco, but it is interesting to know the details.

Then he sees, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar mop of messy, raven hair and a tall ginger lingering across the way. Draco arches his brow at Potter and Weasley’s snooping, smirking and figuring he’ll be able to use this against them. After all, Draco is the resident sneak, not them.

Then he hears the sound of a bug. Heavy, buzzing wings. Draco peaks around the corner and spies what looks like… a beetle? On a windowsill? That can’t be right. He’s never seen an insect quite like that native to this area, and Draco has been taking all kinds of pictures around the grounds for years now. In addition, it is the middle of winter, snow is on the ground, a beetle shouldn’t be crawling around at this time.

Being as quiet and sneaky as possible Draco inches around the wall when the bug moves away. It has gone down an empty corridor and Draco swiftly follows it, camera in hand.

The pictures he ends up taking are positively scandalous as he watches the insect morph and change into a familiar, tacky shape.

“Rita Skeeter,” he says brightly, startling the woman as he continues to snap photos. Her eyes are saucers behind her bejeweled glasses, a hand flying to her wand as she realizes she has just been caught.

“Such a picturesque woman,” Draco continues, a mocking tone to his voice and a smirk on his lips. His eyes, however, are sharp and dangerous. “I especially loved that unregistered Animagus look. Quite scandalous. Would hate for anyone to see that at the Daily Prophet!”

“Now… now listen here, little boy, I don’t think you understand,” Skeeter splutters, her usually well put together persona falling in way of a scandal being thrown at her. “This… this is just a big misunderstanding! Put down that camera and let’s talk.”

“Oh, we’ll talk alright,” Draco purrs, snapping another photo, and he doesn’t think he’s seen someone so horrified since Pettigrew. The bug and the rat. How appropriate. “You’ve been using this cute, little form to get yourself some worthwhile scoops, am I wrong?”

“That’s… I am hardly telling people lies,” Skeeter says sharply, shaking her head and a few strands of hair falling loose. She looks positively mental.

“No, you are simply using underhanded methods to retrieve them, which…” he holds up a hand to stop her from saying anything, “I can respect.”

Skeeter straightens up, gaze suspicious and daring to be hopeful. “Oh? Were you hoping for a little position on my team, little boy?”

“My name is Draco Malfoy, and no, I have no interest in your petty, dramatic garbage. Print what you will about Hagrid and his giant heritage, I could not care less about that,” he waves his hand dismissively and Skeeter sets a hand on her hip, eying him.

“A Malfoy? Right… Then what are you interested in? You certainly have me cornered…”

“I do, don’t I?” Draco smirks, ruffling up his hair with his fingers before continuing. “I require your cooperation in a little investigation I’m doing. You would be perfect in finding out juicy information. I may even let you print some of it if it is substantial enough.”

“I’m playing errand girl for a child, now?” Skeeter sneers.

“As I said, once we have sufficient information, print whatever you please. In addition… any further stories you may have, every possible article you want to print, you will run it by me first.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“You either cooperate with me, or the whole world finds out the truth about you,” Draco says, tapping a finger on his camera, “You lose your job, your credibility, your life. You may even get a nice little trip to Azkaban if I word my claim just right.”

Skeeter glares at him, eyes sharp as daggers as she weighs her options. Draco allows her, waiting patiently for her to decide. No matter what, she would have to listen to Draco. Even if she managed to get to his camera or any photos he got developed, his word was still a lot more powerful than hers. Despite not being on great terms with his father, Draco was still a Malfoy, and that had its perks.

“Very well, Draco,” Skeeter says, voice tight and face drawn. She was livid, the anger dripping off her body. “It would appear I have no choice. I will help with your… schoolyard games.”

“Oh, come now, Skeeter. It could have been so, so much worse,” Draco smiles charmingly and Skeeter manages to glare even harder.

They shake hands and the reporter’s sharp nails dig painfully into Draco’s hand, but he just keeps smirking at her.

~ ~ ~

“You’re such a dancefloor ho!” Max laughs over the radio later in the night. Draco, after his run in with Skeeter, had truly felt his energy plummet and he had finally retreated to the Slytherin dorms.

His stay didn’t last long, however, and he’d ended up at the top of the Astronomy Tower, radio in hand, wanting to talk to Max about the evening. He hadn’t even changed out of his suit, yet.

“I enjoy dancing,” Draco defends, frowning at the radio.

“I know, I know, it’s just funny,” Max says, sounding cheerful. It was just midnight at Hogwarts, which meant it should be about six where Max lived. They were probably far from being tired after their Christmas festivities. “You’re just so posh! Did you dance with every girl? What about the guys?”

“Mostly just the women from my own house,” Draco admits, leaning against the railing of the tower and looking out. The Yule Ball would be wrapping up right about now, but he could still hear the distant sound of music. Namely just the baseline, but it was still a steady heartbeat through the castle. “Although Granger and Viktor Krum were fine to dance, too.”

“And you’ll send pictures of you and Eve, right? Mama’s been asking about those.”

“We only just took them tonight. Tell her to be patient.”

“You tell her!”

“Absolutely not!” Like he would ever order a mother around. He wasn’t suicidal, thank you. Max, however, was reckless enough Draco figured they’d do it.

“Malfoy?”

Draco’s breath catches, his whole body stiffening and his grip on the radio tightening into a death grip. That hadn’t been Max. That had been a voice from behind him, in a very familiar voice nonetheless.

His insides frozen in terror Draco quickly turns off the radio and tucks it away, spinning around sharply and glaring at Potter. He isn’t wearing his dress robes anymore, in fact he looks like he’d been about to go to bed, but here he is, in the Astronomy Tower.

“Sneaking up on people again, I see,” Draco sneers, his terror and shock morphing into anger as he tries to cover up his blunder.

No one can know. No one can know. No one can know.

It kept repeating, over and over and over in his head. He wasn’t going to lose one of the few things that anchored him in this world. Certainly not because of Potter.

“What are you doing up here?” the other boy asks. He sounds confused, not confrontational, which at least has Draco’s hackles lowering a tiny bit. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could just agitate Potter enough to leave.

“How did you find me?” he bites back and Potter makes a face, nose wrinkling in displeasure.

“You left the dance a while ago,” the bespectacled boy begins, but Draco cuts him off.

“You’re paying attention to me, are you? How sweet,” except his tone is anything but sweet, and Potter scowls a little deeper, looking away. Draco glares at him, waiting for him to say something else foolish or to leave, but for a while Potter remains silent, looking anywhere but at Draco.

“I like your haircut,” Potter finally mumbles, voice nearly a whisper.

“And I think--” Draco’s brain processes exactly what Potter just said, his face falling slack and his eyes widening. “What…?”

He stares at Potter, slack jawed, and he must look like a right fool. He certainly feels like one, left speechless by a… what even was that? A passing compliment, really. It hardly meant anything. He and Potter weren’t on the worst of terms anymore, they could compliment each other. It was allowed.

So why did Draco’s heart feel like it was going to beat right out of his chest all of a sudden?

“Your… your hair…” Potter’s voice gets even quieter until the last bit he says is undiscernible and Draco takes a tentative step forward, leaning closer, like he just can’t help himself.

“What was that…?” he questions and Potter looks from one side of the tower to the other, still not meeting his eyes.

“Your hair… is… nice,” he finally manages to mumble loud enough to be heard. Draco swallows, standing up straight, and self-consciously runs a hand over the buzzed hair.

“It feels more…” Draco pauses to think of the word, “freeing.”

“It works,” Potter says too quickly, looking up at Draco, then ducks his head in embarrassment. “I mean… you make it work-- no. It works for you-- wait… uh… it…”

“Please stop. This is painful to watch,” Draco groans, cringing at the boy, who sags.

“Yeah, I… yeah…”

They fall into awkward silence, previous animosity dwindling. Draco still was anxious as to why Potter had come up here, or how he’d known to do so, but the other boy’s actions were… well, it still made Draco anxious, but now for an unknown reason.

“I did not see you dance the entire evening I was there,” Draco eventually says, despising the silence the longer it drags along. The comment appears to make Potter flinch and curl more and more into himself. Had he just come up here to get beat down on? Because that seemed to be the only thing that was happening.

“Yeah, didn’t… didn’t have the heart, I guess.”

“Didn’t have Chang, you mean,” Draco drawls, because he can’t help himself, and smirks when Potter looks up at him sharply. The other boy opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish out of water, but then decides whatever he wants to say isn’t worth it.

“You danced with anyone who would let you,” Potter grumbles, looking away and frowning.

“I enjoy dancing,” Draco shrugs. He’d just said the same to Max but under a significantly different tone. He watches Potter, not looking at him, progressively attempting to merge into the floor, and act so very un-Potter-like. Once upon a time Draco would have adored this, and under more pleasant circumstances or subject matter he probably still would.

Now, though, Draco feels uncomfortable and unhappy. Potter is clearly upset about something, and Draco can’t figure out what. Maybe it’s not even something specific, maybe it’s just the evening as a whole, or the year as a whole, finally catching up to him. Usually, though, when Potter comes to Draco in assistance with dealing with these moods, they do so in complete silence. Sit, read, study, just be in each other’s presence. They don’t usually get this deep.

An idea, a crazy idea, plants itself into Draco’s head and he firmly blames the conversation and his extended exposure to a bunch of goody-goody lions.

“By Salazar, I’m turning into a Gryffindor,” he growls, massaging his temple. Potter looks to him, confused and about to ask for clarification, but Draco is already moving forward and grabbing his hand. He pulls the other boy into his space and sets his free hand on the curve of Potter’s waist.

Potter splutters, unable to create a proper sentence as he’s dragged to the middle of the open space atop the tower. “What the hell, Malfoy?!” he finally manages to yelp, but his voice doesn’t carry much heat. Draco has already begun to sway them in a lazy two-step.

“Well, clearly you had been waiting for a chance to dance with me all through the Ball. Staring on in jealousy as I swept every young lady along the dancefloor, waiting and pouting, and then I just left you sitting there,” Draco says dramatically, throwing his head back and putting on quite the show. “What kind of Prince Charming am I? For shame!”

Potter is staring at him with eyes as big as an owl’s, his mouth working but no sounds coming out, trying to process just how insane Draco has gone. Honestly, if he comes up with an answer, Draco would love to hear it, because he has no idea what has finally come over him, either.

A long night of youthful rebellion, maybe? A year full of investigating and studying finally coming to a head? Didn’t matter, he was here now, wasn’t he? And he had no intention of backing down before Potter.

And then Potter is smiling helplessly and ducking his head, shoulders shaking with small hiccups of laughter, and Draco’s heart jumps again, a few heartstrings getting yanked in every direction, and Draco wonders if this is what Eve felt like when Leandra smiled at her.

He banishes that thought as quickly as it comes.

“You really have been an awful Prince Charming. Don’t get lazy just because you have a sword, now,” Potter says with a smirk, teasing Draco, which feels like familiar territory at least.

“You call that a sword? Preposterous! I demand a proper blade to match my abilities.”

“I could always get you the sword of Gryffindor,” Potter says conversationally.

“The knife is fine…”

Potter laughs so hard he ends up pressing his forehead to Draco’s shoulder, their rhythm getting thrown off momentarily but Draco, who can’t stop snickering himself, gets them back on track.

And then they don’t really pull away. They stop laughing but keep swaying to the distant beat of the Yule Ball, Potter’s face hidden in Draco’s shoulder, and Draco staring off into the middle distance. It strangely doesn’t feel awkward anymore, instead that familiar, comfortable silence washing over them.

Potter smells like cheap cologne, which he probably got for the dance, sweat, and a back drop of chocolate. Probably all the chocolate he’s stolen from Draco, actually…

Draco doesn’t know how long they sway, but eventually even the noises from the Yule Ball end, every student off to bed. Except for them.

“How did you find me, Potter?” Draco questions, voice low, honestly curious and unable to dredge up the accusatory tone he’d managed before.

Potter tightens up, hands squeezing Draco’s hand and shoulder, his head pressing into Draco’s shoulder a tiny bit more forcefully before he loosens with a deep sigh. “I’ll tell you…” he begins after a few beats, “If you tell me why you were up here.”

Air catches in Draco’s throat and he stops, their dance over, but still clinging to each other, like somehow if they look at each other that will ruin everything.

He can’t lose his radio. He can’t lose the single connection he has to Max and Max’s family. They’ve helped him through some of the worst times of his life. Take his camera, take his records, take his books, pictures, candy, and “cassettes.” But don’t take his radio.

Potter hasn’t moved, but one of his hands shifts and cups the side of Draco’s neck. “You’re not breathing,” is all he says and Draco gasps in a deep breath. He was spiraling. Why was he spiraling? Potter… Potter wouldn’t do anything to truly hurt him. Tease, yes. Jinx and hex, yes. Humiliate, on occasion, yes. But not hurt…

“Okay…” Draco says quietly, nodding and Potter’s messy hair - he couldn’t even tame it for the evening? - tickles his cheek. “Let’s talk.”

~ ~ ~

Halfway through his Hogsmeade trip, Draco joins Potter, Granger, Weasley, and Sirius at a table in the Three Broomsticks. He actually comes in with Sophie and Daphne, who take a moment to greet Granger and demand she let them play with her hair again in the future, but then they are off to procure themselves drinks and food.

Potter and Sirius are sitting beside each other with Granger and Weasley across from them, so Draco pulls up a chair at the far end between Sirius and Weasley.

“Good to see you, Draco,” Sirius says with a grin, reaching out and squeezing the blonde’s shoulder, “And I love the hair! Harry mentioned it and I didn’t believe him.”

“The best part is how furious father is,” Draco smirks, handing over the letter from his father to Sirius. He was near ready to frame the thing, the whole Slytherin house getting a play-by-play rereading from the equally dramatic but infinitely more theatrical Theodore Nott.

Now Sirius reads it, Potter peaking over his shoulder to get a look, and begins laughing. The letter gets passed around the table, Weasley near falling out of his chair in mirth. Any kind of distress to a Malfoy was good enough for a Weasley.

“I also come baring information,” Draco says, leaning against the table towards them. He glances over when he hears faint popping and sees a bag of PopRocks in Weasley’s hand. “Where did you get those?”

Weasley motions to Draco’s satchel sitting on the floor. “I know where you hide them.”

Draco slowly begins to raise his wand only for Sirius to slowly lower it with his hand. “What’s the information?” Granger asks, unashamedly accepting a bit of the candy from Weasley like he didn’t just steal it from Draco.

The blonde glowers at them, then decides to focus on Sirius and Potter, who might be grinning at him but at least aren’t thieves. “Ludo Bagman is off the table. He’s been cleared of suspicions.”

“What, really?” Potter yelps, surprised, his grin dropping. “I just saw him, though! Surrounded by a bunch of angry-looking goblins!”

“I was also there,” Draco nods. He wasn’t surprised Potter hadn’t seen him, he’d been distracted by Bagman when he had quickly approached him, fleeing the goblin mob. Draco, instead, had approached the goblins.

He’d offered them a good amount of coin for information on Bagman and why they were so mad with him. He even offered to help find discriminatory information on the man if he needed to.

Eventually, with all his persuasive skills being put to the test, the goblins had spilled. Bagman was deeply, deeply, deeply in debt to the goblins. So deep Draco was amazed he could still see the light of day. His extended betting problem also caused further issues, since he could never pay them off, which explained the twins’ predicament.

With a bit more questioning, and deductive reasoning, Draco discovered Bagman had bet on Potter and was now attempting to help him so he could win some money. He had no reason to place Potter’s name in the Goblet, then, since the bet had been placed after the fact.

No, if Potter’s name hadn’t emerged, Bagman would have likely just done the exact same thing to someone else, probably Krum, thus leaving him with no apparent cause to put Potter’s name in the Goblet.

Potter, after all, was an underdog and not a very smart move to bet on, logically speaking.

He retells this to the four at the table, leaving out the Weasley twins’ involvement. He figured their business was theirs, and if Draco could ever use it against them, it was best to keep to himself.

“I think we should put a bit more stock into Barty Crouch, however,” Draco admits once he’s told his story. “At least a bit more research.”

“I can offer some,” Sirius says, the hollowness that always was hidden deep in his eyes sweeping into every feature of his face. It makes the teens stiffen, surprised, and watch him anxiously.

He tells them that Barty Crouch once had a son. Barty Crouch Jr was a Death Eater and he had been sentenced to Azkaban by his very father. Sirius had been there, listened to the boy as he cried out for his mother, until his pleas, like everyone’s, faded away with every visit from the dementors.

A year later he died, suspected of a broken heart, to which it took every fiber of Draco’s being not to scoff. A broken heart wasn’t a cause of death, but rumors weren’t meant to be very accurate.

“That’s shite,” Weasley says when the table falls silent, Sirius taking long, measured breaths to put himself back together again.

“It sounds unethical,” Granger muses, fingers fidgeting on the edge of the table. “Prisoners or not, no one should be treated the way they are at Azkaban.”

“If anyone can change it, it’s your generation,” Sirius says, voice meaningful as he looks to the bushy-haired girl.

Draco would stay longer, catch up with Sirius and make sure everything is okay, but he sees the distinct visage of Rita Skeeter in the window, making her way to the door. Her presence is sure to insight a fight with the Gryffindors, especially after her piece on Hagrid’s heritage, and Draco isn’t in the mood for that right now.

In addition, he has her first assignment.

“I have to make my exit, I’m afraid,” he says as he stands, “Urgent business. You know how it is. And if you need me…” Draco pauses, thinks, then gives them a bland look, “Don’t need me. I am already doing far too much for you.”

“Worst friend!” Potter calls as Draco slips away.

“Not your friend!” Draco calls back and he slips out the door.

He nearly runs right into Skeeter, whose expression immediately darkens at the sight of him. “Hello, little Draco,” she says, patronizing, and Draco gives her a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She, mockingly, mimics it.

Ah, what a pair they make.

“I have a possible lead for you,” he begins and her curiosity clearly spikes. “Bagman is in serious debt to a bunch of goblins and has been gambling profusely with anyone who will listen. If you talk to the Weasley twins, they may be able to cut you a good deal with insider information.”

She may as well be salivating at the prospect of a brand-new scandal, but then her eyes sharpen and she looks to Draco suspiciously. “What’s the catch, kid?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” Draco shrugs, “As I said before. You will reap the benefits working for me. I do, however, require you to begin looking into Barty Crouch and where he might be. My beetle on the wall.”

“You only want me for my body,” Skeeter sighs over-dramatically, looking skyward as if to ask a higher power for strength.

“This may just be me, but that does not sound like something you want to say to a fourteen-year-old.”

“You’d do well as an Animagus. Someone like you would probably be something small and cowardly. Plus, you wouldn’t have to depend on me.”

“Stay on task, Skeeter.”

Skeeter rolls her eyes and sets a hand on her hip. “Oh, you’ll live, little Draco. Tell me, though… Why Mr. Crouch? What shall I be looking for?” She’s leaning in, probably trying to appear appealing, but Draco gives her a blank look.

“His whereabouts. Anything suspicious. Anything of note. I know he had a son he sent to Azkaban and died a year later, so don’t bore me with that.”

Skeeter scowls, looking particularly unflattering, and straightens. “So you don’t want to know why Barty Crouch Jr. was sentenced to life behind bars? Very well. I’ll see what I can find,” Skeeter moves to go past Draco, but he holds up a hand to stop her. When he sees she’s smirking, he scowls.

“I assume he was sent to Azkaban for being a Death Eater,” Draco says carefully, watching as Skeeter positively preens at knowing something he doesn’t.

“I’m actually quite surprised you don’t know more, little Draco. Why, he did it with your own extended family, the Lestrange’s” Skeeter purrs.

“And by ‘it,’ what are you referring to?” Draco demands, ignoring the sickening lurch in his stomach when he hears that family name. His aunt Bellatrix, his mother’s sister.

“Well, sweetie, I am referring to the torture, and following insanity, of Alice and Frank Longbottom.”

~ ~ ~

“I’m telling you, Draco, having a plant class isn’t considered normal,” Max says, like they are trying to break bad news to someone.

“Botany,” his Muggle term for Herbology, “is entirely normal and I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Draco snaps back over the radio. He weaves through the plants in Greenhouse 3, watering some that he had been working with since the first class of the year. He checked that all his were growing well and that he was sure to get a good grade later.

“Maybe, MAYBE, in college, but not wherever you are,” Max retorts with feeling.

“I am not having this conversation with you again,” Draco grumbles, having to hold the radio under his chin as he lifts up a bag of fertilizer.

“Your classes are so weird though! I mean, come on, you have a veterinarian class,” Care for Magical Beasts, “for shit’s sake! Like, obviously math,” Arithmancy, “science,” Potions, “literature,” Charms, “and history,” History of Magic, “you gotta have, but why do they even OFFER botany?”

“Perhaps you are jealous,” Draco rolls his eyes.

“You have a self-defense class,” Defense Against the Dark Arts, “YEAH, I wanna go there! Let them teach me how to break a dude’s neck with my BARE HANDS.”

Draco opens his mouth to answer that with some exaggerated version of “shut up,” but at that moment the handle to the Greenhouse on the far side of the room jiggles. “Max, someone is coming.”

“Okay! Talk to you later, Draco!” Max says brightly.

Draco shuts off the radio, shrinks it, then slips it into his robe’s inner pocket, swiftly returning to his work.

Neville Longbottom enters a few seconds later, a thick book open in his hands, and Draco’s back stiffens at the sight of him. He has never, nor will he ever, be frightened of the cowardly lion, but knowing that it had been Draco’s own extended family that had left the boy’s parents in the Janus Thickey Ward… well, that was something tough for anyone with half a heart to swallow.

But Longbottom doesn’t even spot Draco, his eyes swiftly flicking over the book in his hands like it holds the answers to the universe. Draco tilts his head, curious, and some deep-seated instinct to pick fun at Longbottom at every turn takes over.

“What’cha got there, Longbottom?”

The boy yelps, startling, and trips over a pile of fertilizer bags. He takes a painful-sounding tumble and Draco peaks down at him. He makes his way over, crouching down and picking up the discarded book, dusting it off and reading the front while Longbottom groans on the floor.

Magical Mediterranean Water Plants and Their Properties. Figures it would be plant related. Draco opens it, flipping through it and taking stock of some of the more exotic examples within.

“Malfoy,” Longbottom finally manages, standing up and dusting fertilizer and dirt off his robes. He also has some specks in his blonde hair, Draco notices. Draco also notices that the boy has begun to grow quite tall, like he’d been strung out like taffy. “Uh… can… can I have my book back?”

“You continue to be truly hopeless, Longbottom,” Draco says with a bored look, giving the book a once over, before shrugging and holding it out. The other boy, very hesitantly, begins to reach out, but then Draco pulls it back like he’s changed his mind and Longbottom makes a strangled noise. “This is an advanced subject,” he says, “Sixth year at least. Did Pomfrey really give you this?”

“Professor M-Moody did,” Longbottom says, which makes Draco rather confused. Why would Moody be handing out Herbology books? Yes, everyone knew that Longbottom adored the subject, but why Moody of all people? He had no reason to be nice to Longbottom. It wasn’t like he was doing well in his class.

Oh… His class.

Draco eyes Longbottom carefully, recalling the very first class with Moody. He’d taught every house the Unforgiveable Curses, everyone knew that. Perhaps he’d thoroughly upset Longbottom and had felt bad? Then again, Moody didn’t seem the type to “feel bad” about anything.

“Rather intense man, wouldn’t you agree?” Draco says conversationally, opening up the book to look through it again.

“Yes, I suppose so…” Longbottom’s brow furrows, clearly confused and nervous that Draco is just having a conversation with him. “Please, Malfoy. Give it back…”

“I don’t much care for him, really,” Draco shrugs, “Not after that class on Unforgiveables.” Longbottom has stiffened now, his eyes wide and all color vanishing from his face. Draco presses on. “Certainly, I already knew all of them, but it hardly matters. They always left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“But you’re a Slytherin,” Longbottom blurts, then clamps his mouth shut as he realizes what he’s said. He looks terrified, eyes darting down to where Draco hides his wand, but Draco makes no move for it.

Instead he simply takes in a deep breath and releases it, letting the silence grow uncomfortable until he steps forward. He pushes the book roughly into Longbottom’s chest, making him scramble to get ahold of it, and says, tone disturbingly light, “As was Merlin.” He then pushes forward and slips out of the Greenhouse, his foul mood quickly diverting everyone away.

~ ~ ~

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Potter says, pressing his wand to what looks like just a blank pile of papers. He and Draco sit beside each other, leaning against the wall, Draco still in his Yule Ball attire while Potter looks ready for bed.

Remarkably words begin to appear on the paper, spreading like ink in water but taking clear forms.

“This is the Marauders Map,” Potter explains, his voice quiet as he passes it into Draco’s hands. “It shows where everyone is at all times within Hogwarts.”

Draco glances at Potter then flicks through the layers of folded paper. He finds the top of the Astronomy Tower and, sure enough, two sets of footprints are there with the names “Harry Potter” and “Draco Malfoy” just above them.

“And this is how you knew where I was…”

Potter gives a helpless shrug, eyes on the map, and explains, “Sometimes I like to just skim over it. Tonight was just… stressful, so I thought it’d calm me down.”

“And you saw me, up here, alone, and you thought… what? I was up to no good?” Draco arches a brow. The tone isn’t meant to get a rise, not this time.

“It just seemed strange, that’s all,” Potter shrugs again.

Draco takes a few more moments to look over the map, reading the front where it states the creators as “Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs” and he knows, from the year prior, that those are Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black, and James Potter. The Marauders.

“I suppose it is my turn to share…” Draco sighs, having put off his reveal as long as possible, hyperaware of Potter’s gaze snapping to his face. With a shaking hand he reaches to take out his radio, unshrinking it like an afterthought, and shows it to Potter.

The other boy stares at it with open curiosity, his eyes wide as he looks at the device. “A radio?” he questions, just to make sure, and Draco nods. “I suppose I should have guessed it was Muggle-related.”

Draco snorts and pulls the radio towards him to look at it, not wanting to look at Potter as he speaks. “When I was six I wandered away from my parents and ended up at a museum in Muggle London. I… I met a family there. A Muggle family. Their youngest, Max, is our age and we…”

He takes a deep breath and reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, catching Potter’s eyes following the motion. “I don’t know if we became friends immediately, but they gave me this radio to stay in contact and… I never stopped.”

“You have a Muggle friend?” Potter repeats, looking like he doesn’t believe him, so Draco sighs and turns on the radio.

“Max, have you ever heard of ‘Quidditch’ before?” he says into the radio, then waits.

“Dude, where’d you go?! You just vanished and… the hell’s a ‘Quid-ish?’ Is this an English thing?” Max’s voice comes over immediately.

“No, I am attempting to remember a band name, but I think I got it wrong,” Draco replies, looking over to Potter who is staring at the radio in shock.

“Yeah, no kidding. Quid-ish? That’s the dumbest name ever!”

Draco gives the radio a short glare, then turns and watches the emotions flit over Potter’s face, clearly baffled that this is what Draco has been doing for about eight years. More than half of his life. “Hey, peasant--”

“Man, why you gotta call me that?” Max whines.

“--I want to introduce you to someone.”

Potter’s head snaps up to look at him, panicked, and begins shaking his head frantically, both hands coming up to wave him off. “Whoa, wait, seriously?! I get to meet a friend of yours? Holy shit, mark the date!! Wait, no, it’s Christmas. Best Christmas gift EVER!!”

“Max,” Draco says, grabbing Potter’s arm when he attempts to stand and flee, “this is Harry Potter.” He then shoves the radio into the other boy’s hands, smirking at his clearly shell-shocked expression.

“Uhh… Hello,” Potter says, looking over at Draco like he’s ready to kill him at any second.

“Whoa… whoa, whoa, whoa… You’re THE Harry Potter?” Max begins, which garners a confused and even more panicked expression from Potter, because a Muggle isn’t supposed to know who he is. “The child actor?”

The smile drops from Draco’s face as he realizes exactly what he has just invited upon himself. Potter is looking at him very strangely. “Uhh…” but the bespectacled boy can’t get anything out, because Max is trucking on ahead.

“My dude, Draco will not shut up about you! I feel like I already know you!”

“I believe that’s enough talking,” Draco tries to cut in, reaching for the radio, but Potter is leaning away and shielding it with his body, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“He does, does he?” Potter says, looking far too pleased by this, and Draco makes another grab. “Please, tell me more.”

After a truly impressive struggle on their end, Draco winds up having to accept his fate as Max recounts some of his more expressive stories about Potter. Clearly plenty of terms have been Muggle-fied, but Potter seems to catch on quick enough, and grins brightly at the radio in his hands, occasionally encouraging Max on.

Draco ends up sitting beside Potter once more, attempting not to pout, but judging by the stray comment, “Where is Sir Poshington? Is he pouting?” from Max followed by Potter’s laughing affirmative, he’s not doing a spectacular job.

At least he has the Marauders Map to skim over, finding it amazing how it keeps track of everyone real time.

Some people are still down at the Great Hall, he notes. Mostly teachers, but a few stragglers too. Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, Barty Crouch, Percy Weasley.

Wait, what?

Barty Crouch? That wasn’t possible. That couldn’t be possible. Barty Crouch was meant to be so ill he couldn’t show up. That’s why Percy Weasley had shown up in his place. Granger had said so, and Granger made it an obnoxious point to always be right.

But there he was, right in the Great Hall, walking around like he was meant to be there.

With a sideways glance at Potter, the blonde turns the page and looks elsewhere. It would do him no good to get the Boy-Who-Lived all riled up over possibly nothing. Draco was the one doing the investigating here, and he would handle it.

Chapter Text

When Draco first has an opportunity to try his brand new, “sat-e-lite” radio he’s absolutely certain it won’t work. It’s Muggle after all, and everyone knows Muggle technology goes haywire within a magical environment.

Sure, Draco didn’t know what “battery-“ or “solar- powered” meant, but he was certain it all was related to “e-lek-try-city,” so what was the point? Malfoy Manor was filled with old and new magic alike, the radio didn’t stand a chance.

Except, Draco really, really wanted it to work. He wasn’t sure why. He was six and excitable and the world was vast and mysterious and he just really, really wanted it to work, even though he knew it wouldn’t.

He tries to figure out the best way to test it.

Max had said open air was the best way to work the radio, made it easier for the signal to travel up into space - and wasn’t that a wild thought? An invisible signal travelling into space - then back down to Max’s own twin device. Draco wouldn’t dare attempt to work the radio on the grounds, it was too risky with his parents, but maybe he could open a window?

The one in his room was old and the frame screeched at him when he moved it, so he decided against that one, but there was a window in his en suite that just had a latch and he could push it open with no issue.

In addition, he could lock the bathroom door without suspicion.

So, he does just that, locking the door, and goes to the window. He has to climb into the tub to reach it, then sits on the rim of porcelain and cradles the radio in both hands.

“Hello?” he says into the device, but realizes a moment later none of the lights are on and no crackling noise is coming through like it had before. Right, he needed to turn it on… Wasn’t there a switch for that? Where was-- He smiles triumphantly as he finds the switch and flicks it.

The crackling startles him. It’s louder than usual and he scrambles to figure out how the volume works, except it’s not the volume that’s the issue. The noises coming through sound dreadful, like metal screeching as the static goes crazy, cutting in and out and jumping in pitch and frequency.

Draco panics, desperately trying to figure out what’s wrong while knowing exactly what it must be. It wasn’t working. It was reacting to the magic in the air and was breaking apart right in Draco’s hands.

But he’d wanted it to work so badly! He desperately, deeply wanted this, and he always got what he wanted. Why couldn’t this have been the exception to the technology-magic rule? Why couldn’t this have just worked for Draco?

He always, always, always got what he wanted!

Draco glares furiously at the radio, grip tightening on the device with vicious, tiny fingers, and he shakes it. “Work, you stupid thing!” he demands, voice watery and angry with child-like indignation.

“Work!”

The magical lights in the room flicker, brightening then dimming randomly for a few seconds before settling back to normal, and Draco looks up in a panic. Pureblood or not, a young witch or wizard’s magic was wild and unpredictable, often tied to emotions. There was no telling what he could do if he got truly upset.

“Draco?” the young boy looks down sharply at the voice, eyes widening at the radio. It has a weird, yellow glow to it that is swiftly fading. “Is that you? Did you figure it out?”

Just like that, Draco forgets all about his magical blunder and the surrounding strange behavior. The radio was working! It was actually working! Max’s voice was coming in clear as day.

He’d gotten what he wanted after all.

“Can you hear me?” he says into the radio, a smile growing bigger and bigger on his face.

“I can! Hi, Draco! Oh my gosh, you would not believe how mad my Papa got when he found out I snuck you one of his radios,” Max begins rambling, Draco sliding down to sit in the tub to listen. “Totally worth it, though. And he’s cooled down, so it worked out! He says hi, by the way.”

“Tell him greetings from me, as well,” Draco nods.

“You sound like royalty. Are you secretly royalty?” Max asks suspiciously.

“No, but you are still a peasant. Peasant.”

“Hey!”

After that there are never any issues with the radio and magic ever again. No matter what, the radio always works, with spectacular reception no matter where Draco or Max are. It also, for years and years, never, not once, requires Draco to switch out any “batteries” like Max occasionally needs to do.

Almost like magic.

~ ~ ~

“Hey, Max,” Draco says conversationally, sitting out on the Hogwarts grounds. He’s near Hagrid’s hut, the Gameskeeper in far better spirits since that article on him was released a few months back. He tends to his garden, whistling some song Draco doesn’t know, while Fang has lumbered over and fallen asleep across Draco’s shins.

Draco’s feet are beginning to go numb, and he’ll have to shove the dog away soon, but for now he doesn’t much mind. The massive, slobbering mess of a creature had grown on him over the years, featuring in multiple of Draco’s photos.

“Yeah, Draco?” Max asks, sounding a little absent. They were both working on their individual homework, Draco getting to occasionally hear very frustrated grumblings about numbers and angles.

“You mentioned your father did not trust politicians. Am I correct in this?”

“Hmm, yeah… yeah, he says they’re all mostly liars, or something,” Max replies. They begin mumbling out some kind of mathematical formula, sorting out the numbers in their head, before scribbling out an answer.

“What is his opinion on journalists?”

Rita Skeeter was a boon for Draco’s investigations. Someone who had built her career on getting information, with something so simple to hold over her, seemed almost too good to be true, even if she was a tacky wench.

But, out of all the professions Draco could confidently get a read on, journalists were not one of them.

“Oh, that one we all agree on,” Max says, focus clearly shifting to the conversation as they take a breather from their homework. “They’re crafty, but like… they’re supposed to be? Even the nice ones have to manipulate answers out of people, they’re just more agreeable.”

“It is their job, is what you are saying,” Draco reiterates, rolling his quill between his fingers.

“Exactly! They’re paid to be nosey! They’re like therapists without the confidentiality agreement,” Max chirps and Draco snorts at the comparison. “Why do you ask?”

“I have to deal with one for a school project,” Draco lies. Kind of. Often times when he had to come up with a cover story for his actions with Max, it was easier to think of something relatively similar to the truth. Technically, he WAS working with Skeeter on a personal project within his school. “The one I’ve been assigned is a harlot.”

“A corvette?”

“How could a person be a car, moron? A harlot. Harlot.”

“You saying the word more times isn’t going to make me understand, shit-monkey!”

“What the hell is a ‘shit-monkey’?”

“Yeah! Doesn’t feel great being out of the loop, does it?!”

~ ~ ~

“Our hero!”

Draco looks up, brows furrowed, at the sing-song comment. There, leaning against his library table, are Fred and George Weasley. They’re smiling at Draco pleasantly, but he knows better than to trust that smile. Especially on these two.

“Gentlemen,” Draco greets, eyes thinning suspiciously, before glancing around as if confused. “Strange. I don’t recall saying your name’s three times in a mirror, yet here you bloody are.”

“Here we bloody are,” one of them says with a flourish of his hand, and then both sit down.

Draco sighs deeply and sets down his quill, homework set to the side at what is sure to be an eventful interaction. “What do you two want?”

“You sent Skeeter to us, didn’t you, Malfoy?” the other twin says. Draco will call him twin two, because it isn’t worth it to try and figure out their names on his own.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I don’t make a habit of interacting with the press,” Draco drawls, absently twisting a strand of hair between his fingers as if he’s bored.

“Do you believe him, Fred?” twin two asks his brother.

“No, I do not, George,” says the one named Fred. Lovely. At least Draco had names for this particular conversation. “Especially since the dreadful Miss. Skeeter mentioned him by name.”

Draco stops his fiddling and shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to stem the sudden fury that races through his veins. Oh, that wench. She wasn’t supposed to ever mention his name, that should have been understood. It would seem he would need to have a word with her, but for now he had the Weasley duo to fend off.

“Okay then, boys,” Draco says, slowly setting his hands on the table and folding his fingers together. “Let’s say… hypothetically…”

“Hypothetically, George,” Fred repeats with a patronizing nod.

“Hypothetically, Fred,” George says, also giving a short nod, fake sympathy in his expression.

“Hypothetically…” Draco says, sighing, “If I did send Skeeter to you, why are you approaching me now?”

“Well, if we’re speaking hypothetically here,” George taps at his chin, “Then, hypothetically, you found out some pretty scandalous information on a Mr. Ludo Bagman and thought we could benefit from it.”

“But, hypothetically,” Fred cuts in seamlessly, “We didn’t want to expose him just yet. Oh no, we wanted to at least give him another chance to pay up. We want our money more than we want him ruined.”

“So, you requested Skeeter not print the article?” Draco questions.

“Hypothetically,” both twins say with matching smirks and Draco scowls.

He had been wondering why Skeeter hadn’t printed that particular story yet. He’d requested she let the twins take lead, and whatever they wanted to put in or not she must honor. If they hadn’t wanted the story printed yet, she would have had to listen.

Or Draco would have had to ruin her.

“I ask again. Why are you talking to me?” Draco arches a brow.

“How’d you get this info on Ludo?” George asks, thankfully dropping the whole “hypothetical” comments as he becomes a bit more serious. Which is an odd sight; a Weasley twin being serious.

“Goblins,” Draco replies honestly, shrugging. “I spotted them in Hogsmeade surrounding Bagman. Paid them off and offered to get more dirt on him for them to find out why they were mad with him. They were also aware of all the bets he made, including yours, the nosey bastards.”

“You’re going to get more dirt on Bagman?” Fred asks, leaning in.

“For the Goblins. They hardly care about any articles printed on him. They need something to hold over him outside of The Prophet.”

“How do you plan to do this, Malfoy?” George asks, also leaning in. Both twins have wicked smirks on their faces that has Draco feeling inexplicably nervous. He forces himself to remain cool.

“I have a plan coming up soon. I hope to use a little… trip I have in the making to get information on multiple people,” Draco replies, eyes thinning. “I assume you must want some of this information?”

“Only hypothetically,” Fred snickers and Draco sighs. Of course, they wouldn’t let that go.

“We wanted to avoid blackmail,” George says.

“More George than me,” Fred smirks.

“But we may need some added help.”

“I won’t do it for free. You understand, yes?” Draco says with an arched brow.

“Clearly.”

“Obviously!”

“What do you take us for, Malfoy?”

Draco raises his hands as if to stave off their ire, lips twisted, then sighs. “I am aware you have a surplus of your Weasley Wheezes, despite Filch’s… gallant attempts to stave them off. You clearly have a way of getting things into this school without being caught.”

“Why, yes we do,” George preens.

“What do you need?”

Draco had been thinking ahead on his plans for some time now and there was one thing he would do well to have. “I require a pair of short-range radios. And I need them to work within a magical environment,” he explains and the twins glance at each other, clearly not expecting that.

“The radios would be Muggle…” George begins slowly.

“We could get Lee’s mom to get us some. She’s Muggle,” Fred says with a thoughtful expression.

“The ability to work in a magical environment, though?”

“That’ll be tough.”

“I believe in you,” Draco drawls sarcastically, “You have until Easter Break.” It was early January when they are having this conversation, so that should give them plenty of time to figure something out while Draco, himself, finalizes his own plans. “Now leave. I have an essay to finish.”

“Coolio, Malfoy,” Fred says cheerfully, standing, and Draco glares at him.

“We’ll get back to you when we have the radios,” George says, also standing, and then both boys are turning and hurrying out of the library, whispering quickly to each other as they go.

If they couldn’t get what Draco had asked for, he would survive. They weren’t required for his plan, but they would be helpful. He’d had this plan in mind ever since the Yule Ball, when he’d spotted Barty Crouch on Potter’s Marauders Map, but it was a bit of a long shot.

Now he simply needed Sirius to get back to him, really, and he’d be good to go.

~ ~ ~

Draco gets a note one morning, about a week or so after the second task, from his godfather requesting he comes by his storeroom before Potions class. He can’t imagine why, but shrugs and finishes eating, not thinking much of it.

He makes his way over, as requested, and finds Snape already waiting for him, looking as dour and unhappy as ever. “Mr. Malfoy,” he begins, which tells Draco this is a serious conversation, not a friendly one. Or as friendly as Severus Snape can be.

“Professor,” Draco nods in return, standing in the doorway and waiting for Snape to explain why he’s here so early.

“It would appear we have a thief in our midst,” Snape says, handing over two, empty bottles to Draco, who takes them and reads off their labels. “Gillyweed” and “Boomslang Skin.”

“Are you accusing me? I am certain I could come up with an alibi if you gave me an estimated timeframe,” Draco says evenly, channeling his mother as best he can. When dealing with Snape, straightforward and cold was usually the best way to move things along. As entertaining as it might be to sass the man, Draco had no desire to stay longer than was necessary.

“No, I am quite certain I know who did this,” Snape says, eyes like coals. Very furious coals. “What I want is for you to get me proof.”

“Proof?” Draco arches a brow, confused why Snape would come to him with this. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hits him and he narrows his eyes. “This is because of last year, when I proved Sirius Black’s innocence, isn’t it? You did not take it so well.”

“We are not here to talk about your inappropriate behavior,” Snape snaps, which is confirmation enough for Draco.

“I realize you and Sirius don’t get along, but the truth is far more important than--”

“You know nothing of the Marauders and you would do well to watch your tone.”

Draco falls silent, staring at Snape with a blank expression. He hadn’t had a tone, but that hardly mattered. He was currently on Snape’s shitlist and he would do well to get off it. He wasn’t going to become another Potter.

“I can assume you suspect Harry Potter,” Draco says, not asking. He can’t blame him entirely. The last use of gillyweed had been by Potter at the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. He’d done a marvelous job saving Weasley and Fleur Delacour’s little sister, but Draco hadn’t been watching much.

He’d, instead, snuck over to the congregation of Gryffindors down the stands and grabbed Longbottom. Gillyweed was one of the plants in his book, after all, so it made sense if he’d gotten it for Potter.

Except Longbottom hadn’t spoken to Potter directly in some time and had seemed giddy at his use of the plant.

Suspicious, Draco had headed down the bleachers and towards the stand where the champions had taken off from, wanting to know where Potter could have possibly gotten his underwater solution.

It turned out to be Dobby, who had overheard Moody and McGonagall talking about Gillyweed, and must have stolen it from Snape’s storeroom.

Draco didn’t intend to tell Snape that, though.

The Boomslang Skin was curious, however. The only use Draco could consider it for was Polyjuice Potion, but why would anyone need that? He couldn’t think of any good reason for someone to want to make it in secret.

He makes a mental note to add that into his casefile.

He also makes a mental note to add that, in every instance of Gillyweed being mentioned in recent days - both in Neville’s book and Dobby’s overheard conversation - Moody had a presence.

“I’ll see what I can find, Professor,” Draco says with a bow of his head, then swiftly ducks out of the storeroom, having no intention to help his godfather at all.

~ ~ ~

“Polyjuice Potion?” Skeeter repeats, standing with her arms crossed and hip jutting to the side. Her eyes are twinkling in intrigue, despite the suspicious arch to her brows.

“Yes. Did you not hear me? Is your outfit drowning out the sound of my voice?” Draco sneers, but Skeeter just looks at him. They’d interacted on a few occasions through the beginning of this year and she was becoming a lot less intimidated by him. Certainly, she still did as she was told, but with a lot more attitude than she used to.

“So much to look into lately, and you even made me drop that Witch Weekly article on that Granger girl! I am no miracle worker, you know.”

“I never believed you were,” Draco growls, “Now, do you understand what I am asking you or not?”

“Look into Polyjuice Potion activity, yes, yes, I heard you, but are you aware how taxing this is on me? You certainly rely on my… skills, quite a bit,” Skeeter flutters her lashes and looks Draco up and down thoughtfully. “It would do you good to consider an Animagus form, since you find them so useful.”

Draco arches a brow at her and crosses his arms. If he were to begin becoming an Animagus at this time of the year, without prior advisement from the school or the Ministry, he would end up as an unregistered Animagus, and they both knew that. And if Draco were an unregistered Animagus, too, he would no longer have any leverage against Skeeter.

“Are you done?” he growls

“You could look into all your little, pointless problems all on your own. Wouldn’t you prefer to have first-hand knowledge of everything?” Apparently, she wasn’t done.

“Why would I do that if I already have you at my beck and call?” Draco drawls, bored, and crosses his arms. Skeeter seems particularly displeased by the comment and, thankfully, shuts up for the time being. “Find anything out about Crouch?”

“Other than he’s still ill at home and writing letters to all of his people? Nothing,” Skeeter says with a flippant wave of her hand.

“He’s still sick?” Draco questions, brows beginning to furrow as he feels suspicion boiling to the surface. “Strange, isn’t it? I never knew Bartemius Crouch well, but every time I heard about him he was a hard, devoted worker. Does he really seem the type to miss so much work?”

“Maybe he’s dying,” Skeeter says, attempting to appear nonchalant, but her own brows have begun to furrow. She crosses her arms and taps at her bicep with a pointed nail. “Although… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look into it a bit more.”

“For curiosity’s sake,” Draco smirks and Skeeter narrows her eyes at him. “Not like you’re getting invested in this or anything.”

“Obviously,” the woman huffs, readjusting her alligator skin bag. “You know me so well, little Draco. I must be off, now, you know how it is. Consider what I said about that potion, while I’m away.”

“I won’t.”

But Skeeter just smirks at him as she turns and saunters off.

~ ~ ~

“I can’t believe this!” Pansy shrieks one morning in the Great Hall, a Witch Weekly magazine in her hands, breakfast forgotten in front of her. She’s flipping furiously through the pages, skimming with sharp eyes as her scowl gets deeper and deeper.

“What is it?” Sophie asks, everyone glancing nervously at Pansy like she might strike out. Which, considering her track record, wasn’t a baseless fear. “Did you buy the wrong shade of lipstick for the season?” Sophie seems to be the only one not afraid to sass the other girl while she’s in this mood, but given she’s four seats down and on the other side of the table… Well, it might explain things.

“I gave that hack reporter GOLD for a story she wanted to write and I have yet to see it! That was nearly a month ago,” Pansy snarls, slamming the magazine onto the table.

“The only hack reporter I can think of lurking around here is that Rita Skeeter chick,” Theodore pipes in, eying Pansy as Daphne picks up the Witch Weekly addition that had been abandoned.

“You’ve been talking to Skeeter, Parkinson?” Draco hums, sitting directly across from the steaming girl. He was in strike range, but if he was quick enough maybe he could distract Pansy with Crabbe or Goyle.

“Yes! She had this spectacular article about Granger and a love triangle with Krum and Potter that would have been positively hilarious to watch play out,” Pansy explains and, quite quickly, Draco loses interest. He remembered Skeeter coming to him with the article, as was their agreement, and it had been the first one Draco had forbidden printing. “I helped out with some truly juicy details, and she said it would be printed soon and--”

“You wanted to humiliate Hermione?” Daphne questions, looking up startled, the magazine forgotten in her hands.

“Well, obviously. After the Yule Ball she’s been all high and mighty and… Uhg! She needed to be taken down a few pegs. So sue me for taking initiative,” Pansy snarls back.

“I’m with Pansy,” Millicent says, taking a sip of her orange juice. “She has no right to be all full of herself just because she danced with a champion.”

“Me thinks I smell a little jealousy,” Sophie says, her eyes narrowed.

“Watch your mouth!” Millicent huffs, affronted, and Pansy looks ready to jump the other girl, furious.

“Only when you watch yours! Hermione didn’t do anything to you!” Sophie snaps back and, with backing from Daphne, they begin to argue loudly at Pansy and Millicent across the Slytherin table and Draco quietly stands and slips away. Like hell he was going to sit around and listen to that hot mess. He catches eyes with Eve, who is sitting at the Hufflepuff table with Leandra, and both share an eye roll.

“Draco?” The blonde looks over to find Tracey Davis standing in his path out of the hall, blinking big, blank eyes at him and holding a sheet of folded parchment in her hand. He walks up to her, head tilted expectantly. “I got your note. You needed to talk to me?”

“Yes,” Draco nods and they walk out to the Entrance Hall, the argument over at the Slytherin table escalating so much that teachers have to head over and quiet them down. “Your father works in the Ministry, correct?”

“Daddy is in the Records Department,” Tracey answers, head tilting slowly, making her look a little possessed. “He can balance his wand on his nose.”

“That’s… interesting,” Draco shakes his head, trying to ignore the strange feeling that always accompanied talking with this girl. “Listen, Davis--”

“Tracey means ‘domain belonging to Thracius’.”

Draco blinks at Tracey slowly before nodding. “Tracey,” he corrects and she’s silent, so he assumes he can go on. “I require a favor.”

~ ~ ~

“Oh! We got your photo, Draco!” Max says brightly one afternoon, and Draco looks up. He’s sitting in the owlery, quill in hand, and all the pages he has for his investigation spread out in his lap or on the bench beside him.

Potter sits on the windowsill just behind him, feet dangling by Draco’s shoulder, occasionally nudging him as they sway. The radio currently sits in the Gryffindor’s lap.

“Ah, yes. Apologies for how long it took to get it developed. Did your mother like it?” Draco questions, looking back down at the paper he’d been adjusting, wand out as he rearranges the ink notes.

Most of his suspects had been crossed out by then, mostly Hogwarts professors, Karkaroff, and Bagman. With every clue and discovery, he became more and more certain he was getting close, but he needed more. He needed information that he could not get at Hogwarts, but that Sirius would be unable to get alone.

Which meant that, until he could put his plan into action, he was on a hold.

“Mama says you both looked stunning,” Max says.

“Malfoy danced with every girl he could get his hands on,” Potter adds, kicking at Draco’s shoulder and smiling when the blonde turns to glare at him.

“I enjoy dancing. How many times do I have to tell you people?” Draco snaps, shoving at Potter’s leg hard enough to get him to hop down. The raven-haired boy then shoves Draco’s papers out of the way and sits on the bench beside him.

“I like your hair! So does Eric,” Max continues, and they sound slightly hesitant. Draco glances at the radio, still clutched in Potter’s hands, and arches a brow.

“I sense a ‘but’ somewhere in there,” he says slowly, picking up the documents Potter had moved and organizing them back in his manila folder. Potter, bored that he’s not as much a part of this particular conversation, turns sideways on the bench and reclines back against Draco’s side.

“I can’t move my arm, Speccy,” Draco growls lowly so only Potter hears him.

“Use your other one, Pointy,” Potter says back, smiling innocently.

“But, uh… are you okay?” Max questions, “Healthy, I mean.”

“Why would I not be?” Draco drawls, tucking his reorganized folder into his satchel, then pulling out his camera as an afterthought. He snaps a few photos of the owls around them, swatting at Potter when he motions at Hedwig, but taking a picture of the snowy owl anyway.

“It’s just… you’re really pale,” Max mumbles and Potter snorts.

“That’s just the way he is,” Potter replies. “Always has been.”

“Maybe it’s because its been years, but I just don’t remember you being so… like, listen Draco…” Max struggles for a moment to find their wording and Draco glances over at the radio, expectantly. “Like, you’re not white, you’re translucent.”

Potter nearly falls off the bench as he bursts out laughing while Draco’s cheeks flare with heat. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Translucent?

Self-consciously he looks at his hand, illogically concerned he will be able to see right through it, but Potter, still laughing, grabs it with one of his own and shakes his head.

“Not literally, not literally!” Potter cackles, voice high as he continues to lose it, and Draco glares viciously at him. On the radio Max’s own laughter can be heard.

“Did he check?!” Max near shrieks through their hysteria and Potter lifts the radio up.

“He tried to look at his hand!”

“Oh my god, you nerd!”

Draco thinks he must not be very pale anymore with the way his whole face feels like it is on fire, Potter and Max just about losing their minds at his misfortune. “You both are bullies,” he says huffily before standing, Potter scrambling to follow him out.

“We’ll talk to you later, Max,” Potter is saying behind Draco, “I gotta make sure the ghost doesn’t go off and pick a fight with the wrong person.”

A moment later Potter is walking beside him, still grinning, and Draco makes a point of ignoring him. Potter, unaffected, shrinks down the radio and effortlessly drops it in Draco’s satchel’s side pocket.

“I like Max,” Potter says halfway back to the castle and Draco sighs.

“Against my better judgement, I find I do as well,” he admits quietly, looking ahead at nothing but his path, still iced over from winter snow, but beginning to melt. He almost felt bad for Potter, having to swim through the Black Lake in any weather like this. It must have been freezing. And he’d stayed down there the entire time to make sure all the captives got to the surface alive.

“Can I tell Ron and Hermione about Max?” Potter asks, voice deceptively calm that it takes a moment for Draco to realize what he’s asked.

The taller boy’s eyes widen, his footsteps becoming more mechanical as he keeps moving forward, unwilling to allow himself to stop, but quickly feeling the panic take over. The panic that always takes hold when talking to anyone but Dobby, Tana, and now Potter about his radio. That illogical paranoia of “they know they know they know” and “they’ll take it away they’ll take it away.”

Potter walks a little closer and wraps a hand around Draco’s wrist, squeezing, and mumbles, “You’re not breathing.” He’s blessedly looking off to the side and not at Draco as the blonde heaves in air, forces himself to relax.

“I do not think it crucial to tell your little lackeys about Max, no,” Draco snaps, yanking his hand away and Potter releases him. The other boy hardly seems fazed by Draco’s tone, though, instead keeping his eyes elsewhere.

“It’s not crucial,” Potter agrees, “I just would like to, and I think you could benefit from sharing this with more people.”

“You know me so well now, do you?”

“Ron and Hermione wouldn’t hurt you,” Potter continues like Draco hadn’t spoken. “Not where it counts. You’re our friend.”

“Not your friend.”

“Just think about it?” The hand finds its way back to Draco’s wrist. “Please?”

For a while they say nothing, Draco still pointedly staring ahead, his expression tight and his heart beating too quickly, but the other boy’s fingers at his pulse point make him take calming breathes, the silence a blessing.

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco snaps, not exactly an affirmative, but not a denial either. Then, sharply and under his breath, he curses, “Merlin.”

“My name’s Harry, actually,” Potter smirks, and Draco finally turns and glares at him.

“Good thing, that. If you were Merlin, you’d be in Slytherin with me,” he growls over.

“I told you I almost was. Back during out sorting.”

“And I told you I still don’t believe you.”

Potter snickers, releasing Draco’s wrist now that he seems more like himself, and Draco finally feels like he’s able to breathe properly again. He doesn’t know exactly what changed, but ever since their dance in the Astronomy Tower, the physical barrier between he and Potter had diminished.

There were still plenty of times where their respective walls had gone up and touching was a no-go, but they were fewer and farther between. They hardly ran at each other and hugged every time they saw the other - and wasn’t that a disturbing image? - but there was a comfortability in contact now that hadn’t been there before.

“What are they, by the way?” Potter asks and Draco looks at him, confused, unsure where the question had cropped up from. “Max, I mean. I can’t really tell and I’ve been nervous to ask.”

“A… Muggle… They are a Muggle. Are you quite well, Potter?” Draco says slowly, brows furrowing, wondering if Potter had lost his mind somewhere along the path.

“I know that,” Potter rolls his eyes, “I meant what is…” he hesitates and makes a strange, flopping gesture with his hands at his own body, “I guess, what’s up with their body…?”

“Nothing, to my knowledge. Why? Have they cited any concerns for illness to you?” Draco asks quickly, leaning into Potter’s space, but Potter snorts and shoves at him with his shoulder, except he doesn’t much move away after that. They both just keep walking forward, arms pressed against each other, helping to stave off the chill in the air.

“No! Jeez, you’re a worry wart, did you know that? No, I meant… I really don’t want to sound rude here, I’m just confused.”

“Just ask what you wish to ask, Potter, you’re wasting my time.”

“Is Max short for… Maxine or Maxwell, is kind of what I’m asking.”

“Max is Max.”

“No! That’s not,” Potter cuts himself off, frustrated, and finally just asks, “Is Max a boy or a girl?”

“I am almost entirely certain Max is chaos taken human form,” Draco drawls.

“That…” Potter stops, considers, then deflates with a sigh, “makes a lot more sense than it should.”

“That should be your tagline.”

“I’ll get it engraved,” Potter smirks and Draco snorts at him, the two finally separating to head to their own dorms.

~ ~ ~

It is a Hogsmeade day when Draco’s camera breaks. Possibly breaks. Sticks? Jams? Malfunctions? Draco doesn’t know what’s wrong, all he knows is one moment he’s snapping a photo of Eve and Leandra with color-changing tongues from their candy, and the next the shutters won’t open.

He can’t seem to jimmy them open, either, and he’d hardly know what spell to use to fix something like this.

He supposes these cameras are meant to be cheap, they’re disposable after all, but he’d been so lucky with the last three.

“Something wrong, Malfoy?” Draco looks to his right, where the voice came from, and sees Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil standing beside him. “Is your camera not working?” Brown questions, leaning forwards to take a look at the offending device.

Draco realizes belatedly he’s just standing in the middle of the road, fiddling angrily with the camera, but that still doesn’t distract him enough with the realization that these two Gryffindor girls are speaking to him. On purpose.

“Colin may know how to fix it,” Patil says, smiling cheerfully, “Do you want us to ask him to take a look?”

Draco stares at the two girls, wide-eyed, and says, “Huh?” Eloquent…

“Oh, come on, everybody knows about your camera by now, no need to be shy,” Brown giggles and Draco blinks.

He wasn’t being shy at all, he was being shocked. Of course, everyone knew about his camera by now, after third year. It was the beginnings of his rebellion, according to the rumor mill, but Draco paid that little mind unless it became detrimental to him personally.

What he couldn’t understand was why these two girls, from his rival house, weren’t just talking to him, but offering to get his camera fixed by yet another Gryffindor.

“I… suppose I have little choice,” Draco says very slowly, sounding more like a question than a statement, and then Patil is nabbing the camera from his grip. He’s too startled to be suspicious, he’s just trying to understand.

“Great! We’ll ask him to check it out as soon as possible!”

The two girls then hurry off, leaning towards each other and giggling as they go, and Draco can only watch. Behind him Eve and Leandra walk up, holding hands, and watching him curiously.

“What just happened…?” Draco mumbles, partly to himself.

“I think you just made new friends!” Leandra chirps, smiling sweetly at Draco as if that were good news.

“I don’t want them.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Eve mumbles, then smiles apologetically when Leandra looks at her with puffed up cheeks and a pout.

That evening, when Draco is sitting in the library with just Eve, reading over a few Shakespeare plays he is unfamiliar with, Colin Creevey comes bustling over.

“Hi there, Malfoy,” Creevey greets with a bright smile, “I got your shutter fixed! Sorry it took so long.”

Draco reaches out and takes the offered disposable camera, looking it over a few times then snapping a quick photo of Eve flipping him off to make sure it works. “Hardly long at all,” he admits. It hadn’t even been twelve hours since it had broken.

“Aw, it was nothing,” Creevey smiles bashfully, rubbing the back of his head as if he’d been given a compliment, which Draco had not, he’d simply stated fact.

“Yes, well, your assistance is appreciated, Creevey. You can leave now.”

He sets the camera to the side, fully intent to continue his silent reading, but Creevey is still standing beside his table. Draco arches a displeased eyebrow at him. “What?” he snaps.

“Actually, Malfoy, uh… I was wondering if maybe, possibly, since I don’t know anybody else at Hogwarts who likes photography except you, if you wanted to talk sometime, ever, at any time, about photography, with photos, and cameras… Photography…”

Draco stares at Creevey until he stops jabbering, his expression hard. First those two girls, and now this red and gold muggleborn was attempting to “hang out” with Draco? What was going on?

“I’m not interested,” he says simply and Creevey deflates, looking defeated.

“Okay. I understand. I’ll just… go. If you ever change your mind, though, we could… maybe, show each other our pictures? If you want… Okay, bye, Malfoy. Bye… lady that usually hangs out with Malfoy…” and then Colin Creevey awkwardly backs away, nearly trips on a chair, and scurries out of the library.

Draco turns away and finds Eve grinning at him. “That was adorable.”

“Shut up,” Draco hisses and she only grins bigger.

“Everyone’s figuring out you’re just a big kitty, nothing to be afraid of.”

“Canticum Viscosi,” Draco says sharply, sticking “Basket Case” by Green Day in her head. She turns around and immediately fires “Remember the Time” by Michael Jackson into Draco’s head. They glare at each other, silent, then go back to their readings, not wanting to draw Pince’s attention with any flashier hexes.

~ ~ ~

“What do you mean ‘you don’t have it’?” Draco questions slowly, his violin practice halting in favor of turning a disbelieving look on Potter. He didn’t even know what had been said prior to the Boy-Who-Lived admitting he, currently, did not possess the Marauders Map.

Some days, when it is beautiful outside with few enough people milling about, Draco will head out to the Clock Tower Courtyard, and practice his violin. It had spectacular acoustics and usually he is left alone, but sometimes he gains an audience.

Eve may join him to read a book; Daphne, Sophie, and occasionally Pansy - because even after having massive fights in the middle of the Great Hall those girls were still thick as thieves - will come out to gossip; Crabbe and Goyle will bother him mid-song to ask him questions for their homework; one time Tracey sat down and just stared at Draco for thirty minutes and then left; and sometimes varying combinations of the Golden Trio will pop up.

Today he got all three of the annoying lions, Weasley immediately zeroing in on Draco’s discarded bag and lunging for it, grabbing a bag of PopRocks for himself before springing out of Draco’s kicking range, a snarky grin on his face. Draco would have to hex him later.

Hermione stood off to the side, commenting on Draco’s improvements on Pachelbel’s Canon in D, which she apparently has memorized on the piano, while Potter used the distraction to nab whichever chocolate Draco may have in his bag today.

“I reiterate!” Draco had exclaimed, stomping over to grab his bag and drag it over to his feet where he can defend it properly. Little help that would do now, since the two boys have already gotten what they wanted. “Thieves! I will not associate with thieves!”

“Too late!” Potter and Weasley chirp in unison and Draco, frustrated, had proceeded to ignore them and continue practicing.

Then he’d heard Potter drop that stupid bombshell and he was ready to strangle the idiot.

“It means I don’t currently have it,” Potter says defensively, glaring back at Draco. “I lent it to Mad-Eye. He thinks it’s brilliant, which it is, and I owed him for keeping Snape off my trail.”

“So, you just GAVE HIM the Marauders Map?!” Draco exclaims, disbelieving that this could actually be happening. That thing had been one of the most remarkable feats of magic Draco had seen in a while, and it would certainly come in handy for his investigations as he got more information, but now it was gone.

Because Potter thought he owed Moody.

“Lay off, Malfoy. It’s not that big a deal,” Weasley says, giving Draco a side-eye and Draco snarls.

“How is this not a big deal? That map was a marvel, an asset, a boon, and you just… gave it away, because you owed a guy!” he glares daggers at Potter, who glares right back. They may be on better terms, but that hardly changed that he was the most infuriating boy Draco knew. “Do you ever think it is possible to be too nice? Or too chivalrous? Or just… too Gryffindor?”

“No! Because I didn’t do anything wrong!” Potter throws right back, hardly one to just roll over. “This was way back before the second task and nothing bad has come of it! So would you just relax? You’re being ridiculous!”

“I’m being ridiculous? Oh, that’s rich, coming from the complete idiot that gave away the Marauders Map because someone asked nicely!” Draco storms over to his violin case and begins angrily putting everything away.

“Malfoy, calm down, let’s be reasonable,” Granger attempts to cut in as all three boys boil with rage.

“No. No! Reasonable went out the window a long time ago, Granger, don’t even try me!” Draco snaps and Weasley is standing up, clearly fed up.

“What is your problem, huh?! You don’t like being out of control? You want everything to be perfect according to YOUR standards?”

“I want you all to quit forgetting that the only reason Potter is in this situation to begin with is because someone wants to murder him!” Draco roars, Weasley snapping his mouth shut, Granger looking away, and Potter scowling even deeper.

“I never asked for your help, Malfoy, so don’t get pissed at us for not ‘following your rules’!”

“You’d have nothing without me!”

“Still didn’t ask for it! You just offered it because you thought you were soooo important!”

“First and foremost I am doing this so this school doesn’t fall into chaos yet again,” Draco snarls and Potter scoffs, “You were an afterthought!”

Potter has nothing to say to that, mouth pressed into a thin line as they glare at one another. Then, because Draco thinks he’s made his point, he gathers the last of his things and storms away.

~ ~ ~

Max calls him an idiot and won’t talk to Draco for a few days after that, and Draco regrets telling them about the fight, but at least they do start talking to him again. About five days in they randomly start a conversation on the origins of cereal, which are crazier than Draco ever expected, and Max calls him a prat and all is forgiven.

Potter won’t even look at him, which is fine by him. He doesn’t look back.

Granger still sits with him in the library, but it feels tenser now, and Weasley doesn’t attempt to steal anymore candy from him. A week in Eve says he’s moping and Draco hexes her skin silver. She gets him back with a hex that sends him, unconscious, to the hospital wing, but he doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care.

If Potter wants to be a child about this, then so be it. Draco still has work to do and the final pieces of his plan to finish up before Easter Holiday.

He realizes, though, the day before the two-week-long break, that things are going to get very awkward very fast.

~ ~ ~

According to Hogwarts Draco would be going home for the Easter Holiday. This was common for most purebloods, taking the opportunity to vacation somewhere nice with their family while everyone else stayed at school and studied for exams.

According to Draco’s parents, however, he was staying at Hogwarts to study for said exams, the Triwizard Tournament distracting him over the year to the point he wanted to make sure his studies were in order.

So, Draco went to Hogsmeade and quietly climbed onto the Hogwarts Express, because the school thought that was what he was supposed to be doing, but his parents would not be waiting for him at the station. No, he had someone else waiting.

His plan was, so far, going perfectly.

He sat with Eve, as usual, avoiding any pureblood children who might accidentally let slip to their parents, and thus Draco’s own, that Draco wasn’t at Hogwarts for the holiday.

“When we get to the station maybe stay on the train a moment and let my mother and I leave, first,” Eve advises halfway into the trip, Draco looking up from a reread of The Outsider to give her a confused look. “Since she thinks we’re an item? Which, for her, is like an engagement.”

“Very well. I need to avoid some of the parents from higher families anyway,” Draco replies, not really caring. “How do you intend to break it to her that you and I are not, in fact, and item?”

“I was thinking I’d tell her I broke up with you.”

Draco hums, looking back down at his book, but then looks back up with furrowed brows and a very displeased twist to his lips. “Why do you get to break up with me? I would certainly break up with you first,” he demands, affronted.

“Merlin, Draco, it’s a fake relationship,” Eve rolls her eyes.

“And I thought we fake had something going for us,” Draco drawls and Eve kicks his leg in retaliation. “Wouldn’t it be more in character, though? Me breaking up with you?” Draco continues, rubbing the spot Eve kicked where it is sure to bruise.

“You ARE the bigger asshole, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you.”

“But do you really want a very tiny, very furious Asian mother coming after you with a kitchen knife because you insulted her daughter’s honor?”

Draco pinches his lips, Eve watching him expectantly, before he pointedly looks back at his book. “Forget I said anything…”

“Said what?”

He glares up at Eve, who smirks, and they both fall back into silence for the rest of the trip.

When they get to Platform 9 ¾ Draco does as suggested, waiting and peering out the window until Eve’s mother has hustled her daughter out and away, the Muggle woman unfazed by the witches and wizards around her, completely ignoring any sneers or glares from purebloods.

Draco could applaud her, if he was that kind of person.

Instead he slips out of the train, avoiding stragglers, and looks around for his real ride. He’s dressed in a dark green turtleneck, black jeans, and a pair of white and red trainers, all ordered by Muggle catalogue by Eve upon his request. It made him less noticeable and, he grudgingly admitted, it was incredibly comfortable.

Spotting who he is looking for, Draco has to take a deep, bracing breath before he heads over.

“I don’t understand, who are we waiting for? You never mentioned anyone else,” Draco hears Potter speaking in confused tones up at his godfather, who is smiling apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Harry. It was a bit of a last-minute decision, and we didn’t want anyone hearing about it in passing,” Sirius explains patiently, seeming honestly sorry to have kept anything from Potter.

“Okay, that’s fine, but who is--”

Draco takes that moment to come up beside Potter and throw an arm around his shoulder, enjoying the jump he feels through the other boy, and leans towards his ear. “Hey there, roomie,” he smirks, and Potter turns wide, aghast eyes on him.

Then he’s looking at Sirius and glares, clearly unhappy, and Sirius’s apologetical smile grows more desperate. “Surprise…?”

~ ~ ~

They side-along apparate to the Black ancestral home, Potter immediately storming into 12 Grimmauld Place with practiced familiarity while Draco and Sirius trail behind. Draco’s never seen the Black manor before, the building magically hidden away by Fidelius Charm to keep the Muggles away, and he takes a moment to appreciate the décor.

“You’ve been renovating,” Draco notes, seeing as the walls are sporting a new, deep red wallpaper, the floors are polished, and brightly colored rugs lay along the length of the hall. A few stray photos also hang on the wall, some of what must be a young Sirius and his family, a few of James Potter and Remus Lupin, none of Peter Pettigrew, and a few of Sirius and Harry or the Weasley’s and Harry or the Golden Trio themselves.

It’s all very touching and Draco wonders if he should send Sirius a photo for Christmas next year…

“I own the place now,” Sirius says, looking up at the tall, imposing ceiling. “Might as well make it feel loved… for once.”

“I’m certain Potter was a deciding factor in that decision?”

Sirius snorts and leads Draco further in, advising him to leave his bags by the door for Kreacher. “I sense some tension between you and Harry. More than usual. Should I be worried?”

“We merely had a disagreement. Nothing that need be fretted over,” Draco waves him off and they move to the dining room. Food has already been set out, a modest spread for three people, and Draco takes a seat. “Shall we go over the plan while we have the time?”

“I’d prefer to wait until Harry is with us. He deserves to know and we don’t need to repeat ourselves,” Sirius decides, looking at the door worriedly. “He does best with some space, I’ve found.”

Draco thinks of all their moments sitting in silence, just thinking or resting or reading, and he finds he can understand that.

Sirius asks Draco about school after that, clearly attempting to get a handle on his cousin and what they could talk about. Draco, having the opportunity to actually get to know a member of his family that isn’t obsessed with pureblood ideals, eagerly reciprocates.

Eventually they move to the sitting room, Sirius showing Draco the many, many records he’s collected of rock bands Draco’s never heard of. One is even of the Ramones from way back in 1976 and Draco looks over the interior sleeve with wide, excited eyes.

“You still think I look like Joey Ramone?” Sirius questions, grinning wickedly, and Draco arches a brow at him.

“Definitely,” he decides after consideration, looking over Sirius’s new, clean attire. “Also, a bit like a vampire.”

“I’ll take it,” Sirius chuckles, pleased, and they move on.

Draco is just in the process of telling Sirius how he’d managed to get onto his Quidditch team in the first place, the older Gryffindor clearly offended that Draco’s father bought him his place, but both still laughing at the absurdity of the situation, when Potter comes downstairs.

“You two enjoying yourselves?” the other boy questions from the entryway, his arms crossed and a very displeased frown on his face. He doesn’t look like he’s going to explode, however, so that’s something.

“Quite,” Draco says with a smile and Potter scowls a little deeper.

“Harry, come in. We need to talk about what’s going on,” Sirius says, voice calm as he gestures for Potter to come further in. He hesitates, glaring at the room at large, before huffily going to a lone loveseat and falling in.

The furniture is refurbished, clearly, and seems like a more lively and comfortable concoction than what would have been here originally.

“Why is Malfoy staying with us?” Potter demands, looking at Sirius and not Draco. “This was supposed to be our first holiday together and he has to come along and ruin it?”

“Harry…” Sirius begins but Draco cuts in.

“I plan to infiltrate the Ministry.” Potter looks at him sharply, eyes wide in shock and momentarily forgetting he’s supposed to hate Draco right now. “I have a few suspects in mind that may have put your name in the Goblet, but I believe I could learn more from their… confidential files within the Department of Records.”

“You’re… still trying to solve this?” Potter questions slowly.

“For the school,” Draco reminds him with a smirk and, like a switch had been flicked, Potter is glaring at him again. It was so easy to get this boy angry, Draco would almost feel bad if he didn’t find it so entertaining.

“We’ll head there in two days. It will be busy the first few days before Easter so we should have an easier time slipping around unnoticed.”

“We?” Potter repeats, eyes narrowing.

“Draco will be able to get in thanks to his name and father,” Sirius explains, “I’ll go in as his service dog.”

“Turns out I have epilepsy, who knew? I even got a vest made,” Draco smirks and Sirius looks at him, displeased.

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“How else do you expect people to believe us?” Draco arches a brow and Sirius glares a little harder.

“We’ll talk about this later.”

Draco shrugs and continues. “Tracey Davis’s father works in Records. I know, thanks to her, his hours and that he will look the other way when we head down.”

“You owe Tracey Davis a favor is all I heard from that,” Potter smirks evilly and Draco groans. He hated being reminded of that fact.

“Once inside we will use the Doubling Charm on the files for my listed subjects, then leave.”

“And what about me, then? You keep saying ‘we’ but what part do I play in this crazy plan?” Potter demands, glaring between Draco and Sirius.

“Oh, now you find a plan crazy? And it’s one of mine? Mark the date, everyone!” Draco immediately snarks back, growing frustrated by Potter’s extended mistrust. At least they were speaking again, but Draco figured Potter was better than this. He was the “good guy,” after all.

“Because it’s crazy! Why should we--”

“Harry,” Sirius’s cool voice shuts Potter up. For a moment the room is silent, Potter taking a few deep breaths and Sirius watching him carefully. When everything seems alright, Sirius looks back at Draco and nods.

“You, Potter,” Draco sighs, then reaches into his jeans pockets and pulls out two radios that fit in the palm of his hand. They’re so tiny and dinky compared to Draco’s satellite radio, but they’ll do their job. “Will be in the Atrium. I need you walking around, in disguise, and taking note if anyone familiar might walk through and where they are going. I will give you a list of specific individuals to keep an eye out for, but anyone you may know, as well, should be taken note.”

Draco leans forward, passing one of the little, short-range radios to Potter. “We’ll use these in case of emergency or if you see someone not on the list. We’ll try to get their files as well, if we can. Just to be safe.”

“Where’d you get these?” Potter questions, eying his radio suspiciously.

“Thing one and Thing two,” Draco drawls, “The Weasley twins are remarkably resourceful, I will give them that. They not only managed to procure the devices but assure me they will work within magically charged areas as well.”

“I always knew those two were made for amazing things,” Sirius says, taking the other radio from Draco when it is offered to him.

“They will even work through walls, so we need not concern ourselves with that,” Draco continues, leaning back in the sofa and tapping his fingers against the armrest.

Sirius and Draco wait, silently, as Potter looks at the radio. He flips it over and over in his hands, thinking deeply about the plan presented to him. If he decided not to go along with things then fine, Draco would work around it, but he could really use the added assistance of someone playing guard.

However, where they had hoped for resignation, instead Potter’s brows furrowed, and he looked up suspiciously. Draco could groan. What now?

“How legal is this?” Potter demands, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Not very,” Draco shrugs and Potter is already shaking his head.

“No. No way. Sirius, you just got out of Azkaban, the Ministry would jump at the chance to put you back!” Potter looks to his godfather, who opens his mouth to reply, but Draco is cutting in, frustrated and out of patience.

“Which is why he’s going in as my service dog! Were you not listening?”

“He had to register his Animagus form last year! They know he can turn into a dog!” Potter snaps back, a fire in his eyes. He always got so riled up when it came to protecting people, especially his family, but Draco wasn’t one to just give up.

“So every cat you see must be Professor McGonagall? Think, Potter! Who is going to look at him, as a dog, pretending to be a service dog, and think, ‘hey, I bet that’s the notorious Sirius Black.’ No one! They’ll just think he’s my dog! If anyone gets in trouble, it’s me, and I can just throw my family name at them, get titled as a problem child, and leave with a smack on the wrist!”

“Alright, enough!” Sirius holds his hands up, looking between the two boys with a displeased and serious expression. “Harry, Draco is right. We’ve got it all planned out so that no one suspects it’s really me. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“But Sirius--”

“Harry,” Sirius moves to crouch in front of Potter and clasp a hand on either shoulder. “Please. Trust me.”

Potter ducks his head, hiding behind his mess of curls, and mumbles, “That’s not fair… Damn it, that’s not fair at all.” The Boy-Who-Lived takes a deep, shaky breath before looking up at his godfather, a new, stubborn light in his eyes.

“Alright… let’s do this.”

~ ~ ~

Max, on multiple occasions, attempts to teach Draco about movies. It usually is a failed attempt, since Max cannot show Draco these films through their radios, and Max’s descriptions leave much to be desired.

No, Draco much prefers to listen to music over the radio or get sent little goodies from the American Muggles. Movies just don’t seem all that important to him.

Max still gives it a valiant effort, which is why Draco can’t help but wonder if they would fit into one of those Muggle spy movies as they make their way through the Ministry’s Atrium. Sirius, in dog form, and a transfigured service dog vest on, trots on Draco’s left, and somewhere trailing behind them is Potter in disguise.

Draco was dressed in nice, but simple, robes, nothing particularly fancy but still enough to demonstrate his position. With his hair carefully pushed to one side to downplay the undercut he looked every bit like an official’s spoiled son.

“How can I help you?” A Ministry official, low-level if they are welcoming guests, approaches their little group with a forced, professional smile.

“I am here to surprise my father,” Draco replies evenly, his head held high and he blinks down at the official in disdain. “I already know where his office is, so don’t bother.”

“Oh, what a sweet gesture,” the official coo’s, “Could I get a name so I can put you into our visitor records?”

“I hardly think that necessary,” Draco scoffs and the official pouts. Did she think she was dealing with a small child?

“Now, now, it’s all just procedure. I can’t let you continue as a guest without a name.”

Draco makes a show of rolling his eyes high into his skull, scowling something vicious before snapping. “Malfoy. I am Lucius Malfoy’s son. Is that quite enough?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr. Malfoy,” the official chirps, summoning a little clipboard and using her wand to fill out a form in a matter of two seconds. She pauses and looks down at Sirius, eying the vest with raised brows. “I was not aware you had a service dog, Mr. Malfoy,” she says in wonder, but marks it down on the form with little question. She then removes the paper and hands it to Draco. “That will have the elevator go straight up to his office, dear,” and finally the official vanishes like a flash.

Draco scowls at where she had been before looking down when Sirius nudges his hand with his wet nose. Sirius, despite being a dog, has remarkably expressive eyes as he looks to the form in clear concern. This form wouldn’t get them anywhere near the Records Department.

“No need to fret, cousin,” Draco purrs, pleased with himself, and begins glancing around for Potter. “I have someone meeting us here to help. She requested I keep her identity… anonymous, however, so please bear with me.”

“Being sneaky, then?” Potter hisses, slipping up behind Draco and startling him. His smirk isn’t playful when Draco looks back at him. He’s wearing simple, black robes so as not to stand out, and a large brimmed witch’s hat that is charmed to make Potter look like he has long, blond hair.

“We all currently are, Potter, don’t act high and mighty. Here,” he hands over the form given to him by the official and Potter slips it into a pocket. “If anyone asks if you’ve been checked in, show them that.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Potter hisses, their voices low but nonetheless vicious.

“Yes, because you’ve surely done this before,” Draco drawls with a roll of his eyes, “Just stick to the walls and shadows. Appear unassuming.”

“Ah, no wonder this is my job. You’d never be able to make yourself unnoticeable,” Potter says with fake cheer, before storming past Draco and disappearing in the crowd. Draco snorts, ruffled, and he and Sirius are off.

The Records Department is on the same floor as the Atrium but sits far in the back, through a series of hallways and corridors that all look strikingly similar save for the numbers and names on the doors.

The door they’re looking for seems to be purposefully set aside, which does not surprise Draco at all considering the sheer number of confidential files that must be within, but they find it eventually. The door is made of a thick, dull metal that looks rusted at the corners. The handle is just a metal bar, discolored, and the name plate on the front of the door simply reads “Records.”

It looks more like a dungeon door rather than a department’s entryway.

Then, crawling along the wall beside the door, is a familiar little beetle.

With a flutter of the little bug’s wings it leaps from the wall and morphs midair, Skeeter’s heels clacking on the stone floor as she lightly lands. She shakes herself out and pats down her robes, these ones cheetah-print with purple fur lining.

Sirius at Draco’s side morphs into his own human form, the service dog vest magically changing into a waist coat, and steps meaningfully in front of Draco, glaring daggers at Skeeter who looks nonplussed. “What is going on here?” Sirius demands and Draco shoves past him.

“Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus, like you once were,” he says slowly, like he’s teaching a particularly difficult student. “She is also helping us today, so please behave. And don’t tell Potter. He wouldn’t react well.”

“You’re the one that wrote all those awful pieces about--” Sirius begins but Draco grabs his arm.

“Behave!” he repeats and Skeeter smirks, so he glares at her too. “Both of you. Salazar, we have a job to do here.”

“So pushy, little Draco,” Skeeter teases, then pulls out a slip of paper from within her robes. It looks identical to the one Draco had been given as a visitor, except this one gives the visitor permission to enter the Records Department.

“How did you manage to get that?” Sirius questions, eyes thinned in suspicion, and Skeeter smirks at him.

“Never-you-mind, handsome. Just know that I have my ways,” Skeeter hums, then sets the form to the door. As soon as it is in contact with the rusty metal the paper glows green before disintegrating, falling through Skeeter’s hands like sand, and a lock can be heard clicking open from within. Skeeter pulls open the door with ease, despite how heavy it looks, and all three of them swiftly step inside.

It is so much hassle to just be a visitor without an official escort… Draco certainly wouldn’t be doing this again.

Immediately in front of them is a long, long room that goes so far back Draco can’t even see the other end. Filing cabinet upon filing cabinet, each as tall as the three-story high ceiling, line the room in a mess of rows and aisles that do not appear to have any rhyme or reason. Piles of papers yet to be filed all sit along the ground, more and more papers flying in as paper airplanes before unfolding themselves and settling onto a stack.

Sitting in the middle of it all is a massive desk, equally covered in piles of papers, and a man with a monocle, ink-stained fingers, and black hair so long it pools on the floor around him, sits behind it. He’s mumbling to himself as he works, fingers skimming over papers at subdued speeds before he writes something down in a notebook, stamps the papers with one of seven stamps, then taps it with his wand and it flies off to its own file somewhere in the cabinets.

This must be Terence Davis, Tracey’s father, hard at work.

Skeeter is already making her way forward, looking like a kid in a candy store with all the juicy information around her, while Sirius and Draco hold back.

“I don’t like this,” Sirius says lowly, grabbing Draco’s shoulder to make sure he’s listening.

“Which part? The breaking into a Ministry department to illegally copy confidential files, or working with Skeeter?” Draco drawls. They were already this far in and Draco doubted Sirius would give up any time soon. This could all very well save Potter’s life and that should be enough for Sirius.

“Skeeter can’t be trusted,” Sirius hisses, glaring at the back of the woman as she attempts to approach Mr. Davis with a sultry sway to her hips.

“I know that,” Draco rolls his eyes, “And I don’t trust her, I trust that she will do whatever I want as long as I keep her Animagus form a secret. Which, I promised her, you would do as well.”

“I still don’t like it,” Sirius snarls.

“I don’t care and you don’t have to. You just have to work with it.” Their conversation ends as they finally reach the massive desk and Mr. Davis looks up at them.

“Hello,” he says in a distant, haunting voice and Draco inwardly groans. He had been really hoping Tracey received her strange behavior from her mother, but no luck. They would just have to deal with this now.

“Hello, cutie-pie,” Skeeter speaks up, leaning against the desk and smiling at the man. He blinks slowly at her and has absolutely no reaction beyond that. “We’re here to look into a few persons of interest, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you heard we were coming.”

“Tracey sent a message ahead,” Draco offers, and Mr. Davis’s mouth begins to stretch. Wider and wider it goes until it resembles a very puppet-like smile at the mention of his daughter.

“Tracey. My little octopus,” Mr. Davis says, apparently happy, and Skeeter leans away from the desk, eying the man with a worried expression.

“Yes. Her. Lovely girl, really,” Draco says swiftly, hoping to get this moving along. “We have some names we needed to find,” he pulls out his manila folder and hands over the list of names he’d wanted to look up. “Can you assist us?”

For a long, silent moment Mr. Davis just stares at Draco with wide, vacant eyes, then slowly reaches out with his stained, spindly fingers and takes the offered page. He reads them all over - once, twice, three times - before pulling out a stack of bright red paper. He writes a name on a single red sheet each, then taps them with his wand and they watch as the pages fold themselves into origami fish before swimming off through the air.

“The fish sit on the cabinets where you’ll find each person’s file,” Mr. Davis explains. Then, like they aren’t there anymore, he goes straight back to his work.

“Lovely,” Skeeter huffs, squinting and looking around for any red fish nearby.

“How are we supposed to find all of these quickly?” Draco demands, also trying to spot anything.

“If we split up we may have some luck,” Sirius sighs.

“There!” Skeeter suddenly exclaims and, since Mr. Davis is completely ignoring them, she morphs into a beetle and flies over to a high drawer where a little, red origami fish is swimming around the handle. “Better hurry, boys, or I’ll end up doing all the work!” she calls down after she morphs back into a human, hanging off a cabinet as she pulls open the correct one.

“Why not call Harry in to help? He’s surely bored out there,” Sirius suggests once the reporter has gotten away from them.

“And invite that mess the moment he sees Skeeter?” Draco snaps, glaring at Sirius, “I don’t think so. Now, you go that way and I’ll go this way.” With that he turns away and jogs off down the cabinets, eyes peeled for any of the origami fish, ignoring the dread in his gut as he thinks of how long this will surely take.

~ ~ ~

“I don’t trust that Black,” Skeeter comments at one point during the search. They’ve all managed to find at least one fish and copied the corresponding documents, and at the moment Draco is climbing up the handles and drawers of one of the cabinets, a red fish near the top.

Skeeter, with no issue buzzing around, had alighted on an open drawer, sitting there like she was sitting on a sofa, watching Draco climb and not helping him.

“I don’t care what you think,” Draco snarls, out of breath, but so, so close to his destination.

“How can I trust that he won’t rat me out the moment we leave here?” Skeeter continues, not really listening.

“He knows what it’s like to be an unregistered Animagus and he’s doing this for his godson’s life. He isn’t going to be petty and rat you out just because you didn’t get along.”

“That is true, he does understand what it’s like… Hiding from the law,” Skeeter sighs, clearly attempting to bait Draco with something, but he just grunts and keeps climbing. “You know… you rely so much on mine and Black’s abilities. Are you really comfortable continuing like this?”

Draco is higher than Skeeter now and he pauses to glare down at her. “This is another attempt to talk me into becoming an Animagus, isn’t it?” he demands and Skeeter shrugs innocently.

“You would do well as one, and you can stop relying so much on other people. I can tell you positively despise it, little Draco.” Skeeter then morphs and flies up to another open cabinet, changing back into a human so she can sit on it and, yet again, be higher than Draco. “Plus, becoming an Animagus isn’t just a test of spell work, but potion making, too, and I know how much you excel in Potions class.”

Draco pauses, taking a few breaths, then glares at Skeeter. “Have you been spying on me?!” he demands sharply.

“You said to look into Polyjuice Potions. What better place to look than a Potions class?” Skeeter says with an obnoxious pout.

“And then you found nothing on the subject anyway. You’re useless,” Draco snaps, then keeps climbing. When he gets level to Skeeter, however, she continues to talk.

“So, drop me. You’ve gotten me some truly juicy, heart-pounding information for my lovely readers, but if I am as useless as you say…” Skeeter pauses and extends her hand to Draco, a vial of some kind between her pointer and middle finger, and Draco pauses to look at it.

Sitting inside the vial is a reddish-brown chrysalis and Draco immediately recognizes it as belonging to the Death’s Head Hawk Moth.

“Where did you get that?” Draco questions, stopping his climbing to look, wide-eyed at the vial. Carefully, like he’s not in control of his own fingers, he takes the vial away from Skeeter and looks at it more closely.

“It’s remarkable what the Ministry leaves just… lying around,” Skeeter hums, “And you were taking so long to get to the Records Department… well, it is in my nature to snoop. I figured you might find it more useful than me.”

This chrysalis was the final ingredient for an Animagus Potion, and one of the most difficult to find. Some of the other ingredients - mandrake leaf soaked in the drinker’s mouth for a month, dew found in a room untouched for seven days by sun or man, and a hair from the drinker - mostly just took time and patience to prepare. Hell, Draco could probably acquire the dew from somewhere in Grimmauld Place, and the second years at Hogwarts always had mandrake lessons.

But this chrysalis, right here, was something like a treasure for a potion maker, and Skeeter was simply offering it to Draco. Yes, it was clearly a ploy to get him to attempt to become an Animagus… but would it really be so bad to take this? Making the potion wouldn’t make him an Animagus, after all, there was more to it than that… And it would be a marvelous test of his potion capabilities…

Draco is still staring at the vial, deep in thought, with a smirking Skeeter beside him, when a barking can be heard down below.

Both Draco and Skeeter look down as Sirius comes running, shifting from dog to human fluidly, and calls up at them, “Harry says Bagman’s headed our way! Hurry up and get the last documents!”

Sirius had been given the other radio, Draco doubted Potter would want to speak to him much, and thus far had heard that Bagman, Fudge, and a few Aurors Potter recognized from the World Cup were walking around the Ministry. Why was Bagman heading this way, though?

“I’ll keep looking!” Draco calls down. They still had two more red fish to find at this point, he thinks. “Sirius stay as a dog and stay hidden! Skeeter,” Draco looks to the woman.

“See what naughty business Mr. Bagman might be up to?” she hums, “Of course, little Draco.” She transforms into her beetle form and flies off and Draco continues up the filing cabinets, quietly tucking the chrysalis into an interior pocket on his robes.

It wouldn’t do to just throw it out…

~ ~ ~

Things became a bit more hectic in the Records Department after that. Draco had just managed to clone the final documents he needed, finding the last red fish with dog-Sirius’s help, when something caught literal fire.

Skeeter appeared at Draco’s side, her brows raised in clear surprise as she recounts what she’d heard Bagman muttering to himself about.

Apparently, someone had let slip that they would be getting his personal files soon - whether that was the goblins or the twins, Skeeter couldn’t tell - and he had panicked and come here. Once he’d found his files with Mr. Davis’s help, he’d quietly gone through them.

Then set them all on fire.

“We need to get out of here, fast,” Draco says, stuffing all the copied documents into his satchel, thankful to already have gotten Bagman’s.

They rush through the aisles and cabinets, Skeeter shifting back into a beetle and sticking to Draco’s shoulder, while Sirius sticks by Draco’s side, furry head flicking back and forth to make sure no one sees them.

The glow of the fire in the distance makes Draco’s stomach churn, reminding him of the distant flames and screams during the Quidditch World Cup, but he ignores his feelings and forces onward.

Pages begin flying up off of their piles as they pass, getting closer to the main desk, and they spot Mr. Davis standing up, his wand in one hand, quietly morphing and folding the pages around him until they take on the distinct shape of a giant whale shark, it’s mouth opening big and wide as it swims through the air towards the flames, sucking up the fire like a vacuum.

A figure bolts out of the shadows up ahead, dashing for the exit, and it must be Bagman, but they can hardly make chase. They aren’t supposed to be here, after all.

“It was nice meeting you three,” Mr. Davis calls, sounding distant and calm despite the maelstrom of papers and sparks and magic around him. Papers that have been burnt or blown away rebuild themselves, folding up as paper cranes, swans, fish, planes, and all kinds of origami creatures to go back to their respective homes.

“Pleasure,” Draco calls back, unsure what else to say to the disconnected man, but he seems content with the response as he turns back to his work.

Outside they weave through the halls as fast as they dare, Sirius bumping into his legs multiple times whenever someone passes by in the other direction. It is as they are slipping back out, into the Atrium, that the Aurors come rushing through, heading for the Records Department to find out what all the ruckus is about.

Draco doesn’t get a moments rest, though, as Potter immediately appears at his side, eyes wide under his large hat, and grabs hold of Draco’s arm. “What the hell?” he hisses and Draco shakes his head.

“Later. We need to get out of here, now,” he says urgently and Sirius gives a low ‘borf’ of approval.

They weave back through the crowds of people together, staying close and keeping their heads down. No matter what, it wouldn’t do to stick around any longer than needed.

Somehow, someway, they make it up to the London streets without getting stopped, identified, or arrested. Draco feels a literal weight lifting off his shoulder and bug wings buzzing as Skeeter makes her silent departure the second they hit open air, but Potter doesn’t seem to notice. He, instead, rips the witch’s hat off, the blonde hair disappearing with the motion, and looks at Draco with an intense glare.

“I thought you had this under control,” Potter snarls, “What happened?”

“Bagman came in and set his files on fire,” Draco snaps, “How the hell was I supposed to know he would do that?”

“I’d like to know who let it slip that his files would be getting out, soon,” Sirius says as he morphs back into a man. He looks exhausted as he straightens out his clothes.

“What?” Potter questions, confused.

“Bagman is no longer a subject, but I promised both the goblins and… someone else who would prefer to remain anonymous…” Draco’s eyes widen when he nearly slips up and mentions the twins’ current standoff with Bagman.

“Good save,” Sirius mumbles sarcastically.

“I promised them I would get further information on him to use against him. One of them must have hoped to scare Bagman into talking before actually getting the documents…”

“Did you at least get everything else you needed? It was boring where I was,” Potter grumbles and Draco waves a hand in his face dismissively.

“Yes, Potter, I got everything. And you call me a worrywart…”

“Then let’s head back to the house and get something to eat. We can start looking over the papers tomorrow,” Sirius says and begins walking. Neither boy has any arguments against that and quickly move to follow.

~ ~ ~

“I do not understand why Potter is so upset with me,” Draco says absently, walking through rows of plants, watering his own and examining some of the others. Not long ago he had been talking to Max about the importance of growing one’s own produce - Max thought it important, Draco figured buying it fresh was fine enough - when they had been cut off by Neville Longbottom.

Did the boy ever take a break from the Greenhouse? It felt like any time Draco came down Longbottom was already there or would end up showing up a few minutes later.

“Uh… I really don’t think I have any right to comment…” Longbottom squeaks, attempting to work but easily being distracted by how jumpy he is over Draco’s extended presence.

Usually, Draco would have left the moment Longbottom appeared, but today… well, Draco needed to rant to someone who knew the whole situation, which Max could not be, and wouldn’t snark Draco’s head off, which Eve would do.

Longbottom just seemed like a convenient availability.

“You live with the Boy Wonder, Longbottom, work with me here,” Draco waves his hand dismissively at the other boy and keeps pacing about. Longbottom lets out a desperate, defeated kind of groan. “I told him I was doing this investigation for the school, and not him, from the very beginning. This is not new information for him.”

The fight between Draco and Potter had been about two weeks ago, maybe a little less, and the boy still wouldn’t talk to him. Draco didn’t much care, but if he planned to stay the Easter Holiday at Sirius’s it may become aggravating.

Potter never went away for the holidays, but previously Potter didn’t have anyone he wanted to spend the holiday with, Draco had learned. Now, however, Potter had the opportunity to stay with his godfather and Draco was basically going to crash the party.

Oh well, it wasn’t like he intended to interact with them much beyond the initial mission into the Ministry’s Records Department.

“Maybe… Maybe because…” Longbottom taps frantically on the side of a pot he’s attempting to transport. Draco watches him struggle with the weight and offers no help. “You two weren’t friends back then…?”

Draco scoffs and walks swiftly past Longbottom, shoving him aside and making him nearly topple over with his cargo. He recovers last second, however, which leaves Draco with no entertainment. “Don’t be preposterous,” he says sharply, “We are not friends.”

“Harry thinks you are…” Longbottom mumbles quietly, finally setting the pot down in a slightly sunnier spot for this time of day.

“Potter is a fool,” Draco snarls, ignoring the weird feeling in his chest as he glares at a series of pots marked “Second Year Mandrakes. Do not Unearth without Earplugs.”

“I think…” Longbottom mumbles some more, reaching for some shears but not using them yet. Instead he turns towards Draco, fidgeting like he’s covered in ants, and tries to find his words for his on-again-off-again tormentor. “Maybe…”

“Stop saying maybe. Just spit it out,” Draco snaps, glaring at Longbottom, and the tall boy gulps and gathers every bit of his supposed Gryffindor courage.

“I think Harry just thought… better of you.”

Draco stares at Longbottom, eyes hard, and he’ll give it to the other boy, he stands his ground. He keeps fidgeting, but he stands his ground. Then Draco scoffs, desperately shoving down all the feelings that are crawling up from his gut and attempting to choke him out. “Then this is his own fault, if you ask me.”

Longbottom sighs and hangs his head. “I kind of… thought better of you, too…”

Draco is back to staring at the other boy, at a loss for words, as he turns and begins preparing the pot of Solar Flowers. The unique flowers didn’t emerge from their bulbs until they were knocked off by wildlife, but since there was no wildlife within the Greenhouse the bulbs needed to be snipped off manually.

Longbottom raises his shears and Draco, momentarily distracted by everything that has just been said, notices too late the other boy’s mistake.

“You need your gloves--” he attempts, but as Longbottom cuts off the bulb the blinding light that emerges along with the glowing flowers burns his exposed hands. “--for that…”

Draco, emotionally exhausted and in no mood to feel anymore, escorts Longbottom to the hospital wing in silence. Pomfrey literally has a bed specifically for him, apparently, and then Draco is returning to the Greenhouse. Certain to be left alone to his thoughts for a while, now, Draco sets his radio on a counter, turns it on, and continues his conversation with Max as a distraction.

About ten minutes in he sighs, slips on a pair of dragon hide gloves, and frees the last of the Solar Flowers from their bulbs.

“Longbottom better repay me,” he grumbles to himself as he finishes.

“Whose bottom is paying you?” Max asks and Draco snorts, moving their topic along without an answer.

~ ~ ~

If all three of them look through the files together, which is rare, they end up in the sitting room, papers strewn everywhere. Sirius takes one end of the sofa and Potter usually is on the other end. Draco varies from pacing, the floor, or, on one occasion, the top of the loveseat.

“How’d you end up there?” Sirius had asked on that last one and Draco had looked up from his reading, surprised.

“I like heights,” he says, confused why this mattered, but he didn’t climb up there again.

Potter rarely spoke to him beyond a professional level, and usually completely ignored him outside of their file digging, but Draco hardly cared. He usually avoided Sirius and Potter, allowing them to have their super fun, super exciting family holiday, and stuck to his guest room to keep looking through files on his own.

Sirius attempted to talk to him, and sometimes even succeeded. He even promised to get Draco some headphones when he’d found out about the Walkman, but Draco wouldn’t care if he forgot. His Muggle family were sure to send him a pair eventually.

The situation is fine for Draco. Sometimes, engrossed in the files, he even has the house elf Kreacher bring his meals up to him. The grouchy elf is especially eager to serve him, too, saying he’s honored to serve a proper member of the House of Black once more.

Draco mostly just ignores him.

He finds out that Bagman had been entangled with the law a few times in the past. He once played professional Quidditch, which Draco already knew, but had also been put on trial after the First Wizarding War for passing on information to the Death Eater Augustus Rookwood, but had claimed he had not known of Rookwood’s position.

Draco suspected willful blindness, but can hardly prove that.

Then, apparently because people adored him, he’d had multiple charges of tax evasion, magical exposure, and attempted Ponzi schemes swept under the rug or dealt with quietly. It certainly made his rise to head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports a smoother one. It also made Draco lose just a little bit more faith in the Ministry of Magic…

The files were enough to ruin Bagman ten lives over, and Draco separated the charges accordingly. The goblins would receive all of the information pertaining to the First Wizarding War, while the twins got the charges that had been pushed aside to keep his image clear.

Bertha Jorkins’s file was relatively thin, mostly a few write-ups for being forgetful or gossiping about people at work. It seemed, at some point in the past few years, the reports on forgetfulness increased immensely and the gossip complaints shrunk. Draco couldn’t figure out why.

He set the document aside for Sirius, though, since he’d voiced concerns over the woman in the past.

Madam Maxime’s file was also thin. Draco suspected this was due to her being from France, seeing as most of the documents in her file were about travelling between countries, talks between officials, and requests for magical products native to the British Isles.

Draco had hardly suspected her, anyway, and had only kept her on his list because he’d not found any solid proof to doubt her involvement.

There was one file he mostly keeps to himself, not wanting Sirius or Potter to snoop through it, and after they had figured out whose it was they had, grudgingly, accepted. Draco hated pulling Severus Snape’s file, but with everything going on it wouldn’t hurt to know all the facts.

He already knew his godfather had been a Death Eater, same as Lucius Malfoy, but seeing it in writing somehow made it feel all the more real. Unlike Lucius, who had only been pardoned when it was believed he had been under the Imperius Curse, Snape had been pardoned after Albus Dumbledore himself had vouched for him. Apparently, Snape had been spying on You-Know-Who for the Order of the Phoenix, according to Dumbledore, which Draco had never heard about.

There were also photos of dark marks, turned red after You-Know-Who’s defeat. Some also sit within Karkaroff’s file, which Draco had copied as a precaution, and they all have Draco gulping and swiftly shutting the files for a while.

The Dark Mark was His mark, and even on a reformed Death Eater it was still a life sentence for a life of skepticism and mistrust. Former Death Eaters, including Snape, Lucius, Karkaroff, and nearly all the parents of Draco’s pureblood friends, hid their marks away with long sleeves on a regular basis. To actually see it, up close, like in these photos…

Draco can’t help but feel nauseous.

So, for the most part, Draco’s first week at 12 Grimmauld Place is spent quietly researching the files, making notes in his own folder, and determining what is important and what is useless. Most of it, unfortunately, is useless.

Despite their clear connections to Death Eaters in the past, Draco still doesn’t suspect Karkaroff or Bagman of any funny business towards Potter. Snape, he grudgingly admits, may have a connection, but Dumbledore claiming him as a double agent is enough to keep Draco’s suspicions at bay.

The real person of interest, the person Draco had been most curious in, is Barty Crouch.

His file is thick, mostly full of legal documents and all the things he’s done within the Ministry. When working with Sirius and Potter, on those rare moments in the sitting room, they mostly look through these papers alone. Most of it is also useless, and when Sirius asks him, alone, why the sudden interest in this particular man, Draco grudgingly admits his reasoning.

“On the night of the Yule Ball, Potter showed me the Marauders Map - marvelous spellwork, by the way, I am truly impressed,” Draco begins and Sirius preens a tiny bit. “In the Great Hall I saw the name Barty Crouch.”

“Something has been off about him for a while now,” Sirius agrees, brows furrowed.

“I thought so as well. That is why I want to know what is going on.”

“Does Harry know?”

“No, and I would prefer to keep it that way. He is bound to end up doing something reckless, otherwise, and ruin everything.”

Sirius looks at him with a searching, then knowing, gaze, a faint smile on his face. “Thank you for looking after him, Draco,” he says quietly and Draco stiffens, then turns away.

“I have more research to do. Leave me be.”

Potter was never told, it wouldn’t do to have him fretting over Barty Crouch lurking in unknown corners of the school, unseen but scheming, and Draco was able to continue to investigate in peace.

Most of these documents have to do with Crouch’s work and not his personal life, but Draco does come across a few interesting bits the more he digs.

He already knows Barty Crouch has a son, also named Barty Crouch, who was sentenced to Azkaban by his own father for the torture and insanity of Neville Longbottom’s parents. He also knows the Lestrange’s were involved. Reading the transcript of the actual court proceedings is a little hard, though, Crouch Jr. begging his father to let him go, that he didn’t do anything, and not to send him back to the dementors.

Nonetheless, he is sent, and a photo of his dark mark is also included in Barty Crouch Jr.’s copied files.

He died a year later, as Sirius had said, due to “severe stress.” Apparently, he was buried nearly the same day of his death, no autopsy performed or mediwitch present to determine his true cause of death.

A few days prior to this Barty Crouch Sr. and his wife had made a visit to their son due to his wife’s declining health. On a surface level it looks like Crouch Jr. had given up on life with the approaching loss of his mother, and Draco suspected that was what was accepted, until he finds the report. Hidden away in so many others, made two days after the visit by Crouch Sr., are orders on the procedure for disposing of his son’s body “should he meet an untimely demise.”

If that didn’t scream suspicious, Draco didn’t know what did.

In addition, about a week after his son’s death, Crouch Sr. announced the passing of his wife, her funeral a closed casket affair, and no medical reports are included on her cause of death either. For all intents and purposes, the only reason anyone believes she’s dead, is because Crouch Sr. told them she was.

In one case, a body is found, reported, and buried due to orders from the father made a matter of days prior, as if he knew it was coming.

In the other case, a reported death with no body, medical inquiry, or documentation, however it is not questioned since it was highly known Mrs. Crouch had been sick and running out of time as of late.

It is because of this terminal illness that Mr. and Mrs. Crouch get a visit with their son in Azkaban, in private, with no one else to see.

And, because it is on Draco’s mind thanks to Snape, and Skeeter reminding him how many potions and potion ingredients are within the Ministry to be used as necessary, Draco can’t help but think of Polyjuice Potion.

Swallowing his mounting nerves Draco skims back through some of the earlier, seemingly useless reports. Signed documents, meeting reports… ah, request forms, that’s what he needs.

Most are for minor potions, usually medical in nature from a Hangover Cure to more serious, personalized concoctions for Mrs. Crouch, but a few are for ingredients. Notably, about two months before the visit, spread over a few weeks, are requests for lacewing flies, leeches, powdered bicorn horn, knotgrass, fluxweed (picked on a full moon), and boomslang skin.

All the ingredients needed for a Polyjuice Potion. And with at least a month to prep.

Draco doesn’t report his findings to Sirius or Potter, he isn’t sure if he should. After all, this is all conjecture that could amount to a false claim, but two questions have begun to latch into his mind.

Does the Marauders Map show suffixes for a person? And if not…

Could Barty Crouch Jr. still be alive?

~ ~ ~

“What are… SS soldiers?” Draco asks curiously when he and the Muggle family return to the museum after “linner.” He still thinks the name is silly, but he’s in surprisingly higher spirits now than before. Muggle food was delicious and their music was infectious and their interior design could be just as intriguing as a wizard’s. Who knew?

Draco didn’t even mind Max’s or Max’s father’s rambling. They’d ended up in a new room, this one outlining the specific branches of each major power’s armies. They’d already gone through the Allied Forces and were now on the Axis Powers.

What a pompous name, too. “Axis Powers,” as if they were the center of everything.

“I may butcher the pronunciation,” Max’s father advises, adjusting his massive glasses as he looks at a plaque just out of Draco’s height range. “SS is short for Schutzstaffel, which means ‘Protection Squadron’ in German.” Draco may not speak German, but he’s pretty sure Max’s father did, in fact, butcher the pronunciation, but Draco sure isn’t going to give it a shot either.

“Why’d they have letters tattooed on their arms?” Max asks, a few steps away, pointing at a collage of photos of people’s upper arms with the letters A, AB, B, or O tattooed onto them.

“That was only the Waffen-SS, which was a branch off the SS,” Max’s father says, stepping over to his child to get a better look at the photos, and Draco hurries over to take a look as well.

“’The Waffen-SS, a military branch off of the much larger SS organization’,” Draco reads aloud, slowly sounding out some of the bigger words, and no one thankfully stops him, “’were famous for tattooing their blood types on their upper arms. This would later be a curse for the soldiers, as they could be easily identified by looking for these tattooed letters, and thus imprisoned for their crimes’.”

“What a dumb move,” Max huffs, lips twisted judgmentally as they look at the display.

“It certainly made it easy for them to be found,” Draco agrees, eyes on the photos of the tattoos. What kind of fool would brand themselves in this way? Was this a common thing to show allegiance?

“Wish all the bad guys marked themselves like that,” Max says thoughtfully, their arms crossed over their chest, and Draco looks over at them.

“We could stop them before they do anything wrong,” Draco says with a nod and Max grins at him, clearly happy to have the blonde on Max’s side.

“How would you know which markings are bad, though?” Max’s father questions from beside them and both children look up at him. He’s smiling but looks apologetic to ruin their fun. “What if someone got it against their will? Or didn’t know what it meant? Or changed their mind? These things are permanent, but the human mind is not.”

“Papa… you’re such a spoilsport!” Max announces with a pout, and Draco nods, equally unhappy.

“Now, hold on, I’m not a spoilsport!” Max’s father yelps, distraught. “I-I’m cool, I promise! We just... have to think about these things, that’s all.”

“Come along, Max,” Draco flips his head and reaches out to grab Max’s arm, the two turning away from Max’s father. “Let’s find something else to look at.”

“Yes, let’s,” Max snickers and they both walk away, Draco’s head held high and Max attempting to mimic him. Max’s father, unfortunately, tries to prove just how cool he is for a while after that until his wife comes over to “comfort” him.

“Come now, Max,” Max’s mother half-teases, hugging her husband around the shoulders and patting his back, “you know how sensitive your father can be about these things.”

“And now, so does the rest of the museum,” Draco smiles innocently, making Max laugh, and Eric, off to the side, groans like his life is ending.

~ ~ ~

It is the night before Easter Sunday when Draco is awoken by the sound of a scream. He’d fallen asleep at a weird angle, going back over some of the documents after changing into his powder blue, silk pajamas and climbing into bed, and now his neck hurt something fierce.

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but he knows he’s been woken up at 1:26 in the morning because he glares at the ticking clock hanging from his wall the second he’s conscious enough to understand the numbers. He’s furious and grouchy, he despises being awoken so late, or early, and the sound of rapid footsteps down the hall outside have him assuming one of the other inhabitants are pulling a prank. The assholes.

So he rises to hunt them down and give them a piece of his mind. Potter’s door is wide open down to the left and Draco marches towards it, expecting to find one or both of the Gryffindor morons sitting within and snickering at Draco’s ruffled state. He opens his mouth to start yelling, then stops short.

Instead of glee and mischief, Draco finds Sirius crouched on Potter’s bed, holding him tightly, the young boy looking shell-shocked and vacant. He’s not crying, but Draco, frozen in the doorway and staring in, kind of wishes he were. It would be less haunting, the wide, empty green eyes, pale skin, and thin lips.

Potter has had a nightmare. It won’t be until the next day Draco will learn that Potter, sometimes, dreams of his mother’s scream, the green flash of the Killing Curse, and the high laughter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. These are not the same as Potter’s visions and burning scar, these are just nightmares that have haunted Potter for years that he has never been able to shake.

Right now, however, Draco does not know these things and all he sees is the Boy Wonder shaking, void, and being held together by his godfather.

Potter’s breathing begins to turn ragged, like he’s been shaken out of a stupor and remembers how to be terrified like everyone else, and Sirius finally spots Draco over his godson’s shoulder.

No one says a word, they just look at each other, and Draco sees the exhausted resignation in his cousin’s eyes and realizes this is not the first time that this has happened.

“M-Malfoy…?” Potter croaks, noticing Sirius’s split attention and looking over. Potter cringes and scrubs at his eyes, even though they’re dry, like Draco would care if he were crying or not. After all this time, fighting or not, Draco would never judge Potter over that, so he quietly watches, shocked himself, and unable to come up with any kind of response.

“Go… Go back to bed, Malfoy,” Potter mumbles shakily, sounding weak and pathetic and lost. Sirius appears to squeeze him a little tighter. Then, even quieter, he whispers, “Sorry to wake you.”

Draco, for a while, stares at Potter even more, head shifting through emotions. Then, slowly, his expression changes to something harder as an unexplainable anger washes over him. He isn’t sure why he’s so angry all of a sudden, but he immediately knows what he’s going to do.

He turns and walks away, heading back to his room. It takes a few moments, but he soon returns, face set, with his pillows and a particularly soft blanket from Malfoy manor bundled up in his arms. Sirius and Potter look up, surprised to see him again, and he marches forward, his mind made up and every inch of his stubborn movements making that clear.

Potter’s bed is large, fit for more people than just him, but so are all the beds in this house, and Draco unceremoniously tosses his things onto the side of the bed Potter doesn’t appear to be inhabiting at the moment.

“Malfoy? W-What are you…” but Potter can’t finish. He’s gone wide-eyed, staring as Draco rearranges everything to his liking, then climbs into the bed. Sirius has leaned back some, quietly watching everything, a strange light in his eyes that Draco is too tired to identify.

“Go back to bed, Potter,” Draco mumbles, face half pressed into one of his pillows and his body covered by sheets and his blanket. He shuts his eyes, hoping sleep will come fast, but also reaches out to grab Potter’s wrist, fingers on his pulse point.

For a moment Potter stiffens, stunned still by the touch, before he begins to shake so slightly Draco only notices because of his hold on the other boy.

“Go to sleep, Harry,” Sirius whispers lowly and Draco feels the bed shift.

“Sirius… wait, can you…” but Potter can’t find the words. He sounds so uncertain, so rubbed raw and unlike Potter at all. Draco hates it with a passion.

“I’ve got you, Harry. Don’t worry,” Sirius whispers and Draco opens his eyes long enough to see Sirius morph into his dog form, then jump onto the bed and curl up at the foot.

Potter lays back down after that, seeming to find comfort that his godfather won’t be leaving him, then looks towards Draco. The blonde still has his wrist held tightly in his hand.

Potter takes a deep, shaking breath, bracing himself, then turns onto his side to fully face Draco, the two boys not saying a word as they just stare at each other, both trying to understand what this all means for them. Draco, absently, rubs circles into Potter’s palm with his thumb, and eventually the deep sound of Sirius’s breath indicates he’s fallen asleep before them.

“I don’t… really believe you’re an afterthought,” Draco finds himself admitting in the silent atmosphere of Potter’s bedroom, and Potter’s green eyes widen in surprise and shock. He stares a while longer, searching Draco, before something seems to break in his eyes and he leans into Draco so urgently it feels like Draco might be the only thing keeping him together.

Potter buries his face into the taller boy’s shoulder, the barrier they’d built up over the last few weeks turning to sand in an instant, and shakes. He still doesn’t cry, but that feels worse somehow.

It feels kind of like their dance on the Astronomy Tower, Potter’s face in Draco’s shoulder, hand in hand, and Draco’s free arm reaching around Potter to tuck the blanket over him, then staying there like he’s too lazy to move it anymore. Really, he’s desperately attempting to get the shaking to stop, like he can hold the quakes down with just a single arm.

Slowly, blessedly, the shaking does begin to dwindle, Potter’s hands having found their way to curl into Draco’s pajama shirt, and the Boy-Who-Lived begins to slip back into the realm of sleep.

Draco, exhausted and rattled, and only after he is absolutely certain Potter is completely asleep himself, allows himself to fall into slumber too.

~ ~ ~

Studying, as it turns out, is a spectacular way to distract one’s self from the impending possibility of being petrified in one’s own school. It wasn’t the lesson Draco had expected to learn his second year at Hogwarts, but he’d learned it and taken it with him into his future problems.

If something bad was happening around him, something he couldn’t control, studying was a good way to distract himself and keep his mind preoccupied on something other than doom and gloom.

This trend morphed over time, studying still a good go-to, but reading Muggle books or going over investigation files were also pretty effective.

Max, however, only responded well to studying. It was odd, Draco would have thought the hyperactive Muggle would distract themselves from bad news with idle chatter or something equally useless, but sometimes Draco forgot just how smart and curious Max really was. That curiosity, though, led to study sessions over subjects they weren’t even taking in school, much to Draco’s humor and Max’s teachers’ chagrin.

Tonight was one of those nights. Max had awoken from a nightmare - something about being chased by a stampede of animals and not being able to outrun them - and called up Draco in hopes to bounce a few study topics off him.

“Looking at the arm bones from the anterior view, palm facing forward, we have the humerus bone that then attaches to the elbow. Distal to that, the forearm has two major bones, the radius and the ulna, the radius being lateral from the ulna.”

“Correct thus far,” Draco nods, looking over the notebook where he had written down the bone structures Max had previously read to him. “We do not have an anatomy class here, I must admit, but it is interesting to learn about the human body.”

“I don’t have an anatomy class either,” Max says flippantly before proceeding to outline the hand bones. “Carpus, metacarpus, and phalanges. The carpus is located in the heel of the hands and--”

“Wait, wait, then why are you learning the bones of the body… If you are not required to know them?” Draco questions, eyes narrowing as he looks at the radio.

“Uh, because I want to?” Max offers as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

They sounded so much better now. Max did not have nightmares often, and usually, if they did, the dreams weren’t so bad that they couldn’t go right back to sleep afterwards. When they did come to Draco, though, their descriptions were vague and rushed, but often made very little sense.

Draco never judged, though. He may have when he was little, not understanding how a sentient blob of jell-o wanting to eat Max could be scary, but whenever he did that, demanding to know why anyone would ever be afraid of something so stupid, Max would always shut down. They’d bid Draco good-bye and not want to talk to him for a few days after.

“It didn’t matter that the scenario seemed foolish outside the realm of dreams,” Draco had been told by Max’s mother, “Fear is fear, and in dreams we are vulnerable.”

Draco still hadn’t understood, until he’d been about nine and woken up from a nightmare where he had been flying on his broom, circling around a dictionary the size of a building, when he’d looked back and realized he was being followed by a flock of birds. They never got closer, or even made to attack him, they were just incredibly loud and kept following him everywhere. He had been terrified.

When he’d awoken, shaken and upset, and called Max, Max didn’t cut the signal. They sat through Draco’s ramblings and let Draco be upset and never passed judgement for the bizarre dream. By the end Draco had felt much better, if a tad foolish, and had been able to return to bed with little issue.

Draco, afterwards, made sure to do the same for Max whenever he could.

“Okay, so where was I?” Max mumbles and Draco smiles a little. If being there to help the strange Muggle get through their nightmares meant helping them study for a subject they weren’t even taking just because they were curious… then so be it.

“Bones of the hand,” Draco supplies and Max grunts.

“Okay, so the carpus bones…”

~ ~ ~

Sirius is gone when Draco wakes up Easter morning. His weight at the foot of the bed has vanished, but still feels warm if Draco reaches out a leg. There’s a distant sound from downstairs, like music that’s been distorted by all the walls and floorboards, and Draco figures he’s gone down to get the day started.

It leaves Draco slowly becoming more aware that, at some point in the night, he has become the Boy-Who-Lived’s personal hugging pillow. It isn’t graceful at all, Potter’s arms tightly around his torso and one leg tangled with Draco’s own while the other is thrown hazardously over Draco’s hip. He’s being squeezed by all the Gryffindor’s might and Potter has completely hidden his face away in the crook of Draco’s neck.

He’s like a spider monkey, clinging onto the nearest source of warmth. Despite the warming days, Grimmauld Place could still get drafty, and it seemed Draco’s blanket simply hadn’t been enough.

Draco can’t be too upset, though, since his own arms had found their way around Potter’s shoulders and were squeezing his head so close to his body that Draco had to check he hadn’t strangled the boy in the night.

He was fine, and blessedly still asleep, and Draco ends up staring off into the distance. He can hardly get a good look at Potter, even though he illogically really wants to, so he observes how completely relaxed the other boy seems, a far cry from last night, or even his day to day presence.

When Potter is upset, near crying, and falling apart; those are the moments that aren’t right, that make Draco inexplicably angry and energized with a need to fix it. This, this slumbering and peaceful presence, may not be the Potter Draco is familiar with, but it is still completely Potter.

Eventually, as the sun gets higher and higher, Potter does begin to stir, squirming to hide his face from the light until Draco raises a hand to block out a line of light over Potter’s eyes.

“Good morning,” Draco says lowly, not wanting to upset whatever balance they’ve managed to find last night, but not wanting to run away either. He’d slept in the same bed as Harry Potter after the boy had had a nightmare. As embarrassing as that statement could be, he wasn’t going to back down from it. The last time he’d run away from something… he’d ended up not talking with Potter for weeks.

“Mornin’,” Potter mumbles, all muddled and blurry from sleep, and doesn’t seem to care at all that Draco is still there. “Haven’t slept that deep in…” Potter pauses to yawn, “Ever…”

“Glad to know my innate goose-down-nature was of some assistance, then,” Draco says haughtily, and Potter shifts back and looks up at him with an arched brow. He looks strange without his glasses. Like a zebra without their stripes.

“You did,” Potter eventually acquiesces, letting his head flop back onto his pillow. His grip has loosened but he’s still very much clinging to Draco. “Glad you finally got over yourself.”

Draco retaliates by lowering his hand that had been blocking the sun, Potter yelping and squeezing his eyes tight, then groaning in frustration. “Don’t wanna get up,” he grumbles half to the pillow.

“Very well, but I’ve begun smelling bacon and I suspect Sirius will be tromping up here soon to wake us anyway,” Draco hums, sniffing at the faint smell of cooking meat. He had no idea if Sirius had taken over the kitchen or gotten Kreacher to do it, but knowing his cousin, Draco wouldn’t be surprised with either outcome.

Potter grumbles some more nonsensical nonsense, before finally untangling himself from Draco and the covers. “Gotta piss anyway,” he mumbles to himself, nearly falling out of his bed when he rolls over, then trudging towards the connecting bathroom.

“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” Draco drawls, stretching out on the freed bed, then reaching out and snagging Potter’s discarded glasses on the bedside table. For a moment he and Potter have a silent battle over them, Draco attempting to hold them out of Potter’s reach while Potter swats at him and grabs for them, but he eventually passes them over without a word and Potter shuffles into the bathroom, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts once more.

He isn’t sure what has just transpired between the two of them, what will change, if anything will, but it doesn’t feel… bad. It feels inevitable. Maybe they skipped a few steps and leapt headfirst into this strange, new existence, but that seems perfectly in line with their relationship. He still doesn’t think he and Potter are friends, though. That title doesn’t sound right, even now.

Draco has friends. Max, Eve, occasionally some of the Slytherins in his year, maybe even Granger and Weasley if he’s being generous… but not Potter. No, not Potter.

Because Draco’s pretty sure friends aren’t supposed to think the other looks so sweet when they are half-asleep and bleary-eyed, wrapped around you like you’re the most important thing in the world, and talking to you so casually that you feel like somewhere along the way you’ve wasted a lot of time not doing more of just this.

~ ~ ~

Somewhere during his two week stay at the Black residence, Draco becomes the designated “Portrait Whisperer.” Early on he’d accidentally stumbled upon the photo of Walburga Black, awakening the old woman within, and she’d proceeded to shout angry, vile insults this way and that until she got a good look at him.

She’d changed her tune some, then. “Ohh, finally a proper young man to grace the house of my fathers,” she coo’s and Draco immediately identifies who she is, how they’re related, and why he probably is about to really hate this encounter.

“Hullo, Great Aunt Walburga,” he says, plastering on his best smile usually reserved for parties. “Lovely afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”

The portrait scoffs, a faint roll of her eyes that hardly makes her look improper. “Not with that man that dares retain the name of Black tromping around again, ruining the sanctity of my home, dragging in half-breeds and filth from all the darkest recesses of our crumbling society.”

Draco, very abruptly, wants to vanish from this conversation and maybe also existence.

“Ah, I have walked around some myself. I think you would be pleased with the work Sirius has put in to keep everything clean and livable.”

“We have Kreacher for all that!” Walburga roars, fury in her eyes, and Draco swallows. So much for trying to play peacekeeper. He’d never been good at that, so he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d tried. “I adore that a proper Black has returned to his roots, my dear,” Walburga’s tone immediately changes, her smile looking so pleased and her eyes crinkling. “Please, tell your Aunt why you’ve returned at such an inopportune moment? Surely you did not come along with that former son of mine and his disgusting pet.”

Draco pauses to consider what would make his own father happy if he asked such a question. He did not feel like listening to the screams of a portrait of a distant family member, so it would be best to just say something to make her happy and get her off his back.

“I did, I’m afraid, but some sacrifices must be made for progress. You see, I am working on a grand project to better Hogwarts this year, but I required some assistance that only a Black could offer,” specifically an Animagus Black with a house all his own that wouldn’t rat Draco out to his parents, “That is why I am here.”

“Such a strong young man, putting yourself through such an ordeal,” Walburga says, sounding sympathetic as her eyes moisten. “Ohhh, my youngest nephew, making the Black and Malfoy families proud! You must tell me what you have been up to. You were sorted into Slytherin, surely?”

Draco swallows and keeps his smile in place, nodding tightly. “Yes ma’am, I most certainly was. Perhaps we could have this conversation another time, however? I really would like to get some violin practice in. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

Draco then draws the curtain that had originally hidden the portrait, smiling tightly and nodding vacantly as Walburga demands he come back later and play some music for his sweet, lonely aunt.

He then turns and power walks as fast as he dares away from the portrait, only to run into Sirius hiding around the corner.

“Why do you have a crazy portrait of your mother in here?” Draco demands the second he sees the man who had clearly been eavesdropping.

“Nevermind that, how did you manage to calm her down?” Sirius demands right back, his eyes wider than usual.

They both end up down in the sitting room, Potter off to pick up some snacks from a nearby, Muggle store. It turns out the portrait has been stuck to the wall permanently by a non-reversible sticking charm.

“I did the same thing with some posters in my old room,” Sirius says, smirking, “I suppose this was her retribution. I can’t get rid of her and now we have to be careful walking around my own house.”

“Why are you even here, anyway?” Draco questions rather bluntly, his eyes narrowed. “You clearly have a lot to do to renovate the place, and sometimes you look dreadfully haunted… You were disowned by these people, for Salazar’s sake, why would you ever want to come back?”

“Because I had no choice,” Sirius sighs. “I’m the last Black, and rightful owner of the manor, even if I was originally disowned. No one else is left. Plus…” here Sirius truly deflates, sinking into the couch and hanging his head backwards over the back. “The Ministry expects me to stay here. Once I have all my legal documents sorted I’ll be able to do as I please, but until then…”

“I wish we could use your documents from the Records Department to help you.”

“So do I, but then they’d know we copied them if I ever brought them up. No, I’ll handle this their way. Keep things clean and my nose down.”

“That sounds very unlike you,” Draco purses his lips, eying Sirius skeptically, but the older man just chuckles in defeat.

“I’m sure it does, but I have Harry to think about now. I have to make sure everything is done properly so I can get him out of that horrible place as soon as possible.”

Draco’s head tilts, confused, but before he can ask what Sirius means by “that horrible place,” Potter returns, calling out as he slams the door shut behind him, and Draco rises to flee for his room and think.

After that, however, once Sirius and Potter find out Walburga likes Draco, he usually is used to calm her down or keep her preoccupied. The final week of his stay, when he and Potter are finally on good terms again, they will often wake the portrait up by tromping around, but one shout from Draco of, “It’s just me, Aunt Walburga! Sorry to wake you!” and she would quiet down.

He still has to go and talk to her some afternoons when she begins yelling for him, and on a few occasions he plays a violin lullaby for her to send her back to sleep again. She has a lot to say about his hair, unfortunately, but that’s her only complaint since Draco doesn’t tell her about his newfound rebellious streak.

Later, Sirius is usually more than happy to assure Draco of his hair and independence, while Potter passes him bags of European Muggle candy he gets from the stores.

“Can you just live here forever?” Sirius questions when Draco comes down to dinner after quieting a mouthy Walburga. The next day he and Potter would be leaving, and while she was “happy to see that mutt out of her home” she was sad to see Draco go.

Draco rolls his eyes at that and says nothing, smirking at his cousin as he eats.

“I have a question,” Potter speaks up, wiggling his fork between his fingers. “If that portrait is stuck to the wall forever… Why not just remove the wall?”

Sirius looks at his godson, mouth opening and closing a few times, but no answer comes out. Draco has also stopped eating to look at Potter, brows raised in surprise at the suggestion.

Slowly Sirius sets his elbows on the table and then lays his face in both of his hands, groaning in misery, while Potter has begun to smile, pleased with himself. “You didn’t think of that, did you?” Draco stage whispers, leaning towards his cousin and smirking when the man glares at him through his fingers.

Both Draco and Potter end of snickering at Sirius’s misfortune, but at least he knows what to do next in his renovations, so there’s a victory somewhere in there.

The following morning Sirius wishes good-bye to Draco while still at the manor. Draco plans to go on ahead, use the Knight Bus this time, to avoid any suspicions of showing up with Sirius and Potter instead of his parents. It will also give the two plenty of time to be properly sappy as Sirius walks Potter to Platform 9 ¾.

Draco ends up in an empty compartment for a while, reading over a Potions textbook as he waits for more people to arrive. He spots Sirius and Potter when they appear and say their good-byes, followed by Potter unceremoniously charging into Draco’s compartment like he owns the place.

“No room,” Draco huffs, even though Potter is already putting his travel bags up top with Draco’s.

“No room, my ass,” Potter responds instinctively, smirking when Draco scowls, then sits down beside him. “Are you seriously reading a textbook right now?”

“We hardly studied at all over the break, Potty, I have no intention of falling behind,” Draco scoffs and looks back to his textbook.

“I think you and Hermione may have been related in a past life,” Harry deadpans, scooting closer to get a look at the book.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Potter,” Draco hums and Potter snorts.

“That doesn’t look like our textbook… Kind of familiar, though…”

Draco glances over at the other boy. He looks tired from their early morning, his eyelids drooping, but he’s looking intently at the book in Draco’s lap with confusion. “How would you know? You hardly even look in ours.”

“Whatever, be bratty,” Potter scoffs, but there isn’t any bite to his words anymore, not like when they were fighting.

In reality Potter isn’t wrong, the book is actually a third-year copy, but not Draco’s. No, in one of the only productive conversations Draco had with the portrait of Walburga Black, he’d mentioned his interest in going over some Transfiguration spells and Potions from his previous year, but couldn’t call on his parents to go digging around for something as trivial as that.

Walburga had called on Kreacher, who was more than eager to help his Mistress, even if she was just a magical painting, and he’d been sent to fetch some of the old textbooks from Regulus Black’s room.

Draco really wasn’t sure he’d even do anything with any of this knowledge, but it wouldn’t hurt to do some research, would it? After all, the Animagus Potion was a third-year subject and was referenced within both Transfiguration and Potions texts.

Eventually, as more and more people mill onto the train, Potter mumbles something about needing a nap, and a weight settles on Draco’s shoulder. Draco sighs, rolling his eyes at the display, but doesn’t move. Evidently he had gained two titles over the holiday; “The Portrait Whisperer,” and “Harry Potter’s Personal Pillow.”

The latter was a lot less upsetting to Draco than he thought it should be.

“You are on my shoulder,” Draco says anyway, on principle.

“And you were reading,” Potter mumbles back, waving his hand in the general direction of Draco’s textbook, his eyes already shut as he drifts.

Eve finds them right before the train begins to move, opening the compartment door and looking down at the slumbering Potter and researching Draco. When Draco looks back up at her she arches a brow and says, “Ah, yes… order had been returned to the universe.”

~ ~ ~

“And the body… was never found again! Woooooo!”

Draco stares down at the radio with a blank expression, his impressionable, emotional, and receptive eight-year-old mind not at all impressed.

“Were you scared?” Max asks brightly. Draco had just returned from a Halloween Ball a family friend had held for the pureblood community and he was positively exhausted. Despite that, he had still called up Max, wanting to talk to the young Muggle to help Draco relax.

“No,” Draco replies immediately, leaning back in his tub and rolling his eyes. “That wasn’t scary at all.”

“Or maybe you’re just too dead inside to notice!” Max counters, not sounding as excited anymore at Draco’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Or I’m just really brave,” Draco smirks, finally finding his enjoyment in picking at Max and so easily getting a rise out of them.

“Nu-uh! Mama says you can only be brave if you’re scared first,” Max says with feeling, the sound over the radio crackling as they readjust their hold on their own device. “When you’re afraid, but you do something anyways, that’s when you’re brave.”

“Your mother is a wise woman, as always,” Draco admits, looking up to his ceiling, his eyes following the grain in the polished wood. “I suppose, then, I am too fearless for your silly horror stories.”

“You are such a jerk,” Max grumbles and Draco smirks, chuckling to himself, and they move on to talking about all the candy Max planned to get trick-or-treating that night as someone called Chucky.

~ ~ ~

“How could you?!”

Draco cringes, hands coming up to cover his ears at Granger’s screech. On their walk down to Care of Magical Creatures, Draco had been yanked aside by the Golden Trio, allowing all the other students to go on ahead. He’d been irritated, but hadn’t thought much of it until he got a good look at them.

Potter and Weasley stood behind Granger, looking awkward and tense as the muggleborn bared down on Draco. How Granger was able to embody so much fury with hardly any movement or physical blow, Draco didn’t know, but it was positively terrifying.

“I copied documents from the Records Department. How many times do I have to say it?” Draco snaps, slowly lowering his hands when he thinks Granger is done screaming. The best way, he found, to deal with his crippling fears, was snark.

“You reckless, foolish, idiot of a boy!” Granger flails her hands uselessly, like she wants to smack Draco, or strangle him, or something along those lines.

“You know, you weren’t this angry when he and I were fighting earlier,” Potter says suspiciously, then quiets down when Granger swings around to glare at him.

“That’s because you’re both emotionally constipated, antagonistic rivals on the best of days! The fight was stupid, but expected. THIS, however is so many levels of irresponsible!” Granger turns back to Draco, who flinches back now that the attention has been returned to him. “Did you even find anything out?” she demands.

“Of course I did,” Draco says, affronted. “I put together quite the blackmail packages on Ludo Bagman for two of his main enemies, I managed to strike a few suspects off my list, I got Sirius a copy of Bertha Jorkins’s files since he’s looking into her, and I’ve begun looking into a particularly curious lead.”

“What lead?” Weasley questions, his arms crossed and head tilted. It seemed the moment Potter and Draco had returned from their holiday, fight over and clearly in better relations with one another, so too did Weasley forgive Draco and Granger lose her awkward, tense aura. They certainly had no qualms with talking to him again.

“I’m not going to tell you that,” Draco says and Weasley blanches. “What? It’s not like you’re paying me to do this. I don’t actually have to report anything to you.”

“This is about Harry’s life!” Weasley argues, “You owe it to us!” Potter and Granger appear to agree with this, judging by their meaningful nods.

“Perhaps, if the evidence were more substantial. At the current instance I am merely in hypothesizing. I need to actually do more investigative research and tests before I can make any solid claims.”

The idea that Barty Crouch Jr. might actually still be alive was a farfetched one, but based off what he’d found in Barty Crouch Sr.’s files, it wasn’t an impossibility. Upon speaking to Sirius a bit longer on Barty Crouch, the older man had agreed it suspicious how sick the official had been and how many days he’d missed. He also admitting to knowing very little about the man’s son’s death. All of the following disposal of the body had been done by the dementors.

Sirius had also believed Draco had made the right choice in keeping all the details to himself, that Potter had enough to focus on with the Triwizard Tournament, and Draco intended to continue that trend until absolutely necessary.

“Investigating is exhausting,” Weasley groans, sagging where he stands, and Draco glares at him.

“You’re not even doing anything,” he snaps at the ginger, but it hardly affects him.

“Yeah, but just listening to you talk about it all…” Weasley trails off and Draco’s glare flicks to Potter when he snickers.

“Could we please return to the fact that you illegally entered a Ministry Department to copy confidential and private documents over Easter Holiday?” Granger hisses, thankfully keeping her voice down this time.

“Sure. So long as you’re prepared to accept nothing you say will make any difference,” Draco replies, smiling sweetly and fluttering his lashes in the most obnoxious way he can.

Granger opens her mouth to argue, maybe scream some more, but Potter sighs and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Hermione, it’s fine. It’s all done now and we promise never to do it again.”

“I don’t.”

Potter shoots Draco a quick glare. “I promise never to do it again.”

“And that’s a lie,” Weasley adds and Potter’s glare flicks to him.

“I don’t like you and Malfoy teaming up,” the bespectacled Gryffindor mumbles and Weasley throws his arms out wide.

“Now you know how I feel!” the ginger exclaims.

The trio begins walking back towards their class, Potter snagging Draco’s arm as they pass and dragging him along. “I can walk on my own,” he snaps grumpily.

“Oh, good, I was getting worried you were growing roots there, for a second,” Potter shoots back and grins as Draco glares. Halfway there Draco realizes Potter still has his arm hostage, but makes no immediate move to free it.

They get to work with nifflers again today, Draco getting a few pictures in of the little troublemakers. For nearly the entire year Hagrid has allowed Draco to bring his camera, advising him when and when not to use a flash, and Draco makes sure to take full advantage of offer. His collection of beast photos was quickly increasing in number.

At one point he nudges Blaise to get his attention, however, and takes off one of his shiny rings. He wears one on each hand, usually; one with the Malfoy “M” on it and the other with the Slytherin emblem.

Things were becoming a little too peaceful for Draco’s liking.

“Hey, Weasley! Think fast!” He then tosses the Malfoy ring at the ginger, the boy quickly catching it and covering it with his hands, but it’s too late. The nifflers have seen the shiny metal flying through the air and not two seconds later Weasley is getting knocked to the ground and swarmed by the fluffy creatures.

Draco and Blaise, and some of the nearby Slytherins, are quick to start laughing, Draco snapping some photos as Potter tries to help his friend, even though he, too, appears to be giggling.

By the time Hagrid manages to control the nifflers Weasley is laying on his back on the ground, Potter lying beside him because he’s laughing so hard he can’t stay standing. The rest of the class, certain Weasley is okay and all is well, begin laughing too.

Through the laughter Weasley holds up Draco’s ring and yells, “Good luck getting this back, asshole!” Which only manages to ignite a new wave of uncontrollable laughter through the class.

“Turn it upside down, it can be a Weasley ‘W’ instead,” Potter giggles and Weasley does just that.

The ginger cackles at his idiotic discovery and tacks on, for good measure, “This is mine now!”

Draco, still with his Slytherin ring, really can’t dredge up the desire to be upset by this, his emotional connection to that ring dwindling over the years, and his photo collection soon includes a very proud Ronald Weasley, wearing the ring upside down, and flaunting it like a woman’s engagement ring. Pansy even steps in to advise him on proper model poses.

Potter and Granger can no longer speak, Potter from laughing so hard he’s snorting and Granger from sheer disbelief at these boys, her face buried in her hands.

~ ~ ~

“If you could shapeshift into any animal… What would it be?” Draco questions one evening up in the Astronomy Tower. It is just him and Max tonight, but there is no telling if that will remain. Potter, even without the Marauders Map, can pop up at any time, it feels.

“Do I only get one animal?” Max asks after a few beats of careful consideration.

“Yes, only one animal. And they must fit with your personality to some degree.”

“Oh, so like a spirit animal?”

Draco pauses, brows furrowing. “Spirit animal?” That sounded slightly like a Patronus, which was not at all what Draco was attempting to ask about.

“You know, a spirit animal…? A totem? A spiritual representation of a tribe or individual within Native American culture?” Max replies, sounding just a little impatient.

“If they are Native American, why did you bring them up?” Draco asks, confused, and the following silence makes him feel nervous. Had he just asked something odd? How much did these totems play a part in Muggle culture? He’d gotten so good at keeping up with Muggle culture!

“Dude…” Max begins slowly, “I’m a quarter Choctaw on my Mama’s side. My Ipokni could speak fluent Choctaw and everything.”

“Your Ipokni?”

“My Grammy.”

“Can you? Speak fluent Choctaw?” Draco asks, eyes widening with curiosity. He knew of Max’s attempts at Spanish, but had never heard anything about this. Had Max been secretly bilingual this entire time without telling Draco? How could he have possibly missed something like this?

“Impa chi bUnna bilia,” Max immediately spits out and Draco feels his jaw drop.

“What does that mean?” he asks, amazed.

“You always want to eat,” Max chirps, “Grammy always said it to me when she was still alive.”

Draco releases a long breath and leans more heavily against the stone wall behind him. “Is that the only phrase you know?”

“That is the only phrase I know!”

Draco groans, a hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose to stave off the mounting headache. Why had he expected anything different? “Perhaps it would be wise if we continued with our previous topic,” he says, deciding anything else he might say would turn into an argument.

“Sure! I’d totally be a bat!”

“A bat?”

“Yeah, because they get to chill at night and have echolocation and FLY! Who doesn’t want to fly? I know I do!” Max rattles off their reasoning, clearly proud of their decision. “What about you?”

Draco hesitates, his eyes falling to his satchel beside him. Sitting within are his textbooks, quills, ink, Wicca for Beginners: Fundamentals of Philosophy & Practice, Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts, and A Wrinkle in Time. That’s what anyone would find if they dug around in it, anyway, but Draco has slipped a small concealing charm on the exterior pockets where he keeps his shrunken down Muggle things.

Now they also house the Death’s Head Hawk Moth chrysalis, a blacked-out vial of seven-day-old dew from 12 Grimmauld Place, and, most recently, a mandrake leaf from the second years’ mandrakes in Greenhouse 3.

With just a few more, significantly easier to retrieve, ingredients, and with enough planning, Draco would have all the necessary parts for an Animagus Potion.

He hates to admit it… but Skeeter has a point. If Draco intends to continue to investigate and snoop where needed, he can’t rely solely on Skeeter. Draco needed another option. Yes, it was clear Skeeter wanted some ammunition to use against her blackmailer to free her, but if Draco kept this even from her, or even went and got himself registered before someone could find out…

It was a weak plan, and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go through with any of this anyway, but would it hurt to just go ahead and make the potion? He didn’t have to take it immediately, or at all for that matter, and it would be a great way to test his skills.

The first step would be to keep the mandrake leaf in his mouth from one full moon to the next. Then it would need to be mixed with a partially premade potion, which Draco had no issue in doing, the chrysalis, the dew, and a piece of his own hair. After that he would need to wait until a lightning storm to drink it, and until then recite the incantation Amato Animo Animato Animagus while pointing his wand at his own heart every morning and evening.

“I am uncertain,” Draco eventually admits. If he did become an Animagus… what would he be? He was proving to be rather sneaky, so maybe Skeeter had been right and he’d be something small. He enjoyed his silence and solitude, so maybe a loner animal?

“I think you’d be some kind of cat,” Max says with a thoughtful hum.

“Maybe,” Draco sighs, but decides there’s really no point in speculating. Whether he did it or not, there would be no guessing. Even if he ever cast a Patronus, it would likely not match his Animagus form. The Patronus, after all, was the embodiment of one’s positive self, what one deeply affiliated with themselves through their happiest memories, while an Animagus was the embodiment of a person’s true, inner self.

And Draco highly doubted his “true” and “positive” selves would ever match.

~ ~ ~

The major focus of Draco’s investigation had very quickly shifted to Barty Crouch, but that didn’t mean he intended to ignore some of his other suspects, one of whom he was having a hard time getting to.

Moody was a paranoid old coot that despised every Death Eater’s child with a passion, especially Draco. Occasionally he would mutter about the blonde pureblood “snooping too much” or “getting into things no one wants him near” or “a walking magnet for trouble.” He doesn’t dare answer any of Draco’s questions that don’t have anything to do with DADA and his eye always seems to follow him around.

Draco has no chance of manipulating any kind of information out of him or sneaking a picture when he’s not looking. He’s always looking.

Which is where the twins come in.

“Gentlemen, so glad you could come,” Draco offers a fake business smile to the ginger duo as they join him in an old, abandoned Charms classroom on the third floor. Draco sits at the head desk where the professor would usually stay.

“Draco!” twin one greets with a grin, “It is Draco, right? Can I call you Draco?”

“No.”

“Alright, Draco, why’d you call us up?”

“Did you get those files on Bagman, Draco?” twin two asks, smile as obnoxious as his brother’s.

“Funny you would mention Bagman,” Draco begins, tone turning just a touch displeased and his smile falling, “Because someone, foolishly enough, tipped him off that more of his information would be leaking out soon and he took an impromptu visit to the Records Department.”

“Did he now?” twin two questions, pretending to sound intrigued.

“Yes. He then proceeded to commit arson and attempt to burn his files to a crisp, managing to set a good chunk of the department on fire with me still inside.”

“Oh,” both twins mumble, no longer finding this all that funny.

“Luckily, I had already made a copy of his files,” Draco slides out a new manila folder, this one dyed red with a pair of W’s written on the tab, and sets it on the desk. “I am aware it was you two who tipped him off. The goblins are professionals, and I trust them much more than you to lay it to me straight - which they did when I gave them their own documents - and you mentioned a displeasure in using actual blackmail in this situation before.”

“Not going to give us the files, then, are you?” twin one questions meekly, playing up his kicked puppy look while twin two scuffs his feet and peaks through his bangs.

“Quit that,” Draco snaps at them, “The files are payment for the radios,” he slides the document across the desk and releases it, “however, now I require further payment for your blunder nearly putting mine, and Potter’s, life at risk.”

“I think that’s fair. Don’t you, Fred?” twin one, George, looks to his brother.

“I think it depends what he wants, George…”

“I require you to look into Moody,” Draco removes yet another folder, this one dyed yellow, that he lays atop the red one. “This withholds information on Auror Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, nothing overtly personal, but a few memorable cases and records you may find of service.”

“What do you want us to do?” George questions, brows furrowed, as Fred picks up both folders and opens Moody’s. Draco had done a great job putting together only the important parts for the twins, Moody’s original file even thicker than Barty Crouch Sr.’s.

“Ask questions. Get a read on him. Take note of any slip up or curiosity, no matter how small,” Draco shrugs, “He’s a suspect who has shown particular interest in Potter’s survival through the tournament. I would like to know why, but I cannot approach him. He despises me, for some reason.”

“It’s a mystery,” Fred smiles over the folder as his brother leans against his shoulder to also take a look.

“We’ll see what we can do,” George decides, nodding over at Draco.

“Get your friend Lee Jordan to assist you, if you must. Cause some mayhem. Be obnoxious,” Draco says, already feeling like a small weight is lifting as his investigation begins moving again.

“Obnoxious is my middle name,” George grins.

“And mine’s mayhem,” Fred grins, too.

“And mine’s regret, so go before I begin to feel it,” Draco snaps and the twins offer a pompous salute before spinning around and marching out.

Draco really hated working with Gryffindors…

~ ~ ~

Of all the people to sort out what he was doing, Draco really shouldn’t have been surprised it was these two.

Standing in the middle of Draco’s dorm room are Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. They’re looking at Draco rather smugly as he enters, like they know something he doesn’t, matching, thin smiles. What a lovely way to wrap up his Thursday.

“What do you two want?” he demands, making for his own trunk to deposit his textbooks and equipment, but his two housemates won’t move out of the way, so he’s left to just stand there awkwardly in his own room.

“Never took you for the ‘unregistered Animagus’ type, Draco,” Pansy purrs and Draco stiffens. “Thought you were smarter than that.”

“Never took you for the snooping type, Pansy, thought-- wait, no. That’s exactly what I took you for,” Draco drawls back, burying the mounting panic behind a wall of sarcasm. Pansy, unfortunately, doesn’t appear fazed.

“Everyone’s noticed you talking funny the last two weeks,” Pansy continues, “Like you had something in your mouth.”

“Like a mandrake leaf, perhaps?” Blaise offers conversationally, smirking at Draco’s glare.

“You have no proof and I’m hardly letting you dig around in my mouth because you got curious,” Draco says harshly, but Blaise is raising his wand to point at him.

“I know the Swollen Tongue Hex, you know. How long do you think that leaf would stay in your mouth with a bulbous tongue hanging out?”

Draco scowls, hand twitching for his own wand, before making himself calm down. “How did you come to this conclusion?” he asks, keeping his tone even as he watches Blaise lower his wand, but keep it clutched in his hand.

“Pretty obvious it was Animagus related with that thing in your mouth,” Pansy says cheerfully. “You may have fooled the professors and other houses, but you live with some of the nosiest people in the world. How long did you expect to keep it quiet?”

“Good to know you accept who you are,” Draco says and Pansy gives a curtsy. “So… you got nosy.”

“More Blaise than me,” Pansy jabs her thumb at the tall boy, who looks somehow both smug and bored at the same time.

“Not hard to dig through your books when we live in the same room,” Blaise says simply. Draco immediately thinks about his cameras and Muggle things he keeps in his drawers and is glad he usually kept his radio on his person nowadays. They could find all his other stuff, nearly everyone knew about it anyway, but not the radio.

“Lovely, so I’m making an Animagus Potion. That does not mean I am an unregistered Animagus,” Draco drawls, glaring at the two before him and wishing he knew how to cast Incendio with his mind.

“Not yet,” Blaise quips.

“Or ever,” Draco snaps, scowling as he glares.

“You expect us to believe you’re just making the potion to see if you can?” Pansy questions, her arms crossing and hip jutting out as she gives Draco a very unimpressed look.

“I expect you to leave me alone,” Draco finally pushes forward, shoving past the two and going to his trunk.

They were right, unfortunately. Since the last full moon two weeks prior he’d had a mandrake leaf sitting in his mouth constantly. At first it had been near impossible to speak without drawing attention to himself, the leaf making it difficult to form words around it, and eating and sleeping had been a chore. He’d learned to keep to easily swallowed and soft foods for the former and a sticking charm to the roof of his mouth helped with the latter.

That still didn’t mean people weren’t going to notice.

Potter and Max both had, one evening, up in the Astronomy Tower, both asking if he was okay. He’d lied and said he was recovering from a burst of allergies, which they’d accepted, but then Potter had offered to bring him down to the hospital wing and Draco had to convince him not to.

Potter still kept an eye on him for the next few days, only really stopping once Draco was able to speak clearly again. Pushing the leaf against the side of his cheek seemed to be the easiest solution most of the time.

“Aw, you know that’s not in our nature, Draco,” Pansy coo’s, stepping over and sitting down on top of Draco’s trunk and keeping him from opening it. He scowls down at her and instead circles around to his bed, tossing his satchel atop it.

“Is survival in your nature? Because if you keep bothering me we’ll see how long that lasts.”

“Big words,” Blaise says lightly, and Draco turns to glare at him. “Mostly we wanted to see if we were right. We weren’t going to tell anybody.”

“Really?” the blonde draws out in clear disbelief, “I might believe you,” he points at Blaise, “But not Little Miss Gossip over there.”

“Hey, we’re all Slytherin, here!” Pansy calls and, thanks to her track record, Draco can’t tell if she’s faking being offended, or she actually is. “We have to look out for each other, you know that.”

“Not like any of the other houses will,” Draco sighs, grudgingly agreeing with that. Despite his newfound popularity with some of the other students in other houses, especially Gryffindor, these things couldn’t be expected to last. It was like a trend. “Hang out with the rebellious Slytherin for as long as you can.” Who knew when it would lose its glamor?

“Not like they do with each other,” Blaise crosses his arms, rolling his eyes skyward.

Draco wasn’t sure what it was like for the other houses, clearly he’d never been part of them, but this was something he accepted, and liked, about Slytherin. They stood up for one another, they had to, even when they didn’t like each other or were getting on each other’s nerves. Even after fights in the Great Hall or hexes thrown in the common room, they still would come to the other’s aid if necessary. Hell, the day after Pansy and Millicent had teamed up against Sophie and Daphne over the Hermione love triangle article, the four girls had been seen doing each other’s nails in the common room, fine as could be.

Sure, there were the bad eggs, the truly bad eggs, who thrived on discourse and cruelty, and maybe Draco had been like that his first few years at Hogwarts, but those were just the loudest of the bunch. And, unfortunately, it seemed they were the only ones everyone outside of Slytherin liked to pay attention to.

Slytherin was far from perfect… far, far from perfect… they were all still a majority of spoiled purebloods following tradition, but when that was all they knew, could it really be blamed on them? Draco’d had his Muggle family to speak up against the constant bombardment of outdated ideals, but what had the rest of them had?

“What do you think he’ll be, anyway?” Pansy questions, looking back at Blaise and drawing Draco back into the conversation.

“A galleon says he’s a bug,” Blaise snickers and Draco glares.

“I bet he’ll be something like a… fox! Tricky little bastards and they can puff up when they get upset!” Pansy says, far too excited.

“If I’m a dragon I’ll torch both of you,” Draco snarls, sitting down on his bed and crossing his legs beneath him.

Pansy and Blaise immediately snort, apparently the idea of Draco becoming a dragon far funnier than it should be. “What did Eve think you’d be?” Pansy asks.

“Who says I’ve told Eve?” Draco demands sharply, glaring at them both even harder, but they just give him a blank look. After a few beats he looks away and mumbles, “A sphynx cat…”

“The bald one?” Pansy arches a brow and covers her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Alright, I fold, Hushburn gets this one,” Blaise sighs dramatically, clearly not actually caring. “She’s still a complete pain, though.”

“Canticum Viscosi!” Pansy exclaims with a grin, pointing her wand at Blaise, who nearly immediately starts cursing.

“Why does everyone keep putting ‘Stayin’ Alive’ in my head!? Why that song? I have no affiliation to it, damn it!” He proceeds to go on a tangent about Muggle music and how he doesn’t even care if he hears any other song, he just assumes they all sound like the Bee Gee’s now and he absolutely hates it.

“I thought you liked that song,” Draco smirks and Blaise throws the Earworm Jinx at him, too, planting the very song in question into Draco’s own head.

“See how you like it, then,” Blaise snarls, but Draco and Pansy only end up smiling bigger and giggling. It was so rare to get Blaise Zabini into a tizzy, but it sure was a good show when it happened.

~ ~ ~

“Don’t you have to head down to the pitch soon?” Draco questions one Thursday afternoon in late May. He and Potter sit in the Astronomy Tower, back to back on the floor, some homework spread out around them, and the radio sitting on the floor beside them.

“The ‘pitch’?” Max questions, curious and confused.

“Futbol,” Potter answers immediately, leaning a bit backwards and making Draco fold forward some. The blonde retaliates by pushing his own back against Potter’s, the two struggling for a few moments before consenting to a draw.

“I thought that was a ‘field’…” Max mumbles half to themself.

“They all mean the same thing,” Draco huffs and he winces when the back of Potter’s head “tonks” against the back of his own.

“I’m part of this government mandated tournament and I have to head to the pitch to be told about my upcoming task,” Potter explains, clearly not sounding happy to go.

“What kinda tournament is that?” Max asks in disbelief.

“A stupid one?” Draco offers and Potter snickers.

“Y’all English folk are crazy, you know that?” Max comments dryly. “Hey! Let’s have a big contest but not tell anybody about what they have to do until later!”

“Or be incredibly vague with our clues,” Draco adds.

“Or just no clues at all! Trial by fire!” Max says, voice growing louder as they begin to laugh.

“Funny you should mention fire and trials, contestant, because that’s what your task is!”

Potter groans, head sliding to the side to lay back against Draco’s shoulder, his body sagging. “This is way too accurate. Please stop before you give me an ulcer.”

“Maybe if you had an ulcer you wouldn’t have to do it?” Max says, but no laughter follows. Draco and Potter both fall silent, thinking, and Max quickly rushes out, “Don’t actually consider that!” when they realize what’s going on.

“Malfoy’s right, though. I do have to head to the pitch. The sun’s nearly completely set here,” Potter sighs, shifting away and beginning to pull all his books and papers together. Draco watches, quietly intrigued every time the other boy carefully and efficiently makes sure everything is organized. He’d expected Potter to be a slob, but it turned out he was actually quite the clean freak when it came to his things, taking careful care of everything and making sure it had a place.

He was still awful at actually doing his homework, though.

“Dracooooo,” Max whines and Draco looks away from Potter and back to the radio. Without waiting for confirmation Max continues. “You’re rich, do something to get Harry out of it!”

“I’m not rich, technically, my family is,” Draco deadpans and there’s a scoff across the radio connection.

“That’s what all rich people say,” Max gumbles and Potter chuckles. “Why did you even sign up for this thing if you didn’t want to do it, Harry?”

“I didn’t sign up for it,” Potter grumbles, everything now in his bag, and he crouches beside the radio to make sure he’s heard.

“WHAT?! And they’re still making you do it?! Oh, that’s some bullshit right there!” Max immediately explodes with indignation and Draco watches as Potter just about glows at their support. “Is that even allowed?”

“Apparently,” Potter sighs, shaking his head, then stands. “Anyway, I’d better get out of here. Talk to you later, Max.”

“See ya, Harry! Knock em dead in your tournament thingie!”

“The actual task isn’t for a long while,” Potter chuckles.

“Fine, lose then.”

Draco lets out a bark of laughter, grinning as Potter pouts dramatically and Max giggles. “See you in class, Malfoy,” Potter rolls his eyes, but smirks, and Draco nods back, still cackling as the Boy-Who-Lived heads off for his little Champion’s meeting down at the Quidditch Pitch.

Draco returns to his homework, nibbling at a new candy called Twizzlers that taste like a cherry version of licorice wands. The flavor is nice, he’ll admit, and he comments on it to Max as he works. They also talk about cars, which Max’s father had been trying to get both of his children interested in, but neither Max nor Eric felt any calling to it.

Draco admits his family does not own a car, although these are one Muggle invention that the Wizarding World has a slightly better knowledge of than, say, television. Max comments that the Malfoy’s probably have a carriage, then when Draco doesn’t respond they whisper, “You do, don’t you?”

“We don’t use it anymore…”

“Oh my god!”

Eventually, though, they bid each other good-bye and Draco stores away his own things. Potter has been gone for about an hour, now, and the moon may not be high in the sky, but it is bright, visible, and very full.

Time to get to work.

Draco proceeds to pull out a crystal phial from his satchel, a bluish-purple liquid held within, and stands. He hadn’t just come up to the Astronomy Tower this evening to talk and do homework. Oh no, tonight he finally has the opportunity to finish his Animagus Potion.

He’d finally gotten used to constantly having a mandrake leaf in his mouth after a full month of it. It was a hardy thing and hadn’t even fallen apart, allowing Draco to twirl it around with his tongue whenever he got bored.

Now, though, he was grateful to be done with it. He sets the top of the phial on the floor by his feet, then pulls the mandrake leaf from his mouth. He holds the slimy, spit-soaked thing up to the full moon’s rays, letting it absorb some of its latent power, before pushing the leaf into the phial. He allows the moon’s light to wash over the phial as well before continuing.

Next is a strand of his own hair, followed by a teaspoon of the dew, which he’s already measured out and put in its own vial, and the Death’s Head Hawk Moth chrysalis. He puts them all in, gives it a small twirl with his wrist, then recorks it with the crystal topper.

The concoction has turned reddish-purple, but if he has done everything correctly, and he’s confident he has, it will turn bright red when Draco goes outside during a lightning storm and the first bolt of lightning strikes.

And storm season was already upon them, too. A lightning storm could hit at any time, now. Draco would just have to pay close attention to the weather.

Whether he would truly go through with it, though… he still wasn’t sure. Even after all the hard labor and sneaking around and lying… To go through with something like this was a huge decision and he needed to be sure. He hoped the lightning storm wouldn’t come on too abruptly.

He stashes the phial away in his satchel with a cushioning charm, making sure it keeps from breaking, and to ensure it remains in a dark environment until the lightning storm.

He smacks his lips a few times as he stands back up, relieved to finally have that leaf out of his mouth and glances out to the grounds and castle beyond the tower. It was always quite the sight, but with the light of the full moon washing over everything it feels even more beautiful.

He’s ready to head back to the dorms, but he takes a moment to enjoy the scene and even snap a few pictures.

It is as he is turning the camera to the Forbidden Forest, hoping for some haunting photos of the trees in the pale light, when he spots what appears to be two figures just at the tree line. They’re in a weird spot, certainly off the beaten path, and Draco can only see them because he’s in the tallest tower in all of Hogwarts.

The zoom on his camera is dreadful, but it allows him to pick up some faint movements of the silhouettes. One, the taller one, keeps swaying on their feet, looking kind of drunk from where Draco’s standing, and the other, the short, stocky one, is raising their arm and--

The flash of green through Draco’s camera lens makes him scream, lurching backwards and dropping the camera with a clatter. He knew that green flash. Any witch or wizard with a half decent knowledge of curses would know it. Draco had even seen it recently in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Whoever those people were, whatever they had been doing, there was no doubt in Draco’s mind what he’d just seen.

The Killing Curse.

Merlin… Had Draco just seen someone get killed?

His stomach drops, but not at that thought alone. No, rather his brain begins to work in overdrive, jumping around in a panic, taking his logical ideas and screwing them up with paranoia and worst-case scenarios. Today the Champions had gone down to the pitch to meet the judges about the final task. They, then, would leave on their own, Draco assumes, since they went on their own, and the Forbidden Forest is just off the path back and…

And someone is trying to kill Harry Potter this year.

No…

No, that couldn’t have been Potter down there, could it have been? Had Draco just seen Potter get…

Shit, he’s not breathing. He’s not breathing but he needs to breath and find Potter immediately because this can’t be happening.

He heaves a breath, the air burning on the way down, then tosses his satchel and camera into a poorly lit corner before dashing down the Astronomy Tower steps. He’s not thinking - he’s even aware that he’s not thinking as he continues to not think - but he just can’t control himself as his mind keeps jumping around.

What if he found Potter down there? What if his body lay there, already cold, the murderer long gone? What if the murderer’s still there?! What if he kills Draco next?

Shit.

Fuck!

Shit fuck shit!

His inner mantra was going off the rails but he didn’t care. He just didn’t care. He had to find Potter and prayed, by any higher power, that he’d find him okay.

The corridors are empty, no one is supposed to be out, it is night out and he must be breaking so many rules, but he just doesn’t care.

He swings around onto the grounds, charging forward, and nearly bowls someone big over in his haste. “Move, damn it,” he snarls, trying to spring around them, but a large hand wraps around his bicep and yanks him back. “Let GO, you vile--”

“I wouldn’t finish that, Mr. Malfoy,” says a rough voice and Draco looks back sharply at the person he’d run into, the blood quickly rushing out of his face and, if it could, fleeing his body.

“Professor Moody,” he swallows, his eyes still frantic, and definitely not happy to see this particular man tonight. Auror or not, the man would probably rather kiss a pufferfish than ever help Draco out.

“Out pretty late, aren’t you, Mr. Malfoy?” Moody says lowly, allowing Draco to finally pull his arm away. “Think the rules don’t apply to you just because daddy can get off scot free?”

“That isn’t why…” Draco stops himself when he feels a tantrum coming on, his filters dissipating with his sanity. “I will readily accept any punishment you have for me at a later date, but for now I really must--” he turns to keep running out into the grounds, but Moody is definitely not happy with his abruptness.

“Any kind of punishment? You best be careful there, Mr. Malfoy, with that kind of talk,” Moody says and, just as Draco is looking back, sees the man raise his wand. No spell is uttered, no incantation that Draco can hear, but a stream of light momentarily springs from Moody’s wand and hits Draco square in the chest before his world abruptly changes.

“Now then,” Moody smirks cruelly down at him, suddenly so, so much bigger. Everything is bigger. Every single thing. The castle, the corridor, the professor, the trees.

Yes, every part of Draco’s world has suddenly expanded, because Draco himself has been reduced to a little, white ferret.

He squeaks, indignant and horrified, and not a single word comes out of his mouth. Only squeaks and tiny screams of an animal best suited to be a pet.

He tries to look at himself, seeing tiny paws when he looks down and a long tail behind him. This couldn’t be happening… No, Draco needed to leave, he had to find Potter, and instead he’d been reduced to this?

He was furious, embarrassed, panicked… but damn it all, it didn’t matter! There was a killer on the loose and he didn’t know where Potter was and he just didn’t care.

Moody is saying something and raising his wand back towards Draco, something about not getting off that easy, but Draco tunes him out and swings around. It is weird running on four, tiny paws with such a long, wiggly body, but he forces himself forward as fast as he can, Moody yelling out to him in fury.

There appears to be some instinctive knowledge within his new body, and although he trips up a few times, face planting and tumbling with a litany of angry squeaks, he’s able to get the hang of sprinting through the tall grass as fast as he can.

The spot around the Forbidden Forest that he is absolutely positive he saw the attack in is completely abandoned when he scurries up. He stands up on his hind legs, poking his head as high up as he can, and does a cursory look around. His senses feel sharper, and he smells what he thinks are people, but he has no frame of reference to be sure.

No bodies, though. Which could mean anything… Maybe the body was moved already? Maybe it was destroyed? Maybe the curse hadn’t worked and no one had died at all?

That last one was pure wishful thinking and Draco falls back onto all four paws.

What had happened? Where had the two figures gone? Where the hell was Potter?!

He doesn’t realize he’s trotting around in tight circles, squeaking up a very furious storm, until an owl swoops low towards him and he nearly gets picked up by their talons. He squeals, terrified, a scratch just on the side of his face from the close call, and he takes off running. There’s no longer anything to see here, anyway, and he is not getting turned into owl food.

But what is he supposed to do, now? He has no leads, he has no knowledge, and he’s a bloody ferret for crying out loud! Maybe he should have stayed long enough for Moody to transfigure him back…

He hadn’t been thinking straight, his mind muddled with fear, and he’d acted irrationally. He finds a small space underneath a raised tree root and slips underneath, trying to catch his breath and gather himself.

He had to be logical, here, not emotional. He didn’t actually know if Potter was in danger, he just knew he’d seen a very telling flash of green light, just like the Killing Curse in Defense Against the Dark Arts. For all Draco knew Potter was already back up in his cushy dorm.

That still meant there was someone throwing the worst Unforgiveable around.

Moody. Draco needed to find Moody and have him turn him back. He needed to be a human again so he could go searching for Potter and tell him, or a professor, what he had seen. He probably should have told Moody, actually, but he’d been so certain the man wouldn’t help before.

Of course he would help. Liking Draco or not wouldn’t change the fact that he is an Auror, meant to look into acts of the Unforgiveable Curses and protect the innocent.

So he goes in search of the man in question. He moves quickly, but not as recklessly as before, towards the castle entryway he had previously fled from. The corridor it connects to has tall arches that look out to the grounds, like glassless windows, but Draco can’t spot Moody from here. He’s probably moved on, Draco imagines, and heads into the corridor, his tiny claws clicking against the stone as he rushes along.

He felt like he should be out of breath by now, but this little body had an impressive energy reserve. Was it like this for most animals? It was definitely convenient, which had Draco considering that Animagus form all over again. If this was something he could look forward to, maybe it really was worth it.

The corridor, and what Draco is very tentatively identifying as Moody’s scent - which is positively rancid and smells like a poorly made potion instead of a man - leads not further into the castle, but instead right back out. Draco ends up making one big U, growing more and more confused as he hops back out onto the ground.

He may also trip over the steps on the way down and sprawl in the grass, but that is neither here nor there…

He begins walking further out, occasionally standing up on his hind legs to look for his DADA professor, then hiding back down in the grass to keep moving. When he finally finds Moody, the man is crouched in the dirt of one of Hagrid’s gardens and he is…

Draco has to trot around to get a better look, hiding behind a nearby fence post, because there is something distinctly suspicious about Moody digging through Hagrid’s garden. Not even the garden, really, just some loose dirt off to the side. And is he… dropping a bone into the ground?

What was going on?

Nothing, no reason at all, can Draco come up with for Moody’s behavior. Fang, Draco knows, buries bones all over the place, and Draco is sure that is what anyone would think if they came across this freshly dug up dirt, but this isn’t Fang. This is a Hogwart’s professor.

Draco doesn’t have any major facts or proof of anything, but very abruptly he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Moody. Call it intuition, call it a return of sanity, call it animal instinct, Draco didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be going to Moody for help until he understood the meaning behind this.

He stays low to the ground and quiet, unnoticed despite his shockingly white fur, and scurries back up to the castle. Maybe he should find McGonagall, then. After all, this was a transfiguration placed on him, she was bound to recognize the lingering magic signature and determine the best course of action.

Yes, that’s probably the best idea he’s got going for him, he just has to reach her office and get her attention, which he might be able to do if he…

The sound of hissing behind Draco has him coming to a halt in the middle of the corridor. That… was not a good sign. In fact, that was a bad sign even when Draco is human, but as a tiny, defenseless ferret… no, that may just be the worst sign of the evening.

Looking behind him, slowly, Draco finds none other than Mrs. Norris, puffed up and back arched and red eyes hungry for death as she stares Draco down.

Draco can’t think of anything better to do than squeak, turn around, and start running as fast as he can away.

~ ~ ~

Draco has had very few personal encounters with the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbaton. They tend to stick together most of the time, and when they do branch out and interact with Hogwarts students, it is rarely Draco. None of them care about house, which is nice, but Draco is so absent and preoccupied that not many people whom don’t already know him are drawn to him.

Which is why he finds it so odd when, after the Yule Ball, Viktor Krum begins to join Draco, Eve, and Granger at their table in the library. Not every time, but often enough when Granger is there, and even occasionally when she isn’t just to sit and read with silent company.

He doesn’t join in with their book club - which Draco avidly fought against calling it but Eve and Granger had teamed up against him - he mostly sticks to studying or writing, but he’s there. Beside Granger. Making googly eyes at her.

When Draco had first walked into the library and seen the Durmstrang Champion he’d attempted to just turn back around and leave, not in the mood, but Eve had dragged him over.

He wasn’t bad company, he was just… different. And they didn’t have much to talk about beyond Quidditch, and that could get old over time, even for them. He just didn’t feel integrated, sitting on the outskirts, only really talking to Granger.

Until Krum pulls out a familiar, if slightly different, book from his bag to study. Draco’s eyes widen and he scrambles and snatches the book out of Krum’s hands, ignoring his startled protests, and reads the front.

Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts Volume II.

“Return my book,” Krum orders, but Draco is hardly listening, instead digging through his own satchel to remove his Volume I edition. He didn’t even know that there were multiple volumes! How could he have never been informed of this?

When he sets both books on the table the others fall silent, staring in confusion at the pair. As far as visuals go, they look identical save for the Roman numeral 2, and the metal on the second volume is gold instead of silver.

“I thought they did not teach Dark Arts here,” Krum says slowly, thick brows furrowed.

“We don’t,” Granger says, leaning forwards to get a look at the books. “Malfoy, have you had this book this whole time and never let me go through it?” the bushy-haired girl demands, giving Draco a very displeased look.

“My father and mother originally could not determine whether to send me to Durmstrang or Hogwarts,” Draco explains, pushing his own textbook in Granger’s direction so she can snatch it up. “After Hogwarts was decided my father gave me this to ‘fill the hole in my educational system,’ I think.”

“It is a good subject. Misunderstood,” Krum says, nodding in approval as he is given his own book back. “Are you knowing of the vand light varning?” he asks.

“What ‘wand lighting warning’?” Draco questions, and Krum pulls out his wand. The older boy opens up his own book and casts a quick Lumos, the light at the end of his wand glowing faintly. He then proceeds to hold the light near the pages of his book, right over a spell, and the light suddenly turns red.

“A latent charm placed within the books during printing,” Granger gasps, opening up Draco’s book and casting a Lumos on her own wand. When she holds the light over the spell of her choice, the light turns yellow. “I suspect the light changes when held over each spell?”

“Yes,” Krum nods once. “Green means it is safe spell to us. Yellow means it is… circumstantial. Red means do not use.”

“Has it always been able to do that, or did you do something?” Draco asks, suspicious.

“Alvays done,” Krum shrugs, putting his wand back away as Granger at his side keeps flipping through the pages, holding her wand to each spell and seeing what color it changes. “Very helpful for students.”

“I’ll say,” Draco agrees. “How many volumes are there?”

“Three,” Krum holds up three fingers as he says it, “Ve use the first two for most schooling. Third is advanced.”

“This documents so many spells so thoroughly,” Granger says, finally setting down her wand to flip through Draco’s textbook and read a few of the entries, her eyes sparkling. “You really should have shown this to me earlier, Malfoy.”

“Krum had a copy, too, you know. Why am I getting all the flack?” Draco whines, sitting up straighter.

“She hasn’t known Krum for four years,” Eve says blandly, not looking up from her Potions textbook, a quill in a free hand as she attempts to plot out an essay.

“Thank you, Eve,” Granger nods over to the other muggleborn, clearly pleased to have her support, and Draco scowls.

“Krum, would you like to see my favorite spell out of those books?” the blonde looks to the Durmstrang student with an overly cheerful smile.

Granger looks over sharply, whispering, “Don’t you dare,” and Krum looks between the two with confusion.

Draco hardly waits another moment before he throws the Earworm Jinx at Granger, sticking his go-to song into her head, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and she snarls at him.

“Ah, this is a funny one,” Krum smiles, recognizing the incantation and nodding in acknowledgement. Draco puffs up, smirking proudly, and Granger keeps glaring, clearly trying to grab her own wand to send her own jinx back. “Vot song did you use?”

“It’s from a Muggle band, Nirvana,” Draco explains, keeping Granger in the corner of his eye, but mostly focusing on Krum. “’Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ I have a Walkman, now, I could play it for you some time.” Draco didn’t use his Walkman much, since he had so much work to do and the headphones from Sirius made him feel cut off from the world and claustrophobic, but occasionally it was a nice diversion. Perhaps Krum might appreciate it.

“I am not knowing of this Valkman, but I vill listen if I can,” Krum nods in agreement and Draco nods back just as Erik Satie’s “Gymnopedies” gets stuck into his head and he shoots a glare at a now-smirking Granger.

The next time Draco has the opportunity he offers his Walkman to Krum, a cassette of Nirvana already set inside, and watches as the Durmstrang Champion listens to the music, head bobbing but expression unwavering.

“It is unique,” Krum says eventually, returning the Walkman, and Draco thinks he might just be acting nice, but on a few occasions later on he hears the older boy humming “Come As You Are” when no one is looking.

~ ~ ~

Has Hogwarts always been this big? Draco doesn’t think so. He thinks it may have added a few new halls just for him and his harrowing escape from that EVIL cat.

His terrified yelping and squeaking bounce off the stone walls, Mrs. Norris’s hisses and yowls not far behind, and he has to weave and duck out of the cat’s claws every few meters.

He’s dead. He’s actually going to die by being eaten, as a ferret, by a cat. This was terrifying and humiliating in every possible way and no one would ever even know of his fate. He’d be eaten and no one would know what happened to poor Draco Malfoy, last seen panicking over the possible demise of Harry freaking Potter.

He’s certain he won’t find solace unless he can outmaneuver Mrs. Norris, no one is out at this hour, but how can he do that when this body is still so foreign and that cat is right behind him?!

The sound of voices just down a nearby corridor gives Draco some hope, however, and he couldn’t care less who it might be. Let it be Filch. Let it be Snape. Let it be a bloody centaur. Just let it be someone who can get him away from this monster!

The first thing he sees is a red uniform over a muscular back, a fur cloak draped over one shoulder, and Draco’s brain supplies “Durmstrang” and focuses on little else. He thinks there might be someone else there, but he doesn’t care. He has zeroed in on his savior and he’s going for it.

He hears the tail end of someone saying, “I promise, ‘Mione isn’t interested in me or--” when he starts squealing even louder than before.

The figures turn around, hearing the ferret-y screams and Mrs. Norris’s furious yowls, before Draco launches himself right at the Durmstrang student. “Vhoa!” the boy exclaims and suddenly Draco feels large, rough hands grabbing his furry body and lifting him up. He is swung left and right, out of Mrs. Norris’s range as she swings for him.

“Shoo! Makhaî se!” the boy snaps at the cat and Draco thinks he may throw up, getting flung around so much, until the other figure steps in and kicks out at Mrs. Norris until she hisses at them all, turns, and runs away.

“Hate that cat…” says the other person, but Draco is too dizzy to properly notice who they might be. He’s just trying to control his stomach and keep his head from swimming as the boy holds him more steadily.

“Vot… is this…? A tatzelvurm?”

Draco finally manages to get his world to stop spinning and finds himself face to face with Viktor Krum himself. Draco squeaks, surprised, and attempts to wiggle out of his tight grip. Thankfully, Krum releases him and instead Draco hops over to a broad shoulder, relieved to find much steadier ground, so to speak.

“I think it’s a ferret,” says the other person, “Not sure why it’s here in Hogwarts.” Draco looks over, curious who Krum must have been having a conversation with on his walk back to bed, and nearly tumbles off his perch in surprise when he sees Potter.

Potter. Who is definitely alive and standing right there, safe and sound and not dead in the Forbidden Forest.

The relief that washes over Draco is palpable and he hardly thinks as he hops right off Krum’s shoulder and launches himself at the bespectacled boy with a shrill squeak. “Holy--” Potter exclaims, but manages to catch the ferret in a furry, squirming mess. Draco can’t really hug him like this, but he curls up and presses as close as he can to the other boy’s chest where he is cradled in Potter’s arms. He can hear his heartbeat like this, strong and so very alive, and Draco almost doesn’t care that he’s a ferret anymore.

“This ferret…” Krum says as Potter attempts to sort out Draco’s long, wiggly body without dropping him, “There is magic on it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Potter grumbles. “A magic ferret. Why don’t we have a dancing elephant next? All the weird stuff happens to me, anyway.”

Draco, finally feeling more like himself now that he is certain Potter is alive and well, leans back and squeaks rather angrily up at the other boy. If any weird stuff was happening to anyone, it was Draco.

Potter startles, looking down with wide eyes at a very furious-looking ferret. “Uh… sorry to insult you?”

Draco nods his little, white head and Potter’s eyes somehow widen even more.

“It understands us,” Krum says, stepping closer and reaching out and poking Draco’s flank. Draco squirms in Potter’s arms, turning around and giving a very unhappy titter at that.

“And has a dreadful personality,” Potter mumbles, also bringing up a finger like he plans to pet Draco’s head, but Draco whirls his head around fast enough to bite the offending thing before it can touch him. “OW! Jeez, a really, really dreadful personality…”

“I think it is transfigured,” Krum supplies, not bothered by Potter’s new injury as he keeps observing the white ferret. “I like transfiguration. I can identify it vell.”

“A transfigured ferret? So this could very well be a really pissed off teapot?” Potter snarks and Draco turns to offer a hiss. “Oi! Watch it or you’re back to pouring earl grey, mister,” Potter snaps back with just as much attitude as Draco’s hiss had contained.

“I think…” Krum begins, holding out his hands expectantly, and Draco is unceremoniously deposited into them. He squeaks, indignant at being passed around, but Krum seems to be trying to help so he keeps his squirming to a minimum. “You can nod and shake your head, yes?”

Draco nods once, then shakes his head side to side, to prove that he most certainly can.

“You understand?” Draco offers a nod. “Are you a teapot?” Draco glares for a moment before shaking his head.

“That’s good. It probably wouldn’t have gone well if I’d been arguing with a teapot, actually…” Potter mumbles to himself but Draco hears, his little ears twitching back towards him before refocusing on Krum.

“Are you another animal?” Head shake. “Are you a person?” Nod. Krum and Potter exchange a nervous look before continuing.

“Did you do this to yourself?” Potter asks and Draco turns his body to look back at him. He shakes his head. “Did… did someone else?” Nod. “Did you ask them to?” Head shake.

“This vas done vithout permission?” Krum demands, tone suddenly sharp and his eyes hard. “But who…?”

Draco can’t communicate with these two beyond squeaks and head movements, which is a chore, but it does give Draco an idea. He faces Krum, giving him an intense stare so he has his attention, then proceeds to start squeaking out a tune. His vocalization range is limited, but the gist is there, and Krum’s eyes widen.

“That is ‘Come As You Are’,” Krum whispers.

“That’s a Nirvana song. But why would…” Potter snaps his mouth shut and turns slowly towards the ferret, eyes widening as he, and Krum, seem to come to the same conclusion. “Merlin’s beard… Malfoy?!”

Draco makes two squeaking noises that mimic a cheery “ta-da!” before Potter scoops him back up.

“Who did this to you? What happened? Are you okay? Oh shit, you have a cut, are you hurt? Do you need help? Where-- OW!” Draco, as soon as Potter began rambling, had reached his body upwards and chomped sharply down on the other boy’s nose.

“Ve need return him to his human form,” Krum advises, gently removing the ferret from Potter’s arms and setting him down on the stone floor.

“Can you do that?” Potter questions, looking skeptical and ready to leap to Draco’s defense if needed.

“Human transfiguration is hard. Revert back, though,” Krum removes his wand from his hip, pointing it at Draco, who stands perfectly still on his hind legs. “Easier. Bodies alvays remember original form and a Revealing Charm vill vork. Revelio,” he says clearly and a series of small, golden sparks spring from Krum’s wand and Draco feels himself begin to change.

The world shifts, shrinking and collapsing and reasserting itself as Draco springs up, body expanding, clothes re-emerging, and limbs wobbly. Very wobbly.

“Ah, shit,” he curses, no time to be grateful for a voice again, before he tumbles back onto his backside. The stone hurts, but his world isn’t spinning anymore, so he can properly take stock of himself. Head, torso, arms, legs, face, hair. It all felt right.

Potter is crouching beside him a moment later, hand coming up to grab one of Draco’s shoulders in a vice. “Malfoy, are you okay?” he asks urgently and Draco waves him off dismissively.

“Just a smidge nauseous, Potter, don’t hover,” he groans.

“This is a normal thing,” Krum advises, still standing a few paces away. “Vill you tell us who has done this?”

“Moody,” Draco sighs, seeing no point in keeping it a secret.

“What?!” Potter near screams, “Why?”

“I was out after dark,” Draco shrugs. “It was a punishment. I am sure he would have turned me back, but I ran away before that could happen.”

“This is a normal form of discipline here?” Krum questions, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, clearly displeased in his stoic way.

“No! Definitely not!” Potter immediately jumps to the defense of his school, looking back at Krum to make sure he understands, before turning back to Draco and grips his shoulder a little tighter. “You need to tell someone. Your Head of House - wait, no, that’s Snape, scratch that - Professor McGonagall, then. Dumbledore, even!”

“No!” Draco says, far sharper than he intended, and Potter leans back in surprise. Even Krum is looking at him strangely, his brows risen. Draco takes a few deep breaths, calming himself down, and stands. It seemed, even with Potter alive and with him right in that instant, he’d still not shaken all of his panic from earlier.

“Krum. I’m serious. Tell no one. And…” Draco glances over to Potter, who has stood up as well and is looking at him with a mixture of suspicion and concern. “Please, allow me to speak to Potter in private. I do not want you getting involved.”

“What’s going on, Malfoy? You’re not acting like yourself,” Potter says quietly, but Draco keeps his eyes on Krum, who stares right back at him, weighing his options.

“Very vell…” Krum finally says, inclining his head slightly towards both boys. “I vill give you peace. But…” Krum raises a hand to point a very meaningful finger at Draco, his eyes intense as he says, “You vill come to me if you need my help. Ve are not enemies.”

“Okay,” Draco nods. “We will.”

Krum nods, looks at them both one more time, then turns and walks away, down the hall.

“What were you two talking about, then?” Draco asks, conversational, without looking at Potter.

“He wanted to know if Hermione had a thing for me or Ron. And you, actually, but I told him you were probably gay,” Potter says, matching the flippant tone, but Draco can see his glare from the corner of his eye.

“Probably,” Draco agrees, not in the mood to even think about the implications of his sexuality. He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly, then turns sharply and begins marching down the halls. “Astronomy Tower. Come on,” he orders, but Potter is already walking beside him, keeping up the suddenly urgent pace. “I am surprised Filch has not made himself known,” he says, not really caring, but it fills the suddenly tense silence.

“He knew the Champions would be out late,” Potter replies.

They make it to the tower in record time, hurrying up and Draco wastes no time dragging Potter over to the railing. “There. Right over there,” he says, pointing out towards the Forbidden Forest. “I saw two figures there earlier. One tall and one short. Couldn’t make out any features, but I could see their movements.”

“Malfoy, you’re talking very fast,” Potter says, eying Draco nervously as the blonde begins to pace about the tower.

“Do you see it, Potter? That spot right there!”

“Yes, okay, I see it!”

“I was just taking pictures, the scenery was beautiful, and I saw them. The taller one looked drunk or drugged or confounded, I don’t know, but then the shorter one brought out a wand and…”

“Malfoy, please, you need to breathe,” Potter’s eyes are very wide by this point, attempting to step towards Draco, but he just keeps walking around, unable to stop.

“He, she, they, I don’t know, the shorter one raised a wand and there was a green flash and…”

“The Killing Curse…?” Potter’s posture has changed, now, stiffening up as his own chest heaves for breath. He looks suddenly very frightened.

“I think so,” Draco says swiftly, voice frantic as he tries to lay out all the facts like it is part of his investigation, but everything is getting away from him. “I believe a Killing Curse was used tonight, so I rushed down to figure out what had happened, left all my stuff up here,” he waves an absent hand over at his discarded satchel in the corner, but Potter has turned to him sharply now.

“You did what?! Malfoy, you idiot, why would you run towards something like tha--”

“Because I thought it was you!”

The silence that settles is suffocating, Draco’s eyes are so wide with terror as he finally looks at Potter, and the other boy is looking back at him with a lost expression, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“Malfoy…” Potter eventually manages, but that’s it.

“Someone,” Draco starts, but his voice breaks on the whisper and he has to start again. “Someone is out there, right this instant, plotting something terrible against you, and tonight, when you would most likely be out, alone, I see that… What am I meant to think?”

“Malfoy…” Potter says again, voice just as quiet, and he takes a tentative step forward.

“We’re finally just becoming friends, damn it, I can’t just lose you like that!”

Draco doesn’t realize he’s crying until Potter has stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Everything is crashing down. All the adrenaline and bone-chilling fear and deep, instinctive need to do something just collapses on top of Draco, leaving only a weak, raw, crying boy who had seen death and ran straight towards it.

“I’m not dead,” Potter mumbles and Draco hiccups, leaning down and resting his forehead against Potter’s own, his eyes squeezed tight to stave off at least a few of the burning tears. A sob still shakes his body and Potter squeezes him a little tighter. “Please, breathe. Nobody’s dead.”

“Somebody is…” Draco whimpers, because while it may not have been aimed at Potter, a Killing Curse had still been used tonight.

Potter swallows, a shiver going up his spine, and he whispers, “Yeah…” Draco, upper arms trapped by Potter’s hug, has to wiggle them loose some so he can reach out and pull the other boy into a hug, too. He’s shaking, very slightly, and Draco holds on tight.

“Now I need you to breathe,” he whispers, voice wet, and Potter lets out a weak, shaky chuckle, shifting to stick his face into Draco’s neck. He makes a point of heaving a few times for air, just to appease the blonde, and Draco, still sniffling, buries his own face in Potter’s curls.

They stand there for a long while, desperately trying to pull each other back together, with the sounds of hooting owls in the distance.

“An owl tried to eat me,” Draco mumbles eventually and Potter, emotionally exhausted and wrung out, starts to giggle wetly. He doesn’t seem to have been crying, but almost. That seems to how Potter always is. Not crying, but almost.

“Must have had a sweet tooth,” Potter says shakily and Draco snorts. “Can’t believe you were actually a ferret.”

“I would ask you not to tell Larry and Moe, but I know that’s a lost cause,” Draco mumbles back.

“What, am I Curly?”

“Obviously,” Draco drawls then nuzzles pointedly into Potter’s bird’s nest of hair, making the other boy yelp and jab Draco’s ribs with a sharp, four-finger poke. “Oof!” Draco grunts, curling sideways to get away from Potter’s hand, sure the site will bruise, and leaning away so he can glare at the other boy.

Potter looks especially smug, even if his glasses are askew. “Serves you right,” Potter snarks. Draco rolls his eyes and reaches up, as if to readjust Potter’s glasses, but ends up taking them away instead. Potter yelps yet again, but Draco puts them on his own face before they can get nabbed.

“How do I look?” Draco grins and Potter squints at him.

“I don’t know. Now give them back.” Draco is still grinning as he hands back the glasses, Potter replacing them on his face and scowling at Draco. “Worst friend.”

“I’ll take it.”

They take a moment, no longer clinging to each other, to wipe at their faces and straighten out their robes. It’s an awkward shuffle to compose themselves after, once again, falling apart in front of each other.

“Who should we tell? About the Killing Curse?” Potter questions as Draco goes to retrieve his satchel and camera. The distance that the movement puts between them seems to make it a tad easier to talk, for the moment.

“For the time being, no one,” Draco says, standing up straight. “There was no body when I got there. At this point we do not have proof any curse was cast save my witness testimony.”

“We shouldn’t just keep this quiet, though! What if someone else is in danger because of this?” Potter says, looking at Draco in disbelief. “We need to at least tell Dumbledore.”

“We do not need to do anything. I will go to speak to the Headmaster, if it will calm you down, but you need to focus on your final task.”

“You sound like Sirius.”

“A highest of compliments, I am sure,” Draco drawls, but Potter seems a bit more at ease now that he’s sworn to tell Dumbledore about what he saw. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice that Draco did not specify when he would tell him. “What is it? The final task?”

“A maze. Supposed to be full of all kinds of challenges,” Potter sighs, looking tired just thinking about it.

“Then you should work on your spell work,” Draco advises, then opens up his satchel and starts digging around in it. “Here. Look over this. Granger can show you how to identify the safe spells for you to learn.”

Potter reaches out to take the book Draco offers to him, looking it over with wide eyes. “Your Dark Arts book? Isn’t this your baby, or something?”

“I am trusting you with child custody for the time being,” Draco comments sarcastically, “Try not to spoil her before you give her back to me.”

“’Her’?” Potter smirks and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Just… be safe, Potter…”

The other boy’s smirk shifts into something softer and he steps forward. “I always am,” he says lowly, before reaching out and touching Draco’s brow. The blonde flinches away, hissing, only then remembering the cut he’d sustained from that bloody owl as a ferret. “You should get that fixed up.”

“Will do,” Draco rolls his eyes. “Go to bed, Specs.”

“You too, Charming,” Potter smirks, then turns and hurries down the tower and towards his dorms. Draco has to take a moment to gather himself, putting the last pieces of his psyche back into place, and then quickly hurries down as well, sneaking carefully back to the dungeons and to a sleepless lie down in his bed.

~ ~ ~

Usually, if there is crying involved over the radio, it is Draco’s own. He was a crier, he could admit that now, but only around these Muggles, it seemed. They hardly judged him like other purebloods did and they were a relaxing force for Draco.

Sometimes, rarely, the crying is Max’s. They don’t cry over much, their outlook on life so unashamedly positive that they just can’t be bothered most of the time, but sometimes things get to them. A rough few days stacking up into a single meltdown, a bad grade on a test, getting into particular trouble with their parents, or the occasional dog death on television.

Never, not ever, has anyone else cried over the radio besides the two of them.

That is, until Draco’s third year as he attempts to write a paper on boggarts for Lupin and his radio, set out, crackles to life.

“Hullo, Max,” he greets automatically, eyes on his paper as he sits out on the grounds.

“Holy shi-- Draco, I need some help!” Max’s voice comes through and Draco nearly drops everything just to scoop up the radio and pull it closer. “I don’t know what to do! Mama and Papa are gone and Eric just drove home, he just got his license, and he--”

Max is cut off by the sound of wailing in the background and Draco’s eyes widen.

“What was--” but he can’t say much more because Max is talking again.

“We had this bird’s nest in our carport, see, and I guess the babies got knocked out or something and Eric drove up and found them, then he came in and grabbed a ladder and gloves to put them back in their nest, all intense and stuff, but then he came back a few minutes later and he--” Max stops as a new wave of sobs and wails cut them off, then sighs. “He’s been like this ever since…”

That terrible crying was Eric? What on earth could have happened?

“Why is he crying? I thought he was trying to help them?” Draco questions as the sound of crying gets louder, Max apparently approaching their brother with the radio.

“It’s hard to tell,” Max admits, “But I think he found one of the baby birds under his back tire… Or, I guess… what was left?”

The wails pick up again with the truly pathetic cries of, “I didn’t mean to!” mixed in with, “They were just- just- just BABIES! They didn’t KNOW!”

“Didn’t know what, Eric?” Draco asks, attempting for gentle, but figuring he fails as Eric only cries harder.

“They didn’t- didn’t know! About LIFE!” Eric eventually manages to say, his voice watery and wobbly and it takes a while for Draco to properly understand him. “They- They- They were- were an innocent party! They didn’t deserve this!”

“Did you kill all of them?” Draco asks, then cringes when Eric just begins sobbing, no words.

“Draco!” Max snaps, frustrated that Draco would word that question in such a way, but then they sigh. “No, he saved the others. Turns out it was a hawk that knocked ‘em out of the nest. Got ‘em in a box in the kitchen. Gonna go to the vet later.”

“See? They would have all died if you hadn’t come along,” Draco offers. Without Eric, that hawk probably would have finished the rest off. One death by car tire was sad but could have been so much worse.

Apparently, it isn’t enough for Eric, though, because he just keeps crying while Max sighs. “He’s curled up on the floor, now,” the youngest Muggle grumbles, then grunts as they sit down on the floor with their brother.

“Yeah!” Eric manages, “They would have died a NATURAL death in the wild! But- But not little Jay…”

“Eric, don’t name the dead bird,” Draco sighs at the same moment Max groans.

“NooOOOooo, little Jay had to get KILLED… by a machiiiiiiine made by man… Who- Who- Who deserves that, huh? Man has made its own killers, why must the innocent and naïve be victims of our hubris?”

“I like pita bread with that…” Max mumbles.

“Hubris, Max, not hummus,” Draco mumbles back.

“Oh…”

“Eric…” Draco sighs, focusing on the still weeping teenager, a hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose. “I think you are focusing a little too much on what is wrong with the situation, rather than what is good. You may have… lost… little Jay,” Eric hiccups pathetically at the name, “but you saved all his brothers and sisters, who I’m sure are counting on you right now to take care of them.”

“Yeah, Eric, those babies need a new mommy!” Max says, voice encouraging as the crying begins to die down a bit.

“I… I guess so…” Eric mumbles.

“I know so!” Max says and there’s the noise of the radio getting roughed around a little bit as Max moves. Then, distantly, Draco can here the faint sound of chirping. “Look at them, Eric! They need you!”

“They need me…?”

“They need you,” Draco assists.

Eric pauses, sniffling, clearly considering his sibling’s and Draco’s words, before taking a deep breath and saying with conviction, “They need me.”

A week later Draco ends up laying on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, laughing so hard he’s dropped the radio, as Max explains that Eric has taken his whole “mother bird” thing a little too far.

“He has bird care books EVERYWHERE! And he keeps fighting with Papa about making everything ‘bird accessible,’ because apparently he is going to keep all of them,” Max retells, sounding so done with their brother, while Draco keeps laughing.

“They need me, Max!” Eric’s voice can be heard in the background.

“Shut up, Eric, we only said that to stop you crying like a sprinkler!”

~ ~ ~

Sure enough, as Draco had expected, the day after his ferret-y adventure he has Ron Weasley to deal with. Granger asks after his health, which is appreciated, but Weasley can’t seem to get over the fact that Draco had been stuck as a little ball of indignant fury for who knows how long.

“He was like a furry noodle,” Potter snickers, offering no help at all, but Draco has to be at least a little bit grateful he didn’t go blabbing about what Draco had seen. Not even to his two, closest friends.

“I wish I could have seen it! Come on, Harry, bring him up next time before you turn him back,” Weasley chortles and Draco hopes his face cracks from how much he’s grinning.

“It is hardly like I have any intention of being turned into such a beast again,” he huffs, crossing his arms and flipping his hair. He has it pushed back today, out of his eyes, but not slick with gel. Eve had stolen all of his so he wouldn’t feel tempted.

“I wouldn’t really classify you as a ‘beast’,” Potter says, smiling innocently when Draco’s glare lands on him.

“Oh, look,” Granger suddenly cuts in, a little too loud and clearly trying to stave off any mounting argument or duel. “Friends” or not, Draco was perfectly happy to hex Potter and Weasley’s faces right off. “There are Eve and Leandra!”

The two girls are approaching them with their hands held between them, looking teeth-rotting-ly sweet that Draco can’t help but scowl a little. “Nice face, git,” Eve deadpans when they get close enough, her blue eyes narrowed as she looks at Draco.

“You two are too cute. It’s gross,” Draco replies, sticking his tongue out like he’s gagging, and Eve pulls out her wand. Draco reels back a little, stepping slightly behind the Golden Trio to stave off any thrown curses.

“You seem especially happy today, Leandra,” Granger smiles at the chipper Hufflepuff. The girl was always happy, it seemed. She had one of the most positive outlooks on life that Draco had ever seen and she honestly, thoroughly, believed in the good in all people. It was baffling.

Plus, she always smelled like flowers, helping Pomfrey tend to the local gardens or look after plant life in the Greenhouses with Longbottom. Draco had never actually seen Leandra and Longbottom in the same room at the same time, but he hardly went looking for either of them, either.

“I got to pet a dog!” Leandra replies, clearly very excited.

“It was Fang,” Eve supplies.

“And I got to pet him,” Leandra continues, still smiling, “And any day you get to pet a dog is a very good day. Or a cat! Or a hamster! Or a toad!”

“Alright, alright, we get it,” Weasley groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation, but then stiffens when Eve turns a glare on him, her wand still in hand. Somehow, Draco ends up dragged back in front by the ginger to make sure Eve can’t get to him.

“I thought Gryffindors were meant to be courageous,” Draco growls, looking over his shoulder at Weasley, who gives him a rather dismissive shrug.

“Sure, but fighting Hushburn isn’t courageous, it’s stupid.”

“No wonder Draco continues to do it,” Eve drawls, smirking at Draco when he glares at her, before she turns and places a gentle kiss to Leandra’s cheek. “Well, Draco and I have a small project to do, so we will be off.”

“Do you need any extra help?” Potter asks, eyes sparking with curiosity.

“Sorry, Potty, Slytherins only,” Draco calls back as he and Eve turn to begin heading down the corridor on their right. Eve turns and waves patronizingly over her shoulder, Leandra the only one to take it seriously and wave back with a bright smile.

Once away from the group of Gryffindors and Eve’s happy Hufflepuff, they fall into comfortable silence, walking towards the castle grounds. It is between classes and they really should be getting lunch right now, but Draco had wanted to use this time to investigate. Eve, being Eve, he’d asked to come along as added muscle.

“What do you have to investigate at Hagrid’s hut?” Eve questions when they get out onto the grounds and start following the path down to the Gamekeeper’s wooden home.

“I saw something strange last night,” Draco replies, pulling out his camera and beginning to take shots of the surrounding area, attempting to document everything he sees for later. “I needed to investigate.”

“Vague,” Eve says, unimpressed, and Draco supposes he owes her at least some explanation.

With a deep sigh he recounts his prior evening, from seeing the Killing Curse’s green flash to rushing to find Potter to being turned into a ferret. When he recounts spying on Moody as he buried a bone in Hagrid’s garden, understanding dawns on Eve’s face.

“If you know it’s just a bone, why dig it up, then?” Eve questions as they get to the fence surrounding the garden in question. Being the middle of the day Hagrid and Fang should be out somewhere else, but that doesn’t mean they can take their time.

“Because it’s weird,” Draco replies, gripping the top of the wooden fence and pulling himself up and over, no issue in his climbing abilities. Eve is a little less graceful and Draco doesn’t offer any help as she struggles across. “I have had the Weasley twins asking him questions, and they tell me he hardly answers anything about his past. He avoids it like the plague, even the stuff that shouldn’t be considered bad.”

“Maybe he’s just a private guy,” Eve suggests, righting herself and leaning back against the fence, her arms crossed and one ankle over the other. Like hell she would be digging around in the dirt.

“Perhaps, but they claimed he, occasionally, would offer to tell them the story a few days later. It just all seems odd, don’t you think?”

“I suppose…”

Draco quickly identifies the mound of freshly dug dirt the moment he starts looking. It is right where he remembers Moody being, plus the dirt is loose and darker than the surrounding earth. Draco takes a photo of it for documentation, then crouches down and begins to dig.

The bone isn’t very deep down. It hardly takes Draco long to get the loose dirt out of the way and pull out the bone, holding it up and out in front of him. He examines it for a moment then scowls. “There’s residual magic on this.”

He sets the bone down to snap a few photos as Eve walks over, arms still crossed, and hovers at his shoulder. “Transfiguration magic, if I have the energy signatures right,” she observes. What was Moody’s deal with transfiguring things? “It looks like a human bone…”

“It’s the humerus bone,” Draco says, squeezing at his own bicep to indicate which one that is, and Eve gives him a strange look. He shrugs and offers no further explanation.

“Should we revert it back?” Eve questions. Draco stands, taking a few more photos of the bone from a higher angle, then picks it up again.

“We probably should. Let’s take it to an open area, though. Do you know the Revealing Charm?” he questions, heading back over to the fence and climbing over just as easily as before.

“I do,” Eve nods, clambering over the fence and falling with a thud onto the ground on the other side. She groans, taking a moment to gather herself from the tumble, and Draco leans over her to smirk in her line of sight. “Uhg… parkour,” Eve groans weakly, then takes Draco’s offered hand and gets up.

“Is that a spell? Or a curse?” Draco asks as they head for an open space of grass on the grounds.

“What? Parkour?” Eve arches a brow at him, before shaking her head and looking away. “Neither. It’s a French movement discipline and some of the Beauxbaton students told me about it. I’ll give you more details later.”

Draco decides that is the best he’s going to get, and he instead focuses on the task at hand. He sets the bone down in the grass, finally finding a good spot some ways from Hagrid’s hut, then steps back a few paces with Eve as she readies her wand.

It’s a very elegant wand, too, made of aspen so pale and fine it looks like stone. The core is unicorn hair, Eve told Draco, and the handle is smooth with a rounded base. Eve has also attached a short, silver chain to the base of her wand with a smooth bobble made of pure hematite hanging from the end. It looks like something more befitting royalty, but Draco would never say that aloud.

“Revelio!” Eve says clearly, the end of her wand sparking with golden lights as she points it at the bone.

The bone shifts, growing in size and taking on a globular form first, before it starts to become more recognizable.

Draco’s hand flies to his mouth, covering it to keep himself from making noise, as Eve gasps and drops her wand in shock. They look at each other, wide grey eyes meeting wide blue. What the hell? What the actual hell?

“Oh my god,” Eve whimpers and Draco takes a deep, shaky breath. He then leans down, picks up Eve’s wand, and hands it back to her.

“Go get Dumbledore,” he orders and Eve nods, too shocked to argue, then turns and runs for the castle, leaving Draco to look after their discovery.

He turns and stares, shocked and horrified, at the body of Barty Crouch Sr, wondering where everything had gone so wrong.

~ ~ ~

When Dumbledore emerges from the castle, Eve leading him across the grounds, the Headmaster looks over the body with a very quiet gaze, before looking up at Draco. “What has happened here?” he asks, voice calm if a little breathless. He’s pulled himself together very tightly, keeping calm but clearly upset.

Draco takes a deep breath and begins to retell his story to Dumbledore, with a few excluded points. He tells Dumbledore that he had been up at the Astronomy Tower after hours, taking photos, and doesn’t mention the Animagus Potion. He recounts seeing two figures in the distance, the flash of green he was now certain had been a Killing Curse, and his rush down.

He does not mention being turned into a ferret, getting upset and pointing fingers really wasn’t going to help him right now and, if necessary, he’d bring it up later. He does tell of how he rushed to the spot he had seen the figures and found no one, then later spied Moody burying a bone in Hagrid’s garden.

Then, today, Draco had come out with Eve to investigate and had discovered the bone had, in fact, been the transfigured body of the previously missing Barty Crouch.

“That is quite the tale, Draco,” Dumbledore says once Draco is done, “Why did you not approach me with your concerns earlier? This was a very rash choice of actions for someone as logical as I know you to be.”

“I was frightened, Headmaster, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was correct,” Draco half lies. He had been frightened, but he had been nearly one hundred percent positive he’d seen the Killing Curse.

“I understand,” Dumbledore sighs, “In the future, however, please approach me with any concerns you may have. I will not find any of your fears insubstantial.”

Draco swallows, suddenly choked up, and nods.

“So… Did he do it? Did Professor Moody kill Mr. Crouch?” Eve whispers. Draco’s never seen her so shaken, but then again they’ve never seen a dead body before, either.

“I have known Alastor for many, many years. He is crass and rough, but he is no murderer,” Dumbledore says, his eyes turning sad as he looks to Barty Crouch’s body. The elder wizard steps forward, crouching down, and gently shuts the corpse’s eyes in respect.

“You don’t think he did it?” Eve questions, sounding disbelieving.

“I do not know, but this is surely a disturbing thought,” Dumbledore sighs, standing straight once more. He removes his wand and in one, smooth gesture conjures a black sheet that drapes over the body. Then he turns his wise, old eyes on Draco, head tilting just slightly. “What do you think, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco swallows and glances back at the now-covered body. He’d been running through scenarios in his head, over and over again, waiting for Eve and Dumbledore to arrive, and none of them had given him the answers he wanted. “I don’t like Moody,” he admits finally, “Haven’t this whole year, and I’d really love to point my finger at him and say he’s the murderer…”

“But?” Dumbledore urges with a nod.

“But…” Draco sighs, defeated. “But we have no evidence he is the murderer. We know he buried the body, but it had been a bone at the time. He may have thought it was one of Fang’s and brought it over, for all we know. He doesn’t seem the type to do overtly kind gestures in the light of day.”

“No. He does not,” Dumbledore smiles slightly, like it’s a bit of a joke to him, and Draco continues.

“I actually ran into him earlier when I was running towards the Forbidden Forest,” Draco admits, still not bringing up his journey as a ferret. “I hadn’t seen a bone on him then. He could have found the bone, left by the killer, after that.”

“Or he had it in a pocket,” Eve says, arms crossed, eying Draco thoughtfully.

“Possibly. Or maybe he didn’t. We don’t know…” Draco looks up at Hogwarts castle. Moody shouldn’t be able to see them from his classroom at the moment, and he should be busy with a DADA class with a younger year, but still Draco feels like the Auror must be watching them.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Dumbledore says, drawing Draco’s attention back. “It is a Muggle law that magical kind have yet to properly adopt. I commend you for sticking to it.”

“Should we talk to Professor Moody?” Eve questions. “Ask him what he was doing last night?”

“He could just as easily lie to us, if he wants,” Draco says, growing more and more frustrated. “He’s crafty, innocent or guilty.”

“Why not use veritaserum?” Eve suggests, looking hopefully at Dumbledore, but his smile is sad.

“I’m afraid our Potions Master currently only has a dose for one use,” the old wizard replies, a hand coming up to stroke his beard contemplatively. “We must be completely certain of our decision to use it.”

“Which means we need more damning evidence,” Eve scowls, looking away and glaring at a random patch of grass.

“I… may have an idea for that…” Draco offers slowly, a hand coming up to rub over the shaved hairs on his head, a thoughtful gesture not unlike Dumbledore stroking his beard.

“What might that be?” Dumbledore asks patiently, smiling in encouragement when Draco hesitates.

“I am… in connection with Rita Skeeter. Please do not ask how, it is a tentative agreement, but just know I am in contact with her,” Draco says the last part swiftly, before anyone can interrupt, then looks back down at the body. “Let’s let Skeeter publish a story on the discovery of Crouch’s body, but not where we found it. Somewhere outside Hogsmeade, perhaps. Somewhere drastically far from where the killer believes it should be, and not right on Hogwarts land to cause a panic.”

“Then the killer may start panicking,” Eve says and the blonde nods.

“Yes. And it would give you, Headmaster, plenty of incentive in the eyes of the school to set a curfew or safety precautions without appearing like you know the murder took place on the castle grounds.”

“I do not want a panic, Mr. Malfoy. That will do no one any good,” Dumbledore warns, one brow curling upwards.

“That can all be controlled by how Skeeter writes the article. I can have her send you a copy prior to print to assure it is just sensationalized enough, while not being fearmongering,” Draco assures and, blessedly, Dumbledore gives it some thought. He goes back to stroking his beard, humming and thinking, before turning sparkling, blue eyes back to Draco.

He smiles, less tight than he’s been since Eve brought him out to see the body, and nods. “Very well, Mr. Malfoy, we shall give your plan a try. However, anything you discover, anything you fear, I must insist you bring it to me immediately. I am here to protect you and all of the students at Hogwarts, and I cannot do that if I do not have all the facts.”

“In that case,” Draco sighs, deflating, then reaches into his satchel and removes his manila folder. He uses a quick Duplicating Charm on his findings, then holds the copy out to Dumbledore. “That’s everything I’ve found, so far, on this investigation.”

Dumbledore takes the folder and opens it, finding file after file of information held within, and his brows rise, clearly impressed. It is not every day one can say they impressed the great Albus Dumbledore.

“I was not aware your investigation had gone so far,” Dumbledore says as Eve looks over his shoulder at all the pages of information, her own brows reaching upwards in surprise.

“One other thing…” Draco says, sheepishly, “Please don’t question where I got some of the more… official-looking documents. It’s best if we just… never mention that.”

Dumbledore looks up at Draco from the files and offers a small smile, reassuring. “It shall be out little secret,” he says, shutting the folder and tucking it under his arm.

Now they just needed to start planning “Operation Scare the Crap Out of a Murderer with a Moving Corpse.” This should be fun…

~ ~ ~

The day the article is set to print Draco advises the Weasley twins, their friend Lee Jordan, the Golden Trio, and even a good chunk of Slytherins and Gryffindors to keep an eye out for any unusual behavior. No one knows about the article save himself, Eve, and Dumbledore, but thankfully no one questions his odd request.

Well, almost. Weasley won’t agree unless Draco gets him five bags of PopRocks, which he has to do if he doesn’t want a fuss, but it all works out in the end.

The article is written by Skeeter, who looks giddy when told the plan. It didn’t matter about the outcome to her, she was just excited to get such a massive scoop. She begins writing the article before Barty Crouch’s body can be moved where they want it, then finishes it after Madam Rosmerta “discovers” him. Skeeter, true to her word and Draco’s threats, lets Dumbledore go over her writings first before she goes off to get it all printed.

It is a stressful time, multiple people commenting on how tense Draco had become as of late. Potter even manages to convince Max to send them more Junior Mints, Draco’s favorite, and Tracey offers to steal some of Pansy’s Life-Mimic Figures for Draco to make him feel better.

The latter one would have been a lot sweeter if she hadn’t popped up by his bedside while he was trying to sleep…

When the article does drop the whole castle is abuzz. Up until then it had only been a rumor that a body had been found in Hogsmeade, but now everyone knows.

To be honest, Draco is surprised Dumbledore even agreed to go along with all this. It was a bit farfetched and seemed a tad disrespectful to the deceased, but Dumbledore was turning out to be a lot craftier than Draco had originally expected.

Unfortunately, no one seems particularly different around Hogwarts after it is revealed that Barty Crouch is dead. Everyone is talking about it, sure, and there’s the expected layer of nerves, but beyond that no one acts especially different.

Moody, who Draco pays very, very close attention to, seems grouchier than usual, but that’s hardly a smoking gun. Draco wishes it could be, he wishes he could just pin this all on the DADA professor, but he has to remain professional. Pointing fingers, and maybe getting it wrong, would ruin everything.

So Draco has to wait and hope that the stress would eventually begin to unravel their culprit before the final task.

~ ~ ~

Draco doesn’t join the Golden Trio for their impromptu training sessions often, but occasionally he will slip into the empty classroom they are using that day and watch. He will comment occasionally, usually making Potter frustrated, for the hell of it, but sometimes even join in.

They mostly stick to basic hexes and spells out of their own textbooks, but whenever Draco is around they try to go over at least one spell from Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts. Draco can offer unique insight into the spells that he has garnered from years of studying it and growing up in a pureblood household.

Potter finally gets the hang of the Hermes Charm, skating around the rooms on tiny cyclones under his feet. He can’t keep it up too long, but it should help him manage the maze quicker.

The Shockwave Spell, a spell that releases a burst of air from the end of one’s wand so strong and fast it makes a huge, booming noise, takes some time, but all four of them give it a go. A call of “Maadis!” followed by a strong flick of their wand has all of them save Granger getting flung backwards by the force of the blast.

Taser Fingers is a favorite of Weasley’s, since he’s the one to figure out a safer version of the one in the book. The book version charges the caster’s non-wand hand with a dangerous charge of electricity. Weasley, however, manages to work out how to just make it a debilitating, but nonlethal, shock.

“Digilectrica!” is all it is and then their fingers crackle and buzz with blue electricity.

They talk about the Militus Charm one day for nearly the entire time, weighing the options of actually giving it a go. It would be a good spell to fight off any monsters hiding within the maze, and Draco thinks Potter’s reluctance is completely ridiculous, but he thinks that he’ll be able to convince them of the spell’s validity on his next drop in.

Except, the next time he goes to see them, everyone is silent. Potter looks pale, sitting on top of a desk, with Weasley beside him and Granger pacing around nervously.

“What did I miss?” Draco says, walking up to the Trio. Granger stops pacing and looks at him, opening her mouth, then biting her lip and glancing at Potter. Draco, thoroughly confused, looks to Potter as well.

“What? Didn’t hear about my little freak out in Divination?” Potter spits, not looking up.

“Haven’t been down to the dungeons yet,” Draco replies, glancing at Weasley and Granger in confusion, then walking over and leaning against the desk Potter is using as his seat. “Den of gossipers, Slytherin,” Draco continues, “What happened?”

“I nodded off…” Potter begins, sheepish, and one of his hands discreetly curls into Draco’s robes as he speaks. Draco doesn’t comment on it. “I’ve been having dreams sometimes… of Voldemort.” The rest of them flinch at the name, but Potter keeps going. “He’s always so angry, talking about plans or people doing things wrong, and I always wake up with my scar burning.”

“I know. Sirius told me near the beginning of the year,” Draco admits, which doesn’t seem to surprise Potter at all.

“He woke up screamin’ bloody murder,” Weasley says and Potter cringes, ducking his head even further.

“You saw something?” Draco questions, turning back to Potter.

“Yeah, I just…” for a second it looks like Potter might lose his temper, face pinching up in frustration, before he sags in defeat. “Listen, I already talked to Dumbledore about this. Can we just… not, right now?”

“Sure, Harry,” Granger nods, looking worried but deciding getting back to training would be a good plan. “Why don’t we review the Shielding Spell?”

“I was actually thinking we could revisit that chat we had about the Militus Charm,” Draco says, smiling like a politician when Granger turns a sharp look on him.

“Oh, not this again,” Weasley groans while Potter cracks a thin smile and chuckles.

The grip on Draco’s robes tightens a little before releasing. “Come on, guys, let’s hear the poor ferret out. You know how much he loves to hear his own voice.”

“I suppose… a short debate on the subject would not hurt,” Granger says slowly and Draco smiles triumphantly. “But only a short one!”

The debate lasts the rest of the afternoon, mostly because Granger can’t give up a point and Draco enjoys riling her up too much. Weasley and Potter mostly just sit and watch on the sidelines - eating Draco’s candy, the vultures - and only offer an occasional comment that sends Granger off again.

They get only minor training in, by the end, but at least everyone has color back in their faces and a renewed sense of energy. Right now, that’s all they really have.

~ ~ ~

“I have to do this,” Draco whispers one morning in May, sitting alone in the library with Eve, his books forgotten.

“Have to do what?” Eve asks, not sounding like she cares as she flips a page in her book.

“I have to become an Animagus.”

That has Eve looking up, brows raised in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“I think I don’t have any other choice…”

For the past few weeks, when nothing seemed to happen following the article on Barty Crouch’s murder, Draco began to feel a little desperate. He was still incredibly suspicious of Alastor Moody, but he’d hardly changed at all. No fear. No acting out. No panicking. Nothing.

Draco needed proof. He needed to know whether his suspicions were true or not. Was Moody just some grouchy guy in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was he a murderer?

Draco figured if he wanted proof, at this point, he was going to have to go and get it. Moody’s office was a mystery to Draco, but Potter had described a place cluttered with all kinds of stuff, most of which he couldn’t identify. If there was any proof to be found… it had to be somewhere in there.

Draco began attempting to sneak in, once he had come to this realization, except every time he got close, he’d spot Moody nearby, watching. Quickly, Draco determined that Moody had to be using that bloody Marauders Map to keep tabs on him. The man had, after all, been very confused to see Draco after his ferret-y adventure, back in human form. It seemed suspicions were running both ways.

The one time Draco had managed to get up to Moody’s office without his notice, only made possible thanks to a diversion from the twins, he’d found his next obstacle. The door was locked tight, and while Draco thought he’d be able to spell it open in no time, that was the moment Draco had heard Moody approaching once more and Draco had to flee.

No, Draco needed a diversion to get in, something to keep Moody’s attention long enough to get past the lock, and a way to be both sneaky and fast if he needed a quick getaway.

An Animagus form would really help out with that…

He would still appear on the Marauders Map, though, which meant the distraction would have to be pretty good, and he’d have to be thorough in his search, but… if all could go well, maybe he wouldn’t need to use the Animagus form at all.

He also didn’t know what his Animagus form would be, but… to have something like that as a backup sure wouldn’t hurt. He could just as easily gain an Animagus form and then never use it again. No one would know but himself and a few, choice individuals.

“Okay, well… I guess we’ll just have to wait for an electrical storm, then,” Eve says, over her initial surprise, and she shrugs. “We’ll get Pansy and Blaise to help us cover for you if you have to rush out at the first sign of storm clouds.”

Draco can’t help but smile at Eve’s willingness to help, some of his nerves over this decision finally beginning to wear off.

It was good to have friends like Eve.

~ ~ ~

The slap of a paper on the desk has Skeeter looking up, smiling innocently while Draco leans against the desk with a furious look on his face.

“Harry Potter: Disturbed and Dangerous,” Draco reads off the paper. It was a week before the first task and this… mess of an article had just been dropped in front of everyone’s faces at breakfast. “What the fuck, Skeeter?!”

“I’m sure you’ll see if you read a little lower that this… absolutely stunning work of genius was written by a Mrs. Daisy Hayworth,” Skeeter says sweetly, leaning forward and pointing a sharp nail at the author’s name.

They are using an empty classroom as their rendezvous spot and the reporter couldn’t look more out of place, but Draco doesn’t have time to tease her for this. He’s too livid.

“Blatantly a pseudonym,” Draco snarls, glare like silver fire. “The information in here could have only come from a bug on the wall!”

“You don’t know that,” Skeeter sing-songs, enjoying herself far too much for Draco’s liking.

“I do, and I’ll prove it,” Draco jabs his wand at the woman, but she hardly blinks. “And once I do, I’ll rat you out to the Ministry about what you really are, just as I told you I would.”

“Let’s pretend, for a moment, like this actually were me, shall we?” Skeeter says, pushing Draco’s wand out of the way and standing. She isn’t naturally taller than Draco, but her heels make her so.

“Very well, let us ‘pretend’,” Draco crosses his arms, the very picture of displeased. “Why would you have published something like this?”

“Because the public has a right to know when there is a dangerous, volatile wizard in their midst. Because I have a career I have to keep afloat and I can’t do that with snot-nosed brats running the show. Because, despite how lovely and charming I’ve been, I don’t like you. We are not friends, and I will not be silenced forever.”

Draco glares at the woman with such a fury he can feel himself shaking, until suddenly he’s surpassing that cold, hard anger and falling back into a serene state. His expression calms, cold like his mother’s, and he stands up straight. “I’m not going to tell anyone about your Animagus form.”

“Oh?” Skeeter questions, looking suspicious, and Draco nods.

“Yes. I’ll keep quiet. Might even give you an opportunity to reestablish some trust here. But if you ever hint at crossing the line again…” Draco glances away, smiling to himself, and sighs. “Well, Mrs. Daisy Hayworth, I will take your name and every name you have ever used and rake them through the mud. I will ruin your life to the point beggars will look to you in pity.”

Skeeter has taken a step back, not expecting this kind of threatening from a teenager, but Draco isn’t finished. “I have never trusted you, and you have never trusted me, but now allow me to put that into words. You will never be able to trust me because the moment, the second, I have deemed you useless to me? I will find every. Last. Speck. Of dirt on you and make them diamonds for the public to skewer you with. Your social demise will befit the old witches of Salem, who will look down on you and say, ’You deserved it’.”

Skeeter swallows, eyes wide, and Draco notices he’s begun to lean forward so he straightens himself out and clears his throat. “But… this is all just ‘pretend’… Right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, “Right. Well, I’m off to work damage control. Ta-ta, Skeeter!” And he turns around and stalks out of the room, posture a far cry from his serene expression.

He would not be made a fool of, nor would he allow anyone to walk over him or his friends like this again.

He may not be a monster, but he could still be the bad guy.

~ ~ ~

“Well…” Eve sighs, squinting up at the dark sky, a hand coming up to shield her eyes against the light raindrops. “I hear thunder, but I don’t see lightning.”

Draco and Eve stand out in the Clocktower Courtyard, past the newfound curfew, with a storm brewing above and the Animagus Potion in Draco’s grip. He looks down at the small amount of liquid within and twists his lips.

“The instructions clearly state that, upon the first strike of lightning the potion will turn bright red. Then it will be ready,” he explains as Eve walks over to the fountain and sits on the edge.

“Could you have fucked it up?”

“I DIDN’T FU--” Draco cuts off his furious scream and forces himself to calm down, grinding his teeth as he practically feels Eve smirking at his back. “All of the lightning in this storm has merely been in the clouds. We require an actual bolt of lightning.”

“Does it need to strike the potion?”

“To my knowledge, no. Much of the potion-making process has been to do with light, or lack of. My assumption is it must bask in the light of the lightning strike,” Draco looks up at the dark clouds above. He spies a few flickers of light within the clouds, plus the rumble of thunder, but no strikes.

“Why does magic have to be so…” Eve pauses to roll her hand, attempting to find the right word.

“Unpredictable? Undisciplined? Disorderly?” Draco offers blandly, moving to sit beside the Slytherin girl with a huff.

“I quite like ‘arbitrary’,” Eve shrugs.

“I need this to work already,” Draco growls, glaring down at the glass phial in his hands. “The final task is in three days and I need everything ready by then. It is the perfect opportunity to sneak in, but I need this trump card or…”

“If it doesn’t work, we’ll just figure something else out,” Eve says, looking at Draco through the corner of her eye while tilting her head skyward. “Dumbledore said all the jobs he’d planned to give to Mad-Eye he’s changed ownership to, there are additional traps in the maze that will slow down the champions, and the Ludo Bagman article Skeeter’s gonna drop the day before will probably mean we’ll have to wait for a new judge when he skips town.”

“I’d still feel much better if I had this form to assist in an escape or stealth,” Draco growls, his displeasure outweighing Eve’s reasoning, so she sighs and quits with that.

“I still think you’ll be a cat. Pansy bet on fox and Blaise changed his tune to reptile.”

“Placing bets, are we?”

“We have to get some entertainment out of this too, you know,” Eve shrugs.

“Any of those options would be helpful sneaking around,” Draco finally tilts his head to look at the girl. Her spiky hair is down, still tipped purple, and falls in her face. Her usually carefully applied make up is nowhere in sight, seeing as they both fled the dorms the moment storm clouds had been spotted on the horizon by Pansy coming back down.

“You look awful without make up,” Draco comments, smirking when Eve snaps to glare at him. Sometimes, even Eve made it too easy for him.

“I will stab you. Do not test me, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she warns, jabbing her wand at his chest as he cackles.

It is as the two are facing each other, bickering and more at ease than before, that a flash of lightning bursts over them, washing out the colors in the courtyard for a split second, followed by a boom of thunder that rattles the windows.

Draco and Eve blink at one another, startled, but then urgently turn to the potion.

The liquid inside is bright red.

“It’s red!” Eve exclaims, jumping up, Draco quick to follow. “Quick, do the incantation!”

“I-I’m not sure! This is… What if I regret this later?” Draco splutters, hands shaking where he holds the potion, the suddenness of it all sending him for a loop. He thought he’d be ready. This was supposed to help, be his trump card, but was it really worth it?

“Draco, we are out here at ass-end o’clock, in the rain, breaking the bloody law,” Eve snarls, “So help me Godric if you don’t finish this right now I am going to make you eat your socks!”

Draco gulps, brows rising, then looks back at the potion. Right… He’d come this far, dragging so many others along for the ride, he had to go through with this.

He removes the top, tossing it aside, then pulls out his wand and sets the end to his chest, over his heart. “Amato Animo Animato Animagus,” he says clearly, like he’s done every morning and evening since the full moon nearly an entire month ago. So much for storm season, since it took the weather this long to get to this point…

With the incantation said he puts his wand away and, before he can think himself out of it, gulps down the thick, vile potion in one swallow.

~ ~ ~

Of all the professors Draco had, the last person he’d expected to be an Animagus would have been Professor Sinistra.

He’d pulled files on all the professors at Hogwarts, mostly as a precaution, when he’d been in the Records Department. Most said everything he already knew, and he’d avoided them unless he felt suspicious of them. These were his teachers and most, if not all, were probably innocent. It wouldn’t do to make things awkward unless he had to.

He’d still gone through the bare minimum, which was what led him to Sinistra.

She’d gone to Hogwarts for her first two years, sorted into Slytherin no less, but had transferred to Uagadou in Africa upon her father returning to family there.

It made sense. Uagadou was known for their skills in Astronomy, and nearly every student there became an Animagus due to their pride in self-transfiguration. Professor Sinistra also tended to do a lot of wandless magic, waving her hand to clear away clouds or summon a telescope right into her palm. Wands were mostly European, after all, and Uagadou was famous for its wandless magic.

After an Astronomy class one night, Draco made a point of staying behind. A full moon was coming up soon and he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to start the task of keeping a mandrake leaf in his mouth for a whole month.

“Professor Sinistra,” he calls, once everyone else is gone, and the tall woman looks over, her expression blank. She wasn’t a very expressive woman, but she was fair and informative, if blunt. “I had a question about your time at Uagadou.”

“Okay,” Sinistra turns fully to Draco, blinking slowly, and folds her hands in front of her starry robes.

“Is it true Uagadou teaches in wandless magic?” Draco begins, not wanting to ask his most pressing questions first in case it made him seem suspicious.

“Yes,” Sinistra raises a hand and snaps her fingers. From her raised pointer finger an ember of red fire snaps to life. She does a little wiggle with her fingers that seems purposeful and the fire changes to blue. A different wiggle and it’s green, then yellow, and then she snuffs it out. “Wands are a handicap.”

“That is impressive,” Draco says, brows raised, and Sinistra lowers her hand.

“It is not,” she says, straightforward, and Draco purses his lips. “First year Uagadou students can do this.”

“Why not teach it, then, instead of Astronomy?” the blonde questions, eyes narrowing suspiciously, but Sinistra just stares at him.

“I love Astronomy. I can tutor wandless magic, however, if you are asking.”

Oh, that was a tempting offer, but not what Draco needed right now. He didn’t need more on his plate right now. “I will think about it. I actually wanted to know if it was true that every Uagadou student becomes an Animagus?”

“That is a rumor,” Sinistra says without pause, blinks once, and adds, “But it is also true.”

“So… you are an Animagus?”

“I am. My Animagus form is a honey badger.”

“What was it like? Becoming an Animagus?” Draco steps forward and Sinistra follows his movements with watchful eyes.

“Grueling. It takes a lot of hard work, but I am proud of my accomplishments.”

“Does it hurt…?” This had been a major concern of Draco’s and he’d had no one to talk to about it. There was no way he could ask Skeeter, he didn’t want to worry Sirius, and he had no excuse to approach McGonagall without making her suspicious.

“Yes. The first time. Burns,” Sinistra says, then raises a hand to tap against her chest. “When you drink your potion, you will feel two heartbeats for a moment.”

Draco’s eyes widen and he takes a few quick steps back. “I am only asking out of curiosity, Professor, I assure you I am making no attempts to become an Animagus,” he says swiftly, frazzled, and Sinistra’s head cocks to one side. Her blank expression makes her look like a statue attempting to mimic human emotion.

“Of course,” she says simply, then straightens out her head. She blinks a few times at Draco, watchful and blank, and it is beginning to unnerve the boy. He’s never had the Astronomy teacher’s attention on him for so long. “Five points to Slytherin.”

Draco jumps, surprised and baffled, and shakes his head out before asking, “What for? Not that I’d turn down points, but… I have not done anything, to my knowledge.”

“For expressing an interest in my schooling and childhood outside of your country. It was nice to have a walk down memory lane,” Sinistra says, every word just as blank as the one before, and she bows her head slightly. That was how she was when she was being nostalgic? What did excited look like, Draco wondered?

“Besides…” she tilts her head again, like she had before, and regards Draco. “Someone should favor Slytherins at this school beside Professor Snape.”

She doesn’t actually smile, but for just a moment Draco thinks he sees the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkle up and her dark eyes brighten with a little bit of humor.

~ ~ ~

There is a burning, but nothing Draco read or heard could have prepared him for this. It is like every cell in his body has set itself on fire, his muscles pulling and popping and tearing, bones reassembling, organs adjusting. It is like an after-work out muscle burn that permeates every inch of his being like a steady flow of lava.

There’s a ringing in his ears and his heartbeat, two of them, beating off rhythm from each other, getting faster and faster until he feels nauseous, then settling to beat as one.

The burning feels more pointed as it goes on, for minutes, hours, days, he doesn’t know, but now it feels like it is moving with a purpose, the reassembly given a form and meaning that slowly takes shape within Draco’s mind.

Then, like a splash of cold water, he crashes. He thinks he hasn’t moved, but it feels like he lands back into his body after taking a very violent trip outside of it. His body shivers and his brain struggles to make the adjustment that these muscles and bones and organs are different, but still his.

He forces himself to breathe, breath coming in through a mouth with larger teeth than he is used to, and a set of nostrils that feel too big. It is disorienting and shocking and he doesn’t feel right, except he’s never felt more right in his life.

Maybe it was because of his trip as a ferret, but it doesn’t take him too long to begin reassembling his mind into his new body, at least becoming conscious enough to look up at a wide-eyed Eve. She’s taller than him now, but not as drastic as when he’d been a ferret. He feels big and powerful, but compact.

“Huh…” Eve lets out a jet of air, still staring, and Draco very carefully sits back on his haunches. “I was right on the cat thing…”

Draco had seen it in his mind, right as he was transforming, exactly what he was becoming. It was a little shocking to think about, he’d been expecting something smaller like everyone had been saying. He’d never expected to be… well…

A snow leopard. Merlin’s beard, how had that happened?

He looks down at his absolutely massive paws, the not-quite-white fur that befits the summer months, and flexes his toes, testing out how this body works. Claws slip out on a flex, massive things, and he picks up a paw to look at them.

“Do you recognize me…?”

Draco drops the paw to the ground and looks up to give Eve a fairly unimpressed look. The worry that had been on the girl’s face quickly vanishes and she scowls.

“Wow, still an ass, then,” she grumbles and Draco gives a low, sarcastic rumble and goes back to taking stock of his new body.

His body feels powerful, all compact, stocky muscles and an agile energy in his veins he isn’t accustomed to. His tail is so long and thick and he flicks it around, getting used to having a tail that actually feels like his.

Is it odd he kind of wants to bite it?

“You’re very fluffy,” Eve observes, crouching down beside Draco and reaching out to run a hand through the fur on his back. It feels heavenly, but she doesn’t do it for long. “Snow leopards are meant to be spectacular jumpers and climbers. Want to give it a shot?”

Draco looks back down at his paws, flexing them and shifting his weight some, before standing onto all fours. Jumping and climbing sounded perfect. He’d loved getting up high as a human, it made sense he’d enjoy it as an Animagus.

First, though, he feels out walking. It isn’t hard. The instincts are all there, the knowledge on how this body is meant to do things is hidden away in his subconscious, and he wonders if it has always been there or only developed now.

And that tree over there looks mighty tempting.

Draco stops, crouching low as he faces the tree, wiggles in anticipation, before running forward, paws heavy on the ground and he leaps. He doesn’t even need to scramble up, he manages to jump so high he lands on one of the lower branches on the first try, claws keeping him balanced.

Behind him Eve whistles, impressed.

Draco feels himself growing giddy, the feeling of being up and moving like this like a drug and he hurries to clamber up the rest of the tree. When he gets to the top he takes a moment to look around, spotting the roof to the walkway just to his left, and he springs onto it. His claws click against the tiles when he lands, his bulky weight knocking a few off, the pieces tumbling off and crashing to the ground below.

“Oh shit,” Eve curses and Draco peaks over the edge of the roof, ears flattened back in embarrassment at the remains of the tiles. Eve give him a frustrated glare and sets her hands on her hips. “Maybe we leave the climbing for later,” she says and Draco, abashed and certain they’ve just managed to attract Mrs. Norris and Mr. Filch, springs down from the roof.

His landing should feel heavier and louder, considering how far he jumps and how much he probably weighs now, but it is light and quiet. Like a predator. Oh, this was invigorating.

“We should hurry back to the dungeons,” Eve says, glancing around for any signs of Mr. Filch or his cat. Draco straightens up, his ears swiveling as he listens. All his senses felt like they were on overdrive, but they didn’t feel too overwhelming. Perhaps it was because of the night and the muffling rain, but he was able to take stock of his new outlook on the world with ease.

He hears very distant footsteps, far enough away not to be a worry, but definitely making their way towards them.

He turns to Eve and mewls pointedly, then nods at a corridor that will get them the farthest away from the footsteps. Eve, thankfully, doesn’t have to be told twice, and they’re off running.

Except Draco is a lot faster than Eve in this body, springing against walls when he doesn’t turn sharp enough, his tail thrown back and forth to help his projection, and he has only ever felt this alive when he was up on his broom.

He bolts past Eve with no issue. The first time he realizes he’s lost her he heads back, circles around her a few times until she curses at him and he runs ahead once more. He makes it down to the dungeons long before Eve does and if he could laugh, he would.

When Eve joins him again, she is out of breath and he has already turned back into a human, sitting comfortably in Slytherin’s common room couch with Pansy, Blaise in a loveseat beside them. She glares furiously at him.

“Now, where have you been at this time of night, Hushburn?” Blaise questions innocently as Eve plops down in a loveseat of her own.

“It is past curfew,” Pansy adds.

“And there’s a storm brewing,” Draco smirks and Eve flips him off.

“He’s a cat, so pay up,” she growls to Pansy and Blaise.

“A big one, I hear,” Pansy says cheerfully, but still extracts two galleons from her pocket and Blaise does the same. They toss them onto the table and Eve swiftly collects.

“Snow leopard,” Eve nods, her glare back on Draco, “Like he needed anything else to stroke his ego.”

“I still think a little rat snake would have been better,” Blaise comments, looking to Draco, who shrugs.

“Not like I get to pick it,” he says, scrunching up his nose a few times to rid the tingly feeling that still lingered. Transforming into his Animagus form had felt completely right, with no issues beyond the initial pain and adjusting, but turning back into a human left him with a few lingering feelings.

Not bad, per se, but off. The senses suddenly being taken away was more disconcerting than gaining them, and he felt tired now that his animal adrenaline was promptly gone. Hopefully, that would go away with time and practice, because this was a bit of a hindrance.

“Here’s the thing, though…” Eve starts, her glare fading and instead looking thoughtful. “We had been expecting something small to assist you in breaking into Moody’s office. This isn’t very small.”

“He’s still fast!” Pansy points out. She is sitting beside Draco on the couch and she leans closer to hook her arm with his. “Clearly,” she smirks at Eve, who discreetly pulls out her wand, and Pansy’s attention swiftly goes back to Draco.

“Plus, snow leopards are climbers. If he needs to flee out a window he might be able to,” Blaise comments, scratching under his eye and looking bored.

“True,” Eve concedes.

“It looked like I had a summer coat, too,” Draco says and Eve nods an affirmative. “Not pure white. I may still be pretty stealthy and be able to maneuver around Moody before the task even begins.” He doesn’t mention the Marauders Map, Potter had shown that to him in confidence, but so long as Moody wasn’t actively looking at the map Draco’s stealth could be helpful.

“We’ll just have to be a little extra careful, is all,” Pansy shrugs.

“Pans and I can start a bit of a riot before the third task, if we need to,” Blaise suggests, stretching out and sagging more comfortably into his loveseat. “Keep people out there longer.”

“We’re all pretty decent at the Earworm Jinx, too,” Eve says, “Get enough people with the same song stuck in their head and it is bound to start a stir.”

“Which song?” Draco questions, smiling and arching a brow. Eve smirks back at him.

“’Stayin Alive,’ obviously.”

As Draco, Eve, and Pansy cackle, Blaise gives them all a dirty look. “I feel personally attacked.”

~ ~ ~

“You are the… the… the WORST human being, EVER,” the furious scream of a young, ten-year-old Max comes through the radio and Draco scowls at it viciously. He doesn’t know what he’s said this time to set Max off, but he is certain they are blowing things out of proportion.

“I find that hard to believe,” he says back, voice steadily rising, a fury in his gut. “I am not wrong! My government hiring so many of these mudbloods and blood traitors is an insult to their legacy. Not only that, it takes away the opportunities for my own people.”

“Oh, it so does not!” Max roars. “You are already rich! You are already privileged! What else could you possibly benefit from just a few jobs going to the people who clearly need them and deserve them?”

“They do not deserve them! They were given to them out of pity!” Draco argues, remembering what his father had said on the matter after he had returned home, furious.

“How do you know?! Have you seen them working? Have you actually met these people?” Max counters, “And even if it was a pity job, why would you even want it?! ‘Oh, look at me, I lost one hundred dollars this year out of my annual kajillion, oh boohoo’.”

“We do not use dol--”

“I know you don’t use dollars, shut up! That hundred you’re losing doesn’t even make a dent in what you already have, but what about the people that have nothing? Huh?! What about them?! That hundred is all they’re getting, and they use it to survive! Not fill their stupid mansions with gold-plated toilets!”

Draco grinds his teeth and snarls. “These… vermin are overrunning the Ministry. Perhaps it is only a few hundred… ‘dollars’ now, but what of later? What happens then?”

“Then make sure you, or your dad, actually deserve the job and no one will have a reason to kick you out,” Max growls back lowly.

“These people are out to get us!”

“And why would they do that?”

“Because they are jealous of our power!”

“Or maybe it is because the only reason your ‘people’ have been successful is because you have used the suppression of these minorities as stepping stones to the top and they’re sick of it! If they actually DID go about stealing your jobs, then all they’d be doing is following your lead!”

“That isn’t it at all!” Draco yells, but a little part of himself begins to pull at him in doubt.

“That’s TOTALLY it! You think they’re trying to overthrow you when I’m pretty sure all they want to do is survive! And you’re scared because you know all these jobs your dad has, he only has because of money!”

“Don’t you dare insult my father!”

“I’m not insulting him, I’m telling the truth! Get over yourself, your dad’s a jerk and you’re turning into him!”

“SHUT UP!” Draco screams, shutting off the radio and chucking it across the room. It clatters onto the floor but doesn’t break, which he will be thankful for later even though now it leaves him deeply dissatisfied. He sinks further into his tub, arms crossed tight over his chest as hot, angry tears roll down his cheeks.

Max was wrong. Max was wrong and cruel and just a stupid Muggle. Lucius Malfoy was a great, brilliant man who knew a problem when he saw one, and those blood traitors and muggleborns were a problem that needed to be taken care of.

Draco would always trust his father’s judgement. Always.

~ ~ ~

“Hello!”

Draco shrieks, nearly flinging his camera across the hall before he scrambles to catch it and stop his frantic heart. Once he is sure he’s alright and breathing again, he spins around and glares at the two, grinning morons behind him.

“The fleabag and bird’s nest are here. Joy,” he says through clenched teeth while Sirius and Potter look completely unfazed.

“Now you be nice, little cousin,” Sirius says, wagging his finger at the glaring blonde, “Harry hasn’t had fleas since Christmas.” Potter quickly jabs his godfather in the ribs with his elbow for that comment, but Sirius just grins through it and chuckles.

“I suspect you are here to observe the final task, Sirius?” Draco questions.

“Yep! Families of the champions get to come in ahead of time.”

“Will your Muggle relatives be joining us, then?” Draco turns to Potter, who immediately scowls at the thought. Draco finds this reaction rather curious.

“Hell no. Sirius and the Weasley’s are here for me,” Potter supplies, then motions down the hall. “We were on our way to see them now, actually. Sirius came earlier than he was supposed to.”

“Can you blame him?” Draco arches a brow and crosses his arms, looking at Sirius before facing Potter again. The air around them shifts with his tone, all their expressions turning serious. “This is the last chance anyone has of going through with their plans. We need to be careful…”

“Well… You two have been barking down everyone’s door this past year,” Potter says, sounding hopeful, “What if they were scared off?”

“Possible, but very unlikely,” Sirius sighs, running a hand through his hair in a stressful manner. “Me and Draco are going to be using the final task as a distraction from our last two suspects.”

“Who are…?” Potter’s eyes thin. This would be his first time hearing exactly who Draco most suspected.

“Snape and Moody,” Draco sighs. Out of all his suspects, these two were the two he could never find definitive proof were innocent. He hated putting his godfather on the list, but in the end… well, he couldn’t be emotional about this and the facts were, he knew very little about Snape.

“I’ll be slipping into Snivellus’s office while everyone is down at the task and Draco will be getting into Mad-Eye’s,” Sirius explains.

“You won’t be down at the maze with me?” Potter looks to his godfather, looking upset by this, and Sirius looks apologetic.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Not like there’s anything for us to watch,” Draco rolls his eyes. “Same as the second task. Just a bunch of staring at nothing. No worries, though, we’ll make sure to congratulate Diggory on his win when all is done.”

“Oi!” Potter shoves at him and Draco cackles, smirking.

“Nonetheless, Eve, Pansy, and Blaise will be working to start a riot or two and postpone the beginning of the task a bit to give us time. If you begin the maze before both of us return, however, try to finish it as quickly as possible. We do not know what the enemy may have hidden within, so finishing quickly will be your best bet,” Draco explains and Potter, thankfully, listens intently.

“I’ll do what I can,” Potter nods, a fire in his green eyes that Draco had learned meant the other boy meant business.

“We’ll probably see you again in the Great Hall,” Sirius says, smiling at Draco. “Weasley’s and all.”

“Is this a warning or an invitation?” Draco arches a brow.

“Bit of both?” Sirius chuckles and reaches out like he wants to ruffle Draco’s hair, but the other boy whips out his wand in warning before he can get much farther. Sirius smiles, holding his hands up in surrender, and backs away.

“Oh, and these are for you, Potter,” Draco says as an afterthought, tucking his wand away and reaching into his satchel. He tosses a bag of M&M’s at Potter, who catches them and looks at them in surprise, before smiling knowingly at Draco.

“From a mutual friend?” Potter says, opening the bag immediately.

“They say good luck and, I quote, ‘don’t break a leg, that is an awful way to say well wishes, who came up with that, we should break THEIR leg and see how they like it’.”

Potter snorts, pouring out some of his candy as he smiles. “Sounds like them.”

Sirius looks between the two boys with a raised brow, confused, but doesn’t push the subject. They end up wishing Draco farewell a moment later, hurrying off to meet up with the Weasley’s for Potter’s big day. Draco, alone once more, goes back to taking photos of some of the decorative statues and gargoyles, enjoying the calm before the storm.

~ ~ ~

When Draco does head to the Great Hall to grab some food, he is, indeed, greeted by the sight of a sea of gingers. The Weasley’s are all surround Potter at the Gryffindor table, smiling and talking animatedly, putting the boy at ease more than Draco has ever seen anyone else do.

“Heya, Draco!” says a pair of identical gingers after they’ve broken off from their family to approach him. Draco sighs.

“Will you ever call me ‘Malfoy’ again?” he questions.

“Not while this still annoys you, Draco,” says George, and Draco knows he’s George because he’s wearing a shirt with a “G” sewn into the front. Fred has on an identical one, save for his “F.” Although… knowing these two, they very well could have swapped shirts just to mess with people.

“Nice piece on Bagman, by the way,” Fred says with a smirk, passing over a folded copy of The Prophet. It is yesterday’s paper with the headline “FORMER QUIDDITCH STAR TURNED CHEAT!” It had most of the degrading information on Ludo Bagman that Draco had given Skeeter written out in detail, plus some quotes from a few anonymous sources that had been cheated out of money from the man.

It had successfully run Bagman off, which would mean a new judge would temporarily be called in for the final task from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The last-minute nature of the call would put the task a little behind, but that was exactly what they needed.

As a side effect, also, it meant Potter had less to worry about and would take some of the attention off that blasphemous piece Skeeter had wrote a week prior.

“I think Skeeter actually managed to do something right, for a change,” Draco agrees, the three of them sharing an understood smirk between each other.

“You going to come say ‘hi’ to the family, Draco?” Fred questions, smiling teasingly as Draco scowls.

“Not on your life. We all know Malfoy’s and Weasley’s don’t mix.”

“I dunno. We’ve done pretty well so far!” George laughs, winking at Draco when the blonde looks at him in confusion.

“Keep up the anarchic work, boys,” he eventually sighs, waving the twins off, “I am hungry and I will not be held up any longer.”

The twins give mock salutes before grinning and hurrying off, leaving Draco to roll his eyes and head for the Slytherin table. How he had become such an idiot magnet he would never know.

~ ~ ~

“Professor Moody and Professor Snape,” Granger says under her breath as she, Draco, and Weasley make their way to the Quidditch Pitch for the final task. They, and a few of the other students, are heading down earlier than is necessary. Draco had originally been with Eve, Pansy, and Blaise, wanting to get a read on who was already out there and see when Draco could slip away, but Draco had told them to go on ahead when he’d seen Granger and Weasley.

It seemed only fair to fill them in on his plan, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more people spread out in the crowd trying to help stall.

“They are the most suspicious individuals at this point,” Draco replies, also keeping his voice down.

“Always knew Snape was up to something,” Weasley mumbles, glaring off into the distance.

“Just because someone does not like you does not mean they are evil. Take myself, for instance,” Draco says, exasperated. Why was Weasley always so eager to jump to conclusions? It was so frustrating.

“Still on the fence with you,” Weasley says lowly, turning his glare now towards Draco, who gives him a dry look before pulling out a bag of PopRocks from his bag and holding them out in silence. Weasley eyes them dubiously, before growling and snatching the bag away. “A short fence,” he amends grumpily as he opens the bag.

“How ever will I survive?” Draco snarks.

Upon reaching the pitch, which hardly looks like anything Quidditch related anymore, Draco stands off to the side, hidden in the shadows of the temporary rafters for the audience. He needs to spot Moody before he could act, certain he would be out here when Draco slipped back into the castle. Snape and his whereabouts would be Sirius’s responsibility.

He spots the judges overlooking everything, a new wizard Draco does not recognize taking Ludo Bagman’s place. The newcomer looks positively exhausted, with drooping eyes and dark circles beneath them, but he is smiling as he speaks to Dumbledore about this or that.

The only one missing is Percy Weasley, the previous stand-in for Barty Crouch, but Draco had heard from Ron Weasley that his elder brother had been called into questioning following the discovery of his boss’s body.

Draco didn’t know, then, who would be filling in for Barty Crouch, and he didn’t like that. Technically, Draco also didn’t know who the wizard filling in for Bagman was, either, but at least he had a face for him.

What Draco did know was that all jobs previously planned to go to Moody had been allocated to other professors or faculty. Dumbledore had told him that a while back when they had met in his office to talk about his findings.

Draco hadn’t told his Headmaster about his plan to break into Moody’s, and Snape’s, offices. He hadn’t been sure if this decision was his best option, but after careful deliberation with some of the other Slytherins it was decided to be the best course of action for the time being. Dumbledore needed to appear impartial, because if a lead turned up to be a failure it might tip off the actual murderer that they were onto them.

If it was just Draco tied to that, it would be a lot easier to pass off.

Draco wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore was at least a little aware, though. The man was aware of so much more than seemed possible, at times, but he’d thankfully not stopped Draco and Sirius on their mission.

When Moody does eventually appear, walking up to Dumbledore the second he steps onto the pitch, the two men speak lowly. Moody looks as grumpy as he always does, no suspicious activity, and after a few hushed words the DADA professor moves to the stands that house the rest of the faculty.

Draco chances a glance back at the student body. He makes eye contact with Granger and Weasley first, the two of them clearly having spotted Moody as well, and they exchange a nod. Draco also spots Eve, Pansy, and Blaise removing their wands, clearly ready to start mischief as they smirk at each.

Draco, silent as can be, turns away and maneuvers through approaching crowds of students and heads back towards the castle and, hopefully, answers.

~ ~ ~

The interesting thing about people now being aware Draco took photos with a Muggle camera was the added benefit that, after a year, they tended just to ignore him when he did it. The first few months of his fourth year plenty of students had requested he take photos of them or would attempt to photobomb or mess up his shots.

Such students tended to get a nasty hex thrown their way by a very furious blonde.

Nowadays, though, no one paid much mind as he walked about, snapping photos of the castle’s statues and gargoyles, the extravagant work positively breathtaking when you truly observed it up close.

They also served as the perfect path for Draco to use back to Moody’s room.

It wasn’t just Moody Draco didn’t want to see him heading to his office, it was the students. All it would take was one well-meaning Ravenclaw to approach Moody on the pitch and let him know one Draco Malfoy was probably looking for him but hadn’t heard he wasn’t in his office anymore to ruin the whole thing.

So, no one took stock of Draco taking photos of the statues earlier in the day, and thus did not see him vanishing a few of the gargoyles from their perches. The massive statues, the full body, armored ones, were too noticeable if they went missing, but the gargoyles were usually looked over.

Which was perfect.

When Draco reaches the castle and slips back inside, he goes into an abandoned corridor where his path of missing gargoyles begins. The empty perch, the left of a trio, is too high up for a human to get to. But a snow leopard would have no issue.

The shift he’s practiced a few times out in the forest, he’s gotten better at it, but it still takes a few seconds of visualization before the change properly takes place. Once it is done, however, with the world blossoming out for his senses and that animalistic energy back in his veins, Draco feels more at home than he ever has before.

One leap later and he’s up on the perch.

Not all of the perches and holds along his path are free of gargoyles, getting rid of them all would have actually been suspicious, so he has to clamber over a few after a well-aimed jump, watching for when there is a pause in the flow of students below.

On a few occasions he has to freeze on an empty perch, sitting down, raising a paw, and opening his mouth in a silent snarl. He hardly looks like the other gargoyles, but a cursory glance leaves most passersby shrugging and walking off, content.

Sometimes he does have to leap to the ground, but with his sense of smell and superior hearing, he slips past the students and lingering faculty with little issue, keeping to the shadows as best he can, before leaping up to another set of gargoyles.

When he finally makes it to Moody’s office the sun has begun to set and, thankfully, the castle has finally begun to properly vacate for the third task of the Triwizard Tournament.

Leaping to the ground Draco shifts back into a human, shaking himself out and wiggling his nose. The shift back was still disconcerting, but he had been right; it was getting easier and easier the more he practiced. Still, with only three days under his belt as an Animagus, he figures he was doing pretty well.

The second he’s crouched in front of the door, wand out, Draco utters a sharp, “Alohomora.” Wand pointed at the lock, though, he hears nothing. He tries the handle anyway and sighs when it doesn’t budge. He’d expected a bit more resistance than a simple Unlocking Charm could handle, but it was still frustrating.

“Incendio,” he attempts next, fire flickering over the wooden door, but not catching. A Fire-Repellant Charm could have been placed on the door, also not surprising, and also still frustrating.

The Gouging Spell, which he had learned in Herbology when being shown quick and easy ways to dig up the earth, would be of little help against a wooden door, but perhaps the stone wall beside it? “Defodio,” he attempts and, for a moment, it appears to begin working. The stone wall where he points his wand begins to break apart, but halfway through it simply stops.

Draco growls in frustration and casts a swift Mending Charm on the wall to return it to its proper state. He wanted to leave as little evidence of his snooping as possible, but the way things were going it was looking like he wouldn’t have a choice but to cause some damage.

The Reductor Curse comes to mind, seeing as Draco had seen Potter learning it for some time in preparation for the maze, but Draco himself was not as skilled in it. Still, it was worth a shot. “Reducto!” he exclaims, pointing his wand at the door, but much to his chagrin only a few grains of wood fall away. Lovely.

Although… it did give him a bit of an idea. His Reductor Curse was clearly not powerful enough, but perhaps he could manage something small?

He crouches beside the door’s hinges and points his wand squarely at the metal nails holding the door in the wall. A few, swift curses later and the nails were reduced to nothing.

Except when Draco stands and pushes at the door, the magically induced lock keeps it from opening fully. It budges a little, wood scraping against stone on the side where the hinges had been detached, but doesn’t fall away.

“Fuck!” Draco curses vehemently, hitting the door with his shoulder and regretting it a moment later when a surge of pain goes through his arm. It manages to make the door shake, but hardly move, and Draco snarls in fury. He knows what he needs to do… the issue is it will be loud, and even though he’s up in the castle, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone heard him.

He’d need to wait for something to cover up the noise.

Like the tournament’s cannon that initiated the start of a task.

Damn it all, he was supposed to have been able to get in before the task started. Sirius was probably already done and heading down to the pitch, and Draco hates that he hopes his own godfather may be the culprit just so that this whole mission won’t be in vain.

When Draco goes over to a window that lets him spy out to the Quidditch pitch, however, the sound of excited students and music and preparations indicate no such thing. If the culprit had been Snape, and thus found out by Sirius, the task would have surely been called off.

Which means now he has to wait, standing in front of the office door, wand raised, for the cannon to fire. It will take a while, thanks to all their efforts to stall, but it will come. It will have to, now.

The distant sound of the cannon almost startles Draco out of his concentration when it does finally ring out, the noise loud enough to make the mortar in the castle quiver, but he stays on task. “Maadis!” he yells the incantation for the Shockwave Spell, the same one he and the Golden Trio had all tried at once and been knocked onto their butts by the force of it.

Draco only just manages to stay upright, but he stumbles a few feet back as the sonic boom of the spell erupts out and blasts the door forcefully into the office. The handle and its lock, however, are all that remains, still attached to the wall with splintered wood hanging off of it.

This may have been the least Slytherin move he’d pulled in a while…

Draco wastes no time in hurrying into the overly cluttered room and beginning his search, camera out. He had a mission to do and, while things hadn’t gone the way he’d planned, he wasn’t going to stop now.

At this point, angry and frazzled, he was ready for anything.

~ ~ ~

He was not ready for anything…

Draco could punch a wall for having forgotten his own godfather approaching him about missing Polyjuice Potion ingredients, because sitting here, in a crate hidden away it took Draco ten minutes to find it, are bottle after bottle of Polyjuice Potion. They smell positively rancid and appeared fresh.

Well, Draco assumed they had to be fresh. If the ingredients were being stolen through the year, that meant the potion was being made regularly.

Moody, or whoever the hell he really was - and Draco was beginning to think he knew who that may be - had to be regularly making and taking the potion to keep up his disguise. There was just one issue.

Polyjuice Potion required a piece of the person one wanted to turn into. If Not-Really-Moody was regularly making the potion, that meant he was regularly getting DNA from the real Moody. But… where could the Auror be…?

The sudden sound of banging and muffled screaming has Draco springing up, wand whipped out, and backing up against a wall. He looks around the room with wide eyes, searching for the disturbance, but finds instead a large trunk that is rattling violently before settling back down.

That wasn’t normal, even for wizarding kind.

Draco slowly makes his way over, wand raised just in case something springs at him, and on his way snatches one of the many secrecy sensors scattered around the room. It momentarily vibrates at him, to which he gives it an agitated shake. “Yes, yes, I know I’m sneaking around. No need to be overzealous.” The sensor thankfully quits vibrating after that, perhaps because it senses no further malice within Draco’s actions.

Dark detectors were strangely sentient things in the most peculiar of ways.

As he approaches the trunk he holds the sensor out to it and almost immediately it begins to buzz. Something was concealed here, then, that much was clear.

When he crouches beside the trunk he finds not one, not two, but seven locks on its front. Draco attempts to unlock the first one, thinking he will need to unlock all seven if he wishes to open it, but then the trunk immediately springs open with no issue. Surprised by the ease of it, Draco peers inside with little hesitation and finds a mass of spellbooks.

Blinking in surprise he pulls out a few to observe them, the secrecy sensor not giving off any signals when he passes it over the books.

He does end up spying Volume II and Volume III of Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts, which he swiftly removes and tucks into his satchel. The sensor, sitting beside him, buzzes a little and he hisses at it, “What? I’m in here, risking my ass, I’m going to get something out of it!” The buzzing stops.

He shuts the trunk and eyes the locks in confusion. He raises his wand and unlocks the second lock, the trunk opening once more with little issue. Inside is a bunch of junk. Sneakoscopes, quills, parchment, and--

Was that an invisibility cloak?! Draco removes the cloak and looks at it in amazement, eyes wide as he examines the silvery material. These things were so incredibly rare, not even his own family possessed one.

Would it be so bad to take this, too?

The trunk begins to shake violently again, screams coming from within despite being opened wide, and Draco yelps before glaring at it. “I’m working on it, okay?” he snaps and, because he felt vindicated at this point, stuffs the invisibility cloak into his satchel. This all probably belonged to the interloper anyway, so who cared if he took some things?

He shuts the trunk again and eyes the locks. He raises the secrecy sensor once more, the device vibrating as it approaches the trunk, but slowly Draco hovers it over each lock. Gradually, the further down Draco went, the vibrating increased until he reached the final, seventh lock and the vibrating nearly shook the device right out of Draco’s hands.

Well… here goes nothing.

This lock does not open as easily, but it does not require a Shockwave Spell to burst it open, either. This time, Draco’s small Reductor Curse is enough to make the lock spring open and the lid to snap up.

There are no nifty items within this compartment, however, as Draco leans over to look inside. Ten feet down, the compartment goes, made of sheer walls no one could ever climb, a cool draft coming up to whip at Draco’s hair.

And sitting at the very bottom is Alastor Moody.

~ ~ ~

“Maadis!” Draco yells, the shockwave obliterating the office window, and a moment later he is leaping through as a snow leopard. He clambers onto the rooftop beneath, getting his footing, then takes off running, not slowed down by corridors or stairways or turns.

He needed to get to the hospital wing and tell Madam Pomfrey to hurry to “Moody’s” office pronto. He’d assured the real Mad-Eye that he would be safe, but that Draco had no way of getting him out of there. He needed a faculty member to do that, especially since, even from three meters up, Draco could tell Mad-Eye was injured.

Leaping over the rooftops was the quickest way for Draco to get to the hospital wing at this point, aside from flying, and he leaps to the ground into a courtyard nearby. He shifts back as he runs, thankfully no one is around to see, and bursts into the infirmary.

Pomfrey is momentarily frustrated with him and his noise, but when she sees his frantic expression she sobers and asks what’s wrong. Somehow he manages to communicate the need for her to hurry to Moody’s office, making sure she understands fully that things are about to become very messy, before he’s sprinting back out.

The mediwitch calls out to him, but he ignores her.

His sprint down to the pitch goes by in a blur, the sun long set and torches lighting his way. It is quiet up ahead save for a few murmurs, the task still at hand, and Draco spots Sirius near the entrance. He’s leaning against the rafters, looking out towards the maze, but looks back upon Draco’s arrival.

“What is it?” Sirius asks urgently the moment he spots Draco’s expression, his hands coming up to grab the boy’s upper arms and steady him with a firm hold.

“Moody is an imposter under Polyjuice Potion,” Draco says and, out of the shadows nearby, Snape emerges and approaches them. Apparently, he had also been waiting for Draco’s arrival. Perhaps Sirius had filled him in after discovering his innocence? It didn’t matter. “Uncle Severus,” he says to his godfather, “He’s the one that has been stealing from your stores.”

“Can you be certain of this?” Snape questions, eyes narrowed but his wand already pulled out as if to act.

Fuck, Draco had forgotten to take pictures. He’d been in such a rush to get help for Mad-Eye. Still, his word would be enough tonight. “The real Mad-Eye was in a trunk in his office along with plenty of bottles of Polyjuice Potion. Madam Pomfrey should have gotten Mad-Eye by now, but…”

Draco swallows, gathering himself as he attempts to find the words to drop his next theory. “I think Moody, the one we’ve known for this year, is Barty Crouch Jr.”

“Barty Crouch’s son?” Snape questions.

“He’s dead, Draco,” Sirius says lowly, but Draco is already shaking his head.

“In the files we got - please don’t ask Uncle Severus - Crouch Sr. requested all the needed ingredients for Polyjuice Potion nearly two months prior to a visit to his son in Azkaban. The visit was because his mother was dying. Only a few days later ‘Crouch Jr’ dies and is immediately buried, per his father’s orders, then Mrs. Crouch apparently dies despite no body ever being presented.” Draco pauses to take in a big gulp of air. “Both Potter and I also spotted the name ‘Barty Crouch’ on the Marauders Map at times when Crouch Sr. was not present.”

“The Marauders Map would have seen through the Polyjuice Potion,” Sirius realizes, eyes widening in horror, and he looks back at Snape. In the face of this new information their animosity towards each other seems to vanish, temporarily, and both turn towards the pitch.

“I will inform Dumbledore. You fetch our imposter,” Snape says and Sirius nods, the two splitting up for their respective targets. Draco moves over to the shadows of the rafters, sliding down until he’s sitting in the grass, exhausted.

They’d tell Dumbledore, catch Barty Crouch Jr., and call off the task. That was what was going to happen now. That was what needed to happen.

But just a moment later the sound of a portkey can be heard and Draco attempts to peak around the rafters to get a look. People are crowding around two people on the ground, the glowing Triwizard Cup rolling in the grass beside them, and Draco thinks he sees Potter’s messy hair before his view is cut off by the crowd.

Had Potter just managed to finish the tournament? Certainly by all the excited cheers it seemed that way, until Draco’s blood runs cold.

“Cedric Diggory’s dead!”

Draco scrambles backwards, further into the shadows, his eyes wide but staring at nothing. No… that couldn’t be… Why would… HOW could…

Draco thinks he might not be breathing as his vision swims and he struggles to force air into his lunges, scrubbing viciously at his eyes. The loud cheering around him had morphed into cries of terror and anguish, Amos Diggory’s the most profound as he sobs over his dead son.

What the hell was going on? What had been inside that maze to cause this terrible outcome?

Movement to his side has Draco looking up, vision still blurred but coming into focus. Someone is leaving the pitch. Someone stocky with a prominent limp and someone else being dragged along with them rather forcefully.

Moody, Draco realizes with a click. Or rather, fake-Moody, with a very shell-shocked Potter being dragged by his arm towards the castle. Potter doesn’t even look like he knows where he is, just tripping along after a man he thinks he can still trust.

Draco doesn’t have time to wonder if Sirius is right behind them, ready to defend his godson. It is likely fake-Moody slipped Potter away in the chaos without anyone noticing, but it hardly matters. Right now they are getting away and Draco is the only one that sees them.

He scrambles to his feet, leaving his satchel hiding in the shadows, and makes a run towards the castle. They’re fast, for a one-legged man and a traumatized boy, but Draco is catching up, fury building more and more in his veins with every single step.

They’re almost at the door into the castle when the loudest, most furious noise Draco has ever made bursts from his mouth. “CROUCH!” he screams, pointing his wand, then throws out, “MAADIS!” The boom is sure to get the crowd’s attention far behind them and the shockwave crashes into the castle wall, sending stones tumbling into fake-Moody’s path.

The traitor hardly has time to react, because when he finally turns to face his attacker Draco has already shifted, sprinting at full speed at him with a yowl and springing at him. His claws dig through leather robes and pierce skin, fangs digging into the imposter’s face with every snarl, growl, and yowl.

He manages to scratch fake-Moody’s wrist with a back paw, catching bone, and making the man scream out in agony as he drops his wand. The sound of clattering wood has Draco leaping away and swatting the wand like a plaything, making sure it is far away from any groping hands.

Potter, at some point in the struggle, had been released and knocked backwards, sitting with wide eyes and a pale face matted with dirt and blood. Draco, once off of fake-Moody, springs to crouch in front of the boy, hackles risen, and massive teeth bared as he growls a warning at the traitor.

“Malfoy…?” Potter questions, voice distant and weak, and Draco pauses his growling just long enough to chuff back at the boy an affirmative.

“You bloody piece of…” fake-Moody is growling, attempting to get up despite the blood pooling beneath him from Draco’s attack. He still has a cold, deadly fury in his eyes when he manages to look up, but his face looks distorted and wobbly. Like it is falling off the bone.

His potion is wearing off.

“Stupefy!” comes a voice to their right and, abruptly, fake-Moody is being knocked to the side, stunned, as Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius, and McGonagall come rushing at them.

Sirius is first to move towards Potter, his wand raised at Draco, but Potter quickly moves in the way, grabbing hold of the fur at Draco’s shoulder and half shielding him. “No! It’s Malfoy, he’s okay!” he says and all of the adults look properly baffled, but accept the explanation. There are other things to worry about now than Draco becoming an Animagus.

“Inside. Inside, everyone,” Dumbledore orders, binding up fake-Moody’s body with a flick of his wand and floating him inside as quickly as possible. McGonagall, with hardly a second thought, repairs the broken castle wall, getting all the rubble out of their way, while Snape follows after Dumbledore with a vial of veritaserum in hand.

Sirius is quick to hustle Draco and Potter in as well, Draco refusing to transform back so long as that fake-Moody, who is looking less and less like Moody, is in his sights. Potter’s grip in his fur, vice-like and painful, also keeps him from turning back, staying as a steady presence between Potter and the traitor.

They end up in an empty room and the truth quickly tumbles out.

This Moody had been a fake the entire year, slipping Potter’s name into the goblet and assuring his success throughout the tournament. His plans had gotten a little strained when Dumbledore had given Flitwick the duty of bringing the Cup into the maze, but a quick Imperius Curse had solved that issue.

McGonagall was quickly sent out in search of the Charms professor. Hardly even a minute later she had returned, informing Dumbledore that Flitwick had fallen unconscious after Potter and Diggory’s return and had been rushed to the hospital wing.

By the end of his veritaserum induced confession, it is Barty Crouch Jr. who sits before them, a scrawny, mad man who starts raving over everything his father had done to him. How he’d been snuck out of Azkaban but hidden away under the effects of the Imperius Curse and an invisibility cloak. Draco, for a moment, wonders if this is the same cloak now in his own possession.

Crouch Jr. broke free of his control at the World Cup, however, and had cast the Dark Mark into the sky. He’d then been rescued by his “master” and Peter Pettigrew. From there they plotted a way to get to Potter and use him in the resurrection of the Dark Lord himself.

Having heard just about enough Dumbledore orders McGonagall and Snape to keep watch, the two agreeing immediately, as Dumbledore leads Potter, Draco, and Sirius towards his office.

“Mr. Malfoy, I would recommend changing back at this time,” Dumbledore says quietly as they move through a particularly deserted corridor. Draco hesitates, just a little, but when Potter finally releases his fur he takes a breath and shifts.

He feels disconcerted as he always does becoming a human again, but with everything that has happened he hardly pays attention to it.

They all continue to walk, Dumbledore leading as Sirius walks with an arm around his godson’s shoulders and Draco, on Potter’s other side, feels the boy’s hand re-latch itself to his robes instead.

Despite everything that has happened, despite all of the scares throughout this year, it is in this moment, with Draco glancing occasionally at the vacant look in Potter’s eyes that he feels more terrified than he ever has before.

~ ~ ~

Fudge was a fool. That much was painfully clear the more Draco sat in the hospital wing watching the proceedings.

He had been fully prepared to stick beside Potter, following him up to Dumbledore’s office with little arguing from anyone, and they listened to the boy’s retelling of what happened when he and Cedric Diggory had touched the Triwizard Cup.

Bloody hell, You-Know-Who was back… It was hard to even imagine, but just looking at Potter was proof enough. Sirius doesn’t leave his godson’s side through the whole thing, but Draco gets up to pace over by the wall.

With little else anyone can say, Dumbledore sends them all off to the hospital wing, and Draco finds himself right beside Potter once more.

The moment they had entered the hospital wing, however, he had been pushed out of the way, the Weasley’s and Granger already waiting inside. A familiar looking beetle alights on Draco’s shoulder as he slips off to a seat in the corner, away from the action, but able to observe everything. It was clear he would only get in the way otherwise.

When Potter falls asleep with Sirius, as a dog, at the foot of his bed like they had done back during Easter Break, is when Draco gets all the attention. He has to answer all the Weasley’s urgent questions, explaining to the best of his ability what he knew, but keeping quiet about his own Animagus status. As much as he trusted these people not to go blabbering his secrets, he sure as hell didn’t trust Skeeter on his shoulder.

Eventually Pomfrey tells them all to be quiet and Draco has a moment to walk around and check on everything. Mad-Eye, the real one, is laying asleep and recovering, and Flitwick has been laid out in the bed beside him.

When he gets to the slumbering Potter no one shoo’s him away as they did before, but he feels wary eyes on him nonetheless. He doesn’t do anything, just watches the boy sleep for a moment, watching him breathe, before he forces himself to turn away.

He feels his stomach tug incessantly back towards the boy, but he takes a seat against the wall a ways away, back to just watching.

And then Fudge had stormed in. What a mess this man was.

Draco doesn’t know when Minister Fudge arrived at Hogwarts and he honestly doesn’t care. The fool of a man had gone and gotten a dementor to suck out Barty Crouch Jr.’s soul, effectively making him useless as evidence of You-Know-Who’s return. They’re best piece to the puzzle: gone.

McGonagall was furious, Snape was furious, Dumbledore, who arrived not long after, was furious despite how calm he seemed. And Fudge kept refusing to believe that the greatest threat wizarding kind had faced in modern years had truly returned.

It was clearly upsetting Potter, who’d awoken at all the noise, and Sirius reverted back into a man to argue with the blind Minister.

Plenty of points were made, valid, logical points, but Fudge ignored them all. Snape even had the courage to show him his own Dark Mark, the color black to indicate the Dark Lord’s return.

“He is not back!” Fudge kept spitting, throwing dreadful accusations everywhere.

“What of Peter Pettigrew? You know he’s still alive! You have proof!” Sirius argues at one point, and suddenly Fudge’s attention shifts towards Draco, his eyes narrowed.

“Ah yes, the photos from our local detective. Photos that have led to no new leads and no captures. Photos that have only brought about your freedom, Black. It makes me wonder,” Fudge hisses, all venom and fear mixed into one.

There isn’t much else to be said to this, the man had clearly lost his mind, and he makes a point of severing his connections and trust with Dumbledore before he turns to leave. Then, however, he turns around to drop a bag of galleons on the table beside Potter’s bed.

The prize money from the tournament.

“Minister Fudge,” Draco calls, standing up before he can leave. Everyone looks at him, which is a little unnerving, but he ignores them and makes his way over to the Minister. He was just nearly out the door again but had stopped to give Draco a very displeased glare.

“Don’t tell me you have more of your ‘photos’ for me today,” he snarls, “I won’t hear any more of this foolishness!”

“No sir, I don’t have any photos,” Draco says evenly, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “You see, sir… My only interest is the truth. Nothing more, nothing less, and it always has been this way.”

The tone of his voice gives Fudge pause and Draco can positively feel the tension and glares on his back. He keeps his composure, however, and keeps facing Fudge.

It wasn’t a lie. All he was interested in was the truth, but the “truth” to Fudge meant something very different.

“I must say…” Draco continues, making a point of glancing back in Potter’s direction, looking uncertain and suspicious, “I am concerned. There will certainly be people who take into this paranoia. Maybe a search party, something minor, would be advisable to help appease the masses that will not listen to your words?”

Fudge eyes Draco closely, before taking in a deep breath and laying a hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “Your concern is exemplary, and your father would be proud, but it is unnecessary. The truth will come out,” Fudge glances past Draco towards Dumbledore, “I will make sure of it.”

Then, with a final pat to Draco’s shoulder, he turns and leaves. Draco shifts towards the door, moving to close it, and whispering to the beetle still hidden under the hood of his robes, “Keep tabs on him.” The beetle swiftly buzzes through the door and Draco shuts it, releasing a sigh and sagging.

“What the hell, Malfoy?!” Ron Weasley immediately yells and Draco turns around to a hoard of furious-looking Weasley’s and a confused Granger. Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius, and McGonagall, however, appear sadly aware of what he’s just done, while Potter… Draco tries not to flinch at the hurt look on Potter’s face.

“Before you start accusing me of whatever foolishness you wish to accuse me of,” Draco begins sharply, pointing a finger at the group as a whole, covering his worries and fears and nerves with attitude, “Think for three seconds. Nothing anyone said was going to get through to that man. He was a frightened politician with a possible threat to his power on the horizon. You think anything we said, factual or not, was going to get through to him?”

“You put yourself on his side,” Sirius says quietly and most of the angry glares fade.

“I was the only one here with enough standing to do so. Now, he trusts me and believes I am on his side, which I can continue to enforce over the summer, while actually working for you,” Draco explains and his eyes land on Dumbledore. The man is looking at Draco with a resigned, but sad expression.

“You should not have had to put yourself in such a position, Draco,” the headmaster speaks softly.

“And yet I have chosen to do so,” Draco snaps, not in the mood for pity of any kind, “A choice that Potter has been bereft of for all of his life.”

The room sobers at that and he scowls, furious and exhausted and ready for the day to be over. “What’s done is done,” he says, moving over to lean against the wall to the left of Potter’s bed. The closest he’s dared get.

The boy watches him move with tired, grateful eyes and Draco wishes he wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything to be grateful about. The Boy-Who-Lived deserved to have more people in his corner, that was all.

Thankfully, Dumbledore moves the conversation along after that. He asks Pomfrey to go tend to Winky, which seems odd, until the headmaster begins talking strategy to everyone present.

Sirius is told to call on Lupin, that they would be in charge of gathering up some kind of “old crowd,” which Draco can only assume must mean the Order of the Phoenix from the First Wizarding War. Then he talks to Snape in the most cryptic tone, saying, “You know what I must ask of you. If you are ready…” he takes a breath, “If you are prepared…”

“I am,” is all Snape says, nodding, and Draco’s brows furrow. Well, that was something to look into. But not tonight.

After Snape leaves and Sirius, after plenty of urging from Mrs. Weasley, goes off to make some fire calls and write some letters, Dumbledore faces Draco once more.

“And one final thing, Mr. Malfoy,” he says, serious, and Draco straightens up. He’d begun to sag against the wall in exhaustion. “The matter of your unregistered Animagus state.”

“Your what?!” Granger yelps, all eyes yet again on Draco, and the blonde glowers. Was the Headmaster doing this on purpose?

“I was curious about this as well,” McGonagall says evenly, looking down her nose at Draco and the boy’s glower fades, quickly shrinking away from the woman’s gaze.

“We will go into more details on this later,” Dumbledore decides, “But I believe it wise to keep this a secret from the Ministry at this time. If you wish to earn their favor, and keep such a trump card, then this development will remain a secret.”

“I… thank you, Headmaster,” Draco nods, brows raised in surprise, and Dumbledore nods back, smiling. Then the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall are slipping out of the hospital wing.

All that is left are the unconscious Mad-Eye and Flitwick, the traumatized Potter, and the vigilant Weasley, Granger, Mrs. Weasley, and Draco.

“He said… An Animagus?” Mrs. Weasley questions, looking slightly nervous, but Potter reaches out and squeezes her hand.

“He used it to save me from Crouch,” the boy whispers, turning his face up towards Draco. He’s not smiling, he’s clearly too wiped for that, but he looks a little serene. “Saving me all over again, Prince Charming?”

“It’s part of my job description,” Draco replies haughtily. “If you want me to stop, then you need to stop playing damsel in distress.”

“What are you, then?” Weasley asks, “Please say a ferret. Please tell me he attacked a Death Eater as a ferret.”

Draco rolls his eyes at that as Potter turns to his best friend, clearly amused, but struggling to allow himself the distraction. “The ferret thing was that imposter’s idea,” Draco snaps, before, with a few beats of concentration, he shifts.

When he leaps up onto Potter’s bed to show himself off, Mrs. Weasley takes a nervous step back while Granger and Weasley are looking him over in interest.

Almost immediately, now that he’s in grabbing range, Potter’s hands curl into his fur like they did before. Despite the serene set to his face, the boy’s grip is still painful, his hands clearly shaking.

Granger has begun to list off all the facts she knows about snow leopards, which sound interesting, and Mrs. Weasley has sat back down at the head of Potter’s bed, but Draco isn’t paying much attention. His focus has shifted back to the boy in the bed, who is grasping desperately for the opportunity to just not think about what has happened, and failing quickly.

With a huff, Draco shifts out of Potter’s grip, but only so that he can lay out on his side, pressed close to Potter, and the boy shifts to bury his face in fur with little hesitation, hugging Draco like he’s a stuffed animal, and shaking.

It is like that night over Easter Holiday, but far from it at the same time. Still, Draco takes his role as “Harry Potter’s Personal Pillow” very seriously, and curls around Potter as tightly and protectively as he can.

“Oh, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley sighs, reaching out and brushing her fingers through Potter’s curls. Some of the shaking eases away at the action. “Here, take the rest of your potion,” she says, so gentle in her every action, but Potter shakes his head like a petulant child, burying himself deeper into Draco’s fur.

Draco glances worriedly up at the three surrounding the bed, his expression clear even in this form, before he’s focused again on Potter.

“I didn’t want this,” he’s whimpering, voice so weak, “I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to be famous. I didn’t want to be in the tournament. I didn’t want some stupid prize money.” Potter sniffs loudly, his frantic voice puttering out. “One of you take it. I don’t want it. I never wanted it. I…”

Draco shifts to rub the side of his face against Potter’s hair, like a giant housecat, and the boy’s words end on a sob, but no crying follows. So, because he isn’t exactly sure what else he can do, Draco begins to purr. It is loud like a motorboat, but something about it must put Potter at ease, because slowly his body begins to slacken, shaking fading, until he’s asleep once more.

Draco looks up when he feels fingers on his flank, finding Granger not close from his face, but looking at Potter. “We won’t let them hurt you anymore, Harry,” she promises, even though it is a promise that they will doubtful be able to keep.

Behind her, Weasley looks grave but determined, surely agreeing with her, and Mrs. Weasley keeps gently running her fingers through Potter’s hair.

As dumb of a promise as it may be, Draco still finds himself curling more protectively around the Boy-Who-Lived and swearing he would, with all his power, do the same.

~ ~ ~

“I’m sorry, what do you mean you already have an invisibility cloak?” Draco demands, sitting on the Hogwarts Express, on his way back home from the most eventful school year of his life. Eve, as usual, is sitting in the farthest seat from him, quietly reading, with Granger beside her. Beside Draco is Potter, and beside Potter is Weasley.

They’d all boarded the train at separate times but had managed to find each other quickly.

The final week of school had been long and dreadful in many ways, and unexpected in others.

Potter was a mess, that was clear, and he avoided crowds like the plague. Then again, crowds tended to avoid him, too, but somehow that only made it worse.

Draco didn’t have some sixth, Potter sense, yet somehow he still managed to find Potter when he ran away. Sometimes he was alone, sometimes with Granger and Weasley. Sometimes they would all end up going walking, sometimes they would sit and eat an inappropriate amount of candy, sometimes Draco would play violin for them, sometimes Granger and Potter would watch Weasley wipe the floor with Draco in wizard’s chess - despite Draco’s claims he allowed the ginger to win, the trio still laughed at him - sometimes, if no one was anywhere near, Draco would shift and let Potter cling to him like a security blanket…

And sometimes, if it was only Potter and Draco, they would contact Max.

Potter had, in one of these moments, finally gotten to meet Max’s mother and father, who spoke so sweetly to Potter when they’d learned he’d been witness to a fellow student’s death. The Muggles had been told it was an accident, the only time they would be willing to pretend that was true, and when all was said and done Potter had been so emotional, he couldn’t leave the Astronomy Tower for nearly an hour.

Potter had so few experiences with loving parents, Draco realized. Having Mr. and Mrs. Weasley there for him was one thing, but they still weren’t always there to pick up the boy when he fell.

The unexpected part of the last week, however, arose in who ended up showing Potter any level of decency. It was no surprise most of his own house was, at least, backing him up. Not all of the lions, but most.

Leandra had stopped Potter at one point in the corridors, no one sure how she would feel over her housemate’s death, but she had smiled gently and offered a single, bright yellow daffodil to Potter. She’d then given him a peck on the cheek and walked away, no further words needed.

Then there had been the Slytherins. Eve had eventually come to the hospital wing with Draco’s bag, found under the rafters, then had given Potter a long look. Draco, as a snow leopard, had still been curled up in the boy’s bed at the time and had given the girl a warning look.

“Gaki,” she says sharply, her accent shifting when she moves into Japanese. Draco, over much experience with that word, had learned that it meant “brat.” “Quit glaring. Like I’d threaten Harry.”

“You can never be sure,” Weasley says from where he’s been sitting, rather uncomfortably, beside his friend’s bed for some time.

“Let me make something clear, then,” Eve says, leaning forward, and Draco feels Potter shift his head to look up at her. “If anyone comes after you again, you will have my wand and my fury at your side. End of story.” And then she had turned and marched right out of the hospital wing.

Eve hadn’t been much of a surprise, but then Sophie, Daphne, and Tracey had all approached Potter later in the Great Hall, asking after his health. Even Pansy and Blaise kept glancing over, like they were keeping an eye out, but had no clear desire to engage.

It was strange. Most of Slytherin seemed quite excited at the prospect of a returning Dark Lord. After all, their parents had told most of them how great he had been in his life, but some of them also seemed torn. Not all, of course, but some. Some, when they appeared particularly uncertain, even began glancing at Draco, like he was the living embodiment of Slytherin rebellion, but he had ignored them all.

Still, the most shocking exchange of all, had been when Crabbe and Goyle of all people had approached the Golden Trio. Draco had watched at a distance at the time, unable to hear them, but he’d seen the shocked faces on the trio as the pair of giant wizards spoke, handed something over, then walked away.

When Draco had walked up a moment later, Potter was holding two cupcakes in his hands, one with a prominent bite mark in it. “They said…” Granger began, finding her voice first, “that cupcakes always made them feel better…”

“That’s it?” Draco had asked, baffled and confused.

“That’s it,” Weasley says and Potter shrugs helplessly.

“Hopefully they’re not poisoned,” Draco mumbles.

“It would be retribution for second year, though,” Potter mumbles. He doesn’t eat the cakes, he wasn’t eating much of anything for some time now, but he jokes about bronzing them and getting a plate engraved for them that would read, “June 29th The Day I Fell into Another Dimension.”

Those were probably the nicest parts of a very, very stressful week. It was nice to see Potter momentarily brighten up, but it did not take away from the dark cloud that constantly hung over the boy’s head. The Leaving Feast didn’t help much, either, the feeling of mourning permeating the entire hall, and dead silence following Dumbledore declaring Diggory’s death a deed done by Voldemort himself.

So, all in all, a mess.

Still, sitting in the Hogwarts Express, they had a momentary reprieve, the dark aura moving away for the time being.

Draco, in an attempt to wow the compartment, had pulled out the items he’d nabbed from Moody’s magical trunk. The books peak their interest, but the invisibility cloak, shockingly, does not.

“Uh… yeah. Had it since first year,” Potter says sheepishly, a hand scratching at his cheek. “Did I never mention that?”

“No! You complete twit, do you realize how helpful that would have been in the past?” Draco exclaims, shoving his own cloak back into his satchel.

“I’m sorry?” Potter offers, still looking sheepish, but also entertained by Draco’s reaction.

“As you should be!” Draco says sharply, “If I’d have known… I wouldn’t have had to go through that grueling Animagus process!”

Potter, surprisingly, actually looks a little worried by this as he says quickly, “I like your Animagus form, though.”

“You like hugging it, that’s for sure,” Weasley mumbles, mouth full of Draco’s last bag of PopRocks.

Potter immediately turns an interesting shade of red and turns to his best friend so quickly Draco thinks he hears his neck snap. They proceed to have a very immature slapping match and, while they’re distracted, Granger leans towards Draco.

“Was it truly so difficult?” she asks, eyes wide and curious.

“Yes,” he says immediately, “Very much so. But…” he glances at the boys beside him who are currently bickering under their breath, Weasley all grins while Potter keeps getting redder. Draco turns back to Granger. “I would say it was worth it. Why? Are you considering becoming an Animagus?”

“Honestly?” Granger begins slowly, “It could be helpful, in the long run, but I am not certain any of us will have the opportunity for some time.”

“I call it my trump card,” Draco says, just as Eve shuts her book and smacks both Weasley and Potter’s knees with it, glowering at them to shut up already.

“I bet you’d be, like, a Pomeranian or something,” Eve says, looking at Hermione and smirking at the girl’s affronted expression.

“Because of my hair, then?” Granger demands haughtily.

“Oh, no, because they’re herders,” Eve keeps smirking, “They tell all the other animals what to do.”

“Plus, they’re yappy,” Weasley adds oh-so helpfully, but looks away when Granger turns her glare on him.

“I wouldn’t mind being an animal,” Potter says, sounding a little dreamy. “Anything, really, I don’t think I’d care.”

“Be cool if you could be a dog like Sirius. Or a stag like your dad,” Weasley says, but Potter gives a weak shrug.

“I bet you’d be a dog, Weasley,” Draco says, discreetly pulling at Potter’s sleeve until he begins to sag into him. It looked like the Boy Wonder’s energy reserves were beginning to plummet after all the excitement that day.

“Something big that thinks it’s a lap dog,” Eve agrees.

“Oh, a Great Dane!” Granger says excitedly.

“No way, I bet he’d be a Pitbull,” Draco says with a dismissive wave of the hand not currently being pinned under Potter’s weight. The boy has finally given in and rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, but is giving a valiant effort to stay awake and listen.

“What about you, Eve?” Granger looks to the other girl.

“I honestly think she’d be something like…” Weasley begins, hands flailing a little as he tries to think, “You know those massive pythons?”

“The yellow ones?” Eve says in disbelief, clearly displeased by the color choice more than the animal in question.

“You could match with your Hufflepuff girlfriend,” Draco smirks and Eve pauses to reconsider. On Draco’s shoulder, Potter’s breathing has begun to even out.

“You could be Leandra’s bloody scarf!” Weasley exclaims, clearly amused by the imagery, and Eve covers her mouth and begins to blush. Seeing the Slytherin girl’s reaction, Granger, Weasley, and Draco all begin to laugh, making her blush even deeper, while Potter finally appears to get some much-needed rest surrounded by his friends.

He deserved it. There was no telling what the following years would bring, but he would have all of them by his side in one way or another.

~ ~ ~

“I gave Potter the Walkman you sent me,” Draco says quietly into his radio the first evening back in the manor.

“Yeah? Figures he needs something happy after everything,” Max replies, their voice somber and quiet. It’s raining outside Draco’s en suite window.

“You aren’t upset, then?” Draco questions, curious.

“Nahhhh,” Max replies, “You still got that record player, anyway! We’ll keep sending you vinyls and stuff!”

“Keep sending me cassettes as well, actually. I can send them off to Potter’s home,” Draco pulls out a sheet of paper Potter had given him with the words “4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey” written on it.

“Will do! Feel good mixtapes, coming up!” Max says brightly, but then pauses, sobering up. “Can’t believe you guys actually had a kid die… That’s really awful,” they whisper and Draco sighs.

“Cedric Diggory… I didn’t know him well, or at all, but he was far too young.”

“How are you doing…? I know we kinda focused on Harry, since he saw it and all, but it must be affecting you, too?” Max sounds so worried and uncertain it makes Draco’s lips twitch.

“I heard Amos Diggory crying over his son,” he admits, bringing up a hand to wipe at his face before a tear can fall.

“Shit, Draco… That’s… shit…” And isn’t that the perfect way of describing the situation?

“No parent should have to bury their child,” Draco mumbles, then cringes as his thoughts take a dark, selfish turn. “I hate it… but I keep thinking… if it had been me, would my father cry? Would he crouch over my corpse and demand the heavens bring me back?”

“Of course he would!” Max immediately responds, but Draco’s smile turns sad.

“I don’t actually think he would…” Draco whispers and his voice breaks. He’s aware that being selfish over something like this is a new low for him, but he can’t help it. It’s like it’s part of his DNA to be selfish at every opportunity. It is part of who he is.

But Max doesn’t care. They keep being his friend and start speaking low over the radio, about how Draco will be okay, how they would cry if Draco died, and how they will never leave his side no matter what.

And by Merlin, Draco hopes, dreams, prays that Max really will never leave him, just as he would never leave Max, and he ends up falling asleep in his tub with his radio hugged close to his chest.

Chapter Text

When Draco Malfoy is four years of age, he is certain there is a monster in his closet. He can no longer remember what kind, he thinks he may have thought it a werewolf or vampire, but what he does recall is his father rushing into his bedroom in the dead of night when Draco had begun crying out.

“A monster in your closet?” Lucius Malfoy had said, looking over at the ajar door from where he sat on the edge of his son’s bed. “That can’t be right, our wards are far too powerful.”

The man stood and approached the closet, despite his son’s fearful warnings, and when he opened the door he gave a start. Draco could not see what his father had seen, but he could hear the man just fine.

“Well, I say good sir, what are you doing in my son’s closet? You’re scaring him, is what you are doing! Begone with you, vile creature. Begone!” Then he had shut the door tight and turned back to his son. “I’ll need to go strengthen the wards. Won’t be letting anymore of those ruffians back in here.”

Draco knows now that his father had been putting on a show to assuage his son’s fears, but in that moment, Draco had been certain his father was a hero. He would do anything to protect his family, especially his son, from damage both physical and social.

At the age of six, Draco learns that there are different kinds of monsters, not just the ones in his closet, but that Muggles may not be part of such a category. His parents and their social circles say otherwise, but Draco is not so certain.

When Draco is eleven and running through the Forbidden Forest with the Boy-Who-Lived, he realizes that the monsters could very well be on their own back porch.

When Draco is fourteen, finishing up his third year at Hogwarts, and he discovers his favorite teacher is actually a werewolf, he learns to accept that what he has long considered a monster might just be society’s fear talking, and not his own senses.

When Draco is just turned fifteen, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, and Lucius Malfoy is sighted as one of the Death Eaters that returned to his side… Draco must accept that the real monsters out there may very well be wearing his father’s face.

~ ~ ~

July of 1995 Draco vehemently calls the month from Hell.

He hardly is at the manor unless it was to sleep or eat, namely because he was off at the Ministry, sowing the seeds of his allegiance to Minister Fudge, while keeping secret contact with Dumbledore on the Ministry’s movements. He had even been given a personal guide while he was in the Ministry after stating an interest in magical law enforcement.

Cecil Duke is an Auror for the Ministry of Magic that Minister Fudge is sure of his loyalty. He’s a positively massive man with a huge curse scar over the left side of his face, his left eye and ear missing due to it. His hair is blond but buzzed close to his head, and he never seems to smile while on the job, which is always.

Draco isn’t certain what he thinks of the man. The Minister clearly believes Duke is on his side, but after tailing the Auror through the Ministry a few days out of the week, all Draco could tell was the man was devoted to his job, and that was it.

Still, it was honestly a good learning experience, Draco being given lessons on how the department worked and the run down on legal procedures. It wouldn’t help much for Dumbledore, but it helped Draco understand and would surely be of service in the long run.

He had been prepared to avoid his father on a regular basis, too. He’d asked Fudge not to mention Draco’s interest in Auror work to Lucius, since his father would surely be displeased his son’s interest was not in his own department, and Fudge had thankfully taken the explanation well enough. Perhaps because, to some degree, it was true. Lucius wouldn’t be pleased, for many reasons…

But Lucius was hardly around. He wasn’t even at his own home often anymore, leaving Draco and Narcissa to their own devices, coming up with excuses for Draco’s absences but never needing to use them.

So Draco was left in peace to continue learning from the Ministry under guise of wanting to be a part of it and supporting their idiotic propaganda.

Every time he read an article about Potter and Dumbledore being liars, that You-Know-Who could not return, Draco became a little more furious. His act never faltered, Fudge and the rest of the Aurors never suspected a thing, but still a fury was churning in his gut.

He stays the perfectly well-behaved pureblood, his hair slicked back and the buzzed part growing just a little bit longer, always prepared to offer a cordial smile to any passing officials and compliment for the higher-ups. He was perfect, well behaved, and a sparkling example of everything Fudge wanted all wizarding children to be.

Draco despised every second of it.

~ ~ ~

“If you were at home, Max,” Draco begins, radio in hand as he walks down the sidewalk of a cookie-cutter neighborhood, eying the plain-looking Muggle homes all around him with a disgusted scowl. “What kind of person would you least like to see knocking at your door?”

Max hums over the radio, going up and down in pitch as they consider their answer, before the noise of them snapping their fingers can be heard. “A person!”

“Yes, a person, that’s what I said,” Draco snaps, impatient as he counts down the numbers on the mailboxes.

“That’s my answer. A person,” Max says, sounding a tad impatient themself.

“You’re saying a person, any person at all, would irritate you if they came to your door?” Draco questions, disbelieving.

“Yep! Look, if I invited someone over, they usually just walk right in, and if I ordered a package, I just want them to leave the box and then go away. I ordered the package for a reason. Clearly not for human interaction!” Max raves as Draco finally finds the house he’s looking for and comes to a halt at the picket fence surrounding it. He eyes it dubiously, finding nothing actually wrong with it, but hating how plain it looks.

“Thank you for your wise advice, then, Max,” Draco says sarcastically, opening up the gate and stepping onto the path that leads up to the house’s front door. “I’ll have to get back to you on how helpful it actually was.”

“Knob,” Max huffs, but it sounds like they might be smiling. Despite himself, Draco smirks down at the radio before turning it off. He slips it into an inner pocket in his grey, wool trench coat. It is a warm day out, but the coat had been a gift from his mother, laden with plenty of pockets that were much larger inside than out and lined with cooling charms so as to be worn in any weather.

Draco knocks a few times on the front door of 4 Privet Drive, then steps back to wait.

When Vernon Dursley opens the door it takes everything in Draco not to sneer in displeasure. What a disgusting-looking Muggle.

“Who are you? What do you want? Do you not know what time it is?” Vernon Dursley demands and Draco plasters on the fakest smile he can offer.

“Good morning, Mr. Dursley. I apologize for bothering you so early, but I am a representative from the Ministry of Magic, here on urgent business. I’m afraid I must speak to a Mr. Harry James Potter, if he is available,” Draco says with fake cheer.

“What kind of urgent business?” Mr. Dursley questions, his beady eyes thinning. Behind him Draco spies Petunia Dursley, peeking out from their kitchen. Yet another disgusting-looking Muggle.

“Very urgent, sir.”

“Is the boy in trouble?”

“He very well might be. I may even need to take him away for a while.”

That seems to change the Muggle’s tune, a bit of cheer flitting across his face as he steps to the side to allow Draco entrance. “Finally, some sense getting into you people,” Mr. Dursley mumbles, but Draco hears him fine. “The boy is up in his room.”

Draco nods a thank you, still all diplomatic smiles and manners, and quickly ascends the stairs. The second he’s out of sight, however, he’s scowling deeply and marching towards the only closed door on the upper floor.

Knocking roughly on the door, the very second Potter creaks it open to peer outside, Draco shoves it the rest of the way and storms in. He hears Potter yelp in shock, nearly falling sideways as Draco barges in, and cry out with a very surprised, “Malfoy?!”

Draco ignores it all, instead taking a quick glance around the nearly empty room with a scowl, then turning back to Potter as he shuts the door and stares at him, wide-eyed and shocked.

“Your room is a travesty, I see,” he says, head held high as he sneers at everything. He at least pauses to give Hedwig a scratch on the chest, the owl fluffing up in appreciation. It is a little odd, though. As clean and organized as Draco had learned Potter could be, his room didn’t feel that way at all. It just felt barren.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Potter exclaims, stepping towards Draco and looking at him like he’s some kind of fairy that just decided to take refuge in his home.

“Rather crazy story, if I’m being quite honest,” Draco replies, waving off Potter’s shock like it doesn’t matter. He looks around, then moves to lounge on the bed, finding it lumpy and uncomfortable, but holding off on comments until later. “I have been getting on the Minister’s good side for the better part of the summer,” he explains, checking his nails, “Voiced an interest in legal work and they even gave me my own, personal Auror companion.”

“That’s… something…” Potter mumbles, hands flopping uselessly at his sides as he just keeps staring.

“Oh, it is,” Draco smirks. Potter seems to finally realize that his desired explanation will be a longwinded one and, with a resigned sigh, he moves to sit in his desk chair. “I’d hardly say I am privy to any secret meetings or events, but I have a lot more access than, say, you.”

Potter glowers at that but says nothing. It seems his desire for answers outweighs his desire to sass.

“Within the legal department I discovered where they keep track of the Trace on all those underage witches and wizards out there,” Draco continues, “And, lo and behold, where usually they have a task force for many, many individuals, they have a set few officials keeping track of your Trace readings alone.”

“What? Why would they do that?” Potter demands, sitting up straight, but the way he cringes and sinks back down shows he knows precisely why they would be doing something like that.

Still, Draco offers an answer. “Because, to them, you are the enemy set out to disrupt their ideals. Dumbledore’s puppet, but they can’t keep track of Dumbledore like they can you.”

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Potter says lowly, looking at Draco through his bangs with guarded, green eyes. It feels a little insulting, he figured he’d earned Potter’s trust by then, but he refuses to show his reaction. “The Ministry has something against me, then?”

“Nope!” Draco says with far more cheer than necessary, and Potter’s expression turns to confusion. “In fact, I am here because somehow your Trace readings got rerouted to an unqualified individual. Where such readings would have originally gone to the Aurors and officials in charge, now they are being sent to… someone else. No one knows how such a breech in protocol could have gone through, but they are working to investigate it.”

“And… you wouldn’t happen to know who could have done something so… disruptive?” Potter questions, leaning his elbows on his knees and eying Draco with an arched brow and a devious smirk on his lips.

“Not a clue! Is what I’ve told the Ministry,” Draco replies.

“But… if such an act were done by someone else with the Trace still on them…” Potter speaks slowly, “Couldn’t the Ministry find them that way?”

“Not unless the culprit is a pureblood that they trust and, thus, their Trace records are generally ignored,” Draco flippantly. “Good for them, as they attempt to fix the blunder they have a very willing underage wizard at their disposal to help them out.”

“Oh, do they?”

“Why, yes! In fact, I even offered to take the bullet on this one and come out here to…” Draco glances out the window and scowls, “this dreadful neighborhood… To tail you and allow them to keep track of my own Trace signals to alert them to any misuse of magic on your end.”

“How can your Trace be linked to my magic?” Potter questions, arching a brow.

“Easily. The Trace detects magic that occurs around the underage witch or wizard, not just the magic done by them.”

“I see…” Potter leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he looks Draco up and down thoughtfully. “So… this is you… ‘tailing me’?”

“The is me tailing you,” Draco smirks.

“You’re doing an awful job of it.”

“That would be why I am learning.”

The two boys share a well-humored smirk before falling into silence. Potter’s energy seems to take a very sharp turn, plummeting into something forlorn and distant as he looks down to the floor and examines a stain in the carpet. Draco, in the meantime, examines the Boy-Who-Lived openly, eyes raking over his slouched form.

He looks worse than at the end of the year, somehow. Perhaps not physically, he’s healed up fine and there’s color in his cheeks, but his eyes are cold and far away now that he has nothing to talk about. Draco wishes he knew how to help, but there were hardly any guidebooks for the situation they found themselves in.

“Have you been able to see Sirius much?” Draco asks, voice deceptively casual.

“No. He’s been busy with… whatever he’s been doing,” Potter replies, spitting out the last of his words with a surprising amount of disdain. “Nobody’s told me anything. Hardly anyone owls me back, and when they do it’s vague and clipped and useless to me.”

Draco tilts his head, eying the frustrated boy with an arched brow. “I suspect it has something to do with the Black Family home,” he says, Potter looking up at him slowly. “I attempted to remember the address some time ago, but could not. I suspect a new Fidelius Charm has been placed on it.”

Potter looks thoughtful at that, before his expression turns distressed. “I can’t remember the address, either.”

“I’m certain they will fill you in eventually,” Draco waves his hand dismissively, but Potter turns to glare at him.

“I hate waiting around for them to answer me,” he snaps and Draco gives him a bland look.

“Well, tough shit,” he snaps, making Potter sit up straight. He was beginning to see why the other boy had been so quick to grow suspicious. He was wound up so tight Draco was worried he’d pull a muscle. “Because that’s what you’re going to do. Thankfully, though, your Prince Charming is here to save the day.”

For a long moment they just stare at each other, eying the other up, before Potter speaks lowly, “Why are you really here, Malfoy?”

Draco eyes Potter a little while longer, before looking off to the window again. “After Ludo Bagman set fire to the Records Department last year, Terence Davis was given less and less hours. Instead, Poppy Ebru, a troll of a woman, has been given most of his post.”

“Okay…” Potter’s brows have furrowed, but he’s at least listening. He seems eager to begin getting explanations, anyway, and Draco is more than happy to flaunt his own work.

“I placed your Trace readings to this Ebru woman, unbeknownst to her. When the Ministry eventually links the feed back to her, she is sure to be demoted or, even, sacked, thus giving Terence Davis his hours back. My debt repaid to his daughter, and a familiar face returned to the Records Department for my own needs, I gain two victories.”

“But you’ll ruin that woman’s life,” Potter argues, looking a little panicked, but Draco shrugs.

“In her perspective it will be the Ministry that ruins her life, allowing someone like myself, or Dumbledore, to swoop in and pick up the pieces. Having a former Records Department employee on our side will surely be beneficial to us as well.”

“You still haven’t told my why you’re here, though…” Potter pushes, leaning forward. The suspicion is thankfully gone from his face, but in its stead sits some kind of pleading hope. Draco isn’t sure what the Boy Wonder could possibly be hoping out of Draco, but he goes ahead and offers his purpose.

“As I said. I am your Prince Charming and I am here to rescue you.”

“Rescue me from what? Are there Death Eaters nearby?” Potter demands, suddenly standing up and hurrying to the window like he’d spot a Death Eater so easily.

“No, you idiot,” Draco stands as well, approaching the other and grabbing his wrist. Potter swiftly looks back at him. “I’m rescuing you from yourself.”

Potter’s eyes widen comically, his pulse picking up beneath Draco’s fingers, and the blonde’s lips pinch as he thinks over his words. “That came out rather poetic, didn’t it? Actually, I am here to take you out to Muggle London for a bit.”

“What?” Potter’s brows rise in shock. “What for?”

“I’m rather curious of the cinema, if I am to be quite honest,” Draco hums, tapping his chin with his free hand. “Max won’t shut up about me finally seeing a film. Plus, Eve has offered to take us shopping.”

“Like… a day out…?” Potter questions, looking like he doesn’t believe Draco.

“Just like that, yes. And before you ask, yes, I got Dumbledore’s permission,” Draco rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t so sure at first, kept spouting shit about safety, but after plenty of assurances about sticking to Muggle London, arguing that you would surely need some time away from all the stress, and showing him my new camera, he grudgingly agreed.”

“What’s so special about your camera…?”

“So glad you asked!” Draco grins brightly, releasing Potter’s wrist and reaching into a trench coat pocket. He removes a brand-new disposable camera, except this one is far from normal. “The Weasley twins and I have modified this particular camera so that, every time it takes a picture, a copy of that picture is magically sent to Dumbledore via a magically enhanced fax machine.”

“That’s brilliant!” Potter takes the camera to look at it, searching for some kind of sign that it is magically altered, but finding none. “You three invented this?”

“We did. We call it Immediate Magi-pic, or IM for short.”

“IM?” Potter repeats, arching a brow and clearly attempting not to laugh as he hands back the camera. Draco narrows his eyes and snatches the camera out of his outstretched hand.

“Yes, IM. The twins spoke about developing a product for their future business. Said people could start IM-ing all over the place.”

“I hope they do,” Potter says, voice a little high as he forces down a laugh, and Draco snarls.

“Yes, as do I,” Draco snaps, “As I was saying… I swore I would take regular photos of your trip out to appease Dumbledore. If we run into any problems, we simply take a photo with this hand gesture in it.” Draco then holds up his hand, all fingers extended up save the ring finger, which he holds to his palm with his thumb.

“What does that mean?” Potter questions.

“No clue, but it will tell Dumbledore if we have an issue. I would also not be surprised if someone were to be tailing us on his order.”

Potter watches Draco’s hand fall back to his side, silent, and the pureblood waits patiently for some kind of reaction. He’d been expecting joy and gratitude, but Potter just looked thoughtful now.

Better than dark and distant, at least.

“Let me get this straight…” Potter says on a long exhale and he raises his hands to start ticking off fingers. “You infiltrate the Ministry, illegally reroute my Trace signal, offer to spy on me for said Ministry, invent a new form of magical communication, and convince Dumbledore to let you take me to Muggle London… All just to give me a day off…?”

Draco doesn’t like the smile that is growing on Potter’s face, the other boy looking rather smug and pleased as Draco begins to squirm. “When you put it like that it almost makes it sound like I have a heart.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Potter’s smile grows, his eyes crinkling as he takes a step forward, into Draco’s space.

Draco looks down at the shorter boy for a few, long beats, mesmerized how the dark clouds momentarily part to give Potter a sense of peace, and he can’t help but reach out and grab Potter’s wrist once more.

“You are not an afterthought,” he says lowly and Potter’s expression softens. He would not allow another misunderstanding like last year, even at the cost of some of his pride. “You deserve to be treated as a human and, reason or not, fuck everyone else for keeping us in the dark.”

A chuckle bubbles out of Potter and he nods. “How are we supposed to get into London, anyway?”

“Trace can’t pick up a few things. Most magical transportation, for one,” Draco explains, releasing Potter’s wrist and turning towards his door. He opens it and waits for Potter to join him. “Care to grab the Knight Bus?”

Potter smirks, nodding, and the two quickly leave 4 Privet Drive, intent on enjoying the day like two teenagers are meant to.

~ ~ ~

One thing Draco was not looking forward to about his fifth year in Hogwarts - aside from everything - was deciding what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Eve had mentioned it the year prior, when she’d been studying for her OWLs and being given job counseling from Snape, and Draco had felt a drop in his stomach.

What DID he want to do with his life?

Years ago he would have said to follow in his father’s footsteps, keep up the family business, go into some job in the Ministry that didn’t actually require any form of labor. Now, however, Draco felt detached and displeased with such a future.

He wanted to actually do something, but what that something was, he didn’t know.

Max certainly wasn’t helping, either. All Draco had asked was what they wanted to be when they grew up and they had nearly bitten Draco’s head off.

“No! Do not ask me that! You are not allowed to ask me that!” Max had yelled, Draco lounging in the Astronomy Tower at the time, sorting through files for his Triwizard Tournament investigation.

“What the hell is your problem?” Draco had demanded right back, setting down his papers and glaring testily at the radio.

“I am so sick of adults asking me that stupid question! How about you ask me what I want to do right now? Ask me where I’d like to be right now! I wanna go to the arcade and waste my money on Mortal Kombat! You really want me deciding what I should be doing with the rest of my life right now?!”

“I suppose it is an… ill-advised course of action,” Draco concedes, now more worried than anything, but Max is hardly over.

“I just sprayed canned cheese up my nose two days ago just to see what would happen! Do I seem like the kind of person who should be making any kind of life choices?!”

“W… Why did you spray canned--?”

“No, I do not!” Max continues, seeming to not even notice Draco anymore as their rant goes on. “I will figure out what I want to do when I actually get to that point! God!”

Draco waits, quietly, eying his radio with wide eyes to see if Max has anything else to add. When he is certain they must be done, he says hesitantly, “When I was little, I wanted to be a dragon when I grew up.”

“That’s fucking adorable,” Max immediately replies, “You know what… forget my whole argument. Follow your dream, Draco, I believe in you.”

“You’re an idiot…”

“Become one with your inner lizard!”

So, all in all, Draco had gotten no help in his decision from Max. He still had plenty of time to consider his options, and technically none of his choices would lock him into any path, but it was still something that worried him.

The one thing that kept coming to mind, despite all his worrying and research, as he continued to look through all his investigative work was, “Would a detective job really be so bad?”

~ ~ ~

“You got a haircut,” both Draco and Potter say, in unison, when they meet up with Eve in some busy café in Muggle London.

The girl looks up, coffee already in hand, one side of her head shaved while the rest, grown out a little longer and tipped lavender, flops to one side. She gives the two boys a very unimpressed look before asking, “Can you two NOT share the same brain for, maybe, three seconds? This is getting exhausting.”

Potter looks a little sheepish at that while Draco clears his throat and looks away.

It had been hell to convince Dumbledore that this was a good plan, bringing Potter out for a day for himself. Sticking to Muggle London had been Draco’s first suggestion, since the Death Eaters wouldn’t be paying very close attention to it. They also wouldn’t dare make any move in the middle of all these crowds, not while they were trying to stay out of the Ministry’s sights.

A little bit of guilt tripping and revealing Draco’s and the twins’ IM invention had finally convinced Dumbledore to allow Potter the day out, but the next hurdle Draco had faced had truly been the hardest.

What the hell did Muggles do for fun around here?

He had ideas from years of conversations with Max, but Max was a very unique, and very American, individual. There was no telling how much of it was actually considered fun by the masses. Eve, who had agreed to join in after a single message from Draco, had a few ideas such as the mall or a spa, but while those interested Draco, he wasn’t sure if they would interest Potter.

After all, Draco could come out and explore for himself at any time. The Ministry’s interest in him was far less antagonistic. Today, however, was for Potter.

In the end, Eve had sent a Howler to Draco to yell at him for worrying too much and they’d decided to just play it by ear.

Which Draco hated, but it was probably their best bet.

“So, what’s the plan?” Potter asks after he and Draco fetch something to eat and drink. Draco had gone ahead to Gringotts and gotten some of his pocket change changed to Muggle money. Albeit, what he considered pocket change could probably pay for the Dursley’s house…

“I had a few suggestions. Draco had a few suggestions. We see what we’re all feeling and go for it,” Eve replies. Her suggestions are mall, spa, ice cream, and sight-seeing. Draco’s suggestions are cinema, local concert, food vendors, and museums.

Potter, on the other hand, doesn’t have any suggestions.

“I’ve never had a day out before,” he admits quietly, staring into his cup of tea with a distant look in his eyes. Draco and Eve glance at each other worriedly, before focusing back on Potter.

No matter what they did they wouldn’t be able to fix what had happened to Potter. Not what happened at the end of the Tournament, not what happened through most of his school years, not what happened throughout his entire life. It was clear something dark was building just beneath the surface, bubbling up when the silence lasts too long or they say the wrong thing.

They wouldn’t be able to fix it, but they could make it easier. That was the point of all of this. Soon, things would become far less controllable. Chaos was just around the bend, and not the fun kind. They needed to enjoy this calm before the storm while it lasted.

“Just pick something we said and we’ll start from there,” Draco says, watching Potter carefully. They don’t get an answer for a while, the other boy sorting something out in his head that they won’t understand, but then he adjusts his glasses and takes a breath.

“I liked the idea of a movie.”

“Cinema it is, then!” Draco says cheerfully, happy it is his idea that got priority while Eve pouts.

“Do we even know what’s playing?” she grumbles as they all get up and head out.

In the end, when they get to the theater, two movies catch their eye. Draco thinks “Clueless” looks interesting, but Eve says “Apollo 13” was doing really well. Potter gets to be the deciding vote and they end up buying three tickets to “Apollo 13.”

“Quit pouting,” Eve quips at Draco, “We’ll just go see Clueless next time.”

“Next time?” Potter looks over from where he’s been examining the concession stand options.

“It will surely take the Ministry a few days to find out about Ebru. I am to remain as your shadow for them until they clear everything up,” Draco explains, eying the prices for the snacks. He didn’t have a frame of reference, but did these prices seem high? “I cannot promise an outing every day, but I can assure you that you will not remain cooped up in that Muggle house for long.”

Potter stares at Draco with an open expression, yet Draco cannot place exactly what that expression might be for. Then Potter is smiling and ducking his head. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and Draco immediately turns red.

“Do not thank me, Scarhead,” he says quickly, turning away, and Eve snorts at his other side.

“It’s been years. Just take the damn thanks,” she says with a roll in her eyes.

“I don’t think he can,” Potter says towards her in a stage whisper, “I think he literally is incapable of it.”

“Well, he needs to get his shit together.”

“It’s just who he is, Eve, and it is important we support him through this.”

“You’re both hilarious,” Draco deadpans, his face burning, while Potter snickers and Eve smirks. “Get your stupid snacks and let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

“Loss is… confusing,” Max’s mother tells Draco one day when he’s ten. He had been hoping to talk to Max and ask some more questions about something called “video games,” but Max had not picked up their radio that day.

Instead it had been their mother, who very gently explained that Max’s grandfather, their father’s father, had passed away rather suddenly and they needed some time alone.

Draco had never lost anyone before. Most of his family was either alive, imprisoned, or disowned. Anyone that had died had either done so before Draco’s birth or they simply hadn’t been a major part of Draco’s memory and life.

He’d asked Max’s mother what it was like, since she knew almost as much as Draco’s mother, and she’d answered him honestly.

“Confusing?” Draco repeats, fidgeting with his long sleeve. It was getting colder outside and the manor was a tad drafty, but Draco’s winter wear was all very comfortable.

“Not just from an outsider’s point of view,” Max’s mother continues, “But from the one experiencing it as well.”

“All the books I’ve read that mention it say it’s like a hole in your chest,” Draco says, proud that he knows something about this if just thanks to a few storybooks.

“Sometimes,” Max’s mother agrees, “But sometimes not. It can never feel the same from one person to another, thus making it near impossible to predict.”

“Confusing…” Draco realizes.

“Precisely,” it sounds like Max’s mother could be smiling sadly by her tone, but it is hard to tell. “Loss is a constant question of ‘Why?’ Why them? Why now? Why me? Why does it hurt so much? Why don’t I hurt at all? Why is this happening?”

“Do… Do you ever find the answer?” Draco whispers, feeling his heart lodge in his throat at the painful shift in Max’s mother’s voice. While this was not her father, she had still lost someone too, yet she was taking the time to sit down and try to explain things to a child that wasn’t even hers.

“That’s what mourning truly is,” Max’s mother replies, “Trying to find your answers… and accepting when you can’t find them all.”

Draco swallows, fidgeting a bit more with his sleeve and glancing out his open window. The sky is grey outside. “How can someone help?”

Max’s mother hums, a distant noise that doesn’t seem like she’s even aware she’s done it, before she speaks patiently, “Sometimes you can’t. More of that confusing stuff, you see. Some people need a distraction, while others must face it. Some people need to cry, or scream, or laugh. Some people need to be alone, but others need people surrounding them.”

Max’s mother heaves a deep sigh, sounding so, so exhausted. “The best thing you can do, sweetie, is just show the person hurting that you are there. You can listen, talk, stay, leave, do what needs to be done… Sometimes being present is all anyone really needs.”

“Okay…” Draco nods, fingers curling a little bit tighter around the radio, “Then I’ll make sure to be here when Max wants to talk.”

“Thank you, Draco… You have no idea how much that means to me.”

~ ~ ~

“Will Ron and Hermione be joining us at any point?” Potter asks out of the blue as he and Draco stand side by side, looking through a stack of records labelled “Rock & Roll” while Eve, nearly on the entire other side of the shop, looks through CDs.

They’d watched Apollo 13, thoroughly enjoyed it, then headed out to grab a proper meal. After that, Eve had decided she would go ahead and drag them to the mall since, “We’re already in the area.”

They hadn’t gone by many of the stores when Draco had spied the music store, his eyes immediately lighting up. He’d been about to say something, suggest they take a look, when Potter had simply followed his gaze, smirked, then dragged the three of them over anyway.

At the question Draco sighs, pausing in his browsing to shake his head. “You know they can’t, Potter. Don’t be obtuse,” he replies, shifting to lean his elbow on all the records and face the other boy. Potter isn’t looking back at him, however, and instead seems to find great interest in examining a Guns n’ Roses vinyl.

“If anyone is being obtuse, it’s them,” Potter says lowly, his eyes narrowing.

“You are still upset that they will not share all of their information with you,” Draco observes honestly, and Potter heaves a deep sigh.

“I hate being left in the dark. I hate not knowing what’s going on. I hate feeling like…” Potter pauses, chewing on his lip, before glancing at Draco like he must understand. “Like I’m not part of this, too. Have they told you anything?”

“Nothing that you don’t already know,” Draco assures lowly, stepping closer to make sure no one can hear them. “You must understand why they’re doing this, right?”

The secrets were frustrating, but necessary, and hardly bothered Draco like they did Potter. He wasn’t directly affected by them, after all, and it wasn’t his own best friends who were having to keep silent. In addition, Draco had the benefit of a mission to keep him occupied, he didn’t have all summer to just sit around in a trash Muggle neighborhood with nothing to do but think.

“I do…” Potter grumbles, looking away.

“It’s still shitty,” Draco admits with a shrug, glancing down at the vinyls in front of Potter with a cursory look. “I won’t say it’s not. It’s just necessary. Everything’s gone to hell in a hand basket and they have to be incredibly careful with everything they say or do.”

“I’m surprised Dumbledore let you take me away from Privet Drive, then.”

“As am I, to a degree, but I did have some good arguments he could not beat.”

“I’m sure you batting your L’Oreal lashes helped, too,” Eve suddenly says, appearing on the other side of the vinyl stacks, clutching two new CD’s in her hand, and Draco arches a brow at her.

“And I assured him in every way possible that no harm would come to Potter,” he corrects firmly, not knowing what a “L’Oreal” was and not wanting to know.

“I’m sure it must have been very taxing,” Potter says, a small, teasing smile on his face, and for a moment he and Draco lock eyes. Potter’s green eyes are distant, but not as distant as they had been. Ever since the end of fourth year there had been that underlying layer, but now there was a touch of playfulness and a glow of gratitude. They laugh at Draco despite the pain just beneath.

They are so, shockingly beautiful, like a scene from nature, it takes everything for Draco to finally look away and clear his throat. Across from them Eve stares, deadpan, at them both before rolling her eyes and walking away with an over dramatic groan.

“What’s she upset about?” Draco mumbles, watching the girl head for the check out.

“Could be anything, knowing her…” Potter replies. They share one more glance before shrugging, smiling, and going back to carding through the vinyl records.

Perhaps it would have helped Potter more if Granger and Weasley could have joined them; created a fuller picture for the boy and helped him recover. Maybe they could have brought that happy look into his eyes a few more times.

However, a selfish part of Draco’s psyche, a significantly more prominent part, thinks that he likes having Potter to himself, instead.

~ ~ ~

Draco and Potter, and sometimes Eve if her mother will allow her to go out, get eight days of freedom, even though Draco has to continuously head back to the Ministry afterwards to give his reports. After eight days Ebru is “found out” and their reprieve is over, officials and Aurors at the Ministry patting Draco on the back and saying he did a good job taking initiative during their investigation.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, young man,” they kept saying.

Draco always forces a smile, thanking them for their praise, before heading off to see if Cecil Duke had any work for him to do.

Duke was a fair man, Draco was quick to learn. Fundamentally, Draco was playing intern at the Ministry, earning their trust and ensuring they believed he agreed with their views. Many of the other Aurors, and occasionally higher-ups, took advantage of having a young man shadowing them, getting him to file papers for the Records Department, making food or drink runs, or anything else they might have wanted.

Draco would have usually complained, but he needed them to like him, so all his complaining fell to his mother, the house elves, and Eve.

Duke never pulled that. He treated Draco fairly, showed him basic procedures, allowed him to sit in on some of his investigations, and, all in all, just treated Draco like a person. He clearly respected that Draco had an interest in detective work, always willing to answer questions and teach wherever possible. Draco thinks, if he ever considered a career change, Duke would make a pretty decent professor.

Despite that eight-day reprieve with Potter and the respect from Duke, however, it is still a month from Hell. He still gets stuck with all kinds of work he doesn’t care about, he still has to pretend to believe in old ideals he’s grown out of, he still has to smile and get along with people that are personally trying to drag Potter and Dumbledore through the mud.

His mother is always at the manor, willing to offer a sympathetic ear to Draco’s rants. Draco isn’t entirely sure what she thinks of what he’s doing, not on a personal level, but he knows she worries about him. More than she shows, but Draco can tell she is keeping plenty back from him, likely not wanting to disrupt his new sense of purpose.

He appreciates that. He appreciates everything his mother is doing. Despite hardly running into his father, Draco and Narcissa still plan excuses ahead of time before he heads off to ensure Lucius does not grow suspicious.

The next worst part of the month is that he hardly gets to speak to Max or their family. With all the work he puts in during the day, far more than he has consistently done ever, he just wants to go straight to bed when he gets home. He has attempted conversation while lying under his covers, warning Max he’s bound to drift off at any time, then proceeding to fall asleep in the middle of a Max Ramble.

Max is never upset, they actually call it sweet, and usually are fine with picking up right where they left off the next time they can speak again.

His Muggle family sends a few extra care packages for his “summer job,” wanting to show some support for his work and relief for his stress. More candy fills every box, plus a vinyl here and there, some cassettes for Potter, some new books, and all kinds of bath supplies Max’s father swears will put him at ease.

“You fill the tub with these suds, use the candles, lower the lights, lean back with a glass of wine--”

“He’s too young to drink, love,” Max’s mother’s giggling voice cuts in.

“Right! Lean back with a glass of apple cider, a good book, and let your cares drift away,” Max’s father hums like he’s imagining the scenario right then.

“Don’t drop the book in the tub, though! I did that once!” Max calls.

“You didn’t just ‘drop a book.’ You soaked all of your fourth-grade textbooks, Max!” Eric, even farther in the background, calls.

“A terrible accident.”

“It wasn’t even the tub, it was the kitchen sink!”

“A terrible, horrible accident that no one can be blamed for.”

Draco hopes the following month would be a bit more manageable. August he would be focused on getting ready for school, only occasionally going back to the Ministry. He may even get a chance to just breathe for a few days, but he isn’t so sure about that. He’ll have to see.

And then, two days into August, he catches word that Potter is scheduled for a hearing at the Ministry to go over the terms of his expulsion, and Draco thinks that nothing can ever be easy, can it?

~ ~ ~

They don’t get to go out every day during their eight-day reprieve. Three of those eight Draco is warned ahead of time by Dumbledore to keep Potter inside at the Dursley’s. Despite Muggle London being one of the safest places at the moment, there are still bound to be unfriendlies snooping around on occasion.

At least that is what Draco assumes Dumbledore’s reasoning is. He never gets much more explanation beyond a short message through a glowing, phoenix Patronus.

On these days Draco camps out in Potter’s room with the boy, the two finding any kind of way to pass the time. Silence had always been their friend in the past, the two finding comfort in simply being while in the other’s presence.

This still held true now, but sometimes, without warning, it would grow tense and suffocating. Draco didn’t know exactly how he knew when the change occurred, but he did, and usually a glance over at Potter was enough to explain why.

As usual, Potter didn’t cry, but he got close. His breathing would suddenly begin to grow rapid or his face would go vacant or he would start shaking so bad one could see it from a distance. Draco never knew what might be going on through Potter’s head, but he had an idea. He didn’t push. He simply would move from his spot at Potter’s desk and sit with him on his bed.

The silence would slowly shift back to something more comfortable, Potter pressing firmly into Draco’s side while trying to even out his breathing and reaffirm himself in the present.

Draco didn’t like thinking about the fact that Potter had to probably deal with these episodes completely by himself the majority of the time.

“Sorry,” Potter mumbles after one such moment, his brow damp from sweat and Draco’s arm loosely curled around his shoulders, keeping him steady and upright.

“Do not be,” Draco replies firmly.

“Pity you can’t transform,” Potter sniffs, shifting away enough that Draco lets his arm drop. The raven-haired boy seems much more grounded now, so Draco isn’t too worried. “What with the Ministry keeping such close tabs on your Trace right now.”

“The Trace wouldn’t pick that up, actually,” Draco replies, his fingers absently toying with the quill in his hand.

This surprises Potter, seeing as his spine shoots straight and he looks at Draco like he doesn’t believe him.

“What? Don’t give me that look! It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Draco flaps his hand at Potter, who swats it away when it gets too close to his nose. “The Trace picks up on the activation of magic around underage witches and wizards. If something is always putting out consistent magic, thought, then the Trace can’t detect it. It’s passive magic.”

“That’s why it can’t pick up when we’re on the Knight Bus? Because it’s always charged with constant, passive magic?” Potter questions.

“He can be taught!” Draco throws his hands heavenward, snickering when Potter smacks his side and pouts. “Yes, you are correct. Same with brooms or other magical transportation. It’s also why the Trace can’t pick up Animagi, werewolves, Metamorphmagi, and so on. There is the act of transformation, but that isn’t an activation of magic. No matter what, I am forever an Animagus now, human or snow leopard.”

“So you could… transform… at any time? And the Ministry wouldn’t know?”

“That is what I just said, yes,” Draco arches an unimpressed brow. “I avoided such a thing in fear I might upset those dreadful family members of yours.”

Potter hesitates, swallowing a lump in his throat, before slipping quickly off the bed and going to lock his bedroom door. He then hurries back, sitting down where he’d been and not making eye contact with Draco. “There. Nothing to worry about…”

Draco’s other brow pops up in surprise, before he’s smirking through a blush and chuckling. “This is just for my own benefit, is it?” he questions coyly, Potter’s shoulder’s stiffening and the other boy quickly turns to look at a far wall.

“Do whatever you want, Malfoy, I was just trying to make you more comfortable if you wanted to--”

“Potter. Shut up.” Potter finally looks over, prepared to continue what would have surely been a spectacular disagreement, but he is greeted by a smug-looking snow leopard whose long tail swishes over their homework.

For a long beat of silence Potter stares at Draco’s animal form, probably getting a good, proper look for the first time, and Draco’s silver eyes crinkle in amusement. Potter must pick up on the mirth because he huffs, looking away again, and says, “Don’t be an ass…”

Draco rolls his eyes and, without further preamble, gets up and walks across the bed until he can shove himself under Potter’s crossed arms and settle in his lap. Potter holds out for a gallant few seconds before he properly wraps himself around the big cat, burying his face in the soft fur at Draco’s neck and hugging him so tight.

Draco, accustomed to this after the end of fourth year, curls his tail around the other boy and gets comfortable, relaxing as he plays the part of the comfort stuffed animal, and purrs as loud as he can.

The remnants of Potter’s episode soon fall away, and he falls sideways into his bed, laying there and dragging his fingers through the fur on Draco’s back, only managing in getting Draco to purr louder and melt into the touch.

Potter snorts and mumbles something about Draco really being a housecat, to which, while still purring, Draco plops a massive paw over his face to shut him up.

They don’t do much else over the remainder of that day.

~ ~ ~

Draco wanted to scream the more he heard about the Ministry’s constant meddling. Potter’s life, Dumbledore’s life, Hogwarts’s life. The Ministry didn’t care what it dipped its toe into, driven by some deep-seated need to survive. Like a small animal caught in a bear trap, struggling for freedom but likely only making it worse, until it dies from its own wounds.

Unlike the trapped animal, however, the Ministry willingly stuck its foot into the bear trap, happily placing every speck of blame on an elderly man and a young boy.

It could be so easy for them to fix their own problems, but Draco knows that nothing like that will be happening anytime soon. The Ministry intends to scapegoat the hell out of anyone that dares disagree with their presentation of a safe, perfect world where no harm could ever come to any witch or wizard.

It’s disgusting.

“They are afraid, darling,” Narcissa says one evening after one of Draco’s more spectacular tantrums in the study. She has an old, ornate book in her lap, a finger keeping her place as she watches her son pace. “Which makes them weak.”

“It makes them unfit for their positions,” Draco snarls. “’The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’ Franklin Delano Roosevelt,” he recites the quote like he’d learned it yesterday, but in reality it has been in his head for many, many years. He’d read it originally in the World War 2 museum at an exhibit that showed all the major leaders through the war. “Their fear makes things worse, not better. They are creating more problems that they will surely blame someone else for down the line.”

Narcissa sighs, eyes falling to her book sadly. “This is not a new incident, Draco. This is how it has always been. A politician makes a promise, and their inevitable success relies heavily on whether they can keep such a promise going.”

“It’s fucked up!”

“Watch your tongue,” Narcissa says sharply, looking up at her son with narrowed eyes, and Draco swiftly ducks his head in apology. “But you are not wrong.”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

“I agree. I am afraid there are no swift catalysts for change save those most dire. Everything else takes time, manipulation, and connections.”

Draco scowls at that and turns away, storming up to his room in search of something to do, leaving his mother alone to get back to her reading.

He does not get to attend Potter’s hearing, even when he honeys his words and lays praise after praise on all the officials that will be present. They tell him not to worry, that this was a private matter, but he would surely hear about the outcome soon afterwards.

So, feeling petty and furious, he makes sure he is at least nearby on the day of the hearing. He slips into the Ministry as early as he can, when the halls are still silent and dreary, and camps out in the Auror Headquarters at Duke’s currently vacant cubicle.

He attempts to work on homework, but he can hardly focus until he receives news.

Potter’s hearing had been moved an entire hour earlier, a clear attempt to go ahead and expel the boy without giving him a fighting chance. Still, Potter arrived, along with Dumbledore and a squib woman Draco did not know.

In the end, despite a very desperate attempt on Fudge’s part, Potter was allowed to continue to attend Hogwarts.

Draco found out all about this because, as he was getting up to fetch something to drink and hopefully calm his nerves, a big black dog had appeared and jumped up on its hindlegs to set massive, dirty paws on Draco’s shoulders and give him a slobbering lick.

“Sirius!” Draco yelped, disgusted, and when he finally opened his eyes after wiping his face viciously Sirius Black had been standing there, laughing at him.

The man had apparently come to support Potter, but hadn’t been allowed into the actual hearing, having to wait outside when he’d caught Draco’s “scent,” which actually turned out to be Duke going down and informing him his cousin was in the Auror Headquarters, grumbling up a storm.

Draco had gotten his play-by-play at that point, relaxing finally, and had asked Sirius to pass on a message for him to Potter.

“Tell him I apologize for disappearing, they found Ebru,” he says, “He’ll know what that means. And I will see him and his merry band of misfits at Hogwarts.”

“Hate to break this to you, Draco,” Sirius smirks, “but you’re part of that merry band by this point.”

“I am? I didn’t even get a welcome basket. I refuse to acknowledge such a placement until I am given a proper welcome basket,” Draco huffs daintily, flipping his hair.

“Box of sweets acceptable?”

“What are we? Barbarians? I demand edible, chocolate flowers.”

“Deal,” Sirius chuckles, then squeezes Draco’s shoulder as his eyes turn sad. “Take care of yourself, Draco. I don’t like you being out here on your own. This should be someone else’s responsibility.”

Draco looks at Sirius for a long moment, face carefully neutral, before he takes in a deep, agitated breath, then lets it out in a gust. “For the last four years Potter, Granger, and Weasley have been fighting a fight that should not have been their responsibilities. For the last year, I have also been part of this.”

Sirius swallows, looking away with a pained look on his face, but Draco isn’t done. “The adults should have stepped in a long time ago. Now, when you could arguably say we have a right to be a part of this fight, that we need to be, is when you’re all stepping in and making things messy. At this point it is too late to save them, save us, from this reality, so stop trying to.”

Draco reaches out and squeezes Sirius’s shoulder, not unlike he’d just done to Draco, and gives a big, patronizing smile. “Food for thought,” he says, then turns away and walks off, intent on making his rounds with the officials to show his “sympathy” for their “loss” at the hearing.

~ ~ ~

Draco is not allowed to send many letters between himself and anyone vocally against the Ministry. Honestly, Draco hardly sent off many letters to begin with, his most important form of communication being the satellite radio he hid from everyone, but over that summer in 1995, Draco found himself writing more and more letters than he ever had before, even with the limitations.

He couldn’t talk about You-Know-Who or Dumbledore or Potter or anything that could be going on. He was limited on when he could send off his owl and where. He had to use codenames if he absolutely needed to talk about someone he shouldn’t.

Eve got most of his letters, the girl getting quite a few carefully worded rants from Draco on a pretty regular basis. Pansy and Blaise, who knew even less about the situation, still wanted to chat about his summer and the rumors he was shadowing an Auror. Tracey Davis even sent a letter to Draco saying her father was back at the Records Department and Draco should drop by for tea some time. Her actual wording was weird… but the thought was nice.

The strangest development, however, was Draco’s correspondence with the Weasley twins. It had begun with Draco’s inquiry into making his magical camera-to-fax idea and had snowballed from there.

Apparently the two were working on a joke shop with the money Potter had given them from his Triwizard Tournament winnings. Draco, seeing no issue with it, had given them permission to develop more of the magical radios and see if they sold. They promised Draco a cut, about 25%, and Draco had said he would accept it but only if they did well.

In addition, Draco found it particularly easy to tell the twins apart through the written word. George’s handwriting was slightly more flowy than Fred’s, while Fred had a surprisingly subtle sense of dark humor. Eventually, once he’d realized the twins were sharing a page for their letters, Draco had begun writing two separate letters for each. In turn, he usually received a pair of letters in return, one from “Gred” and one from “Forge.”

Still, ridiculous pseudonyms aside, Draco could finally, confidently, tell them apart.

He wasn’t able to keep very good tabs through them, though. They were clearly under strict orders as well on what they could say, but he got a tidbit here and there. They were all working on cleaning up their secret headquarters, Potter was grouchy as ever, an entire wall was missing out of the second story but Sirius wouldn’t tell them why, The twins invented something called extendable ears, Granger and Weasley were prefects…

That last one was pretty shocking. Of all the Gryffindor boys of this year, Ronald Weasley seemed the second least qualified to be made prefect, Longbottom being dead last. Most qualified, from Draco’s very logical and unbiased perspective, would probably have been Dean Thomas, who was levelheaded and generally pleasant to be around, so long as he didn’t try to approach Draco, and would hardly have as much on his mind as any of the Golden Trio.

Granger was the most logical choice on the girls’ side, though, Draco could admit that. He knew Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were dreadful, immature gossips and the other two Gryffindor girls, Sally Smith and Sally-Anne Perks, were antisocial mysteries. Draco could not fault Dumbledore for this choice.

But Weasley?!

Perhaps the stress had finally broken the old man…

Draco had also been appointed as prefect, which made sense and he was thoroughly proud of his new “P” badge, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive of his new layer of responsibilities. He wouldn’t complain, not about this, seeing as it was a great opportunity, but silently he worried he would end up biting off more than he could chew.

Still, despite all the stresses and uncertainties through the summer, it was nice to finally be looking forward to heading back to Hogwarts. He wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking things would be simple, but a little bit of normalcy, even just the tiniest amount, would be a welcome relief.

~ ~ ~

Max was panicking, which was weird. Draco had known them for years, but in the middle of August in 1995 Max began their own school year…

And had proceeded to call over the radio with a high-pitched screech, cutting off Draco’s “hullo” before he could get it out of his mouth.

“What the hell, Max?” Draco yells back at them, thankful for his mother’s silencing charm over his room. He’d hardly even sat down in one of his sitting area’s chairs when Max had gone and pulled this.

“There’s a new student in my class this year!” Max shrieks, unperturbed by Draco’s agitation, and sounding giddier and giddier with every word, like they might roll into yet another squeal at any moment.

“Lovely. Did they tell you to go and bust my eardrums?” Draco grouches, slouching in the cushioned seat and glaring at the radio.

“Oh, sorry,” Max says with a nervous laugh and, abruptly, the giddiness is gone. “I’m just… I don’t know how to handle it!”

“Handle what, Max? You’re not telling me anything, here.”

“I…” Max begins, but then fades away. “He’s… His name is Adham… Adham Najjar, and he’s…” Draco can actually hear Max gulp and his agitation begins to dwindle. This was strange behavior, even for Max, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“What about him?” Draco asks, brows furrowed.

“He’s just… really pretty… is all…”

“He’s… pretty…?” Draco is back to being unimpressed. By Merlin… Max had a crush.

Max had never had a major crush in the time Draco had known them. They weren’t picky, as far as Draco could tell, but they’d grown up in a small town, where they knew everyone, and at their school they’d basically grown up with their itty-bitty class since “Pre-K.” Max had, on multiple occasions, said dating any of them would be like dating a brother or sister.

But if this was a new student then there would be no such limitations.

“He’s really nice, too… And his voice is super deep because some people aren’t screwed over by puberty, apparently.”

“Says who? I bet his voice was cracking all over the place beforehand,” Draco scoffs. His voice certainly had…

“Oh, I bet that was adorable…” Max sighs dreamily. They sound the same as when they are talking about some new video game that Draco doesn’t understand, except this is about another human being.

“You like him, then?” Draco observes, less of a question save for curtesy’s sake, and Max immediately begins to splutter.

“N-no! Totally no-not! WHAT? You’re crazy. You’re a crazy person. I do not like-like this guy, no way! I just met him! Why would I… why would you…” Max’s frantic screaming drops off and they let out a pathetic little whimper, “Oh sweet baby Jesus, I really like this guy, don’t I?”

“It looks like you do,” Draco says sagely, smirking.

“Oh my god, what do I do? What do people do to approach their crush?” For a while Max just begins stuttering out panicked, terrified questions, unable to handle the realization that they do, in fact, have a bit of a crush on the new kid. Draco listens, not interrupting, and finding the whole come apart positively hilarious, but also completely bizarre.

Max freaking out was not odd. Max freaking out about what another person thought of them, however, was.

“What did… What did you do, Draco?” Max suddenly asks, the first question specifically pointed at the blonde and, thus, expecting an answer.

“What did I do with what?” Draco questions suspiciously, not certain what Max might mean.

“How’d you approach Harry?”

“I do not see what Potter has to do with this…” Draco continues, somehow even more confused.

“You don’t see…” Max cuts themself off, like a door being shut, then begins to giggle anxiously. “O-Oh! Oh, uh, oh shit, you haven’t figured that out. Oh fuck, I fucked it up, oh shit-balls, uhhhh…” More bizarre freaking out. Lovely.

“Speak, peasant,” Draco snaps, “What were you talking abou--”

“Forget it! Forget it! Forget it forget it forget it! I’m an idiot, don’t listen to me, let’s talk about my debilitating inability to talk to someone I find relentlessly attractive instead! HAHAHAHAAAAAA!”

Draco’s eyes have widened in surprise as Max proceeds to panic even more than before, focus entirely on Adham Najjar and how hot they look and sound.

He never finds out what Max meant when they mentioned Potter, since Max rambles for nearly two hours until they have to bid each other good-bye and turn off their radios.

It makes Draco wonder, though…

~ ~ ~

Draco sits through one of the most boring prefects’ meetings he could ever conceive of before he has the chance to flee. Pansy Parkinson is the female Slytherin prefect, and Granger and Weasley are, indeed, the Gryffindor prefects. Draco hardly even notes who the other houses have as prefects, he couldn’t care less.

Instead, he attempts to hurry down the Hogwarts Express, hoping to find his usual compartment with Eve and enjoy some much-needed silence, but when he finds her she is not alone.

Leandra Cass is sitting beside her, so incredibly close, and--

Draco opens the compartment door just long enough to yell in, “If you’re going to snog, pull the damn curtains!” Leandra shrieks while Eve leaps to throw hexes at him, but he shuts the door and runs before she gets the chance.

Okay, so that option was out. Clearly, after a long summer away, the two girlfriends were eager to begin catching up again.

Draco walks by a few Slytherin-filled compartments, but changes his mind quickly after seeing them. Theodore Nott, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Millicent Bulstrode all sit together and look like the least inviting of all. Draco considers Blaise Zabini’s compartment, but the boy flips him off, so Draco returns the favor and keeps going. He finds Pansy sitting with Sophie Roper, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis, but Draco really doesn’t want to be in the middle of the self-appointed “gossip hole.”

In the end, and Draco really isn’t that surprised, he ends up standing in the entrance to Harry Potter’s compartment. Granger and Weasley have already rejoined their friend, but Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and a strange-looking girl Draco does not know, with a spacy-er gaze than Tracey’s, are also there.

No one notices him at first, but then the spacy girl, who has dirty blonde hair down to her waste, looks up at him and smiles like she’d known he was there all along. “Hello there,” she greets, voice very floaty, “You’re Draco Malfoy, aren’t you?”

That gets the compartment’s attention and everyone looks up at him and Draco offers a dashing smile. “I’m afraid my usual spot has been infested by two lovebirds showing their… affections.”

“Harry and me saw them, too,” Ginny says with a groan, rolling her eyes. To Draco’s knowledge Ginny did not know Eve well at all, but if she had been with Potter it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibilities for him to have sought out a seat with her.

“Dreadful stuff,” Draco scoffs.

“I think it is rather sweet,” Granger says, looking at Draco and Ginny in clear disapproval, but Draco just scoffs again.

“Of course you would. Anyway… I see this compartment is full, so my search will continue,” he says with a flourish, already planning on just going back and sitting with Blaise and his antisocial ass, but Potter is suddenly standing and grabbing his arm, dragging him to sit between him and Ginny.

“No way, you’ll sit with us,” Potter says firmly, the four of them, Weasley is on Potter’s other side, all cramped together on the bench. It is only marginally more manageable thanks to Potter still holding onto Draco’s arm, like he’d forgotten about it.

“So demanding,” Draco huffs with an eyeroll, but no one seems particularly upset by his presence, so he settles more comfortably in. He does spot the mystery girl watching where Draco’s arm is still held captive and he narrows his eyes at her. “You know my name. What’s yours, then?”

“My name is Luna Lovegood,” says the girl, voice as dreamy as before. “It is nice to meet you, Draco.”

The blonde arches a brow at her before leaning towards her, just a little. “Do you know a Slytherin by the name of Travis Davis? I think you may have been separated at birth…”

“Do we look a lot alike?” Lovegood asks, head tilting curiously, and her big eyes blinking slowly.

“That isn’t what I would consider ‘alike’ about you two…” Draco mumbles, imagining his grudge-like housemate making the exact same motions as this Ravenclaw girl. It isn’t an out of place image.

“How was everyone’s summer, then?” Draco questions, looking around at the compartment. Thankfully, due to the meeting in the prefect’s cabin, they are already at least halfway to Hogwarts and he won’t have to sit in this cramped space for long. He may as well strike up conversation so it doesn’t become stiflingly awkward.

Longbottom offers a very riveting recounting of some of his plants back home, apparently thinking this was interesting to everyone, especially excited about the Mimbulus mimbletonia in his lap, and it takes everything in Draco not to cut him off. No one else was interrupting, even if they mostly looked unimpressed. “Mostly” because Lovegood is listening intently, her entire focus on Longbottom, while Potter…

Well, Potter looks distinctly displeased, glaring at a spot on the floor. Draco doubts the plant talk is what has set him off, so he can only assume it was talk about summer break. Draco knew next to nothing about how the remainder of the break had gone for the other boy, after all, beyond a few passing words from the Weasley twins, and even then it hadn’t sounded great.

The conversation goes on for a bit longer, Draco finding out Lovegood is the daughter of Xenophilius Lovegood, who published the rival tabloid to The Prophet, The Quibbler. He also gets to listen to the two Weasley’s talk about Quidditch for a while, but even that doesn’t pull Potter fully out of the rut he’s in.

When the train finally arrives in the station Granger announces that she, Weasley, and Draco need to attend to some prefect duties and that they will catch up with Potter later. The dark look returns to Potter’s face and Draco rolls his eyes and stands, grabbing the other boy’s own arm with a firm hand.

“I need to retrieve my bags from Eve’s ‘infested’ compartment. Potter, you are going to help me,” he demands, already pulling the boy away.

He hears Granger call out about their own bags, but Draco ignores them, pulling Potter along through the crowded aisles.

When they get to the compartment it is already deserted. Even Draco’s bags are gone, which he can only assume is Leandra’s influence. Eve wouldn’t have gotten them for Draco, but Leandra could have convinced her it was the right thing to do.

“Alright, we have a few minutes before I really must attend to my duties,” Draco says, shoving Potter into a seat, then sitting across from him. “Tell me what’s really been going on.”

Potter hesitates, glancing at the compartment door nervously, until Draco snaps in his face. “Today, Potter, I really am pressed for time.”

“Dumbledore’s rebuilding the Order of the Phoenix. It’s a--”

“I know what it is. Bane of a Death Eater’s existence, after all. My father would occasionally rant about their… ‘sleezy tactics,’ the hypocrite.”

Potter nods, grateful to not have to explain that part, and pushes on. “I’m not sure I can tell you where they’re hiding… but they’re having to be incredibly sneaky. Everyone…” Potter wrings his hands and ducks his head, scowling viciously, and Draco suspects he’s about to hear what had so deeply displeased the boy.

“They won’t tell me anything! They blatantly keep secrets from me, treat me like I’m some incompetent baby, act like I’m not a part of this, and Dumbledore…” Potter has to stop, he’s shaking with his fury, and Draco watches, letting him pull himself together. “He wouldn’t even look at me at the hearing. He showed up at the hideout one time and never even approached me. He gave Ron the prefect badge instead--”

Potter bites his lip to keep from finishing that last statement, looking ashamed, but enough has been said.

“Instead of you?” Draco questions, tone and face relaxed. Potter hesitates, but nods. “Funny, I always thought Thomas was a better choice. Nonetheless, it is a foolish choice to give it to Weasley.”

“Dean?”

“No, Elizabeth Thomas, the 18th century poet,” Draco drawls sarcastically and Potter shoots him a weak glare.

“I suppose he would have also been a good choice…”

“I find Dumbledore’s actions peculiar, though, I’ll admit,” Draco says as he stands. Dumbledore had been hesitant, but pleased to offer Potter his temporary reprieve over the summer with Draco. It seemed odd to suddenly give the boy the cold shoulder. “We’ll talk on it later, however. We must be off.”

Potter, reluctantly, stands as well, then clearly thinks something over before he’s stepping forward and wrapping Draco up in a tight hug. Draco’s arms are pinned to his side, but even if he could physically reciprocate, Potter is pulling away before the action can process in Draco’s head.

“Thank you,” Potter says sheepishly, not looking at Draco. “For everything.”

“Don’t--”

“Don’t thank you, I know, I know. But… I mean it.”

Draco looks down, where Potter has taken ahold of his wrist and squeezes it. It’s like the other boy doesn’t want to let go, which baffles Draco, but Potter manages to pull himself away and hurry out of the compartment to fetch his bags.

Draco is left to shove his confusion to the side and hurry out himself, needing to attend to his prefect duties, but still left to wonder, in the corner of his mind, what all that had just been about.

The trip up to Hogwarts becomes a blur. He hardly even has the conscious thought that it is strange Hagrid doesn’t greet the students. He also hardly notes the thestrals at the front of the carriages. Eve, Leandra, Pansy, and Blaise sit with him on the way up, but Draco hardly talks to them, too wrapped up in trying to figure out what had been going through Potter’s head.

~ ~ ~

Draco meets Dolores Umbridge a few days before he goes back to Hogwarts. Despite not going to the Ministry as much during the August month, he still makes a point of dropping in a few times.

It is during one of these times that Umbridge calls Draco to her office, which seems peculiar to Draco, especially since he’s hardly even seen the woman before.

Seeing her now he feels a little glad about that fact. She looks like a toad someone tried to pretty up with far too much pink, but is still, firmly, a toad. She smiles when Draco comes into her overly frilly office, plates with moving cats hanging on the walls, and Draco tries not to cringe.

They make their way through pleasantries, a normal exchange Draco has always been good at, before Umbridge gets into the meat of why she wants to talk to him.

“Tell me, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, stirring a few cubes of sugar into her cup of tea. Draco also has a cup, which he’d long since finished sweetening, and he curls both his hands around the porcelain in his lap and watches the woman carefully. “What were your previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professors like?”

“My DADA professors?” Draco questions, both brows rising in clear surprise. Of all the subjects the woman would have wanted to talk to Draco about, this was the last one he’d expected. But arguing with her would do him no good. He knew this woman was highly esteemed by Fudge.

“Ah, where to begin? My first year was Professor Quirrell, who was dreadfully incompetent. Scared of his own shadow, you see, and could hardly get anything out past his stutter.”

“Oh?” Umbridge frowns, a bit of a pout to it, like a small child has just told her a wrong answer to a question. “I’ve heard splendid recounts of his prowess.”

“Perhaps of his earlier years?” Draco suggests, fidgeting with his cup. “He was apparently a great Muggle Studies teacher. He simply did not… fit the mold for the DADA position. No backbone.”

Umbridge finally takes a sip of her tea, clearly settling for Draco’s answer, and he moves on. “Don’t get me started on Lockhart, though. Somehow that man was even worse. Incompetent, self-centered, blind to reality.”

“His writing was always quite sensationalized,” Umbridge nods, pleased by this answer, at least. “Dreadful stuff. Has no place in the public minds.”

“The only thing going for him was his hair, and even that was probably fake.” Draco knew one thing about Umbridge, and that was that Umbridge had been a Slytherin, and any proper Slytherin would enjoy a little joking at the expense of someone they dislike.

He seems right, too, when Umbridge releases a high twitter of a laugh, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“Professor Lupin, now…” Okay, Draco needed to be careful here. Lupin had been his favorite professor, but the Ministry officials on Fudge’s side all seemed set to crucify him for being a werewolf. Umbridge was likely the same… “His actual teaching methods were quite successful - I retained much from his lessons - but to find out he was a werewolf…” He leaves the rest unsaid, allowing Umbridge to fill in the gaps the way she wanted. The way that would win Draco her favor.

She gives a sad shake of her head. “We can never know anyone completely. To place your trust in someone only to have them deceive you… It must have been dreadful for such a young boy.”

Draco keeps his head ducked, staring at his tea, and hiding the smirk that has begun playing on his lips. So ironic she would bring up trust and betrayal in this situation.

“And of course, Moody, or the imposter, was completely mad.”

“Ah, yes. Bartemius Crouch Junior,” Umbridge takes a sip of her tea, her eyes narrowing at some place beyond Draco. “To think that raving lunatic was anywhere near our youth for so long.”

“Oh, he was awful. Targeted most of Slytherin! Thought we were all villains, or something,” Draco says with feeling, pushing just a little extra outrage into his voice to hopefully get Umbridge invested. Her eyes do, indeed, sharpen, before she scoffs.

“Slytherin is a proud house that others fear. How distasteful.”

“Complete menace,” Draco agrees with a nod, covering yet another smirk with a sip of his tea, and the conversation moves on to his everyday life at Hogwarts.

He won’t understand the purpose of this meeting until later, at the Welcoming Feast, when he spots the toad-woman sitting up at the faculty table, getting announced as the new DADA professor for Hogwarts.

He’s furious, positively livid, but he makes sure to clap when she is announced as well as when she finishes her dreadful, boring speech. Eve, knowing about Draco’s visits to the Ministry and his attempts to win their favor, joins him with clapping. It would help if his friend appeared to agree with him, after all, and he’s immensely grateful for the action.

Draco and Pansy have to lead the first years down to the dungeons after that, Draco paying close attention to each of them to help distract himself from his wandering thoughts. Most of the first-years are purebloods, but he spies a few that are half-blood. There is also a boy with mousey hair and big eyes only made bigger by his glasses that Draco doesn’t recognize at all. No familiar family features, no memory of him attending any balls...

It takes Draco a few moments to realize the boy must be muggleborn, like Eve, and Draco is surprised by the surge of protectiveness he feels at this realization.

Eventually the first years go off to their dorm rooms and Draco bids Pansy good night, heading off himself.

The other fifth year boys are already in their dorm, ready for bed, save for Theodore who is standing in the bathroom doorway with his toothbrush in his mouth. They all appear to be in the middle of hushed conversation, then immediately drop off when Draco steps in.

Draco looks around at them, one brow raised, before saying, “Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know,” Blaise says, sitting on his bed, legs crossed, and leaning his elbows on his knees in a leisurely position. “The Ministry clearly is if they’re sending their members to look after a school of all things.”

“Aren’t you… rebelling against them, or something? What’re these rumors of you loitering around the Ministry?” Theodore questions around his toothbrush, giving a suspicious once over of Draco, before going back to cleaning his teeth, dripping toothpaste to the wood floor beneath him.

“I am questioning the ideals we have been raised by, yes,” Draco says carefully. He didn’t want them telling Umbridge he was actually against her. With that woman present everything was so much more difficult. “I still know opportunity when I see it, however, so I would recommend you mind your business.”

Theodore raises his hands placatingly, clearly not taking him too seriously but admitting temporary defeat as he turns back into the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste.

“Clean up your damn mess!” Blaise calls after him, pointing at the dripped toothpaste on the dorm’s floor, and Draco finally moves further into the room to retrieve his sleep clothes. To the right of his bed is Goyle’s, where the large boy and Crabbe both sit with parchment and books spread around them. They are clearly attempting to finish last-minute summer work.

“Hey, Malfoy…?” Draco looks over at the two boys, both looking nervous and fidgeting with their parchment and quills. They glance at each other, before Goyle continues, “What if… What if the Dark Lord really is back? What… What happens then?”

Draco stares at the boys blankly, before glancing back at the suddenly very silent room. Blaise is watching him, too, and Theodore has come back out of the bathroom to listen.

“What will happen, if it hasn’t already, is most of our parents will swear allegiance to a man that promises them power, but only cares for himself. Your parents will be used, and as tradition has it, all they own - money, property, hardships, curses - will be passed onto you if you don’t do anything about it.”

“You may want to watch your tongue, Malfoy,” Theodore stands up taller, hackles rising, and Draco levels him with a glare, wand slipping out from his sleeve in clear warning.

“You may want to ask why you’re so offended, Nott. Is it because you honestly believe I am lying? Or because you know, deep down, that it is the truth?”

“Millicent seemed really excited about You-Know-Who coming back…” Crabbe says quietly, ducking his head when everyone looks at him.

“And how do you feel about it?” Draco asks sharply.

Crabbe gives a hesitant shrug before mumbling, “I don’t know…” Goyle nods along in agreement, clearly uncertain as well, and Draco eyes the two in confusion. They didn’t know? But their fathers were Death Eaters as much as Draco’s, and they’d never shown any disagreement with the pureblood agenda before. Where was this coming from?

“I mean… If a Malfoy can disagree, there must be something going on… right?” Goyle mumbles and Draco feels his breath catch. They weren’t certain because of Draco?

“I, personally, don’t give a shit. I’ll just head to Italy with mother if things get hairy,” Blaise shrugs, then arches a brow over at a scowling Theodore and smirks. “Aw, chill out, Theo. We’re just talking.”

“Whatever,” Theodore snaps, huffily heading to his own bed and throwing himself into it ungracefully. He then proceeds to immediately get tangled up in his sheets as he attempts to get under them, much to everyone else’s amusement.

The talk about dark wizards and their parents ends there and Draco goes to finally prepare for bed, feeling confused but, strangely enough, slightly liberated.

~ ~ ~

The café Draco and Potter originally met Eve in quickly becomes their usual meeting place. Apparently, it is a favorite of Eve’s to begin with and she helps them decide on good drink or meal choices when they come in.

After Potter’s eight-day reprieve Draco partially expects to never return there, but one morning he gets an invite from Eve and, with next to no hesitation, he heads out.

“We should invite our mothers along sometime,” Draco hums when he joins the muggleborn at their usual table in a far corner, away from the windows.

“Why?” Eve questions, expression twisting in clear displeasure, and Draco scoffs.

“I think they would get along and--”

“Don’t you dare say that ‘it’s the next step in our fake relationship,’ because I really will hurt you,” Eve warns with narrowed eyes.

“AND… I think my mother could do with some Muggle exposure,” Draco raises his hands placatingly, warding off Eve’s glare, and she leans back in her chair.

“Isn’t your mom the puriest-pureblood to ever pureblood?” Eve questions in disbelief.

“She’s good at making it seem that way,” Draco allows, nodding, “But ever since she found out about my interests in Muggle culture… she hasn’t liked them, but she’s at least given them a try herself. I think she wants to have something she can share with me that I enjoy.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just really enjoying the image of Narcissa Malfoy listening to heavy rock,” Eve smirks.

“I have pictures,” Draco smirks back. “I’ll bring them next time… I guess I am simply curious if my mother would enjoy a place like this. It is mundane for our standards, but charming.”

“I’m curious about something too,” Eve says with a pointed look at Draco, leaning forward against the table, and Draco arches a brow at her in confusion.

He expects her to continue on her own, but when she doesn’t he sighs and asks in clear, fake interest, “What have you been curious about, Eve?”

Eve smirks a little sharper and pulls out something small and cylindrical from her pocket. It looks to be the size of a cigarette but is made of black plastic with a keychain dangling off one end. “I am curious… Now that you’ve been an Animagus for some time now… How much of your animal behaviors have leaked into your human self?”

“That isn’t a thing,” Draco shakes his head, but Eve just looks more mischievous.

“This, right here?” the girl shakes her little device, “This is a laser pointer. Just about any animal, especially predators, adore them, but cats? They have a special relationship with laser pointers.”

“Eve, really, I don’t--” Eve clicks a button on the side of the laser pointer and a red light appears on the table where she’s pointing it. Not even a second later Draco’s hand has shot out and SLAMMED onto the table where the light had appeared.

The entire café has gone dead silent at the noise, everyone staring at them, Eve grinning, and Draco staring in wide-eyed horror at his hand like it doesn’t belong to him. He swallows, slowly pulling his hand back into his lap, then turns to nod at the café as a whole. “Sorry about that… Saw a bug…” The explanation appeases the other patrons, who go back to ignoring them, and Draco, overly calm, turns back to Eve.

The girl is slouched over, both hands over her mouth, trying desperately to not break out laughing in the middle of the café, her shoulders shaking and tears in her eyes.

“We shall never speak of this. Ever,” Draco says, voice sounding distant, and Eve wheezes.

“I’m going to tell Harry!” she squeaks through her held laughter.

“No, you will not.”

“I’m so going to tell him!”

~ ~ ~

Draco can see thestrals. That’s what he realizes the day everyone is leaving Hogwarts at the end of his fourth year and he spies the skeletal creatures pulling the preciously horseless carriages.

He knows very little about the creatures save for a passage in his Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them book, which he’d only skimmed over, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are.

It takes him a longer time to figure out why he can see them, but his mind soon supplies that fateful night atop the Astronomy Tower when he’d seen Barty Crouch Jr. murder his own father.

No, he hadn’t been up close, or even known who died until later, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d witnessed a death that night. He’d then had plenty of time to come to terms with it, which he doubted Potter had managed…

Draco sits in the carriage back to Hogsmeade with Potter, Granger, Weasley, Eve, and Leandra, his eyes regularly flicking to the skeletal creatures, but noting that Potter does not do the same. He knows Potter saw Cedric Diggory die, but he also knows the boy is still coming to terms with it. It wouldn’t surprise Draco if Potter couldn’t see the thestrals just yet because, in his heart, Diggory was still alive.

Magic was arbitrary, after all, especially to do with death, love, and just about any other emotion-based theory.

But Draco can see them and, when he finally glances up at the group around him and spots Leandra giving him a knowing look, he suspects perhaps she does too.

So, when the beginning of fifth year comes around, the thestrals are no surprise to Draco. In fact, after having all summer to come to terms with them and even doing some research on the side, they almost relax him some.

They were frightening creatures at first, but upon closer inspection they appear just as gentle and elegant as a unicorn or abraxan. They clearly just get a bad rap, but that’s certainly something Draco understands.

Despite being in a daze his whole ride up to the castle at the beginning of the year, wondering after Potter’s behavior, Dumbledore’s motives, and the mystery of how they intended to solve everything, he still makes a point of petting the massive beast’s flank, earning a pleased rumble as he continues on to the Welcoming Feast.

~ ~ ~

Draco has Herbology first thing when classes begin, which really isn’t all that important, followed by his first Defense Against the Dark Arts, which everyone has been waiting for.

Draco is incredibly disappointed, but not at all surprised by the outcome.

Umbridge won’t allow them to use any of the spells she is meant to be teaching, only letting them read theory in a clearly outdated book and… what? Imagine all their problems away?

Draco makes sure to stay quiet through the whole lesson, although a few Slytherins do actually speak up in concern. Not enough to enrage their new teacher, but enough to show that not everyone is eager to bend over backwards for her.

When class is over, however, Draco stays behind to speak to the woman. He can’t push his luck too much, but maybe he can convince her to teach them just a few spells?

Umbridge is pleased to see Draco as she prepares for her next class, which Draco takes as a good sign he’s done something right in his plan thus far, and he voices his “concerns.”

“I understand there’s no point in training us to fight,” here he snorts a derisive laugh at what he’s about to say, “dark wizards, but, if I may be honest with you professor?”

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy, what’s troubling you?” Umbridge asks sweetly, like an obnoxious aunt that is two seconds from pinching his cheeks.

“What about everything else the Ministry deems dangerous? Werewolves? Vampires? Lethifolds?”

Umbridge lets out that laugh that hurts Draco’s ears, like something he’s said is especially humorous, and he forces out a smile that looks more like a cringe than anything. “Now where would you be coming into contact with a lethifold?”

“Well, I have always been interested in visiting the tropics,” Draco replies, playing up this apparent joke to hopefully keep the mood light. He needed to stay on Umbridge’s good side and being the charming boy she believed he was would be essential.

“Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that you have nothing to fear. Such threats shouldn’t be dealt with by children. The adults will protect you, I promise.”

Draco wanted to say that it was these same adults that were tearing a “child’s” name through the mud because he’d said You-Know-Who had returned, but he keeps his mouth carefully shut and finally bids the woman good-bye.

On his way to Potions, which he still shares with the Gryffindors, Draco nearly gets bowled over by an agitated Cho Chang as she storms down the halls. She mumbles a swift apology on reflex before continuing on.

Draco watches her go, then walks curiously in the direction she’d come from, pretty sure he knows who he is about to find.

Granger is raising her voice at Weasley over something he’s said and having no tact at all, while Potter looks like he wants to be anywhere else but there right now.

Approaching them, Potter spots him first and immediately steps up to his side, pressing close and hissing, “Make them stop!”

“What are they arguing about?” Draco questions back, glancing back at the two, who have also noticed his arrival.

“I only said what everyone was thinking!” Weasley says loudly, defensive, and Granger glares at him.

“No one was thinking it a good idea to snap at Cho like that, Ronald.”

“She was wearing a Tornados badge! She’s clearly only a fan now that they’ve started winning.”

“She just wanted to say hello to Harry. You couldn’t have kept your mouth shut for once in your life?” Granger scrubs angrily at her hair.

Ah, so Cho Chang had come to greet Potter, and Weasley had accidentally run her off with his big mouth. Judging by the severe blush on Potter’s face he’s completely mortified by the encounter, attempting to hide further and further into Draco’s side, like he can fuse with his robes and disappear forever.

“Sweet Merlin, I really don’t care,” Potter mumbles pathetically, not loud enough to get the two to stop talking, but enough for Draco to glance down at him and smirk.

“Shall I come to your rescue once more?” he questions, leaning down towards Potter, but doesn’t wait for an answer as he pulls out a bag of PopRocks from his satchel. “Think fast, Weasley!” he says suddenly, then tosses the bag over. Weasley scrambles to catch the unexpected projectile, but immediately brightens when he reads what it is.

Weasley quickly has a lot less to say with any kind of food in his mouth.

“They should rebrand that as Weasley Nip,” Potter chuckles quietly, “Did you know Ginny loves that stuff too?”

“We have found their weakness,” Draco smirks back at him, pleased, and Potter’s blush momentarily resurfaces before he’s spluttering to change the subject.

Luckily Granger, who has given up trying to lecture Weasley, steps in to help. “How was Defense Against the Dark Arts with Umbridge?”

“You’re going to hate it,” Draco says immediately, shifting into something more serious. Granger bites her lip at that and he continues. “Really, you will positively despise her. She intends to just teach theory without the practical element.”

“Whoa, what?!” Weasley says around a mouthful of his candy while Granger and Potter let out equal exclamations of outrage.

“You heard me,” Draco nods.

“We need practical teaching for our O.W.L.s, though!” Granger says sharply, looking horrified, before she very suddenly sobers and eyes Draco meaningfully. “That’s not what she’s worried about, though.”

“What? What do you mean?” Weasley questions.

“She thinks we’d be a threat,” Potter says in realization, eyes widening in shock, before his face is twisting in fury. “That hag!”

“Potter,” Draco says sharply, in warning, and Potter’s furious eyes snap up from the floor to glare at Draco instead. “We need to talk about two very important things. One: In the eyes of the Ministry, and thus Umbridge, we are not friends. We will need to be careful about when we are seen together, where, and how. Understand?”

Granger has pinched her lips into a thin line, clearly displeased, but staying strong. Weasley nods, not having too much issue with this. And Potter… well, the glare is gone, but now he just looks hurt and unhappy.

“I’m still on your side,” Draco says firmly, hand discreetly circling Potter’s wrist, pressing his fingers to the pulse point. “We just have to be smart about this. Which leads me to my second point… Potter, you need to keep control of your emotions. You have been known to explode in the face of adversity, which is marvelously Gryffindor of you, but here that will only bring you trouble.”

Potter looks like he’s ready to argue, opening his mouth to say something, but Granger cuts him off. “Malfoy is right, Harry,” she says, then gives Draco’s pleased smile a glare. “Shut up, don’t expect me to say that often,” she huffs, then goes back to Potter. “This is going to be a long, drawn out issue. We can’t run in guns blazing. We need to remain in control.”

“She will likely be looking for any excuse to single you out. You want to get back at her? Don’t give her the satisfaction,” Draco advises, squeezing Potter’s wrist, and the other boy looks around at Granger and Weasley, before looking up at Draco.

“I don’t like it.”

“None of us do,” Weasley says lowly.

Potter bites his lip, Draco tracking the movement with his eyes, before Potter sighs. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Granger says in relief as Draco offers a small, pleased smile, and then they are hurrying off to get to Potions before they all get into trouble with Snape.

~ ~ ~

One thing Draco was quickly learning about Muggles is that they had the weirdest, and most interesting, of products. He’d never had the chance prior to the 1995 summer to truly explore Muggle places, his parents constantly looking over him, and he was eager to finally enjoy himself and explore the mysterious, Muggle world.

Eve was a good guide, when she was around, and despite Potter growing up with Muggles, he seems just as giddy as Draco at times.

Draco would admit, he’d already forgotten the name of the particular store they’d been dragged into, because he’d immediately been distracted by everything. Eve and Potter both called it “counter-culture,” which punk was apparently a part of, and Draco couldn’t wait to throw that word at Eric later on to impress him.

Mostly, though, Draco wanted to ask Eric why he’d never told Draco about these stores, because they were amazing. Everything was exactly what every pureblood would hate, and Draco wanted all of it.

Eve had gone off to examine some hair products while Potter lingers near Draco, both uncertain where to even begin. They get help from a store employee, a girl named Terry with wild, black hair streaked with a rainbow of colors, an oversized leather jacket decked in spikes, torn up jeans, a flannel shirt tied around her waist, and so much black jewelry in her face she looks like a cactus.

Terry, despite the frightening appearance, is grinning and excited to show Draco and Potter around. “Why not start simple with some T-shirts? Any bands you like?”

“Nirvana and Green Day,” Draco offers, eyes sparkling, and he ignores Potter’s cackling behind him.

Draco ends up with a few new band T-shirts, Potter grabbing some for himself and a Ramones one for Sirius. Draco also grabs a leather jacket, which he has no idea when he will ever wear but feels it necessary to have in his possessions. Terry gives him a few magazines for free, since he’s so eager to increase his punk inventory, and he and Potter take a moment to sit by the dressing room in the back and skim through them.

“You think I should get a piercing?” Draco questions as an afterthought, “Everybody seems to have one somewhere.”

“I guess? Where would you even get it? Your ears?” Potter glances over at him.

“No way!” Eve calls from inside the changing room. “No, Harry, you’d look better with an ear piercing.”

“I would?!”

Draco looks over at Potter thoughtfully, trying to imagine him with an earring and finding the image isn’t bad at all. In fact, he thinks it would look pretty good on the other boy. “You could pull it off,” he says honestly, even though “pulling it off” feels like a distinct understatement.

“Don’t I have to be a certain age for piercings, though?” Potter questions, looking frightened by the two Slytherins ganging up on him.

“Nope!” Terry calls brightly from up at the counter, apparently having heard their conversation. “That’s tattoos and body piercings! You could drop by Claire’s Accessories if you really wanted to get your ears pierced.”

“I am not doing that,” Potter says quickly and Draco cackles at him. “Oi! Excuse me for not wanting needles jabbing holes in me.”

“No one is making you do anything, Scarhead, calm down,” Draco keeps cackling and Potter shoves him. The blonde looks back down at his magazine, then folds up a close up of a punk kid sticking their tongue out and holds it over his mouth. “What if I got a tongue piercing? Eventually.”

Potter immediately splutters, eyes flicking down to the magazine’s image of a stuck-out tongue with a metal rod sticking out of it, then back up at Draco. He’s wide-eyed and turning pink very quickly.

“I think that’d be a good one,” Eve says, stepping out to show off the short black dress she’d picked out, decked out in all kinds of belts around her waist, neck, arms, and wrists.

“I’ll consider it,” Draco nods at her, then gives her a once over. “That looks like a BDSM outfit.”

“Perfect. No one can blame me when I beat them up, then. Didn’t they see what I was wearing?”

“You look great, Eve,” Potter squeaks, clearly still recovering over whatever Draco had upset him with, and Eve curtsies to him gratefully.

Draco also ends up with a few new accessories after they get done browsing the magazines and he goes wandering again. Mostly jewelry he’ll never actually wear, but he thinks look cool anyway. If anything, he’s sure Eve can borrow them sometime if he finds no use for them.

And then he spots it, in a far corner of the store, and he loses all interest in the blue hair dye he’d been eying.

“Ah, you’ve found our lava lamps!” Terry says brightly, skipping after Draco when he moves to get a closer look, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide as he watches the mesmerizing-- Wait, did she just say “lava?!”

“Not real lava,” Potter laughs, following over, holding what looks like a metal bookmark fashioned to resemble a knife. Likely another gift, this one for Granger, but Draco hardly pays much attention anymore.

The… goo is so slow and leisurely and he can’t take his eyes away. There’re all kinds of colors, and he’s immediately drawn to a green one that surely must be speaking to him.

“Uh oh…” he hears Eve say somewhere behind him, likely to Potter, “This is it… I think we’ve lost him.”

“I think you’re right, Eve. I’m afraid Draco Malfoy is no longer with us,” Potter replies. They both sound grave, but there’s a hitch to their voices like any second they’ll start laughing.

“Such a tragedy. He was so young. Would you like to say some words, Harry?”

“I would be honored, Eve. Malfoy… was a person…”

“What kind of person, Harry?”

“A living person… Who is gone now, from this world. He will be marginally missed for the rest of our days.”

“Weekdays,” Eve corrects.

“Excluding holidays,” Potter nods.

“We shall not miss his complaining, however. We are happy to see such a curse on this land leave our midst.”

“Ha ha ha,” Draco sneers sarcastically, finally looking back to glare at the two. “You’re a real pair of comedians. Have the twins been giving you pointers?”

“Nope! That was all natural,” Potter grins brightly, just about glowing. “I am definitely telling the twins you consider them funny, though.”

“I didn’t say good comedians!” Draco yelps and finally Potter and Eve begin to laugh, earning a very pointed eye roll from Draco.

He ends up buying the green lava lamp, too, and they walk out the door laden with items Draco doubts he will ever, actually use. He doesn’t care, however, because he’s happy, Eve is chattering, and Potter is smiling and laughing so much that, for a while, all their problems really do just disappear.

~ ~ ~

“Just go easy on the poor guy, okay?” Max pleads over the radio as Draco paces across the grounds. He’s near Hagrid’s hut, hidden away from prying eyes, especially with the Gameskeeper currently absent, and Draco is positively furious.

First day of classes, Potter had promised he’d do his best, and he’d gone and fucked it up already.

“I most certainly will not!” Draco roars back at Max. He couldn’t tell them much of the situation, seeing as there was hardly a Muggle equivalent that he could come up with that Max wouldn’t find suspicious wasn’t on their Muggle news. What Draco had said, however, was Umbridge was a new, government appointed teacher attempting to control the school.

Max had, shockingly or not, accepted the explanation. They apparently knew of the government stepping into places they shouldn’t and weren’t overly surprised it could happen even at a “rich kids boarding school.”

“He just spoke his opinion. He’s allowed that,” Max tries to reason with Draco, but Draco knows better, and nothing Max can say will completely subdue his anger. Hopefully, however, it will calm him down enough for when Potter arrives.

“He drew unneeded attention to himself and now he is being punished. This is not a problem that can be solved with chivalry. It will take time and strategy to fix everything! Potter will just make things more difficult for himself this way.”

Max hesitates, Draco can actually hear their uncertainty, before they sigh miserably. “Is there nothing he can do? Maybe talk to someone of higher authority?”

“That would be the Headmaster,” Draco replies evenly, sitting down on a stone bench beside one of Hagrid’s gardens. “He’s kind of upset with the Headmaster at the moment, though. It’s… complicated. Don’t ask.”

Max lets out a long, motorboating sound in clear frustration, not liking the situation either despite not being a part of it.

They lapse into momentary silence, until Max asks, out of the blue, “Why do you call Harry, ‘Potter’?”

“Because that is his name,” Draco replies simply.

“Yeah, but, it’s his last name. You call some people by their first name, other people by their last name.”

“Habit, I suppose?” He’d never really thought hard about it, but it was true. Even in his own house he called Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini by their first names, but Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe were still called on by their last names.

“I just think… isn’t it weird? Calling Harry, of all people, by his family name instead of his given name?”

“Why does the particular of it being Potter matter?” Draco questions suspiciously.

“Oh, uhhhh… nothing serious? Unless it is?” Max attempts for forced casual, but then, under their voice, they mumble, “Jesus fuck, how do you not know…?”

“Max, specify what you--” Draco cuts himself off when a familiar shadow appears at the top of the path that leads down to Hagrid’s hut, and all cheer immediately leaves Draco. “Potter’s here. I’ll talk to you later, Max.”

“Please don’t kill hi--” But Draco shuts off the radio before Max can finish, and stuffs it into his satchel.

As Potter approaches it is abundantly clear he’s in a foul mood, arms crossed and still in his school robes, his face pinched and ducked low as he glares at the path ahead of him. Draco stands, crossing his own arms, and waits, not moving to meet Potter at all.

“Potter,” he greets coldly when the other boy is finally within range, and Potter clearly scowls angrily.

“Before you begin, I’ve already been told off by Professor McGonagall, Hermione, and even Ron,” Potter hisses, voice positively dripping with venom, and he looks like he’s going to continue and tell Draco to stuff it, but the blonde claps his hands loudly and grins. No joy reaches his eyes, though.

“Lovely! But you haven’t been told off by me, yet, so buckle up.”

Potter growls, actually growls, and shakes his head, his body quaking with his mounting anger. “Drop it, Malfoy! I’ve heard everything from everybody else, I don’t need you lecturing me on shit I already know!”

“Yet clearly, you do not know!” Draco snaps back, pleasant façade gone in the face of his own anger.

“Oh, get off your fucking high horse,” Potter sneers and Draco snarls right back at him. “I’ve been through hell and back, but nobody treats me like I have! Nobody will tell me anything or let me be a part of this Order, but expects me to do everything for them without question. I do not need YOU lecturing ME when all you have to do is act like the lying snake you’ve always--”

Draco hurls a Stinging Jinx into Potter’s shoulder, making the other boy cry out in surprise and clutch the struck, and surely swelling, spot. Despite his clear discomfort, the Gryffindor pulls out his wand, too, and glares at Draco defiantly.

“Talk to your sweet little friends like their beneath you all you like,” Draco growls, stalking around Potter like his Animagus form would. “But if you think I’m going to bend over backwards for your vitriol than you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

Potter flinches around his scowl, only slightly. “You have no idea what it’s like. I fought Voldemort! I saw someone die and I was cut and bled and tortured to bring back a madman, only for everyone in power to tell me ‘it didn’t happen.’ I have to live with that! With these memories, these nightmares, while everyone else has the luxury of calling me a liar or keeping secrets!”

“I never said it was fucking fair!” Draco says sharply, but his volume has lowered now. Potter’s voice was wavering. Still angry and defensive, but cracking at the edges, the shaking in his body increasing, but for different reasons than his anger. “You know what the Order wants. It wants…” Draco pauses, swallows, and takes a deep breath, “Voldemort… gone, and they have to function in secret outside of Ministry control. You want to be treated as a part of that, you’re going to have to be a team player.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that when I don’t even know what they’re doing half the time?!” Potter explodes, throwing his arm that was not hit with Draco’s jinx around in a desperate manner. “They say Voldemort wants a weapon and they’re guarding it. Okay, what weapon? Oh, lovely, you won’t tell me and I have to be left to wonder and worry what’s going on? Great! Because THAT hasn’t happened before!”

“My entire life has been filled with secrets, and they have never done anything but cause me grief! I didn’t even know how my parents died or that I was a wizard until I was eleven!” Potter’s voice is desperate, and Draco lowers his wand, certain he’s no longer in danger. Not with the way large tears are pooling in the other boy’s eyes, making the green look wobbly like the ocean.

“I am finally asking to be a part of this, to not be left in the dark for once in my bleeding life, and no one will just help me. No one, not a single person, will just fucking listen to me!”

Draco lurches forward when he sees Potter’s legs buckle, catching him before he can tumble, and lowering them both to the ground, pulling the weeping boy in his lap and holding him close, arms encircling Potter like a shield. Potter is curled tightly into the hold, burying his face into Draco’s chest and arms clinging to the back of Draco’s robes, body quaking as weak wails escape his throat.

It appeared the era of Potter’s “almost crying” had finally come to an end. Strangely enough, in the face of the raw, visceral grief, Draco feels relieved.

“How long has that needed to come out…?” Draco whispers, lowering his head and pressing his face to the back of Potter’s neck, attempting to curl as much around the other boy as he can.

Potter doesn’t answer, just sobs a little harder, and one of Draco’s hands comes up to card through his hair. He doubted Potter had spoken about this to anyone else. This felt like a buildup that he could no longer contain or avoid. Draco wonders, if no one had pushed the boy, how long that would have lasted.

“I know it isn’t fair,” Draco says and Potter hiccups, pressing in tighter. “Potter… you deserve a happy ending to all of this. You deserved a happy beginning and a happy middle, too, but you didn’t get it, and I… I am truly sorry, Potter.”

The boy’s body quivers and he uncurls just enough to look up through his damp, clinging lashes at Draco. “Please don’t be. You’re… you’re doing what you can. It’s not like you’ve been told anything, either… You…” Potter hesitates, biting his lip, bubbles of sobs and hiccups coming up as he considers something. Slowly his hands unfurl from the back of Draco’s robes and instead moves to fiddle with the front of them, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.

“You made this summer… worth something. No one went out of their way like that, but you…”

“The feeling is mutual,” Draco smiles weakly. “My summer wasn’t a walk in the park either. I had to smile at Fudge. Do you realize how traumatic that is? Clearly, nothing can compare to such horrors.”

Potter gives a wet, weak chuckle, before curling back into Draco, resting his head on the blonde’s shoulder and sagging. It isn’t as desperate a motion as it was a moment ago, Draco’s hold still firm, but relaxing.

“It’s not always Cedric…” Potter whispers, and Draco only hears him because he’s so close.

“How do you mean?”

“In my nightmares… Sometimes it’s Ron or Hermione. Sometimes Sirius or my parents… Sometimes it’s you…” Potter presses closer, like he’s reaffirming Draco is, in fact, there and alive.

“I regret to inform you that I have no intention of dying anytime soon,” Draco says, attempting to be light, but Potter just whimpers.

“Nobody does…”

Draco, uncertain what to say to that, raises a hand and begins to card his fingers through Potter’s messy hair again. It’s surprisingly soft and fluffy, not quite the tangled disarray he’d been expecting, and he allows himself the chance to marvel at it.

“You’re purring,” Potter whispers and Draco can feel the smile against his neck. He can also feel, and now hear, himself purring like an engine.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, forcing down the sound.

“Are you telling me that, or yourself?” Potter asks and Draco pulls at a strand of his hair in retaliation.

“Eve and I plan to study in the library. Join us?” Draco says, fingers going back to playing with Potter’s hair, Potter melting into the touch and his shaking finally subsiding. “It sounds like it may do you well to spend some time away from the other lions.”

“Yeah… maybe…” Potter mumbles, “I’d like to see Eve, too. I never thanked her for being our guide in London.”

Draco hums in agreement, but neither of them moves to get up. “How long do you have in detention with the toad?”

“One week.”

“Seems excessive for an opinion.”

Potter hums in agitated agreement, and he must be feeling better if he’s back to feeling agitated. “Not even Snape would have done that. He’d stick to one detention per opinion.”

“You’re surprised, then?”

“Only that I’ve lived long enough to actually see someone who is worse than Snape…”

“He vanished your potion this morning…”

“I know what I said.”

Draco smirks and gives Potter a playful pinch to his side, making him yelp, but laugh after.

With classes for the day over, they both head up to the library together. Eve is already waiting, leisurely reading a romance novel Daphne Greengrass offered her, and scowling or cackling at every other word. Draco thinks he hears her mumble, “’Meat rod’?” before devolving into a fit of hushed giggling, while Draco and Potter pull out textbooks.

They attempt to ask Eve what they should expect on their O.W.L.s, but all she advises is, since it’s still the beginning of the year, finish homework and then review things from their previous years.

They do just that, munching on Hershey’s Kisses that Draco smuggled in and piled in the middle of the table.

They sit close to each other, probably closer than is strictly necessary, but Draco feels comfortable with it. The silence between their whispers is relaxing and natural, like a practiced skill, and Draco doesn’t understand why Eve keeps giving them both expectant looks before rolling her eyes and going back to reading.

~ ~ ~

“Ummmmm-briiiidge,” Max says slowly, forming the name on their tongue thoughtfully while Draco stands out on the grounds, taking photos of a dragonfly over the lake. “Um-brrrr-idge. Um-buh-buh-buh-ridge. Bridge, bridge, bridge. UM… bridge.”

“Are you quite done?” Draco questions, exasperated by Max’s apparent fascination with the name of the pink travesty, glancing down at the radio in his hand, camera in the other.

“That is the dumbest name,” Max says loudly, sounding weirdly insulted. “It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. No! Wait, you know what it sounds like?”

“No, but I am certain you are going to tell me,” Draco drawls.

“It sounds like an indecisive old person after they’re asked what game they wanna play at the retirement home. ‘What would you like to play today, Margo?’ ‘Let’s see, uhhh. What do I want to play? Hmmm, oh heavens… Why not… Ummm, Bridge?”

Draco rolls his eyes skyward as Max begins to cackle loudly. He’d just wanted a relaxing afternoon, the year already proving to be one of the most stressful to date, and he should have known Max would begin acting foolish.

“I despise her,” he says with feeling when Max calms down.

“She sounds like she smells like mothballs.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“The smell of mothballs on a person is directly proportional to the levels of evil within their souls,” Max says with confidence and Draco sighs in defeat.

“She wears too much perfume for me to determine that,” Draco says, looking through his camera again. He thinks he spies some leathery wings above the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, but they are gone a second later and he isn’t sure if he imagined them or not.

“Probably to mask the smell of mothballs!”

The sad thing is, Draco has no way of proving Max wrong…

~ ~ ~

The first week back at Hogwarts Draco is excused from his evening prefect duties. He isn’t allowed to tell anyone why save a choice few. It isn’t because of detention, like Potter was likely going through at the same time, or some personal tragedy.

It is, technically, because he is in trouble, however.

If someone decides to become an Animagus the legal way they are required to go through a series of classes with Professor McGonagall during their third year. Most of this is preparing the actual potion, doing research, and being taught everything that could possibly go wrong.

Since Draco has already done all of this one his own research, however, he doesn’t think he’ll need to go to any kind of make-up lessons, but he turns out to be wrong.

“Good evening, Professor McGonagall,” he greets with a flourish as he enters the classroom, the Head of Gryffindor House looking up from the front desk and seeming unamused.

“Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Take a seat,” she says, motioning to one of the desks at the front. Draco takes a seat near the back and smiles sweetly at her, hands clasped on top of his desk. “At the front, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Oh, very well,” Draco sighs, getting back up and readjusting himself into a front desk.

Most of the Animagus process and horrors Draco already knew of, he’d done so much of his own research, but after his reveal last year McGonagall had been hard-pressed to get him at least a few lessons on what he needed to know.

She was still upset about him doing all of this without expert help, was still upset he was unregistered, and it was only due to Dumbledore that Draco was being allowed to continue in this way. It seemed a small compromise for Draco to go to her seemingly-useless classes, but he’d allow it. It wouldn’t hurt to hear from a fellow Animagus, after all.

“Your first day back has been well, I hope?” McGonagall questions, standing and stepping around her desk.

“Splendid!” Draco says brightly and McGonagall gives him a thin look, clearly getting less and less amused by his overly eager acting. What? He’d said he’d go along with these classes, not that he’d make them easy. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is a bitch, though.”

“Language, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall snaps harshly.

“My bad, professor. What I meant to say was, notre professeur de defense contre les arts somber est une chienne. How’s that?”

“Saying it in French does not make it any less inappropriate,” McGonagall says, a clear warning in her voice, and Draco shrugs.

“Doesn’t make it any less true, either.”

“Be that as it may,” McGonagall waves off the surprised look on Draco’s face. Had she seriously just agreed with that? “We are not here to gossip.”

“Aw, but I like gossip.”

“Becoming an Animagus is a tedious, drawn-out process that requires the most dedicated of wizards,” McGonagall ignores the Slytherin, moving on to begin her lesson. “You have proven yourself to be a talented young man, but remarkably reckless.”

“Ouch,” Draco mumbles under his breath, shifting and resting his cheek in his hand.

“I clearly do not require to go over the process of becoming an Animagus, since you have already done so,” McGonagall pauses to give Draco a displeased glare and he averts his eyes to her desk. “But I suspect you lack tutelage on the matter of what comes after.”

“I get to be an Animagus. That’s what comes after,” Draco says simply, but when McGonagall looks at him for a long, quiet stretch, he begins to sweat. “Right…?”

“Tell me, Mr. Malfoy. Have you begun exhibiting unexplained behavior after becoming an Animagus? Behavior more suited for your Animagus form, perhaps?”

Draco immediately thinks of that stupid laser pointer, but also when he’d begun purring earlier while comforting Potter.

“No,” is what he mumbles, but McGonagall sees right through him.

“Freshly made Animagus will struggle with the melding of their human and animal instincts. Over time, you will know how to identify them and they will simply become another, minor impulse for you to control with little to no issue. For the first year or so, however, these impulses will be new and difficult to control.”

“Did you have these impulses, then?” Draco questions, curious.

“Of course. I went through what every Animagus has gone through. Personally, I had a dreadful habit of pushing things off tables.”

Draco tries to imagine his Transfiguration teacher, the forever stern and strict woman, as a young girl pushing goblets or books off the tables in the Great Hall.

He also begins wondering what the Marauders must have gone through as Animagus. Or even Rita Skeeter.

“So… it’ll go away?” Draco asks, suddenly a lot more interested in these classes than he was before.

“No, it will simply be easier to control. All humans have impulses that we must keep to ourselves. Animagus simply have a few extra.”

“Does that mean you still want to knock stuff off tables sometimes?” Draco smirks and McGonagall doesn’t answer, just looks at him with a stern set to her face until the blonde ducks his head.

“Now that I have your attention,” the serious woman begins, pulling out her wand and flicking it at the chalkboard so it begins to write on itself. “Shall we begin?”

The lessons are rapid-fire, but thankfully short, and Draco isn’t expected to do any homework until the final day where McGonagall wanted him to write an essay on what they’d addressed.

It is on this final day, with a plotted-out essay in his head, that Draco runs into Potter on their ways back to their dorms.

Potter looks absent as he walks, surely just finished up with his detention for the night, and startles rather violently when Draco approaches him and touches his shoulder. Usually, Draco would feel a sense of vindication for all the times Potter - and Sirius - have snuck up on him, but then Potter is turning to him with a frightened, then guarded look in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Draco questions, confused, and Potter glances around before grabbing Draco’s wrist and pulling him away. They end up hidden away in some alcove nearby, pressed close together, and Draco’s pulse picks up, though he isn’t sure why.

“I felt something,” Potter whispers, looking urgent, “In my scar. A pain and… and a sense of happiness.”

Draco pauses to consider that, face pinching up in thought before he gives Potter a nervous look. “It’s Him, isn’t it?”

Potter bites his lip and glances down, but nods. “I think so… I don’t understand what it means, though.”

“You’ve always had a connection to that psycho, even before he was rejuvenated,” Draco offers, “Perhaps, now that he’s back, the connection is a bit stronger?”

“I hope not,” Potter whispers, flexing his hand absently like it might be cramping. He looks exhausted, has this whole week, and Draco wonders how taxing Umbridge’s detentions must be. He’s seen the other boy, on multiple occasions, struggling to keep up with his homework in every second of his free time.

“As do I,” Draco agrees, reaching to grip the wrist of the hand Potter was flexing, but freezes in his movements when Potter flinches back. Draco’s brows furrow, confused, and he glances down at where Potter was attempting to discreetly hide his hand away. “What is it? Have I managed to piss you off again without doing anything?”

“No, I’m just…” Potter starts, very clearly avoiding eye contact, and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He was always a dreadful liar. “I’m just tired, Malfoy. Maybe we should head to our dorms.”

Draco hums, nodding but not moving, before he says, almost casually, “Bullshit.”

Potter flinches again. “Just drop it, Malfoy, it doesn’t concern you…”

“More bullshit.”

Now Potter looks up, frustrated, and begins to snap, “Back off, Mal--” Draco steps forward quickly, however, shoving the other boy into the wall behind him. When Potter moves his hands to brace himself, Draco takes the opportunity to yank his left hand forward by the forearm. He doesn’t think he’s all that much stronger than Potter, but maybe his Animagus form has added some power to his human body, too, or maybe Potter’s more exhausted than he’d realized, because even when Potter struggles to pull away, Draco is able to keep ahold of his arm.

“What the fuck are these?” Draco demands when he sees the cuts on the top of Potter’s hand. They look mangled and dreadful, and will clearly scar, but also like they have already been healed over. When he pokes at them, Potter hisses in pain. “These are fresh!”

Potter tries to pull his arm free, growing more and more angry as time goes on, and, having seen what he needed to, Draco finally releases him. Potter still won’t meet his eyes.

“Forget about it, Malfoy. It doesn’t matter,” Potter growls lowly. Despite not looking at Draco, the blonde still sees Potter’s eyes flicking around, like he’s looking for an escape.

“Your hand has been carved up, you fool! This…” Draco’s voice lowers dangerously as he puts two and two together, “This is Umbridge’s doing, isn’t it? She’s torturing you because you disagreed with her. I’m right, aren’t I?”

For a second Potter looks like he might argue, but quickly sees why that would be a poor choice and he scowls as he replies, “She… she has this quill. Whatever you write gets cut out of your hand.”

“And who have you told?” Draco crosses his arms, glowering, wishing Potter would just look at him already so he can see how furious he is.

“Ron and Hermione know.”

“Of course they know, I meant a teacher. The Headmaster, for Salazar’s sake!”

“Dumbledore has other things to worry about than me. He’s made that very clear,” Potter hisses, sounding resentful and hurt, and Draco wants to hit him for being so stupid. Yet, at the same time, Draco feels like he can understand.

“I do not claim to know what the hell that old geezer is doing, he’s clearly lost his mind and I deeply doubt his motivations, but something like this should not go unsaid. Despite what your previous years at Hogwarts have taught you, you’re not actually a martyr. You’re allowed to be selfish.”

“Like you?” Potter snaps.

“Like a person,” Draco sneers, mildly offended, but when Potter stays silent he decides to go for a slightly more underhanded method. “Very well, don’t think about yourself, but what about the other people bound to get detention from her? What if she uses the same methods on them?”

“We don’t know if that will happen. I’m a special case, remember?”

“How would we know? If everyone takes a page out of your book, no one will be told.”

This, at least, has Potter stopping to think, biting his lip and fidgeting. Potter is stubborn, though, and Draco doubts he can change his mind in just one evening, so he lays off. “I’m not going to hound you over what to do like Granger, but at least consider what I’ve said.”

Potter heaves a deep sigh, the tension leaving his body some. “Fine, git. You really are a worrywart, you know…” Potter finally looks up at Draco, their eyes catching, and for a second the blonde’s breathing stops in his chest. The other boy looks so drawn and pale, yet there is something about the resigned, welcome look in his eyes that catches Draco off guard.

The first time he’d noticed Potter’s looks, consciously, had been the night before Easter last school year. Ever since, Draco had kept spotting these moments, these looks, that stunned him, and Potter very rarely had to do anything at all to cause it. It was a little infuriating, if Draco was being honest, yet somehow he never felt angry.

“So you’ve said before,” Draco says quietly.

“And I’m still right.”

Draco and Potter share a smirk, just a small, tired exchange, before Draco ushers them both out into the hall. “Go to your tower, princess,” he says lowly, hand on Potter’s back as he pushes them along. “Tell Granger and Weasley what happened, too. No avoiding them.”

“Thank you for your fretting, Mrs. Weasley, I’ll be fine,” Potter smirks and Draco glares at him.

“Get some sleep, Speccy. You have a lot of homework to catch up on.”

Potter does groan at that but wishes Draco a good night when they reach the fork in their paths, hurrying up to Gryffindor Tower while Draco descends into the dungeons.

~ ~ ~

Draco had not noticed, nor cared, about Sturgis Podmore when he had first shown up in the papers. He’d been caught sneaking, or attempting to sneak, into a door in a deep level of the Ministry and had been sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

It was something to make a few comments about down in the common room, then move on.

But apparently, he was far more important than that.

Granger and Draco had been sitting in the library on a Monday, attempting to work on homework in light of a truly dreadful article that had been published about Umbridge becoming High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. The Golden Trio, and Draco, had all been furious, and even a few of the other students at breakfast had looked uncomfortable, and Draco had glared death at the quote from his own father.

Despite a few rebellious actions - like getting an undercut, insinuating he marry a muggleborn, or owning Muggle items - for the most part Draco’s father did not know the extent of his son’s rebellion against pureblood culture. He also did not know of Draco’s “internship” at the Ministry. Draco really had no reason to feel alarmed when he sees Lucius Malfoy in a story about Umbridge, yet the warning bells still go off in his head.

What did he know? What had he heard? How much was Narcissa covering up and how much would get out?

There was nothing to do about the panic, however, so Granger and Draco had fled to the library during their break, and then again after classes and attempted to get some work done. This was when Granger had mentioned the name Sturgis Podmore. She’d wanted to know what Draco thought, and only realized he didn’t know when he’d given her a blank stare.

Podmore was, apparently, a member of the Order of the Phoenix that had been missing a few weeks back on the day of the Hogwarts Express’s departure. It made no sense for him to be doing what he was doing, breaking into the Ministry, but they had next to no information on where he was even attempting to get to, and thus did not know where to begin assuming his motives.

“Let me guess. The Order is staying quiet?” Draco had asked, certain no one could hear him. They’d begun layering silencing charms and disillusionment charms around their table. Their friendship needed to remain unnoticed by Umbridge, after all. They were certain none of the Gryffindors would ever rat them out, Slytherins didn’t betray their own, usually, and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws likely didn’t notice nor care, so they mainly needed to remain hidden while out in public.

“We don’t know a thing,” Granger sighs, shaking her head. Potter was probably pulling his hair out if even Granger was frustrated.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Draco decides, pulling out a piece of parchment.

He writes out a simple letter for Cecil Duke, asking how he’s doing, how things are at the Ministry, and discretely wondering what all this fuss about Podmore was about. It was subtle and simple and, hopefully, Duke would give them some answers.

He also pulls out another parchment, this one mostly written already, and adds a few extra notes.

Rita Skeeter had been surprisingly absent from the smear campaign against Potter and Dumbledore, but this was likely because she was too sensationalized, and the Ministry needed someone they could predict and control completely. However, if she had a story the papers absolutely couldn’t resist, perhaps Draco could get his own agenda out there.

They needed to begin sowing the seeds of doubt in the Ministry into the public’s minds. It would have to be crafty and subtle, but it could be done, so Draco finishes up his second letter to Skeeter and sets it with Dukes.

Granger accompanies Draco to the owlery, listening as he explains his plan with Duke and Skeeter.

“I can’t believe you actually have that slime ball reporter wrapped around your little finger. Why didn’t you tell us about her sooner?” Granger asks at one point.

“I swore I’d keep quiet about her, but then she went behind my back last year with that piece on Potter, so I don’t feel quite as loyal as I once did.”

“I still think you should have said something sooner. At least to us,” Granger gives Draco a displeased look, but he just shrugs her off. Her “lecture” voice really didn’t work that well on him.

They send the letters, Columba happy to be of service again. The owl had gotten used to regular correspondence over the summer and seemed eager to get back to work.

“And now… we wait…” Draco says, Granger sighing beside him as they watch the owl fly into the distance.

~ ~ ~

One thing Draco was learning about his new, Muggle friend was that they had a lot - A LOT - of completely useless information. By age eight the two of them could be talking about anything, absolutely anything, and Max would have some kind of trivial piece of information about whatever they could possibly be going over.

At first Draco had simply wondered if this was a Muggle thing. Muggle and wizards were sure to value different facts in life more than others, but then Draco had spoken to Eric and learned that, no, that was just Max.

As Draco had learned of Max’s other quirk to study subjects they had no need to study, things began to make a lot more sense. Max retained so much more information than Draco thought possible, but they always griped that it was never the things their teachers taught them.

“I remember all the stuff I enjoy,” Max explained once, when both of them were ten and they were studying for a History test. “I like animals, so I remember animals. I don’t like dates, so I don’t remember them.”

“You’re probably just lazy,” Draco had shrugged. He could remember dates just fine, after all, so why couldn’t Max?

“Did you know sharks have sensors on their noses that force them to bite down when touched? Or that killer whales are actually dolphins? Or that a mother Surinam toad hatches her eggs inside of her back? What about that koalas have fingerprints that look like people’s?”

“Okay, okay,” Draco attempts to get them to calm down as Max begins a tirade, clearly insulted.

“The sunbeam snake has iridescent scales! The Tardigrade, also known as a water bear, can survive one thousand times the radiation of the limit for most other organisms! Flies can live without their heads because their brain is in their back, they absorb oxygen through their skin, and they’ll only die due to starvation! A mantis shrimp can punch so fast that it superheats the water around it’s smashers up to ten thousand Kelvin, which is hotter than the surface of the sun!”

“Max. Max, really, you can stop now.”

“A male angler fish is tiny and fuses itself to a female’s body until she has use for him for reproduction! Giraffes don’t have vocal chords! Elephants can’t jump! Cats are, by the strictest of definitions, technically reaching pest levels in their populations! How’s that for lazy, you knob?!”

Draco learned not to insult their drive for knowledge after that.

Potter even got a taste of it once during their fourth year, up in the Astronomy Tower, when Max had suddenly said, “Did you know female hyenas are larger than the males and they have faux penises?”

“Good for her,” Draco had said absently, skimming through Potter’s Potions report for errors.

“Why… Why do you know that?” Potter had asked, sounding choked with surprise, and Draco can just about hear the shrug on the other end.

This familiarity with the bizarre is only added to by having Tracey Davis as a housemate, and is probably why Draco finds Luna Lovegood’s existence far less insulting than others. Granger can hardly stand the spacey girl, but, after a few exchanges, Draco really doesn’t see any issue in the Ravenclaw. Certainly, he doesn’t seek out her company, and he doesn’t believe half the things she talks about, but he doesn’t brush her off the moment they cross paths.

“You are very nice, Draco. Far nicer than everyone believes,” Lovegood - Luna. She preferred Luna - says one time when they bump into each other outside the library. She is holding a book about magical beast hybrids and Eve, who had walked up with Draco, snickers.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him for a while!” Eve leans in towards the other girl, winking at her when she turns to look at her. “He’s just a big ole kitten.”

“I would not say kitten…” Luna had tilted her head and set her finger to her chin, thinking. “I would call him a Meeto.”

“A what?” Draco questions, confused more than he is insulted.

“A spirit of good fortune that lives as a shadow in the corners of your vision.”

Draco, not sure how one could ever prove something like that existed, had simply sighed, nodded good-bye to the girl, and dragged Eve away.

So, he was surrounded by weirdos on all sides, but he was getting better at dealing with them and appreciating their moments of clarity. They were a break from the true insanity that now surrounded Hogwarts, and Draco would take what he could get.

~ ~ ~

After the second week of detentions, Draco thinks Potter has finally figured out that speaking his opinion in DADA really doesn’t do him any good. He only ends up with an injured hand and more anger than he likely knows how to deal with.

It should be, then, that their only unpleasant experience with Umbridge is in DADA, except she’s begun appearing in other teacher’s classes, too, watching them work and being generally rude and judgmental. She has that authority as High Inquisitor, and it feels like pulling his own teeth when Draco stays after class to “congratulate” her.

She’s pleased, of course, and insinuates she might be able to put in a nice word for Draco in a nicer department at the Ministry. “Your father would surely love hearing about an interest in higher positions,” she’d said. There was nothing wrong with magical law enforcement, but it was clear she believed a pureblood should aim for something better.

It’s a mess, they aren’t learning anything in that woman’s classes, Draco has to keep acting nice to her, she has no issue torturing children that disagree with her… and he really should have known the Golden Trio would try and pull something stupid in a heroic attempt to make things right.

Draco sits comfortably in the bench just across from the Hog’s Head Inn, watching as students mill back out and snapping a few pictures as they go. He wanted records of everyone that had been clearly involved. For his own purposes.

When the Golden Trio, last to emerge, finally do make their exit, Draco sets his camera back in his pocket and begins to slow clap. The three look over, confused by the sound, before spotting Draco. Granger visibly pales while Weasley and Potter look confused.

“Bravo, Gryffindorks, bravo,” he yells, not moving to get up, so the three make their way over.

“Hush, Malfoy,” Granger hisses at him when they get into hearing range, Potter plopping down with an exhausted sigh beside Draco like he owns the place. The blonde’s focus, however, is on the bushy-haired catastrophe in front of him.

“Now why would I ever be quiet, Granger? Are you perhaps worried about drawing attention to your little meeting?” Draco drawls, smirking, and Granger’s cheeks redden.

Weasley, always first to jump on the defensive, takes a step forward and glares at Draco.

“You going to tell the ministry’s toad, then?” he demands, a clear warning in his voice.

“Why would I need to do that when you have managed to do so well sabotaging yourselves?” Draco purrs, leaning forward and smirking darkly up at the ginger. There is very little humor in his actions.

“What do you mean?” Weasley snaps and Draco arches a judgmental brow at him.

“How do you think I found out about this without you ever telling me?”

Potter sits up at that, but he’s looking at Granger, his expression confused. “You didn’t tell Malfoy?” He sounds insulted, which is quite endearing to Draco, but he bumps their knees together to calm the other boy down. There was no point in getting upset over this.

“It’s just… he has to be careful with Umbridge,” Granger mumbles.

“I suspected as much,” Draco nods.

“Plus, I figured he would only want to join if he knew it was a sure thing,” Granger continues at a mumble, and Draco pauses at that. She wasn’t entirely wrong…

“A logical assumption to make about a Slytherin. And also correct. And not just for me.”

“What do you mean?” Weasley questions suspiciously, leaning back like he expects Draco to say something so insulting it might cause him physical harm. If only…

“Do you really think a hoard of Hogwarts students entering the very shady Hog’s Head Inn isn’t cause for suspicion?” Draco begins, leaning back in the bench and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t look strange at all,” he adds sarcastically, with a wave of his hand, and he sees Granger redden even more. “Eve spotted you first, snuck in with my invisibility cloak, and listened to your entire conversation from the bar. How many other people there do you think heard you?”

“It’s already done, Malfoy, it’s not like we can stop it now,” Weasley grumbles, crossing his arms defensively.

“He’s just enjoying pointing out all our mistakes,” Potter says, glancing at his best friend before looking back at Draco with an unimpressed look, “As usual.”

“You make it far too easy. Anyway, where was I?” Draco taps his temple for theatrical affect, before snapping his fingers and continuing. “Right. Well, clearly Eve, Leandra - who was with us - and myself now all know of your little club.”

“Did… did Eve and Leandra want to join too?” Granger asks, straightening up when Draco pauses meaningfully. She looks suddenly very excited, her eyes sparkling with possibilities of including even more students in their secret classes. “I’m sure the rest of the students wouldn’t mind--”

“Oh, they will,” Draco says gravely, and waits for a response from the trio.

“Because you and Eve are Slytherins?” Potter asks sharply, his eyes narrowing, and Draco hums and nods his head side to side in a “so-so” gesture.

“Yes… As are Sophie, Daphne, Tracey, Daphne’s sister Astoria, and Blaise,” he lists off on his fingers, before looking around at the lions. “They showed up at some point, too, and found out what was going on. I reiterate: you are not sneaky at all.”

“They… they all want to be part of Dumbledore’s Army?” Granger squeaks, looking far more thrown than she was clearly ready for.

“That is a ridiculously dumb name, but yes. What? You think Slytherins don’t want to know how to defend ourselves, too? You think all of us agree with the Ministry?” Draco felt himself growing frustrated, sitting up straighter as he instinctively goes to defend his house. “Sophie worries about corruption by the Ministry, Daphne worries about men attempting to take advantage of her and wanting to defend her sister, Tracey worries about rabid beasts, Eve worries about Death Eaters, Astoria worries about bullies, and Blaise… Well, Blaise just doesn’t really care this way or that, so ignore him…”

A hand on his knee has him startling and looking down, then following the arm connected to the hand up to Potter, who’s smiling thinly. “It’s alright, we get it. They’re scared kids just like the rest of us…”

Draco releases a breath and forces his shoulders to loosen, nodding at Potter as Weasley begins to speak. “I guess…” They all look over to the ginger, who looks pained with what he’s about to say. He can hardly get the words out. “I mean… yeah, I guess… Even Slytherins have a… right to self-defense, too…”

“Thank you for your blessing, Weasley,” Draco drawls and Weasley glares at him.

“I can try to talk to them… If you like,” Granger offers hesitantly.

“I’ll try and send them your way, too,” Draco nods at her, thankful. He’d been worried, for a moment, that they would deny him. These particular Slytherins were good people. They were in Slytherin for a reason, and knew how to work a situation to their benefit, but all the opportunities that were offered to them - offered to most Slytherins - brought them down roads filled with darkness and pain.

Good opportunities, truly good in the purest of senses, very rarely came a Slytherin’s way, and often there were more cons than pros if they strove “out of bounds” themselves. Draco had been very lucky, the cards falling in all the right places that, the moment he’d begun voicing interest in rebellion and questioning tradition, he hadn’t lost everything. He’d garnered confusion, curiosity, and disapproval, but not scorn.

He hoped that this would give these Slytherins a chance, too.

The hand on his knee moves to grip his wrist, squeezing until Draco looks over to find Potter smiling. “You were worried about them,” he whispers.

“Lies and slander,” Draco says flatly, and Potter snorts.

“Can you hang out with us for the rest of the Hogsmeade trip?” Potter asks, head tilting hopefully.

“He probably needs to stay all ‘conscious of the public eye,’ or something,” Weasley says, looking far more relaxed now that they’re not talking about Slytherins and their inherent worth.

“I do,” Draco nods, giving this one to Weasley, and stands from the bench. “I also was hoping to get some photography of the fields before snow.”

“We could join you,” Potter quickly offers, but Weasley’s vocal protest makes the bespectacled boy shrink.

“Just because you’re all… besotted with the guy doesn’t mean you can drag us into it, too,” Weasley complains and Draco looks over, impressed.

“I’m amazed you know what besotted means,” he says, and Granger looks at Weasley in surprise.

“As am I,” the girl says and Weasley gives her an affronted look.

Draco watches the two bicker for a moment, before his brain decides to pick up on exactly what Weasley had been referring to and his cheeks warm up. What was all that supposed to mean? Potter “besotted” with him? That was ridiculous!

He glances over at the other boy, only to find him looking away and down the street. He can still see the tips of his ears, however, and they are a vibrant red.

“Oh, honestly,” Granger sighs, shaking her head and clearly being fed up by Weasley, and speaking before Draco can start asking questions. “Perhaps we can cast a few disillusionment spells and enjoy lunch together later. Enjoy your camera, Malfoy, we’ll be off, now.”

The bushy-haired girl then sweeps her two friends away and drags them towards the busier parts of Hogsmeade in search of something to do, ignoring Draco’s flabbergasted face and Potter’s mumbled protests. Weasley doesn’t say anything, because his mouth is full of PopRocks, and Draco really doesn’t have time to think about when he’d managed to snag those from the Slytherin’s bag.

He ends up going off towards the outskirts of Hogsmeade to take his pictures, but his heart isn’t really in it. His mind keeps drifting. Usually to Potter and his strange behavior as of late, but he attempts to at least steer his mind to think about “Dumbledore’s Army.”

Which really was a ridiculous name…

He wonders what spells they intend to teach their peers. He wonders if it would be a wise idea to skim through his three volumes of Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts. It couldn’t hurt, and perhaps he could bring some self-defense spells to the table that would have, otherwise, gone unnoticed.

He also wonders where they plan to even have these classes. They will need to be secret, but what kind of places in Hogwarts would work for that? And empty classroom seemed the most logical, but that had plenty of issues of its own.

Maybe the Shrieking Shack? Students could take the secret passage there under the Whomping Willow. But that would take a while to get to…

Draco highly doubted any students would want to go down to the Chamber of Secrets for a few classes, even if, according to Potter’s recounting, it would be spacious enough for their needs. Just have to ignore the massive basilisk corpse…

His worrying gets him nothing save a few subpar photos and Eve startling the hell out of him when he’s not paying attention. She drags him off to lunch after that, unfortunately not with the Golden Trio, and they eat in half-silence, the two of them occasionally making suggestions for the next Muggle book they will read together.

They settle on The Great Gatsby and the rest of the day becomes a blur.

~ ~ ~

Early in the year, Draco hears about Potter’s run in with Filch in the owlery.

Granger had been telling Draco about how blind Potter was. Apparently, he’d gone to send a letter to Sirius and had run into Cho Chang, the girl “clearly flirting” with Potter, according to Granger, but Potter had hardly reciprocated. In fact, also according to Granger, he’s been incredibly rude and standoffish, attempting to brush her off.

Draco didn’t really care, he just wanted to go over his Arithmancy homework, but then Granger had mentioned Filch showing up due to a “tip” about Potter ordering dungbombs, and Draco’s attention snapped up to her.

It was clearly a cover, Filch most likely having been sent to snoop over Potter’s correspondence. Being on friendlier terms with Umbridge meant Draco already knew about Filch’s clear admiration for the ministry hag.

After a bit more wheedling, Draco found out Potter had simply explained it was a letter to his godfather telling him about Quidditch and how Potter had already gotten detention. Filch had then insulted Sirius, insinuating the man would likely be proud of Potter’s disobedience, or something along those lines, and walked away.

After hearing all this, Draco had made it his mission to convince Potter to begin using Columba if he needed to send any messages, but Potter was stubborn, as usual. He didn’t see any issue use his incredibly recognizable, snowy owl. He hadn’t seen any issues with Filch, just that he’d gotten a wrong tip, or was being pranked. Why should he not use Hedwig to send his letters.

Draco had attempted to get Weasley on his side, surely to convince Potter that way, but Weasley also hadn’t seen any issue either. Neither realized how jeopardizing it could be if someone got ahold of any Order-related letters because they’d known to aim for Hedwig.

It’s Leandra, surprisingly, who finally convinces Potter.

Apparently, she and the Boy-Who-Lived had crossed paths one day in the corridors and Leandra had voiced her concerns. Except, her concerns had not been for whatever Potter, or someone from the Order, might have written in a letter Hedwig was carrying. Instead, the girl had voiced a concern for Hedwig herself.

If someone wanted something from the owl, or they knew Hedwig was associated with Potter and they didn’t like Potter, then Hedwig was a big, white target. She could be seriously hurt if Potter wasn’t careful, and Leandra had wanted to know what Potter was doing about it.

Potter had, later, dejectedly asked Draco if he could still use Columba. Draco had agreed, and even offered Eve’s barn owl, Tsuki, as a backup as needed.

They’d then sent Columba off to Sirius with a note telling him to hold onto Hedwig until further notice, and Columba had returned a few days later with a note saying Sirius would fire call later that night to check on Potter.

It all went very smoothly, more smoothly than anything had this entire year, but Potter was decidedly more dejected than he had been since the beginning of the year. Very abruptly, the boy was without his owl, all thanks to the Order and Umbridge.

He’d clung to snow leopard Draco for nearly an hour up in the Astronomy Tower the following evening, not saying a word, and Draco had to keep reminding himself that this was for the best.

~ ~ ~

When the decree comes out that no new clubs can be started without express permission from High Inquisitor Umbridge, Draco feels both self-satisfied and furious. Self-satisfied because he had, in fact, told the Golden Trio they weren’t sneaky at all and this was proof of that. Furious because… well, because of everything else.

This was Umbridge trying to squash a perceived threat before it had even started, but had only succeeded in strengthening the resolve of all those involved. Draco could see it in their eyes, could see the anger at so blatantly being denied their rights of self-defense. Even Zacharias Smith had been incensed. The only ones that didn’t seem to share these feelings were Blaise and Edgecombe.

Blaise wasn’t surprising, he’d mostly demanded to join after hearing about the secret class because he enjoyed dicking with people and he wanted the “novelty” of being taught by the Boy-Who-Lived, but Marietta Edgecombe was concerning.

Draco did not know the Ravenclaw girl, but as he paid attention to all the possible members of the DA, he realized she seemed the most against what she’d literally signed up for. When the decree had first been issued, he hadn’t seen how she’d reacted, but as they’d all been discreetly spreading the word that the DA would not be stopped, she’d clearly grown more and more uncertain.

It could mean nothing. She could merely have nerves for breaking the rules and she would eventually get over it, but Draco had every intention of keeping an eye on her.

For now, however, they needed to find a way to have their lessons undisturbed. A hidden location was even more important now, plus a way to communicate secretly. Draco suggests radios during a library meeting with Granger and Eve, but they’d need to get the radios in and have the Weasley twins alter them to work in magical environments, which could take months.

It did, however, appear to give Granger an idea, and she’d returned a few days later with enchanted galleons that could communicate messages to each other.

“I actually got the idea from You-Know-Who’s dark marks,” the girl had said, passing out the galleons to everyone. Weasley and Potter had joined her today, probably to help her demonstrate her little invention, or perhaps they’d been on their way somewhere. Draco didn’t know.

“As much as I love you reverse-engineering that shit,” Eve begins, examining her galleon, “Can we all just agree to call Voldemort by his damn name? It’s a name, for the love of god! Come on, Hermione, you’re muggleborn like me. Why are you so bothered by it?”

“No one just… says his name like that,” Weasley says, shaking his head in clear disbelief. “You wouldn’t understand. Hermione’s smart. She gets it.”

“Oh… am I not smart, Ron Weasley?” Eve glares and Weasley attempts to backtrack.

“That’s not what I mean! She just… she get’s the importance of it all, that’s it, and--”

“Ronald, hush,” Granger hisses, attempting to stop the ginger before he dug his grave any deeper.

“Potter’s never had an issue,” Draco points out to break the mounting tension.

“I just don’t see why we should be afraid of a name… It’s just that, right? A name,” Potter shrugs, which seems to encourage Eve.

“Exactly! It’s a bundle of sounds used to identify an individual. That’s all a name is, and it’s not even a very good name. It’s one of the dumbest names I’ve ever heard! Voldemort.” Eve scoffs at the name in clear displeasure, rolling her eyes skyward.

“Stop it, will you!” Weasley snaps, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Honestly, so was Draco, but he’d had just enough interactions with Eve’s lack of concern over the Dark Lord that he manages to keep a lid on himself.

“Ron…” Eve gives Weasley an unimpressed look, head cocked to one side judgmentally, “Let’s be real. If you don’t hear the name just right it bloody sounds like ‘Lord Vore n’ Choke’.” Just about everyone at the table reacts to that, at least. Weasley looks like he may throw up, Granger has covered her mouth in astonishment, Draco chokes on his spit, and Potter buries his face in his hands to stave off his sudden, hysterical laughter.

“I’m serious!” Eve continues, looking around at them all. “Listen, I’m not one to kinkshame but maybe, just maybe, if your aim is to strike fear in the hearts of man, reconsider the use of anagrams like it’s some sort of kindergarten project.”

“Salazar’s tits, Eve, stop,” Draco whines.

“You’re just mad because I’m right!”

“I never thought of that,” Potter wheezes, peaking out through his fingers at Eve. “What do you think his notebooks looked like while he was trying to come up with that?”

“Fucking chaos,” Eve smirks, “Just the dumbest shit. ‘Am I Lord Moldovert?’”

“’Me am Lord Dirt Volo’,” Potter can hardly get out, he’s giggling so hard.

“’I am Dootled Vremol’.”

That one sets Potter off again, while Draco groans and waits out the rest of this conversation to end.

So, they’ve solved the communication problem with Granger’s enchanted galleons. The issue now, however, is finding a location.

A few nights later, however, camped out in the Astronomy Tower, Max ends up giving Draco and Potter an unexpectedly brilliant idea.

“Max,” Potter says, looking up at the sky in a half-daze.

“Harry,” Max replies, mimicking Potter’s tone perfectly. Draco and Potter sit side-by-side on the floor of the tower, the radio in Draco’s lap, with their homework thankfully done and conversation beginning to pitter off.

“How would you deal with a professor with a god complex who desperately wants to grind every child into a fine powder and mix it with her tea?”

“Kill her,” Max replies immediately, without a shred of hesitation, and Potter glances over at the radio in clear concern.

“Not quite what I meant…” he mumbles, but Draco holds up a hand, his expression thoughtful.

“Now, now, hold on. We may very well be onto something,” he says, snickering when Potter glares and shoves him.

“Have you guys figured out what you’re going to do about the secret club?” Max asks, sounding curious and concerned.

Draco had managed to explain the situation as Muggle-like as he possibly could. Basically, Umbridge was a failure as a teacher, but they believed Potter would make a spectacular tutor in her place. The issue was that all clubs, including study groups, needed to go through Umbridge first, and there was no way they could get her approval.

“Nothing,” Potter sighs, dejected. They’d wanted to get in a class as soon as possible, but they’d not been able to come up with a suitable location at all. So far, the Shrieking Shack was looking to be the most promising, but it was still a last-ditch option.

“I may not know where you can take your classes,” Max begins, sounding thoughtful, which perks Draco’s interest. There was no telling what Max could come up with when they were being thoughtful or imaginative. It could be something absolutely bogus, or it could be something no one had ever thought of before. “But… I’ve been thinking of ways you can cover up your club, at least.”

“Cover it up?” Draco questions and Potter shifts closer until they’re pressed shoulder to hip to foot.

“Yeah, like… keep people from realizing it’s going on? Disguise it?” Max says, and then they say one of the most brilliant things Draco has heard in a while. “Have you ever heard of a bait and switch?”

~ ~ ~

Potter and Weasley are left in charge of finding a proper location for the DA to meet, while Granger and Draco set into motion their bait and switch plan.

It’s remarkably simple, yet perhaps that was what made it so devious?

They had decided to pose an idea for a tutoring group to Umbridge with a far more acceptable premise for her pallet. At first, they could not determine a good group idea, but then Draco had remembered, from a not-too-distant memory, Professor Sinistra offering to tutor students in wandless magic.

It was perfect. It was an interesting subject many students would be appropriately interested in, it would not teach any new spells, only a new way to cast preexisting ones, it would be open to anyone, and it would be backed by Draco.

With this club in place, and all DA members encouraged to attend it as often as possible, they could control the narrative a bit more. If Umbridge ever appeared to be getting too hot on their trail, Draco would simply insinuate that it must be in connection with the wandless tutoring lessons. After all, all possible suspects attended it and the Astronomy Tower was a mostly unsupervised location at the top when Sinistra wasn’t around. These “disobedient students” could have easily taken advantage of the situation.

First, Granger would pose the idea to Umbridge, and when Umbridge was sure to deny her Draco would “coincidentally” walk in for tea with his favorite teacher. Granger would leave, Draco would ask what all that was about, and would then proceed to convince Umbridge of its validity.

The actual act of convincing Umbridge, however, is a lot more difficult than he’d hoped for.

“It’s a spectacular opportunity,” he tries, sitting in the plush chair across from Umbridge’s desk. “To learn the techniques of an entirely different wizarding school? Who would turn something like that down?”

Umbridge takes a patient sip of her tea before replying. “Uagadou is hardly what any of us should be striving for. The students do not need to learn such… savage ways of casting magic.”

How on earth was wandless magic considered savage? Draco wanted to demand answers, demand an apology, but he swallows down his frustrations and continues.

“You know, Professor Sinistra was once a Slytherin, too.”

“Yes, she was, and I am sure she was a lovely member of our house until she downgraded schools.”

The frustration was boiling inside him even hotter than before, but he yet again forces it down.

“There is one other thing, professor. One thing that I think you’d be interested in,” Draco leans forward, setting down his cup of tea and looking at Umbridge seriously. She arches a brow over her tea, sets down the cup, then folds her hands atop her desk.

“Do not keep me in suspense forever, Mr. Malfoy,” she chirps far too pleasantly, especially after the vile she’d spat only a moment before, but Draco plays along.

“We will be using spells we already know… and Harry Potter and his lackies will surely be there if this was Granger’s idea,” Draco says, like it’s a secret. “I will admit, I am interested in this new method as well… but while I am attending the lessons, I can just as easily observe and catalogue the spells Potter and all his followers know. Any that stand out… well, I’ll report them all to you.”

This, finally, catches Umbridge’s interest, and a bit more flattery and promises on dirt on Potter is what wins her over.

Granger is called back in, told her idea has been accepted, but only on the terms that Draco and she work together to organize the tutoring lessons. Granger looks appropriately furious at this, which pleases Umbridge, and the deal is done.

Sinistra, having already offered tutoring on wandless magic, has no qualms with increasing the number of students in a session. In fact, despite her ultimately blank expression, she actually seems quite eager to teach the student body Uagadou techniques.

When Granger and Draco are leaving Sinistra’s office, feeling very proud of themselves, they nearly get bowled over by Potter and Weasley, who also had success on their end.

“The Room of Requirement?” Granger repeats as she and Draco are dragged along by the two, excited Gryffindor boys.

“Dobby told us,” Potter explains. “Actually, it was Ron’s idea to ask the elves.”

Weasley puffs up proudly under the impressed looks he gets from everyone, even Draco. “I figured, if anyone knows the castle backwards and forwards, it must be the house elves.”

“That’s… actually quite brilliant, Weasley,” Draco admits, both his brows raised.

“What do you mean ‘actually’?” Weasley demands, shooting him a glare.

“We both know what I meant,” Draco drawls, but Potter cuts them both off by recounting exactly how to get the Room of Requirement to work.

When the door appears after they thrice pass the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, thinking of what they need, they enter into a room that is absolutely perfect for their needs.

It is wide and spacious with bookcases lining the walls, cushions on the floors, and plenty of targets for when they get into more offensive spells. There’s a Muggle first-aid kit hanging on one wall, along with a few healing potions, and Draco can’t help but chuckle.

“What?” Weasley demands at the laugh, and Draco points at the medical supplies.

“Five galleons say Longbottom uses all of those within a week.”

Potter shoves him for that.

“This is perfect!” Granger says as they all spread out to examine everything. “We could have our classes here and never be found out.”

“We’ll need to keep the Marauder’s Map with us, though,” Draco advises, glancing back at the door. “If anyone is camping out outside, waiting, we need to be able to check the map beforehand. Potter and I can also bring our invisibility cloaks to be safe.”

“Worrywart,” Potter stage whispers from across the room, and smiles innocently when Draco glares over at him.

“He’s right, though,” Granger says, examining the books with a finger hovering over the spines.

“When should we have our first class?” Weasley asks, looking back from where he’d been examining a large mannequin used for target practice. It was designed to look like a Death Eater caricature. Draco wondered if he could put a blonde wig on it…

“Why not tonight?” Draco suggests, “We need to spread the word about ‘Sinistra’s Uagadou-Level Wandless Tutoring Club.’ We can pass on the specifics to the DA while we do that.”

“And we can test out the galleons by sending out the specific time!” Granger finally turns around, looking excited.

“Then it’s decided,” Potter is grinning as the four of them face each other, looking nervous but eager at the same time, “Tonight we have our first meeting of Dumbledore’s Army.”

~ ~ ~

When Draco is eight, he gets into a fight with Max. Like they often are, the fight starts because Draco had said something Max hadn’t agreed with. It was something to do with controlling savages to keep civilized society safe.

What it had really been about was his father attempting to stomp down on werewolf rights, calling them a threat to everyone else, and Draco had repeated what Lucius had said in Muggle terms.

Max had gotten so angry to the point they’d thrown their radio and wouldn’t listen to Draco anymore. It was Max’s mother, then, who had picked up the radio a few minutes later to ask if everything was okay.

“Your child is a menace!” Draco had hollered back, not in any mood to even talk to the woman. She would probably end up saying something calming and sweet that would take away some of Draco’s anger, but he didn’t want to lose his anger right now. He was furious that Max couldn’t see how right Lucius Malfoy was.

For a while Max’s mother says nothing, which is almost as bad as her sweet words, but then there’s the noise of the radio being passed over to someone else and a few hushed words on the other end.

Then, in a concerned but energized tone, Max’s father speaks to Draco. “What seems to be the problem, Draco my boy?”

Draco could groan. If anyone could beat Max in shear, rambling capabilities, it was their father. “Nothing you need concern yourself with, old man,” Draco snaps, not in the mood for this either, and he moves to shut off his radio.

“You know,” Max’s father says brightly, and Draco hates that he pauses on the power switch, because then he hears, “I’d be real worried if my kids only ever repeated what I said to them.”

Draco stares at the radio, perplexed and confused, and pulls away from the switch. “What do you mean? You are Max’s and Eric’s father. They need to listen to you!” Was this man insane? Did he truly have so little authority over his own children?

“Well, sure, they should listen to me. I have a lot more life experience than they do, learned a lot more through mistakes than they have, but I don’t want them to be my clones. They are their own people. They should respect me, but build their own opinions too, and when I make mistakes or do something they disagree with, they are not required to stand beside me just because I’m their father.”

Draco isn’t sure what to say to that. It sounded crazy, absolutely unheard of, because his family, and all the other purebloods around Draco, were always chanting about the importance of supporting your blood.

“But… you’re family,” Draco whispers eventually, unsure how else to vocalize the turmoil Max’s father was abruptly causing in his young mind.

“What do you think makes a family, Draco?” Max’s father asks, softly.

“Blood,” Draco immediately answers, confident in that at least, but Max’s father makes a noise in disagreement.

“Blood doesn’t make a family, Draco. Blood makes relatives. What makes a family are the people we choose to have a place in our hearts. What makes a family is love, Draco, and love is a choice that takes work. It isn’t an obligation.”

Draco swallows, feeling like he shouldn’t be hearing this, but Max’s father isn’t done yet.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘blood is thicker than water,’ Draco?” Yes, of course he had. The purebloods loved that saying. “Did you know the full saying is actually ‘blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb’? It means the blood we shed in battle, or shed when swearing over a covenant, will always be stronger than simple genetics.”

“You can choose to love your relatives, let them be your family - that’s the ideal situation, don’t you think? - but, Draco… You aren’t required to agree with them because they’re your father or your mother. You aren’t obligated to follow them into their world if you disagree with it.”

“You don’t have to love your blood.”

~ ~ ~

When Draco announces to the whole of the Slytherin common room that he has helped begin a wandless tutoring club, led by Professor Sinistra, most of the students voice honest interest. Hardly any of them share Umbridge’s opinions towards Uagadou, likely because such a school would rarely come up in conversation in their homes or at pureblood parties, and it just strengthens Draco’s certainty that pureblood parents have ruined this generation.

Not past the point of recovery, but it would take some time to fix.

“So, we’ll learn how to cast spells we already know, but with our hands?” asks one younger student Draco does not know, and he nods at them.

“Correct. No new spells, just a new way of casting them,” he says to the room as a whole.

“When will they take place?” calls Pansy, whose eyes were twinkling with interest.

“In the evenings, either after Astronomy classes or on a day where there are none. Dates will be posted in the common rooms and anyone who is interested can join us.”

Unfortunately, not everyone is as excited as Draco would like as Graham Montague, the new Quidditch captain, steps forward with a shake to his head. “This is fine and good what you’re doing, Malfoy, but do us all a favor and keep your extracurricular interests to quidditch. Nobody really needs this stuff.”

Draco turns a hard stare on the boy, sizing him up slowly, before speaking. “Do you have an issue with wandless magic? I would imagine it would be quite the skill to have for future careers, and you will likely require all the help you can get.”

Montague glares back at Draco but dares not say anything. After all, Lucius Malfoy is still funding their team. It wouldn’t do to further insult Draco at this time. No one could get a read on where Draco stood with his father anymore, after all. They’d mostly thought he was rebelling at first, but with Draco’s public interest in the Ministry and approval of Umbridge, those that didn’t know him were suddenly uncertain.

Millicent, however, does not have that concern. Over time, where some of the other Slytherins had begun questioning tradition with Draco’s “on-again, off-again” rebellion, Millicent had instead veered the opposite direction. She was more biting and vicious than ever before, isolating herself from the other Slytherins in her year save for Theodore, who had always been on the fence about everything.

“He’s scared, is what he is,” Millicent calls. “What if his wand gets taken away by Death Eaters? What if daddy disowns him and snaps his wand? How will he defend himself from his due punishment?”

A tension fills the room at these words and Draco looks over where the girl is lounging at one of the tables, smirking viciously at him like she’d won something.

“I do not think Draco is scared,” Tracey says from her corner where she had been practicing what looked like origami, but all the shapes are of cryptids and nightmare fuel. She’s set all of her paper down, though, and her wide-eyed attention is on the room as a whole.

Millicent scoffs sharply. “No one cares what you think, Davis. Everyone else knows Malfoy’s just scared the Dark Lord’ll kill him like he did Diggory.”

The dead silence that falls on the room is suffocating. Some of the Slytherins appear to agree with Millicent, nodding along, but as the majority stiffens and stares in clear disbelief, even the ones in agreement shrink back.

Perhaps if Draco had been a much more heartless person, he would have made a comment not unlike that. Perhaps if Slytherin hadn’t begun asking questions about their lives and choices they, too, would have gone along with it. As it is, however, most of the serpents are looking at Millicent in varying degrees of disbelief, disgust, and anger.

“Don’t… Don’t say something like that,” Daphne says lowly, sitting on the other side of the table Millicent is at. “That’s low, even for you…”

“Merlin, when did you all get so sensitive? Come on! Who cares that he’s gone? He was a pest of a Hufflepuff and it’s not like any of this affects us--”

Sophie Roper had always had a talent for self-transfiguration. She could transfigure her hair every morning into any style she felt like for the day - she’d even done an undercut on Draco’s birthday - and over the years she had gotten better and better at glamours and alterations to her appearance that suited her mood and rivaled that of a metamorphmagus.

Draco was not aware she had ever perfected a full-body glamour, however, and neither had most of their house because they’d all fallen into stunned silence when, with a wave of a wand, Sophie had stood from the couch and, in her place, stood Cedric Diggory.

Sophie, wearing Diggory’s face, stares straight at Millicent, expression void, face strikingly pale like a ghost.

Or a corpse.

She even managed to get his Hufflepuff robes.

“Say it,” “Cedric Diggory” says in Sophie Roper’s voice. “Tell me, Bulstrode. Tell me why I deserved to die, because I certainly don’t know.”

Millicent’s eyes have stretched to the size of saucers and she’s tensed up as “Cedric Diggory” begins to walk towards her, across the common room, no one saying a word as they watch.

“Tell me, to my face, that my death doesn’t ‘affect you.’ Does lying make you feel better? Does denial make you feel surer of yourself? More powerful, maybe? Like you’re taking control, right?” A sneer doesn’t look right on Diggory’s face, but there it is, and it sends chills down Draco’s spine.

“I am dead!” The room jumps when the glamour slams the table Millicent is sitting at, “Does saying my death was ‘deserved’ make your life more comfortable?! Tell me! Tell me I died so you could be comfortable in your little world!”

The glamour wavers, then melts away, and Sophie Roper stands there glaring down at Millicent like she’s the scum on her shoe. “You can’t, can you?” Sophie hisses, furious, “Because you know it’s wrong. He was a kid just like the rest of us, and now he’s dead. But HEY! At least Bulstrode doesn’t care. Give a round of applause to Bulstrode, everybody! She’s better than the murder of an innocent boy because it makes her feel better.” Sophie gives two, loud, slow claps, before spitting at Millicent, and, like a lightning storm, stomping away.

Millicent sits there, stunned into silence, and unmoving even as the common room very slowly begins to break free from their trance. Draco, however, doesn’t move, watching as Sophie disappears up into her dorm room, and Millicent just keeps sitting there in shock.

“I don’t think life is meant to be comfortable,” comes a voice by Draco’s shoulder, and he jumps before looking over to find Tracey.

He grasps at his chest, trying to slow down his startled heart, and gasps, “What was that?”

“I don’t think life is meant to be comfortable,” Tracey repeats. “Moments can be, but life is more than a single moment stretched out for eternity. People change from second to second, nothing is forever. Everything falls apart, the world is complicated, and life is messy. Destruction, and thus rebirth, are inevitable.”

Draco stares at Tracey with furrowed brows and the girl stares back at him. Slowly, she tilts her head to the side and asks, “I think that’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know, Tracey…” Draco replies, unsure if he is in some kind of danger right now.

Tracey nods slowly. “That’s okay. You’ll change, and so will I, and so will the world.” She pauses, glancing around at the common room as people attempt to get back to normal conversation. Millicent is gone from her seat by now and Draco doesn’t know where she’s gone.

“See you later for lessons, Draco,” Tracey eventually says, wandering off before Draco can even reply, and going back to folding up a black piece of paper into what looks like mothman, and Draco is left more confused than he ever has been in his life.

~ ~ ~

The first DA meeting is one of the most successful messes Draco has ever seen.

It is clear, the moment the Slytherins walk in, that the other houses aren’t too excited they’re there. They keep their distance, ostracizing the serpents to a far corner, and Smith even makes a rude comment. The walking example that not all Hufflepuffs are friendly is shut down a moment later by the Weasley twins, thankfully, which keeps the mean comments to a minimum.

Leandra is the only one outside of Slytherin to stand with them at first, the plump girl immediately seeking out Eve, and for a moment there is a tensed air in the room as everyone sizes each other up.

Draco is certain this will end in a fight as he glares at the other students, but then Luna Lovegood is slipping through the congregation and looking around at the Slytherins until she stops on someone just behind Draco.

“Are you Tracey Davis? Draco told me about you,” Luna asks, head tilting to one side. Today she’s wearing earrings that have water droplets at the ends of them and a necklace made of bottlecaps.

“Hello,” Tracey says in an equally airy voice, stepping around Draco and towards Luna. “I am Tracey. Are you Luna?”

“I am,” Luna nods. “Tracey means ‘domain belonging to Thracius,’ doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Tracey nods, “Did you know the word lunatic came from the belief that changes in the moon caused moments of insanity?”

“I did know that,” Luna nods, “but I am sure that was actually thanks to the wrackspurts.”

“What’s a wrackspurt?”

And just like that, the tension breaks and the standoff ends. Luna and Tracey seem to be in their own little world as Luna tells Tracey all about wrackspurts and nargles and heliopaths. Draco watches them for a moment and turns when the Golden Trio approaches him.

“Match made in heaven, right there,” Weasley mumbles. “Looney Lovegood and Miss Horror Show.”

“I was nervous for a moment,” Potter mumbles, coming up to Draco’s side, looking around at all the students. The Slytherins were still very clearly separate, but now thanks to Luna and Tracey, no one was giving each other the death glare anymore.

“What’d you expect?” Blaise questions, walking closer while giving the room a skeptical look. “We’re Slytherins. We’re the ‘bad guys,’ or hadn’t you heard?”

“But that’s not true,” Granger says with feeling, but Blaise shrugs.

“That hardly matters, little miss priss,” he smirks over at her, then winks when she puffs out her cheeks in frustration.

“Ignore him,” Draco sighs, “Even if he is right. It doesn’t matter, Potter,” he adds the last part when he sees the other boy opening his mouth to argue, “We’re here for defense lessons, so let’s just get started.”

The next messy part is the actual lesson. Potter is clearly nervous at the beginning, having never done anything like this before, but as everyone gets started practicing the Disarming Spell, he falls into his position with more and more ease.

Most of the Slytherins work together, but Eve works with Leandra, while Luna and Tracey have, clearly, become inseparable. Daphne works with her younger sister, Astoria, who looks incredibly nervous but is toughing it out marvelously, and Sophie and Blaise team up off to the side. It’s clear Blaise is saying things to infuriate Sophie, and at one point she “accidentally” sets his pants on fire.

Draco, the odd Slytherin out, gets the honor of working with BOTH of the Weasley twins. They actually approach him when they begin, both grinning wickedly, and in between their attempts the three of them end up talking about invention ideas for their joke shop.

“Can you three please focus?” Granger snaps at them at one point, but she is ultimately ignored.

Draco, when chatting with the twins, also gets an opportunity to observe everyone.

Everyone seems to focus hard on their practice, dedication in every movement, even Smith. The only one, yet again, who isn’t all that interested seems to be Edgecombe.

At one point, Potter even goes over to help Cho Chang, Edgecombe’s partner, with her stance when Chang accidentally sets her friend’s sleeve on fire. It makes Edgecombe all the more upset for the rest of the lesson.

Draco narrows his eyes at her, then turns back to the twins. Currently, they are attempting to cast the spell on each other, which also allows Draco a break to look around. “What are your takes on Marietta Edgecombe?” he asks the two in a hushed voice so no one else hears, and they pause to glance at the girl.

“She’s not the most eager of beavers,” Fred says thoughtfully.

“Why? Are your snake senses tingling?” George asks, smirking.

“Possibly. Keep an eye on her? I will too. Maybe it’s nothing…”

“Roger that, Draco,” Fred mock salutes.

“We’ll let you know if she’s super not-coolio,” George mimics the salute and Draco groans at them.

When the lesson finally wraps up, the air is charged with something like adrenaline, like a spring tightened up but with nowhere to go. Everyone is excited and happy by their progress and, despite the clear divide, the Slytherins have begun to inch towards the rest of the students.

“You’ve all done really well today,” Potter is saying at the front of the class. “Keep track of your galleons and be careful on the way back to your houses.”

With everyone dismissed there is a moment of murmured conversation, students talking to each other before sneaking out of the Room of Requirement in careful order. Luna and Tracey are last to leave, the two glued to each other’s side and speaking in what Draco thinks is excitement to one another.

Finally, all that’s left are Draco and the Golden Trio.

“Well… I’d say that was a success,” the blonde says brightly.

“I’m so tired,” Potter mumbles, leaning back against the wall and sagging.

“You were amazing, Harry!” Granger adds, approaching him and setting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re really making a difference with all of this. Umbridge cannot silence what is right.”

“Here, here,” Weasley says, also approaching Potter, and Draco watches the lions in quiet contemplation for a few moments, before smiling and clapping his hands together.

“This is a truly lovely moment, but I’m afraid I must ruin it,” he says, getting three pairs of eyes on him as he then begins to dig around in his satchel. He pulls out three books and holds them out, each Gryffindor taking one to look at it.

“Your dark art books?” Potter questions, confused.

“When did you get all three volumes?!” Granger demands, looking between the three books, then demanding the boys hand over the volumes they’d grabbed so she can look through them. “You never told me!”

“And you never told me about the DA. Now we’re even,” Draco says with a shrug.

“Why are you showing us these?” Potter asks for clarification, looking confused.

“I think it would be wise to also teach the DA some of these spells,” Draco says, and the trio stiffens, but then slowly begin to relax in consideration. They’d all been using Draco’s Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts Volume One since last year just before the final task, so they all knew there were plenty of spells within it that were safe to learn.

The issue, then, was how the other students would react.

“Most of the others reacted so poorly to the Slytherin students… I’m not sure how well they would take this,” Granger says honestly.

“Which is why I propose this… We all work on a spell or two right after lessons, or just in our spare time, and then Potter can teach it like it is any other spell. No one has to know where it originated,” Draco offers.

“That could work… Wouldn’t the Slytherins know where they came from, though?” Weasley says, then holds up his hands placatingly when Draco glares at him. “Because they may have seen it in your book! That’s all I meant!” he reiterates, and Draco slowly looks away, dropping the glare.

“I doubt they’d care if they did know,” he admits. Despite not all Slytherins not being dark wizards, there was still the issue that a good number of them were regularly exposed to dark magic or dark bias by family members. Whether they agreed or not, most Slytherins were desensitized to dark magic at least by their second or third years.

“We could teach the Earworm Jinx next class,” Potter says, considering what he already knew. “It’s pretty easy, so we can get back into the Disarming Spell as soon as we’re done. Which other spells did you want us to go over?”

For a moment Draco and Potter catch each other’s eye and Draco hesitates, just for a moment. “The Militus Charm,” he says lowly and he sees the uncertainty in the Golden Trio’s eyes. “I truly do believe it could be beneficial to us. It is a lesser known spell; few enemies would know how to counter it.”

“How do you counter a Militus?” Granger asks, flipping through the first volume in search of the spell.

“Patronus Charm,” Draco says simply. “And you counter a Patronus Charm with a Militus Charm. Whichever is stronger wins.”

“We’ll consider it,” Granger finally decides for her friends.

“That’s what you said last year,” Draco deadpans.

“We’ll consider it… more,” Granger corrects and Draco sighs. That would probably be the best he would be getting, and when he catches Potter’s eye again the boy looks mildly apologetic.

“Very well… It really was a good lesson, Potter,” he says, offering a small smile to the boy, who straightens up at the praise. “Well done.”

“I wish everyone would calm down about Slytherin joining us,” Potter admits, ducking his head with a defeated sigh.

“Even I thought everyone was being a bit much,” Weasley mumbles, crossing his arms.

“And that’s saying something,” Potter looks to his friend, smirking playfully, and Weasley nods, not even insulted.

“I’m surprised how quickly some of them picked it up,” Granger adds, and then her eyes are turning coy as she looks to Potter, who immediately looks concerned. “Cho was certainly invested in everything you had to say.”

Draco watches as Weasley rolls his eyes skyward, groaning in what sounds like disbelief, as Potter turns ten shades redder at what Granger is implying. Strangely enough, Potter begins to look worried, and his eyes flick sideways in Draco’s direction a few times before he splutters at Granger.

“Hermione, really, you must be seeing things,” he denies, waving his hands in front of his face in a frantic move to dissuade her.

“Honestly, why won’t you see it? You’ve liked her since fourth year, and she finally shows signs of liking you back and you won’t accept it,” Granger huffs and Draco suspects she’d put her hands on her hips if she weren’t currently cradling Draco’s dark arts books in her arms.

“You’ve got it all wrong, ‘Mione,” Potter hisses and, behind him, Weasley drags both his hands down his face and stares at the ceiling like he wants to ascend out of this conversation.

“I must agree with Granger, Potter,” Draco decides to step in oh-so-helpfully, “Chang was clearly distracted by you.”

“See?” Granger says brightly.

Potter glances between Draco and Granger in horror, before making a choked noise that Draco can’t place. “There’s no need to be shy, Potter. There’s plenty for her to be distracted by,” Draco says, smiling smugly, and Potter makes yet another choked noise. “Oh yes! That tangled mess atop your head you call hair. You’re atrocious sense of fashion. That thing between your teeth.”

When Potter swiftly goes to pick at his teeth in horror, Draco chuckles. “Just kidding!” he says cheerfully, and Potter glares at him, cheeks still flushed scarlet.

“Okay, well, we need to leave two at a time, right?!” Weasley suddenly cuts in, speaking faster and louder than is usual, and his face set in stone as he pushes past both Potter and Draco. “Let’s go, ‘Mione. See you in the dorms, Harry. See you wherever you go lurking, Ferretface.” Ignoring Granger’s startled protests, Weasley drags the muggleborn girl right out of the Room of Requirement, leaving Draco and Potter to stare after them, surprised.

Draco realizes belatedly that Granger still has his books, but he doesn’t worry about them if they’re in her capable hands.

When he turns back to Potter, though, the boy won’t look him in the eye, his head lowered and face still burning red. Draco isn’t sure why Potter is so upset that they talked about his crush. It was clear Chang had been showing interest since the beginning of the year, so why was Potter denying everything? It was almost like he didn’t want it to be real.

“Want to go up to the Astronomy Tower and talk to Max?” Draco asks after a few beats of awkward silence, and Potter sags with a breath of relief, finally looking up and nodding.

“I’d like that,” Potter smiles, and the two slip out of the Room of Requirement together.

~ ~ ~

Draco is unable to speak to Skeeter in person as they plot out her story. She no longer has permission to enter Hogwarts, and even with her Animagus form she would likely still be spotted in Hogsmeade, thus causing a stir, which they really don’t need.

Nonetheless, as tedious as it might be, they plan out an article that will have to be published in the Prophet. It’s not front-page material, but that’s what they want. They want to go under the radar for a time, quietly beginning to sow the seeds of doubt in the more devoted readers.

It finally drops a few weeks after Draco had originally reached out to Skeeter and Draco can’t help but smirk the more he reads through the paper that is dropped in front of him that morning.

Eve and Granger, however, don’t quite get why he’s so excited.

They are sitting together in the library for “book club,” which Draco still avidly denies the existence of, but get sidetracked talking about the minor article in the Prophet.

The article had been about a release of new information from an “Anonymous Ministry Member” about why Potter had been called into the Ministry over the summer to hold a trial for his use of the Patronus Charm in front of a Muggle.

“Who is the anonymous member?” Granger questions, confused.

“Draco, obviously,” Eve mumbles, glancing over the paper at her fellow Slytherin, one brow arched. “He’s basically a Ministry intern, so he may as well be a Ministry member.”

“Plus, I wanted to stay anonymous,” Draco smirks and both girls roll their eyes.

“Okay… but the only mention of dementors here is…” Granger pauses to skim the article, “‘Mr. Potter claims he used the Patronus Charm to ward off two dementors that had attacked himself and his Muggle cousin,’ with a clear emphasis that this is only a claim, not factual. How does that help us?”

She looks frustrated now, and a little betrayed, and now it is Draco’s turn to roll his eyes. “Ye of little faith. The focus on it being a claim was to make sure the Ministry allowed this to be published. What smart readers will note, however, is one: The Ministry has a member that is looser lipped than they would probably like. Something like that speaks poorly on the Ministry. Two: Potter did claim there were dementors, so what if it is true? Three: Snapping a wizard’s wand is a remarkably severe punishment to give for simple, underage magic. And four: Potter was found not guilty.”

“And if he was found not guilty, there must have been some truth in his claims,” Eve finishes, nodding along as she begins to understand.

“It is minor, Granger, but that is the point. We can’t overtly deny the Ministry without immediate, unstoppable backlash.”

“We need back up from the community,” Granger agrees with a sigh. “I understand that patience is key here… but even I am growing tired of all of this.”

“Everyone has a limit,” Eve says softly, reaching out to grip one of Granger’s hands and ease it out of a tight fist. “Don’t feel bad over something like that.”

The three of them talk for a short time over the article and what it could mean, as well as attempting to plan out the next step in terms of addressing the public.

“We will eventually need to make a stand,” Granger says firmly, fingers tapping on the top of the table. “Something far more decisive than these smaller articles… But until then, hopefully these will help.”

Draco isn’t sure what that decisive action will eventually be, but he hopes it will have a less chaotic response if they cushion it with all their prior, smaller articles. Something like this was a long, drawn-out process, they couldn’t rush, because this wasn’t really about the facts anymore. It was about changing people’s opinions.

It made Draco miss the previous years where he had been investigating for the truth, not manipulating mass beliefs.

~ ~ ~

The first wandless lessons aren’t until a few days after the DA’s first meeting, on a Saturday evening when no one should have too much homework to do.

Sinistra welcomes all the students that show up for the lesson, explaining exactly what she will be going over and the structure of this tutoring. This is a purely optional gathering, so anyone can come and go as they please, and she will be teaching them how to cast spells that they already know how to use with a wand.

All the DA members are there, as encouraged, including plenty more students. To accommodate the larger size a unique kind of expansion spell has been used on the Astronomy Tower. It doesn’t appear larger from the outside, nor when Draco looks over the edge and nothing seems to have shifted or moved out of place, yet the space is certainly larger for their practice.

Sinistra even manages to chase Umbridge off when she comes up to observe, saying something along the lines of, “If you feel lacking in the field of wandless magic, Dolores, I will be happy to fill in the gaps. Uagadou is best at this practice, after all.” Somehow, with Sinistra’s empty voice, the words seem even more biting, and Umbridge excuses herself in a huff.

“We will begin with some of your first-year spells,” Sinistra then says. “As you learn, we will personalize your spell choices.”

“Can you show us some advanced spells?” asks an eager-looking Ravenclaw nearly bouncing out of his skin.

“Okay,” Sinistra says. Despite her blank voice, she is never boring. She is to the point and keeps everyone’s attention as she looks around. “Is there any spell you are interested in?”

“The Tempest Jinx?” asks the same Ravenclaw, and Sinistra nods.

Their Astronomy teacher then raises her hand towards the sky. “Meteolojinx,” she says and her fingers flip rapidly through a few symbols before she makes a jagged motion with her hand. From the sky a bolt of lightning suddenly erupts from a seemingly harmless cloud and strikes at a tree in the far distance.

The gathered students murmur in amazement.

“What about the Summoning Charm?” calls a Gryffindor near the back and Sinistra nods again.

This time she holds her hand out, palm down, with finger’s spread. “Accio wand,” she says firmly, and her wand, made of a pitch-black wood that has been shaped into a geometric shape, flies out of her robes and into her hand. She puts the wand back into her robes a moment later.

“What about the Patronus Charm?” calls a familiar voice, and Draco looks over at a smug-looking Theodore Nott. Draco really wishes he could hurt that boy, who was clearly attempting to throw Sinistra off with a remarkably difficult spell, but when Sinistra offers her single nod the smugness drops from the other boy’s face.

Sinistra makes a sweeping motion with her hand, fingers flowing more elegantly than they had before, before she then points a single finger up into open air. “Expecto Patronum,” she says calmly, and from the tip of her finger flies the blinding light of her Patronus, the streams of light weaving together into an absolutely massive shape.

The students stare in awe as the form of a blue whale made of pure light begins to swim through the air, circling the tower with massive beats of its tail and fins. Then, Sinistra makes a sharp, cutting gesture with her finger and the beautiful creature falls apart and fades away like it had never been there.

The students stare at Sinistra in stunned silence, amazed by the display, and she stares back at them blankly. She looks them over, and then says, “Shall we begin?” and they all quickly get to work.

~ ~ ~

On one of the days during Draco and Potter’s eight-day reprieve over the summer, when they have to stay at 4 Privet Drive and not go out, they call up Max for a bit.

They don’t talk about much at first, both Potter and Draco sitting on the bespectacled boy’s floor, leaning their backs against his bed. Potter asks about Max’s summer and how it might differ in America, to which Max immediately complains about the heat and humidity.

“You feel like you’re melting, right? But because it’s so humid none of your sweat evaporates and you just keep getting more and more gross!” Max whines loudly, clearly having been upset about this for some time.

“Sounds disgusting,” Draco says with too much cheer, making Max grumble at him.

“Don’t get sassy with me, mister.”

“I’m not! I am voicing my agreement that living in a swamp is surely hellish.”

“I don’t live in the swamp! I live… near a swamp.”

“Have you ever seen an alligator?” Potter asks. Hedwig is perched on his bent knee, puffing up happily when her owner runs his fingers through the soft feathers on her chest, and nibbling playfully at the digits when they get within reach. “I’ve heard alligators live in American swamps.”

“Whoo, buddy, you heard right! My grandpa used to own an airboat he’d take us out on and we’d see gators all the time!” Max replies eagerly. “Gators are pretty chill compared to crocs, but they’re still massive, dangerous dinosaurs! You do not wanna mess with them.”

“What’s the biggest one you’ve seen?” Potter leans towards the radio that sits in Draco’s lap, effectively leaning against the blonde and settling against his side.

“Three feet? Maybe? I dunno, that was at least… seven years ago?”

“That’s a long while,” Draco observes curiously. “You haven’t been back out with your grandfather? It sounds like you had quite a good time.”

“He…” Max pauses, sounding uncertain, before a deep sigh comes through the radio. “He’s my Mama’s Papa. After my grammy died, he and my mama had a big falling out over… something serious. I dunno. We’ve never been back since.”

“I’m really sorry, Max,” Potter says quietly, the mood in the room shifting into something low and sad.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Max says loudly, trying to brush everything off. “My mama knows how to make a better gumbo than him, anyway, so it’s whatever.” The pause feels weighted after that and neither Draco nor Potter attempt to fill it, certain Max has more to say. “It’s just… it sucks, y’know? Can’t do anything about it… Just gotta sit back and think about how much it sucks…”

“Maybe you could talk to your parents?” Potter suggests quietly, and Max sighs.

“Yeah, maybe. I’d just hate to dig up stuff that my Mama and Papa have tried to put behind them.”

“Families are complicated,” Draco says with a deep sigh, shoulders sagging, which jostles Potter but the boy doesn’t move, apparently still comfortable leaning against Draco.

“Here, here,” Max agrees.

“Tell me about it,” Potter mumbles, glaring over at his door as if the Dursley’s might be standing right there on the other side.

Draco also glances at the door, eyes catching on the doggie door installed to bring Potter his meals a few years back. Draco had only gotten to interact with the Dursley’s a handful of times since he’d shown up at 4 Privet Drive. They’d been happy at first when they’d thought Draco’s Ministry connections would lead to Potter getting punished, but as time went on the rose color faded. They clearly did not like Draco, but he was hardly one to be fazed by the opinions of anyone, let alone the worst kind of Muggles.

These were the kinds of Muggles the purebloods wrote horror stories about.

Potter never overtly spoke about his life with his aunt and uncle, but Draco was able to observe enough to put a very disturbing picture together. Through his time knowing the Boy-Who-Lived, all the little quirks about him that had never added up suddenly made sense. The instinctive need to have things tidy, the over-sized clothes, his stunted growth…

Draco had mentioned his concerns once to Max and Max, in truly Max-fashion, had summoned the almighty power of their Muggle family and had sent Draco a care package for Potter as quickly as possible. From what Draco could tell, Potter had managed to build up a decent wardrobe and ate more regularly thanks to the Weasley’s and Granger, but that hardly stopped Draco’s Muggle family from getting in on the action.

The actual package doesn’t arrive until a few days later and Draco brings it to the Dursley’s when he comes to pick Potter up for another trip to Muggle London.

They shut the door and lock it, Potter immediately plopping down to open the box with careful reverence. The moment Draco had said what it was, the other boy had grown silent and slack-jawed, his eyes widening more and more as he began to pull things out.

Comfy-looking shirts, sweatpants, jeans, jackets, and a beanie sit inside, and Potter unfolds each to look at them in amazement. “You are aware you bought your own clothes not too long ago in London, yes?” Draco smirks, sitting at the foot of the bed, watching Potter’s face. It had to be one of the most stunning sights he’d seen in a while.

“Yeah, but this is different,” Potter retorts, then continues pulling things out.

There is, of course, chocolate, American candies, along with a few cans of perishables and water. There’s a notecard that reads “Can’t be punk rock if you’re not hydrated!” that Potter treats like it could be a “hundred dollar bill,” or whatever Max called it.

“Truly a rebellious spirit, that Eric,” Draco chuckles at the note.

There are books, Muggle books, clearly from Max’s mother. Some of them Draco recognizes, but others he doesn’t, and he thinks he sees a textbook-sized one that has to do with children and custody law in the UK.

There are a few new mixtapes for Potter’s Walkman, plus a brand-new set of headphones, likely Max’s father’s doing.

There are a few more knick-knacks and toys, like a Rubik’s cube, a bouncy ball, something called an etch a sketch, another weird thing called a GameBoy, and, finally, at the bottom of the box, is a beanie baby snow leopard.

Draco can’t help but grin as Potter pulls out the little, stuffed cat in clear confusion, glancing at Draco for answers. “I… may have mentioned your favorite animal was a snow leopard,” Draco cackles, and Potter rolls his eyes at him.

“I guess they’re alright,” Potter shrugs, voice flippant, but he’s smiling at Draco.

And he doesn’t stop smiling. Not when he pulls Draco into a hug a moment later. Not when they’re sitting in the Knight Bus, trying to plan out their day. Not when they’re walking around London, snapping pictures. Not when they slip into a diner that has a dusty jukebox in the corner that looks weirdly familiar to Draco, but he can’t place why. Not on their way back to Privet Drive that evening.

Potter keeps smiling, and despite it being a warm, summer day he wears the beanie their Muggle family sent him, which is black with a gold fleur de lis on the front.

They munch on M&M’s, visit the mall, sightsee, harass kids at a skatepark, and laugh with each other like they’re the only two people in the world.

It is, perhaps, Draco’s favorite day out of the summer, and it won’t be until that evening when he finds out Ebru has been captured and Draco and Potter’s reprieve is abruptly over.

Chapter Text

“Psst! Draco!”

Six-year-old Draco Malfoy pauses on his way to the exit door. He does not know just how long he had spent here at the Muggle WW2 museum, he didn’t have a good grasp on time at this age, but he knew it was getting dark outside and the first realizations that his parents might be worried about him had hit him hard.

He’d offered his good-byes to the Muggle family that had looked after him for the majority of the day, claiming his parents would be expecting him about now, and he’d hurried to flee before Max’s mother and father could stop him.

He’d heard a few concerned calls from the Muggle parents, likely not wanting him to run off on his own, but he’d already gotten away.

Except, somehow, Max had managed to catch up with him just before he could leave.

“What?” Draco snaps back, looking urgently over Max’s shoulders to see if their parents had attempted to follow. Thankfully, they were in the clear.

“Quick, take this before Papa sees,” Max whispers urgently, holding a familiar-looking device in their hands. They shove it at Draco, who cradles the large thing in his arms, surprised and uncertain what to do.

One of the “sat-e-lite” radios that Max’s father had been showing off earlier in the day now sits in his grasp and Draco isn’t sure why.

“Take it,” Max is still whispering and a big, mischievous smile stretches over their face. “This way, even when I’m back in America, we can still talk! You’re kinda hopeless with technology, so you’ll need all the expert advice you can get.”

“I do not need ‘expert advice’ for anything, thank you very much,” Draco immediately huffs, puffing out his chest to make himself seem bigger, but Max hardly seems fazed.

“There’s no shame in it, y’know. I like helping people!” Max says brightly, and Draco glowers at them. Had they been this obnoxious earlier in the day and Draco just hadn’t noticed? “Plus… I think you’re cool and I wanna keep talking to you…”

Now Draco hesitates. Of course, anyone would want to keep talking with Draco. He was a perfect pureblood with renowned pedigree, manners, and promise for the future. Who wouldn’t want to spend more time with him?

Except, Max didn’t know any of that. To Max, Draco was just another Muggle with a weird sense of fashion and old-timey parents that were afraid of technology and science. What about that seemed interesting to anyone? Draco supposed, as an actual Muggle, Max likely had questionable taste, but would it be wrong to indulge in this?

Draco, only six, doesn’t see why he shouldn’t. He knows his parents wouldn’t be happy, so he slips the radio into a deep pocket on his robes, hidden away. Max smiles at this, looking incredibly happy and thankful, and Draco smiles back.

“I’ll see you around, Draco!” Max says brightly, forgetting to whisper entirely.

“You mean you will hear from me,” Draco corrects blandly, but Max waves him off.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t forget to call, okay? I’ll be waiting.”

With that, Draco is pushed along by the excited, energized Muggle child, and once he is outside, he goes in search of the Leaky Cauldron, returning to the wizarding world, but hardly returning as the same.

~ ~ ~

With all the stresses of Draco’s fifth year - keeping up appearances with Umbridge, staying away from the Golden Trio in public, convincing the more skeptical Slytherins his rebellion isn’t something to worry about, keeping an eye out for Ministry, Order, and Death Eater movement, and just the general stresses of school - Draco takes to pictures a lot more than he had in previous years.

He slips out to the grounds more often, taking photo after photo. He slips his camera out between classes, during meals, on weekends and breaks. He gets candid shots of other students and faculty, along with a few posed pics.

And he slips into the forest to get pictures of beasts in their natural habitat.

That last one is how he finds himself in his most recent predicament.

When he went into the forest, he also used the opportunity to transform and stalk through the trees, testing his heightened senses and getting some animalistic energy out of his system. Such energy tended to build, Draco noticed, when he was particularly angry or excited.

Today, he was angry.

He regularly had tea with Umbridge, usually the day of a DA meeting so as to get a read on her knowledge over the secret organization. So far, she was none-the-wiser, but that still meant Draco had to listen to her vitriol. Draco hated to think that at any time of his life he’d sounded anything like this woman.

So, afterwards, with time before the evening DA meeting, he’d slipped away into the trees.

The sun was still out, but the sky was beginning to melt into rosier hues, a twilight haze through the air. Draco perches atop a high branch, taking some photos of the sky, when he thinks he spots leathery wings in the distance. He’d spotted them a few times before while on the grounds, but he’d never gone to investigate.

Now, however, he finds himself curious. He was already in the forest, after all, so why shouldn’t he do some exploring?

He transforms with little to no issue nowadays, the shift in his senses no longer a concern, and he clambers down the tree and hurries off in the direction of the sighted leathery wings.

What he finds is a large clearing filled with a modest-sized herd of thestrals.

The skeletal horse beasts look to be gathered around the corpse of an animal, too torn up and half-eaten to be properly identified save for tufts of fur. The bloody, meaty scent is disturbingly appealing to Draco in this form and, feeling disgusted by that, he swiftly shifts back into a man.

Draco liked the thestrals, but he’d never thought of where the ones that led the wagons to and from Hogwarts might go when not working. He’d honestly suspected the Forbidden Forest, but he supposes a fresh kill like this would attract them just as well.

They’re frightfully elegant, with movements that might rival an abraxan’s or unicorn’s, but the leathery skin that pulls over muscles and bone creases and tugs with each step. The screeching cries they make aren’t painful to hear, but Draco can understand why they could be frightening if heard late at night.

For a few, calm minutes, with the sun slowly setting, Draco stands and watches the herd, a few of the creatures glancing at him curiously, but leaving him be. He snaps a few pictures and basks in the calming--

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco shrieks, nearly flinging his camera, and managing to startle some of the closer thestrals.

He turns sharply around, glare hot and cheeks hotter, and finds Tracey Davis far too close for comfort and staring at him through her curtain of black hair. Behind her is Luna Lovegood, both of them carrying a bucket with modest amounts of fresh meat in them.

“If you want to show someone what a thestral looks like, you will need to draw them,” Luna says, voice as airy and light as usual, “They only appear to those who have seen death. Including in pictures.”

Tracey looks back at Luna and tilts her head, curious. “What if someone saw a death in a moving picture? Could they see thestrals?”

Luna looks to Tracey, head tilting in a similar fashion. “That is a good question, Tracey. I do not know.”

“Can you two be weird when I’m not around? Both of you together is exhausting,” Draco scowls, earning a pair of wide-eyed stares a moment later. It made him want to shudder.

He was fine with dealing with one of these girls at a time, but ever since the DA meetings began two weeks prior, Luna and Tracey had been inseparable. The two were so similar, yet so different in other ways.

“Why are you two even out here?” Draco demands, glaring suspiciously at the two girls.

“I cannot see thestrals, but I like to help Luna feed them and watch the meat disappear,” Tracey says, then her eyes turn in the direction of the herd. Her eyes focus on the corpse, but seem to pass straight through the thestrals, unseeing. “I guess we know why they are not in the Forbidden Forest,” she observes, watching as the corpse is ripped apart by, to her, invisible forces.

“You actually go into the Forbidden Forest to… what? Feed some random beasts?” Draco questions, crossing his arms as the two girls begin to pull out strips of meat and toss them in the direction of the herd. It would surely be a help. Whatever the corpse had once been would hardly feed the herd properly.

“Only the outskirts,” Luna says lightly, like it is no big deal at all. “Dumbledore gave me the job while Hagrid is gone, and so long as the sun is still out, I am relatively safe.”

“’Relatively’?” Draco repeats, arching a brow. He can’t keep his eyes on the girls, however, because with the new meat being tossed over the thestrals are getting closer. A few are just close enough to sniff loudly at him and, as peaceful as they might be, they are still wild animals and he doesn’t want to upset them.

“There is always danger, Draco,” Luna says simply, glancing at Draco before putting her focus back on her responsibility.

“Why are you out here?” Tracey asks, curious.

“Photos,” Draco admits, showing them his camera. Despite having to downplay how rebellious he had truly become, he’d found no one in the wizarding community actually had that much of an issue with him using a Muggle camera. Not even Umbridge. It had only ever been Lucius Malfoy, and that was mostly because Draco had been keeping it all secret.

Muggle cameras themselves weren’t entirely unheard of to be used by witches and wizards, it was just uncommon.

“I had to sit in with Umbridge and listen to her talk bad about centaurs today. I had to get away,” he continues. The thestral that had sniffed him is stepping a big closer, its heavy breaths ruffling Draco’s hair.

“I wish facts could change more minds,” Luna says, sounding wistful even for her, “But they do not.”

“They find comfort in the Prophet’s lies more appealing than the facts in the Quibbler,” Tracey says to her friend.

“Neither have cited sources, though, even the Quibbler,” Draco says firmly. After having to listen through Max working on papers for their school, and thus all the cited sources everything seemed to have in the Muggle world, Draco had noticed a severe lack of such things here in the Wizarding World.

“Cited sources could help create a foundation of trust,” Luna says thoughtfully, then turns a smile on Draco. “That is a good idea, Draco.”

Draco fights down the pleased blush on his face and scoffs instead. “Of course, it is,” he says. He’d been thinking about that for a while, now. The papers, in the long run, would do well to have more experts and trustworthy sources in their stories to help spread the truth. It was doubtful the Prophet would go for that right now, however.

No, the truth really wasn’t the Prophet’s concern, because it wasn’t the Ministry’s concern. If Draco wanted more sources present in the papers the wizarding public was seeing, he’d need to find a way to convince the Ministry of their profit.

Draco is jolted out of his thoughts when one of the thestrals, the one that had been sniffing him, finally deems him trustworthy and steps forward to bump its nose against his shoulder. Draco startles a little, looking up at the large creature, its silvery, glowing eyes catching Draco’s own grey ones. It has a scar across its left brow which he couldn’t have seen from a distance.

“I think he wants you to pet him,” Luna says without looking over and Draco shoots her a glare, but then reaches out a hand to run his palm down the hard, skeletal snout. He’d run his hand over the flank and neck of the thestrals that pulled the wagons before, but that had been it. He’d never had the chance to just stand and pet one.

“They’re really quite beautiful, in a haunting kind of way,” he admits quietly.

“They are deeply misunderstood creatures,” Luna says. Despite her voice being as dreamy and floaty as usual, there’s a note of sadness there that Draco thinks he understands. “People will always see what they know, until they know what they see,” Luna recites, although Draco isn’t sure he’s ever heard that kind of quote before.

“People will never understand them unless they allow themselves the chance to be proven wrong. Facts or no facts,” Tracey says, and she sounds kind of sad, too.

“Good luck with that,” Draco scoffs, scratching lightly at the side of the thestral’s head and the large beast pushing its head into the movement. “Like we said, no one is interested in learning the factual truth right now.”

“Maybe they don’t want to,” Tracey begins, pausing to toss some of her meat slabs to the thestrals keeping their distance. “So, they need to be tricked into learning. That’s how my daddy taught me vegetables are good for you. He’d sneak them into my food.”

Draco doesn’t much care about Tracey and her father’s vegetable struggle. Instead, he’s found himself interested with the idea she’s just posed him.

Tricking the wizarding public into learning the truth? Now there was an idea…

~ ~ ~

The second day of Potter’s and Draco’s freedom during the summer of 1995 is far less structured than the previous day. Draco isn’t sure why everything seemed more hectic only one day after a lovely romp around Muggle London malls and cinemas, but it does.

It starts with Eve and Draco bickering at Eve’s favorite café, Potter sitting at the table between them and watching them like he might watch a tennis match, sipping obnoxiously on some iced drink. The other boy was clearly amused, but that only seemed to make Draco and Eve worse.

Draco wanted to go to Kew Gardens, which Max had apparently gone to way back during their trip to England when they’d been six, but Eve said it would be packed with tourists this time of year and said they should go elsewhere.

“I want to go to Leadenhall Market. You’ll love it! It looks like a Muggle version of Diagon Alley, so you’ll feel right at home.”

“That sounds nice,” Potter comments with a smile that grows even bigger when Draco glares at him.

“See?! Harry agrees with me, and we’re doing this for him, remember?” Eve smirks victoriously, lifting her cup of something steaming in a “cheers” motion, which Draco also glares at.

There is a bit more arguing after that, but with Potter’s input the debate is already won in Eve’s favor. Besides, they determine, Eve needed to head out early today on orders from her mother, which would leave Potter and Draco alone to do whatever they pleased in the Muggle world until the evening.

They head to the market, which Draco grudgingly admits to enjoying himself, even though there aren’t any modern, counter-culture shops like the one in the mall they’d visited the previous day. It is beautiful and charming and not too busy at all. And, admittedly, it helps that it does remind Draco quite a bit of Diagon Alley…

It feels like a charming spot his mother may even like, and he stashes that idea away for another time.

They mostly visit clothing stores, examining racks and shelves as Eve schools the boys on what is fashionable and what is affordable in Muggle culture. They walk around a bookstore, which Potter quickly loses interest in, but he doesn’t complain too much about it as Draco and Eve eagerly look through the collection of books. They eat lunch, Potter picking out a place that serves something called a “burger,” which Draco finds to be an unholy source of all things messy and immediately orders two more.

The beginning of the chaos starts when Eve drags the boys into a perfume store, where even Draco’s posher upbringing can’t save him from the disinterest. This, somehow, leads to himself and Potter losing all sense of dignity and poise, having a silent spritz battle with the display perfumes. It comes to a head when they dare each other to taste the “fruity” sounding perfumes on the count of three.

It, of course, ends poorly, and Eve keeps hissing at them as she drags them out of the store, furious about teenage boys and their “shared brain” while they giggle and dry heave.

Then they get kicked out of a cheese store… Not Draco’s proudest moment, but it happens. All they end up doing is eating every single free sample and asking for more, which doesn’t seem all that great of a story for later…

“We were better behaved in the punk store…” Draco observes as he looks back at the cheese shop.

“Oh, the irony,” Potter smirks, which manages to get all three of them cackling and moving on.

Eventually Eve has to leave, and Draco and Potter are left to their own devices. There is a moment of awkward silence as the two boys just stand beside each other, their guide gone, and in completely foreign territory.

Thankfully, Potter finally suggests the Kew Gardens and they both head out, quieter than before, but more comfortable now that they have a plan.

Except Eve is right about the tourist thing and both boys are immediately turned off when, standing at the entrance to the gardens, they hear a nearby child start screaming in an American accent about wanting to go to Disney World.

“Maybe peak tourist season really isn’t a good time to look for peace and quiet,” Potter says with an arched brow and they both turn to head back to the road and call the Knight Bus back to pick them up.

“Perhaps…” Draco sighs, glaring at another family of Muggle tourists as they pass by. “We will simply have to return at another time.”

“I doubt it’ll clear up much,” Potter comments flippantly and Draco glances at him, brows furrowing.

“I do not mean return during the summer. I meant some other time, when the Ministry no longer tracks your Trace or expects me to be the perfect pureblood,” Draco says lowly and Potter looks up at him, green eyes meeting grey.

“You want to hang out more… after all this is over?” Potter questions. He seems baffled, just a little bit, but mostly he looks incredibly pleased judging by the smile slowly growing on his face.

Draco stares at Potter for a few beats before reaching out and hooking his arm with the other boy’s, making them walk close together and not need to speak too loudly to be heard. Potter hardly seems fazed, pressing their sides together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I want to see the world,” Draco says quietly, looking out ahead of him, eyes distant, trusting Potter to keep them from running into anything. “I want to see all the things my parents didn’t want me exposed to and then some. I want to go nation to nation and experience as much as I possibly can… Max and I have teased the idea of travelling the world together, one day, but… I’d rather like to see everything with you as well, Potter.”

Draco looks back down at Potter, who seems incredibly focused on every word. “I find it very easy to share my time and my thoughts with you. I am hardly adverse to… hanging out with you as often as I can.”

Potter swallows, his throat bobbing with the motion, and now it’s his turn to look ahead of them, mind far away. “The Dursley’s didn’t let me see hardly any of their own world. I’ve heard of famous spots basically in my own backyard, but have never been allowed to see them. It wasn’t that my world was confined that infuriated me, it was the knowledge that it could so easily be more, that my world could be the world at large, but my own family wanted to keep me from it because I didn’t ‘deserve’ it.”

A single shiver runs through Potter’s body and it could be frustration, anguish, fear, or anything, but Draco still squeezes his arm a little closer as reassurance.

“I’d love to see the world. Partly out of interest, but also kind of out of spite. A symbolic ‘fuck you’ to the Dursley’s for locking up a little boy for years and years and telling him the world would always hate him. And…” Potter’s cheeks darken slightly, “I’d really love to see the world with you, too.”

“Going with a wizard would surely be an additional ‘fuck you’ to your relatives,” Draco smiles, resolutely refusing to call the Dursley’s Potter’s “family.”

“No,” Potter shakes his head, “I just… enjoy sharing my time with you, too.”

“Well, that’s the bonus,” Draco leans in closer to say that, making Potter snort and bump their shoulders together in retaliation.

They make it to a quiet street off the side of Kew Gardens and call the Knight Bus. Shunpike gives them a hard time for calling on them so often, but he doesn’t seem all that bothered, and the two take a seat. Potter suggests a place in Brixton that plays live music outside. He knew about it because Vernon Dursley often complained about the young bands that were clearly wasting their lives away.

They sit close together, still with hooked arms, and wait for the chaotic ride to end, then greatly slip off the bus onto solid land with mirroring sighs of relief.

“Do you ever think it’s weird?” Potter says as they walk towards their destination.

“I think vague questions are weird, yes,” Draco drawls and Potter rolls his eyes.

“You’re really not as clever as you think, prat,” the bespectacled boy huffs.

“I have multiple pieces of evidence and witness testimony to prove otherwise,” Draco smirks and Potter gives him an unimpressed glare.

“Most of which also happen to be illegal, making them useless in this court of law. Thank you, sir, now answer the question.”

“Do I think what is weird?”

“This,” Potter makes the strangest, vaguest motions with his free hand, before pointing specifically at their hooked arms. “This! All of this. Just… We started off hating each other. You’re still a snob—”

“And you’re still a goody-goody.”

Potter pauses just long enough to glare at Draco, who smiles sweetly back at him. “But now…” Potter looks away, thoughtful, fingers subconsciously tapping on Draco’s arm. “We hardly have any boundaries anymore. We joke around and actually enjoy each other’s company. You’ve done so much for me even though I never asked. I mean, seriously, you’re willing to break the bloody law just to give me a few days to relax… Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Draco tilts his head backwards, looking at the clouds above as he thinks. It wasn’t the first time Draco had thought about how his relationships had unexpectantly grown throughout his time at Hogwarts. He’d slowly distanced himself from long-running “friendships” and reestablished himself into circles he never would have even dreamed about years and years ago. His best friend was an American Muggle, he had a “book club” with two muggleborns reading Muggle books, he smuggled candy to a Weasley while the Weasley twins regularly plotted with him over the next, big invention…

And Draco’s sworn rival, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Give-Draco-Malfoy-A-Headache, Harry Potter, was… something…

Something big and important. Someone who he hardly had any boundaries with anymore, who he wanted to travel the world with, who listened and understood, who Draco could do the same for. Something Draco didn’t think he could do without ever again.

Draco calls Potter “friend” now, but it never feels like the right title. It feels more like a placeholder while he figures out exactly what the other boy really is.

And whatever that is, it always feels like it is on the tip of his tongue and he’ll likely kick himself later for not figuring it out, like a fact or piece of trivia he always knew, but for whatever reason slips his mind the moment it could be of use.

He isn’t in a rush, though. There are so many other things to worry about right now and, walking around Brixton looking for local music and food, Draco doesn’t want to worry about anything.

“It doesn’t feel weird,” Draco finally shrugs. “Unexpected and unpredictable, but they probably have a picture of you in the dictionary beside ‘unpredictable,’ so is it really all that strange?”

“I guess not, seeing as you’re definitely beside the word ‘unexpected’,” Potter smiles, easily playing along with Draco’s snark, and that’s that. Conversation over. Whatever this is, it is easy and nice, even when they bicker or argue, and is certainly not “weird.”

They end up eating an early dinner outdoors, sitting at a table around a small square where a band is playing upbeat, acoustic covers of songs Draco doesn’t know. There’s a small crowd around the band, swaying to the music, singing along occasionally, but Draco and Potter don’t join in. They just sit back in silence, listening, as the world around them bleeds away.

~ ~ ~

Draco and the Golden Trio fight in the halls. They’re loud, spectacular things, sometimes only vocal, sometimes with hexes thrown around. Usually it gets them a few house points removed, but on one occasion they are all given detention by McGonagall…

These fights are planned far, far in advance. They’re like a play or a dance, rehearsed lines and carefully picked spells. They determine which ones are okay to get hit by, which they will block, and which will “luckily” miss their mark.

They always flip a Sickle ahead of time while plotting in the library or the Room of Requirement. The coin is to determine who gets to start the fight and another flip decides who gets to win. So far Draco is 3 to the Golden Trio’s 5, which just makes it feel like the universe is against him.

It’s a fun little game, and it fools Umbridge perfectly. She never gets the chance to sentence anyone to detention, the fights she sees are never that bad, but she definitely hears about them or sees the aftermath.

The idea that Draco is rivals with the Golden Trio is thus successfully established into their DADA professor’s head along with the rest of the student body. The students who were never close to them, who always watched from the sidelines and gossiped later, were convinced Draco and the Golden Trio were once again, truly, at each other’s throats.

They even manage to rope Longbottom into it once, having the lanky boy tackle Draco outside of Potions over a comment about his grandmother. When Snape only takes points from Gryffindor, however, Longbottom pouts for the remainder of class and they don’t ask him again.

“Reminds me of first year,” Weasley sighs dreamily during one of their impromptu meetings in the Room of Requirement. It feels more like a comfortable meeting room for the occasion, with a table in the middle surrounded by rolling desk chairs, a chalkboard on one end, writing utensils and parchment on the table, and enchanted windows that show different scenes depending on who of them set up the Room that day.

Today, since Granger got there first, the windows show a massive field of flowers “outside” that look like they must smell amazing. It looks like Spring in full bloom, despite being mid-October in actuality. “Except… more dangerous spellwork,” Weasley finishes after a few moments of consideration.

“These are the big leagues, Weasel!” Draco laughs from where he sits in the rafters. He’d been using his time to practice his Animagus form’s balance, the high ceilings and arching support beams like a jungle gym for a snow leopard.

“They kind of feel like a play,” Granger says, writing down their next proposed fight. She sits near the chalkboard, writing on a parchment, while Weasley plots out the “fight” like it’s a Quidditch play on the chalkboard.

“Thankfully not a musical,” Potter says from his own seat at the table, writing out plans for the DA lessons.

Weasley groans, rolling his eyes skyward. “If I ever randomly burst into song, just kill me there,” he says, clearly not excited at the very idea of a musical, which Draco thinks is uncalled for. Musicals were spectacular affairs. Even Max liked them. Called them “totally awesome.”

“Quick, who knows a singing spell?” he asks urgently, ignoring the glare Weasley shoots up at him.

Granger, not fully paying attention to the conversation as a whole, says instinctively, “You could always use--”

“Don’t tell him!” Weasley yelps, looking properly affronted, and Granger finally looks up with wide, surprised eyes while Draco laughs down at them. They were so easy to mess with sometimes.

With the discovery of the Room of Requirement, so too was a discovery for a safe space. Out in the halls they were back to being enemies, and while there were still a few hiding spots around the castle, nothing was quite as secure as the Come and Go Room.

“Oh, Draco,” Granger suddenly says, pulling out a sheet of parchment from her bag and setting it down on the table, “You never signed the list for the DA.”

Draco shifts into a snow leopard, leaps down, and shifts back into a human to approach the table and look at what Granger is talking about. “Dumbledore’s Army” is written across the top, followed by the signatures of all the members of the DA.

Draco arches a brow at the paper, then looks over at Granger like she must be insane. “I’m not signing this,” he says firmly, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Granger looks up, more confused than offended, and questions, “What? Why?”

“Because it’s clearly hexed and I’m not a fool.”

“The other Slytherins signed it,” Weasley says, turning away from the chalkboard to glare at him, arms crossed. Potter has looked up from where he’s attempting to go over his plans for the next DA meeting, but says nothing.

“They likely see it as insurance. Slytherins can’t help but be suspicious by nature. In signing this, they can keep track of who would betray us, ensure the other students don’t have yet another thing to not trust us over, as well as hold each other accountable.”

“And you don’t want to be held accountable?” Granger questions, sounding a touch suspicious now, and Draco gives her a sour look.

“That’s not it at all. If, and likely when, the DA is found out, since I’m meant to be on the Ministry’s side, I cannot leave a paper trail. I have other things to worry about too, you see.”

“Are the other Slytherins fine with this? Since you’re all so ‘suspicious’,” Potter finally speaks up, doing air quotes around “suspicious.” He doesn’t look agitated like his friends do, rather he looks like he simply wants to understand where Draco and his housemates stand on all this.

“We’ve all sat down and spoken in detail about these things,” Draco replies simply, folding his hands on top of the table. “You all might be okay with running into this blind, but we are not. We have weighed pros and cons, plotted out escape routes, devised believable lies for as many situations as we could consider, and are regularly paying close attention to any other Slytherin who might be interested in the DA.”

“You never told us about any of this!” Granger is suddenly standing, looking insulted and incensed.

“You never asked,” Draco smirks cheekily and Granger fumes.

“Those plans could be really helpful to us, Malfoy, why haven’t you said anything?” Granger demands, leaning both of her hands on the table and glaring over at the blonde, who decides to check his nails at that moment.

“It’s doubtful any of these plans would be of any help to you. They’re specifically for Slytherins and getting down to the dungeons. You’re the ones with the Marauders Map. Plan out escape routes for your own house.”

“And what about Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?” Potter questions. His own eyes have hardened, just on the cusp of a glare, but not quite there yet.

“Give the job to a trustworthy member from their houses,” Draco shrugs. That should have been obvious enough.

“What was that last part you said about looking for more, interested Slytherins?” Weasley suddenly questions, his blue eyes narrowed into suspicious, angry shards of ice.

“Oh, what? Are you saying you don’t want any more snakes in your class?” Draco purrs.

“Not really, no,” Weasley scowls and Draco scrunches his nose up at him mockingly.

“Well, currently you have nothing to worry about. We haven’t found anyone. Problem is, most Slytherins are quite good at keeping quiet their true feelings and loyalties. Every Slytherin could very well despise the Ministry and you’d never know, because that kind of opinion might not get them the best options later in life.”

“What about Parkinson?” Potter suddenly asks, looking thoughtful, “Even if she is a cow, she’s keeping your secret about being an Animagus, and she’s usually not as cruel as Millicent.”

Off to the side Weasley gives Potter a disbelieving glare, like he cannot fathom why Potter would even be suggesting more Slytherins, but Draco ignores him. He feels immensely pleased that at least one of the Golden Trio is taking this seriously.

“She actually knows, but she doesn’t care,” Draco replies with a shrug. “The thing about a good gossiper… is they know what they can spill and what they need to keep secret.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Parkinson knows?!” Granger nearly shrieks and Draco arches a brow at her, then looks over at Potter.

“I am speaking English, aren’t I?” he questions.

“What?” Potter asks back, smirking when Draco’s gaze turns bland.

“Yes, Granger, Pansy knows,” Draco turns back to the bushy-haired ball of indignation. “And she isn’t going to tell.”

“What happened to being a suspicious bunch?” Weasley snaps, clearly not pleased, much the same as Granger. Even Potter, who seems the most relaxed, is clearly tense in the shoulders.

Draco hesitates, just a moment, but it clearly is noticed by the Golden Trio, who tense even further. “We are… but previously it was only over empty promises, ‘morality,’ and other houses. A Slytherin could only trust a Slytherin. No one else would ever have our backs. Don’t question it, you know it’s true.”

The Gryffindors glance around at each other, anxious, and Granger slowly sits back down. The mood in the room has become a lot tenser, now. “What changed?” the muggleborn asks.

“Voldemort came back,” Draco rushes out the name, but he manages not to flinch around it this time, “My rebellion in past years. A few other students becoming more vocal about what we believe in. It has made a lot of my house start questioning our ideals, and others cling to those ideals a lot more strongly than before. We can still only trust each other, yet at the same time there is a rift, just beneath the surface, that no one knows how to fix or even approach. We don’t know what will come of it, but… It’s there…”

“And now everyone can’t help but be suspicious of each other,” Granger says softly, nodding along.

“But you trust Parkinson?” Weasley asks, still looking skeptical.

“I trust she won’t rat us out. I trust that, despite her own interests, she is more closely tied to myself than the Ministry or the Dark Lord. We’ll be fine. Stop worrying over her.”

“Which Slytherins should we definitely not trust at all?” Potter asks, leaning forward on the table and looking across at Draco seriously. His face is set, like he’s prepared to argue and convince Draco to answer him, but the blonde sees no reason in answering.

“Millicent Bulstrode and Cassius Warrington, definitely. Elijah Mort and Tabatha Verteaux, too, they’re sixth years. Graham Montague, the new Quidditch captain? Keep an eye out for him. Theodore Nott I’m still trying to get a read on. Most of the first and second years hardly have any kind of opinions at this point.”

“What about Crabbe and Goyle?” Potter asks when Draco appears finished. The trio look confused that the two, giant boys weren’t on Draco’s list.

“They’re… Uncertain, actually. They’ve always been followers, not thinkers, but now the people they follow are thinking and questioning, too, so…” The blonde takes a deep breath and sags into his seat, rocking back and forth, slightly. “I don’t know what they’re thinking, but it feels like, perhaps, they might not be entirely onboard with pureblood beliefs anymore…”

“That’s hard to believe,” Weasley mumbles.

“Malfoy changed, didn’t he?” Granger says, looking back at the ginger, who grumbles and looks away, clearly not pleased but not having anything else to say.

“We’ll keep our distance from Crabbe and Goyle,” Potter decides, looking to his friends to make sure they’re listening. “We don’t know where they stand, so we won’t engage at all until we’re certain.”

“Agreed,” Granger nods.

“Any excuse to keep away from more Slytherins,” Weasley mumbles, yelping when Draco throws an Earworm Jinx at him, getting “Carousel” by Blink-182 lodged in his head.

~ ~ ~

The wandless tutoring sessions are held relatively randomly. A notice appears in every common room in the morning, letting students know a meeting will be taking place that night, and whoever wants to show up can show up.

Students from every house have appeared as well as a few professors. Flitwick is the most common face, eagerly praising Sinistra and humbly accepting pointers and help from his fellow faculty member. It seemed as if he hadn’t known how skilled in wandless magic Sinistra actually was.

The lessons, being a very relaxed thing, also allowed students to leave whenever they pleased. Sinistra made it very clear that this was an optional lesson, and if a student needed to study or work on homework, then they should leave and do that first.

Usually, when Sinistra deemed the lesson finished, she would allow lingering students to continue practicing for up to an hour up in the Astronomy Tower, but once the hour was up Filch would come to run them all off.

Up until this particular night, the absolute most shocking development for the lessons was Neville Longbottom becoming the star pupil. He was still a mess and a dork, but he took to wandless magic better than any of them.

“You see?” Sinistra had said during their first lesson when Neville had been the first to form a ball of light in his palm. “Wands are a hindrance,” she states with conviction, then mechanically pats Longbottom on the head. “Well done. Five points to Gryffindor.”

Longbottom had beamed with so much pride even his Lumos had gotten brighter.

Meanwhile, Finnigan had managed to nearly blow up his hand, Granger was going quietly insane trying to figure out how everything worked, and the Weasley twins were secretly slipping around the room, selling their goods.

“If you keep up like that, Hermione, you’ll pop a blood vessel,” Draco hears Weasley say and he looks over. Tonight, they are attempting a simple Levitation Spell and Granger has nearly doubled over, sweat dripping off her brow, as she focuses on the feather on the ground.

“Be quiet, Ron,” Granger snaps and Weasley backs up, hands in surrender. It really does look like the girl will blow something with how hard she’s focusing on the feather in front of her, one hand out and pointing three fingers at the offending object.

Just beyond her, Potter has sat down on the ground, cross-legged, the feather in front of him. He looks frustrated, but not as bad as Granger, and Draco decides, since most of the other students have already headed off, he’ll chance approaching the boy.

“You figure it out?” Draco asks as he reaches Potter, plopping down on the ground a few feet to his side. It feels similar to when they sneak up here to talk to Max, but not at all. They’re too far apart, and they are hardly alone.

“I think it shimmied a little, but that might just be the wind,” Potter grumbles, then looks over at him. “You?”

“Nothing. I admit, I am far more accustomed to my wand,” Draco responds, rolling his feather between his fingers and eying it in agitation. Longbottom had managed to get his a few inches off the ground earlier, before he’d lost focus. How embarrassing to be shown up by that halfwit.

“Wands are a handicap,” Potter says in a perfect mimicry of Sinistra’s emotionless voice and the two snicker.

For a few more minutes they try to focus on moving their feathers, but to little success save for a nudge here or there. The twins make an appearance at one point, not offering to sell them any of their products with Granger glaring murder at them from the corner of her eye, but instead picking fun at their brother, laughing with Potter, and passing Draco a piece of folded up parchment paper.

“What’s that?” Potter asks when the twins walk away and Draco unfolds the note, curious. He pauses to read over everything, eyes rolling left and right. For the most part it lists off product ideas - some old, some new – and it appears to be asking for Draco’s very Slytherin- and Muggle-influenced thoughts.

But then, at the bottom, in George’s handwriting it says, “Edgecombe still seems unhappy about DA, but she hasn’t done anything.” Then, in Fred’s handwriting, “Spoke to her a little. Turns out she’s terrified of all the Slytherins. Might be useful!” Followed by the most patronizing drawing of a heart Draco had ever seen. He wasn’t sure how a heart could be patronizing, but the twins had managed it.

“Just some of their ideas,” Draco responds, folding up the parchment, and Potter thankfully accepts the explanation without question, and they get back to working on their wandless spells.

~ ~ ~

“Have I ever told you how jealous I am that you don’t have Religion class at your school?” Max asks one rainy day in the April of Draco’s third year, the raindrops making tinging, rhythmic noises on the roof of the Hogwarts greenhouses.

“A time or two,” Draco replies, sitting on an overturned, oversized planter, his book on Wiccans in hand. He was on a chapter about the purpose of altars in Wiccan practice and the many different kinds one could make.

“Because I’m jealous. Super jealous. Just… sooooooo jealous!” Max groans. They sound muffled and Draco guesses they must be in bed and moping. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Clearly you should be, but I suspect there’s a specific event that caused you to voice your envy,” Draco says, shutting his book but using a finger to keep his place. He eyes the radio sitting on the planter beside him. Max had explained their school on many, many occasions, namely that it was small and everyone had grown up together since kindergarten. On occasion, however, Max also mentioned that it was a “private, Catholic school,” which Draco did not understand at all, but apparently that meant Max had to take Religion classes every day.

“They call it ‘Religion class,’ like we’re gonna learn anything other than Catholocisim or whatever,” Max had said scornfully at one point.

The muggle religion Draco likely knew the most about was Wicca, only because of the book he currently had been skimming through, and even then his knowledge was bare. Despite Max mentioning going to church before, or going to Sunday school, or going to Catholic school, they just didn’t talk much about the religion they had been raised in.

“Yeah! Yeah, something did happen, Draco! And I’m going to be honest with you, Draco… I am a little bit irate,” Max says and Draco rolls his eyes at their antics, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm.

“Do tell.”

“Mrs. Brooks, the Religion teacher? She called us a bunch of ‘little Nazis,’ today!”

Draco nearly falls off the planter, eyes widening and his book falling to the dirty floor. Okay, he certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “W-what? Why?!” Of all the evils in the Muggle world, Draco was sure Nazis were the worst. He’d seen the evidence in that museum all those years ago. Nothing else could surely compare, he was certain. So, why would someone compare a bunch of children to them?!

“Oh, well, see she brought out a bunch of pamphlets on all these controversial subjects that explained the Church’s view on all of them. Stuff liiiiike… sex, contraceptives, abortion, same-sex relationships, that kinda thing. She tried to teach us everything like it was fact, but, like… we’re not idiots. We’re smart kids. We started asking questions and she didn’t have reasonable answers, so she called us a bunch of ‘little Nazis’.”

“For questioning her?” Draco asks, completely blown away by the incompetence he was hearing.

“For not blindly accepting everything she told us, really,” Max sighs. They didn’t sound happy, but they also didn’t sound like they were taking this all that seriously. It was just one more frustrating experience to add to the pile. “You wanna know what I’ve taken away from Religion class? And mass? And morning prayer? If you ever want someone to doubt Catholicism… Send them to Catholic school.”

“Do you doubt it?” Draco questions, surprised. As frustrating as it was to hear about all these incidents Max had to deal with, hadn’t they grown up with all of this? Didn’t their parents want them to embrace this?

“Well… yeah! But, that’s what you should do, y’know? Mama and Papa told me they were really proud of me and my class for asking all those questions. They want me educated on it all, but none of us are super, crazy religious either.”

“They aren’t? Don’t you still go to… to that school on Sundays?” Draco demands, feeling himself grow confused.

“Dude… Not since I was ten…” Max says blandly and Draco feels his cheeks pink in slight embarrassment. “And like I said, they wanted me educated, but they also take me and Eric to all kinds of other services all the time so we know all of our options. Just last week we went to a Jewish service with one of Mama’s friends! They talk funny, but I like them a lot.”

Despite Draco knowing next to nothing about Muggle religions, he still thought he had a good handle on what they were like. Ideals for Muggles, not too different from pureblood ideals, in that you were born into them and encouraged to constantly follow them.

What Max’s family was doing, thus, felt alien to Draco, this idea that Max’s mother and father so readily encouraged their children to branch out and find what worked for them. Yes, it felt alien to Draco, yet at the same time felt incredibly perfect for the Muggle family. It was odd and unfamiliar, but not surprising at all.

“That is quite proactive of them,” Draco finally replies, picking up his Wicca book and smiling faintly at the radio. “What other services have you attended?”

“Oh, dude, alllllll kinds!”

~ ~ ~

Draco couldn’t find Potter anywhere and it was driving him up the wall.

The Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match that afternoon had been a complete and utter mess. Weasley, the Gryffindor’s new Keeper, let far more Quaffles through his defenses than stopped them. It was so pathetic Draco was tempted to write a song about it or something. Kick him while he’s down. It would surely distract from what happened at the end of the match…

Gryffindor, infuriatingly, still won thanks to Potter catching the Snitch. He’d smiled at Draco after the fact, smug and playful, still in the air as Lee Jordan announced his victory.

And then a Bludger came out of nowhere and knocked Potter right off his broom.

He hadn’t been high up, thankfully, and with the rest of his team swarming him to make sure he’s okay, the boy wonder gets up just fine. Draco doesn’t go down to check, though, as much as he’d like to. Instead his eyes are up, narrowed as he looks for the source of this foul.

Slytherin has two, new Beaters in the forms of Crabbe and Goyle. They’re dreadful fliers, but their brute strength makes up for it in their positions. And, with Beater bat still raised, Draco spots Crabbe floating some ways away.

What the hell was that idiot thinking? The game had been done! But… Draco pulls the beginnings of an angry tirade short. Think, he needed to think. Crabbe and Goyle could both be nasty blights, but usually it wasn’t their own idea. They were just the pawns of some other nasty blight.

Draco tries to look around at his team as they also begin to come down to the pitch, a roar of boo’ing from the crowd while the Gryffindor team either glares or yells up at them, demanding answers.

“What the hell, Crabbe?!” Weasley yells, apparently also having spotted Crabbe’s guilty movements, and the rest of Gryffindor is quick to single him out, too. The giant of a boy keeps his eyes off to one side and Draco lands a few paces to the side, silently watching.

“I just did it because Montague said to,” Crabbe finally says against these accusations, glancing over at a fuming Potter, who looks three seconds from breaking someone’s nose. He’d clearly had a lot of pent up energy during the match, perhaps he hadn’t managed to get it all out…

“Montague?!” Fred snaps and now the Gryffindors are looking at the new Slytherin captain.

Draco wasn’t a fan of Graham Montague at all. He was like a more sinister Flint, also willing to do anything to win but somehow even more dirty about it, if it was possible. He had always rubbed Draco the wrong way, and this just cemented his image in Draco’s mind.

It sure as hell didn’t do him any favors with how smug he looked.

“My bad, Potter, thought you’d dodge it. Best Seeker of our age and all that,” Montague sneers and the rest of the Slytherin team immediately shift to support him. The only ones who don’t are Draco, off to the side, Crabbe, who has backed up as best he can to remove himself from all this, and Goyle, who has moved to Crabbe’s side.

“The game had ended!” Angelina Johnson, the new Gryffindor captain, snaps harshly.

“Oops?” Montague shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye Draco spots teachers making their way towards the gathering. Madam Hooch is also making her way down, having had to go and stop the runaway Bludger, so it wouldn’t start attacking the crowd in the teams’ absence. Draco, with how quickly this is escalating, doesn’t think they’ll reach them in time.

“Clearly, Crabbe hesitated,” Draco finally speaks up, attempting to calm everyone down long enough for one of the professors to get here and step in. Unfortunately, this just incentivizes them instead.

“Yeah, the bloody moron did,” Montague shoots a displeased glance back at Crabbe, who looks like he doesn’t want to be there anymore, then faces Gryffindor again. “Pity your own Beaters are shit, though. Game over or not, shouldn’t they have been watching Potter’s back? Or were they too busy babysitting little brother Ronnie?”

The Slytherin team’s laughter builds up for only two seconds before Potter and Fred are lunging for Montague. There’s a chorus of outcries as each team begins cheering or demanding the other backs off. George hurries to try and pull his brother and Potter back, but to little avail.

It doesn’t last long, thankfully, because a few moments later Hooch is on the ground and separating everyone. Draco sighs, shaking his head. He couldn’t have stopped this if he’d tried, not if he wanted everyone to think he was still rivals with Potter and his pals.

He also doesn’t have much reason to stick around anymore, he realizes. He knows how this goes. Potter and the twins will get in trouble, Montague won’t, and Draco will just talk to Potter afterwards. So, instead, Draco turns around and makes his way towards the locker rooms.

A few steps forward and he feels himself get flanked by two, familiar shadows.

“Crabbe. Goyle,” Draco greets without looking at them. He’s a little surprised none of the teachers stopped Crabbe yet, but he supposes they’re busy with the fight and will approach the Beater later.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Goyle mumbles back.

They don’t say anything until they have all showered, changed, and are putting all their things away. They’re all facing their lockers when Crabbe says, “It really was Montague who told me to do it… I wasn’t sure if I should, so it took me a while.”

“And then you did it anyway after the game had already finished,” Draco snaps, shutting his locker and turning towards the downtrodden boy. “You’ve never played for Slytherin’s team before, so let me fill you both in on a little something,” he says and both Crabbe and Goyle turn away from their own lockers to look at him, all attention on the blonde.

As much as he did not enjoy hanging out with these two anymore, they always were very good at giving Draco their unbridled attention, and it was nice to have that for a few moments again, even though the situation was less than ideal.

“There is a reputation for our team that we will do anything to win. For Montague, and previously Flint, this has been true, and they will give orders to everyone on the team that will sound particularly sleezy and backhanded. It is up to you, then, to weigh your options and determine whether you should actually go through with it or not.”

“But… he’s our captain…” Goyle says anxiously.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to do every single thing he tells you. He’s not your ruler and you’re not slaves. That’s not how teams work,” Draco shakes his head. Flint had given Draco plenty of orders before that he hadn’t listened to, and a few that he had. Everyone on the Slytherin team had. It was just how they worked.

Crabbe and Goyle are silent, and Draco turns to leave as the rest of Slytherin team begins to slip in. He ignores Montague and his black eye, but he doesn’t miss a few passing comments.

“Serves those three right. They should’ve banned the whole fucking team, if you ask me,” Cassius Warrington is saying and Draco feels his shoulders stiffen. Banned? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Those three” could only be Potter and the Weasley twins, but they weren’t supposed to be banned. In trouble, sure. Detention and points taken, definitely. But banned?

Draco could smack himself when he finally realizes what he’d missed. Of course. He’d forgotten the most important factor that played into most everything this school year. Umbridge.

Of course, she would have made everything so, so much worse for the Boy-Who-Lived. On top of everything Potter was dealing with, now he wouldn’t even have Quidditch to help distract him.

Draco had planned to wait for Potter to make his appearance so they could talk, but he felt it necessary to go in search of him now.

Except Potter couldn’t be found, which is how he now found himself sitting miserably in the library with Eve. He’d managed to run into the twins, who were rightly furious, and they gave him a few more details, but no Potter. No Golden Trio, actually.

“They’re probably off doing something stupid or dangerous,” Eve mumbles when Draco comments on this.

“You’re not helping,” Draco hisses.

“Never said I would,” Eve smirks behind her book as Draco glares at her. “Go back to reading. There’s nothing we can do but wait for them to pop up again,” Eve continues, nudging his shin with her foot.

Draco doesn’t say anything, his fingers curling up tightly, and finally Eve looks up. “And they will pop up again. They’re too stubborn to die.”

“Yeah… I guess so,” Draco sighs miserably, finally picking up his copy of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘I guess you’re right,’ so I can tell you I’m always right,” Eve drawls, also going back to her own book.

“I’d hate to make a liar out of you,” Draco smirks around the sharp pain in his shin when Eve kicks him under the table.

~ ~ ~

“So, this is why I couldn’t find you yesterday,” Draco hisses sharply from behind Potter as the Golden Trio makes their way back across the school grounds. It was an early morning and they hadn’t noticed Draco taking photos nearby.

Potter jumps a little, leaning away and looking back at Draco with wide eyes, before glancing back behind him towards Hagrid’s hut. There is movement inside and Draco can occasionally see the half giant walking around inside.

“Uh, yeah. He showed back up yesterday,” Potter explains.

“And you three went to see him like the good, little children you are,” Draco hums, stepping back from the trio so he can address all three of them properly.

“We wanted to say hello,” Granger defends on Potter’s left, shooting Draco a glare.

“I’m sure you did. Except I was looking for you and couldn’t find you,” Draco says more sharply than he means, but damn it all he’d been worried.

“You were? Why?” Weasley questions, eyes thinning suspiciously.

“Because of what happened yesterday? Are you daft?” the Slytherin glares back. It was clear the trio was on edge, which was making this conversation more infuriating than it needed to be. “You’re an idiot for attacking Montague like that, but I certainly don’t agree with your punishment.”

“He was insulting me and the twins!” Potter says sharply, back going stiff as he glares at Draco with such fire it surprises the blonde. The four of them all, for a moment, fall silent. Draco hadn’t approached them for a fight, but it seemed they were all realizing that was what was building up.

“Yes, Potter, he was. Can you imagine why?” Draco replies, matching Potter’s fire with ice in his eyes.

“Because he’s a dick?” Potter snaps.

“No argument there,” Draco shrugs, then crosses his arms. “But his goal? Was to get a rise out of you. And you gave that to him.”

“Well, what was he supposed to do?” Weasley demands from his best friend’s right. He looks equally furious. The only one who doesn’t is Granger, who is stiff and fidgeting, clearly wanting this to be over already.

“Walk away? I suspect Granger had that idea in mind?” he glances at the bushy-haired witch, but doesn’t wait for a reply, “You want someone to pay for something they do? To give them retribution? Then look at the situation and think. The best course of action is not always ‘punch it until it goes away’.”

“If we punch you will you go away?” Weasley growls.

Draco looks at the ginger blandly, then shoots, “Nice game yesterday, Weasel. I’m almost tempted to call you Slytherin’s lucky token with how many goals you let in.”

Weasley immediately turns red and takes a step towards him, but Potter grabs his arm before he can go any further. The Boy-Who-Lived is still glaring at Draco, though. “What the hell, Malfoy?!” he snaps, clearly angry at his friend’s behest.

“I’m proving my point. Didn’t throw a single punch,” Draco drawls with a shrug, then turns away sharply and begins stalking towards the trees. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to get some energy out,” he calls over his shoulder but doesn’t look back. Despite his cold exterior, he was fuming over these idiot Gryffindors.

How could they still not see that their actions had consequences? He understood that Potter was frustrated with everything going on, and by proxy so too were Granger and Weasley, but to just jump in without thinking… It was very much like them, yes, but that wasn’t an excuse.

It was all about strategy, in the end. What action would garner the most satisfactory outcome? Not, “which action feels best in the moment?” Because, clearly, that did them no favors.

Draco ends up running around through the forest as a snow leopard, his photos forgotten, and time passes by without his notice. He’s still fuming when he makes his way back to the castle, but he thankfully doesn’t want to hex anyone’s heads off anymore.

~ ~ ~

Whenever Draco had a question, a deep question that he knew he could never ask his parents or teachers or anyone, really, he always turned to Max first. They were straightforward, wiser than anyone gave them credit for, and didn’t try to baby Draco. He’d never tell them any of these things, but it was all true.

Plus, if Max didn’t have a satisfactory answer, often times their parents or brother had something to say.

It is during Draco’s stay at the Black family manor during fourth year’s Easter break that one of these questions arises.

There were so many heirlooms and artifacts that belonged to the Black family. Photos – some hidden away, some not – of people Draco was distantly related to. History in the very walls of the building, yet Draco knew none of it. And he couldn’t really ask Sirius. Sirius wanted next to nothing to do with his blood relatives.

It left Draco feeling forlorn, in a way, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“How well do you know your heritage, Max?” Draco asks, sitting atop the guest bed’s covers, radio in his hands. He stares blankly ahead. There wasn’t much for him to focus on in this room save for all the files he’d copied from the Records Department.

“My heritage? Like, my blood or the culture or what?” Max asks for clarification and Draco hesitates. What did he mean by heritage?

“Just… family, I suppose. Stories. History.”

Draco could probably fill a novel with all the grandiose stories he’d heard of the Malfoy family, but when it came to the Black side of his family, he was realizing his knowledge greatly lacked.

“I know a buuuunch about Papa’s side! He’s mostly Swedish and we make Swedish meatballs on his birthday and have a bunch of Swedish horses all over the house from my Grandmama. She says she wants to take us all to Sweden one day to visit!”

“And your mother’s side of the family?” Draco asks after a few beats when it doesn’t seem like Max is going to continue.

“Oh, uh… Grandpa, Mama’s dad, is Cajun and he taught Mama how to make gumbo and etouffee and he’s got a bunch of boats. I… don’t know much beyond that. And Grammy…” Max trails off. They didn’t get distressed very often, but so long as they weren’t crying or hyperventilating Draco knew he just needed to wait it out. Let them sort their thoughts.

“Grammy and Mama had a big fight a few years back. Mama never got along super great with either Grammy or Grandpa, but now… I dunno. We never went back to see them again and now Grammy’s gone forever…”

“You have my condolences,” Draco says softly but Max’s sigh is resolute. Tired, but resolute.

“It was years back. I dunno if Mama regrets what happened, but I wish I coulda’ known my Grammy better. She was super tough and cool when I knew her.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Not getting to know more about that part of your family,” Draco’s grip on the radio tightens, face pinching as he thinks about all the stories in this house he’ll likely never know.

“I can’t regret something that wasn’t my fault. I wish things had been different, but I’m not at fault for the things my family does.” There’s a shrug in Max’s tone, which surprises Draco with its flippancy.

“Aren’t you mad, then? That the decision was taken away from you like this?” the young wizard demands, confused and beginning to grow frustrated. “This is part of your history!”

“No, it isn’t.”

That stops Draco short.

“Grammy was blood, but my history is mine. It’s all the stuff that’s part of my life. Mama and Papa are my history. Eric’s my history. Grandmama is my history. You’re my history, Draco! Grammy… isn’t. Not because I chose it, but it happened. Sure, I’m sad and a bit disappointed, but my ancestry isn’t my history, and it doesn’t determine how great of a person I can be by my own merit.”

Draco is silent, eyes turning to stare at his radio in bafflement. This kind of insight hadn’t been what he had been expecting, but it was what he got and now he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

It was true. He’d come all this way without knowing anything about the Black side of his family, and certainly in spite of the Malfoy name. He’d done so much with his own talents and capabilities.

It was disappointing he’d likely always be in the dark, and it was sad, but it wouldn’t change who he, Draco, was as an individual.

“Does any of that help?” Max asks after a few more beats of contemplation.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, y’know, you always get a little extra snippy with your questions whenever you’re dealing with something personal. So… did any of that help?”

Draco swallows the snarky response on the very tip of his tongue and instead takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, Max… I think it did.”

~ ~ ~

Thestrals were following Draco.

At least, that’s what it was beginning to feel like. After spotting them so often over the tops of the Forbidden Forest, or running into them while Luna and Tracey fed them, or spotting them occasionally while taking a run through the forest, now they were the main subject for Hagrid’s first Care of Magical Creatures class after returning.

After meeting up with the half-giant - who looked positively dreadful with multiple bruises, swollen face, and scabbed over cuts - he’d led them into the Forbidden Forest, the carcass of a cow over his shoulders.

The smell was dreadful, yet a deep, animalistic part of Draco was making his mouth water at the meat. He stamped down the feeling just as McGonagall had taught him to, but his eyes still occasionally lingered.

His eyes also linger on the three Gryffindors at the front of the congregation, but he does his best to ignore them. It had only been two days since their argument, but since then they’d hardly even spoken or looked in each other’s direction. He’d seen Granger and Eve speaking together a few times, but otherwise Draco was left out.

It was irritating, namely because Draco didn’t know who he was more upset with. Himself or Potter. He probably shouldn’t have allowed his emotions to get so heated, especially when he already knew Potter and his friends were already on edge, but he’d been worried and upset and he figured someone needed to set the idiots straight.

Eventually, they would need to talk. With the DA, especially, it would be incredibly awkward if they weren’t on speaking terms.

Draco had learned how to apologize with Max. He’d learned how to deal with fallouts and arguments and disagreements with his Muggle friend. They may not speak for some time after big fights, but they always knew how to reconcile with each other.

Why was this so much harder?

Draco scoffs, shaking out his head and walking alongside the other Slytherins, trying to focus on the class instead of his personal issues.

Then the thestrals had begun to emerge. The class had made a semi-circle along the edge of a clearing within the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid laying out the carcass and whistling loudly. And, after a few minutes of waiting, the skeletal beasts had begun to come out from between the trees, sniffing at the fresh meat.

“An’ here comes another one!” Hagrid says cheerfully when Draco decides to tune him back in. He hadn’t even realized he was tuning him, or anyone else, out, his focus solely on the thestrals.

The Thestrals were surrounding the carcass, sniffing, then taking big, greedy bites out of it. The sound is a little gross, but Draco had heard it before, and he steps a little closer. Before he can make any distance, however, a hand snatches his arm and yanks him back, holding him still.

He looks back, confused and irritated, but pauses when he sees Theodore Nott holding him in place, eyes wide and clearly anxious. All the other Slytherins, along with most of the students actually, are looking around at what they must perceive as empty air. But not Theodore.

“Don’t go near them,” Theodore hisses urgently and Draco arches a brow. This was an unexpected development.

“Hagrid,” calls Tracey’s floaty voice from somewhere in the back of the group. Draco can see one of her hands sticking up above the other students’ heads. “Are we looking at thestrals?”

“Good eye, Tracey!” Hagrid booms proudly, smiling big and broad as he faces the students fully. There’s an uneasy murmur through the crowd at this, but Hagrid doesn’t let it deter him. “Magnificent creatures, thestrals. Hogwarts has got a whole herd o’ ‘em—”

“Thestrals?!” Parvati Patil exclaims, standing with Lavender Brown, both of them looking like they’ve suddenly found themselves in a horror story. “Those things are meant to bring all kinds of misfortunes to—”

“Oh, do stop your nonsense, Patil,” Draco snaps, glaring over at the frightened girl. He doesn’t mean to attract the entire classes attention, however, but that’s precisely what he gets. All eyes turning to him and he swiftly stands up a little straighter. Oops. “That’s all unfounded superstitions. They’re—”

Now it’s Draco’s turn to be cut off as something nudges his head, startling him, and he looks over. There is a thestral right in front of him, huffing at him, with a familiar scar over its left brow. It nudges at his cheek again and Draco tries, and fails, to fight off the smile on his face.

“They’re also quite sweet,” he finishes lamely, reaching up to pet the familiar thestral on its head. He wonders what drew the creature back over to him, but he isn’t complaining.

Hagrid booms a loud, happy laugh, hands on his hips and head thrown back. “Aye, Draco, yer very right! Thestrals are a gentle sort. Yeh have nothin’ ter fear.”

Draco feels the attention on him shift away as Hagrid begins to explain the benefits of thestrals and just how clever and kind the creatures actually were. There were still a few glances in the blonde’s direction, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“Now, who can see ‘em? Put yer hand up. Come on, now,” Hagrid says. Draco doesn’t bother, it is very clear he can see them with how he’s petting the skeletal equine. He does glance around to see who does, however.

He’s a little surprised by Neville Longbottom, who has been remarkably silent this whole time, but he isn’t surprised by Potter’s hand slowly rising into the air. He does stiffen, however, when he realizes the other boy’s eyes aren’t on Hagrid or the herd of thestrals, but rather on Draco himself, expression unreadable.

Draco swiftly looks away, biting his lip. What had that been about? Why was Potter looking at him?

He tries to focus back on the class, looking back around for more raised hands. The only other seems to be Theodore Nott which, after his initial reaction to the creatures’ appearance, makes plenty of sense to Draco.

Theodore is mainly eying the thestral in front of Draco, however, clearly gauging when he should flee. It makes Draco roll his eyes at him and shift sideways, beckoning him with a flippant wave of his hand.

“Get over here already, you twit,” he says in exaggeration. For a moment, Theodore won’t move, and the Slytherins around them are eying the two in confusion.

“I’m not getting anywhere near that thi—” Theodore begins to hiss, but then the thestral shakes out its head with a loud huff, startling the boy. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Quit with the tough-guy act and come say ‘hi’.”

Theodore gulps, actually gulps, and with Draco’s bland stare he finally inches closer. In the background, Draco can hear Hagrid asking why some of them are able to see the Thestrals while the rest can’t. Granger, of course, answers that thestrals can only be viewed by those that have seen death.

Draco and Theodore aren’t paying much attention anymore, and when the tall, scrawny Slytherin is finally close enough, Draco reaches out to drag him closer by his arm. Maybe a bit rougher than was necessary, but Theodore had grabbed Draco first.

The thestral blows out a breath of warm air, ruffling the boys’ hair, and Theodore scowls around his fear. The creature’s breath really wasn’t the most pleasant smell, Draco would give him that… But then it sniffs at Theodore - Once. Twice – before nudging its beak against his shoulder.

Hesitantly, Theodore reaches up and pats its head. It’s not much of a pet, just a couple, stiff taps with his palm, but it’s something.

“I named this one Lucky,” Draco says quietly, and Theodore looks at him, wide-eyed, then back at the thestral with the scar over its left eye.

The other Slytherin boy takes a deep breath, gives Lucky a few more pats, mumbles a quiet, “Heeeeey, Lucky…” hesitates, and then abruptly turns around. “Yep, I’m done,” he says quickly as he scurries back to the group of Slytherins. Draco arches a brow after him, but doesn’t argue. He couldn’t force the other serpent to like the skeletal beasts in just one meeting.

With a hand still on Lucky’s neck, Draco turns back to the thestral, intent to go back to petting it himself, when a voice completely cuts off his good mood.

“Hem hem.”

Draco thinks he feels bile in his throat as he looks up and sees Dolores Umbridge standing there, all pink and out of place in the wilderness, clipboard in hand and the most patronizing smile on her face. Draco had forgotten about her regular visits to all the other classes. With Hagrid now returned, it made sense that she would make an appearance.

She approaches the congregation like she owns the whole place, and with how much power the Ministry keeps giving her, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if one day soon she did.

“Hello, Professor,” Hagrid greets stiffly. It was in moments like these it really shown through how much of a Gryffindor the half-giant still was. Not standing down from a confrontation, but completely lacking in capable acting skills.

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?” Umbridge begins, her words slow and loud, like she’s talking to a particularly difficult child. It reminded Draco of the people he’d seen in Muggle London who spoke slower and louder to someone who clearly wasn’t a native English speaker. A completely useless practice that served no one any good and was far more insulting than it was considerate.

“Telling you that I would be inspecting your class?”

“I did. I see yeh found the place,” Hagrid begins, eying Umbridge, and Draco thinks the only time he’d ever seen a more passive aggressive interaction had been between Umbridge and McGonagall.

Every single word that follows, every single interruption or demand for clarification or pompous tone out of Umbridge’s mouth, has Draco grinding his teeth. He’s carefully silent, focusing on the thestral with the scarred brow that was quickly becoming his only tether to sanity.

She kept acting like she couldn’t understand Hagrid. She kept speaking like he was an idiot. She kept insinuating that he’d brought dangerous monsters out to meet the children because the Ministry said they were so. She kept writing in that stupid clipboard and speaking aloud just to get Hagrid upset.

Out of the corner of his eye Draco can see many of the other students, namely Potter’s friends, steaming in quiet fury. Draco hopes he isn’t as obvious as them.

Merlin, Umbridge even pulled out some sign language while speaking to the half-giant. What was this woman’s problem? No, scratch that, Draco didn’t want to know. He just wanted her to go away already and—

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco looks up, surprised, to find Umbridge standing right beside him, one of her smiles in place as she holds her clipboard and quill expectantly in hand. It looked like she was waiting for something and Draco shakes out his head before offering the most realistic smile he can fake.

“I’m sorry, Professor, what was that?”

“Are you alright, dearie? Is this very upsetting?” Umbridge asks, sounding like she actually cares, but Draco knows better than to trust that. He also knows, however, that she expects him to trust her, so he needs to choose his words wisely.

“Just some memories coming up. I’m fine,” he replies with a nod and Umbridge nods back before scribbling something in her clipboard.

“Students… experiencing… negative… flashbacks…” she says as she writes and Draco swallows, forcing down his protests. No, he had to stay on her side. He couldn’t make her doubt.

“I’m just trying to get a good read on how you students are faring around such beasts,” Umbridge finally explains. Draco can hear Hagrid attempting to continue the lesson in the background and he realizes Umbridge must have moved on to interviewing the students. And Draco had been her first choice.

“Well…” Draco pauses to think of his answer, turning back to Lucky in front of him. It seemed completely content to stay there so long as it was getting affection and attention. Like some kind of giant, skeletal puppy. “This one is certainly friendly,” he offers, glancing at Umbridge. “But that’s just animals, isn’t it? Some are friendly, some aren’t. Kind of like people.”

Merlin, he hopes he isn’t pushing it with those last few comments. Thankfully, Umbridge hums a small consent, glancing over Draco’s shoulder at Hagrid. “Yes, it really does boil down to how we are born,” she says sweetly, then turns back to Draco with one of the fakest concerned expressions he’s ever seen. “But you do be careful, Mr. Malfoy. These beasts are considered dangerous for a reason.”

She wags her finger at him, actually wags her finger, and Draco bites his tongue from saying anything else. He nods, making a point of stepping back from the thestral. He doesn’t think she can see them, but she smiles in approval and nods. Clearly, she doesn’t see Lucky follow after Draco, demanding further attention.

“You come have tea in my office if you need some, dearie,” she says overly sweetly then turns to walk away. As she walks off towards the next student, Draco thinks he hears her mumbling as she writes, “Monsters… untethered… and… allowed… to roam… near… students…” Oh, damn it all, Draco couldn’t win with her, could he?

He discreetly continues to pet his thestral, watching Umbridge walk through the students, twisting their words as she goes to match her goals. Longbottom especially grows distraught, but not even the Slytherins seem too ecstatic about the turn of events. Theodore, who clearly doesn’t like thestrals, still attempts to say something along the lines of “they’re not bad… they’re just gross…”

Even then, though, Umbridge takes what she wants and writes something down in her clipboard that sounds nothing like what Theodore intended. The only person her methods don’t work on is Tracey who, when asked what she thought of the lesson, just said, “I like thestrals.”

“Do they upset you, Miss. Davis?”

“No. Because I like thestrals. They are cute.”

“Oh? Can you see them?”

“No. I just know they are. In my heart.”

Umbridge doesn’t even write anything down. She just eyes Tracey’s wide-eyed, vacant stare before backing away slowly. It’s the only moment of satisfaction Draco feels during that entire class, despite the friendly thestrals.

It certainly doesn’t help his nerves when he looks away from Umbridge, for a moment, and finds Potter’s striking, green eyes on him yet again. It’s only for a moment, but it’s a moment that has Draco stiffening up immediately until Potter looks away, attention split between Hagrid and Umbridge.

Now, what was that all about?

~ ~ ~

“Did you know Muggles think black cats are bad luck?” a seven-year-old Draco announces proudly from where he crouches with Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott. Draco and Pansy had come over to the Nott estate to play with Theodore, which they and a bunch of other pureblood kids had been doing a lot lately.

Draco’s mother had attempted to explain that Mrs. Nott wasn’t going to be around anymore, that she had gotten very sick very suddenly, and they needed to be there to support the Nott family. Draco didn’t fully understand why, but he was happy to get to go and play with some of the other wizarding kids.

Today, with Pansy in tow, Theodore had dragged them out to the gardens. He’d been in an awful mood for some time now, all pale with red and swollen eyes. He already looked kind of rat-like and this wasn’t doing him any favors.

But then, suddenly, he’d sprung up with such energy when Draco and Pansy had arrived that not even Pansy could complain about getting her brand new sundress dirty outside.

Then Theodore had shown them the kitten.

It was a scrawny thing, all skin and bones, with black, matted fur, a missing, left eye, and shaking like a leaf in Theodore’s hands.

Apparently, Theodore had found her the day prior and had snuck out table scraps for the little thing. It was positively adorable, if pathetic, and Draco and Pansy had quickly crouched on the ground around Theodore to pet her.

“Why would Muggles think that?” Pansy asks Draco, baffled.

Draco actually doesn’t know why, because Max hadn’t known why. They’d just told Draco that black cats were considered unlucky and that they thought it was all bologna and all cats were “super cute.”

“Why do Muggles do anything?” Draco scoffs, scratching behind the kitten’s ear, “Because they’re panicky, stupid animals.”

“Well, I don’t think she’s unlucky,” Theodore mumbles, cradling the kitten close. He looks at the little cat like she’s one of the most important things he’s ever seen. “She found me, didn’t she, so… Yeah, I’m going to name her Lucky! And I’m going to take care of her!”

They eventually take Lucky into their parents, putting on their best begging faces as Theodore asks his father if they can keep the kitten. He eventually relents, they bring the kitten to an animal expert, find out “she” is actually a “he,” and get him all fixed up for house life.

After that, Theodore is a brighter kid. He still gets sad, sometimes, but with Lucky he finally begins to break back out of his shell again.

The cat is a sickly one, however, so he can never take Lucky to Hogwarts, and in May of their third year, Theodore gets a letter that Lucky had passed after the newest bout of illness.

He cries for nearly the entire day, locked up in his room, and while most of Slytherin doesn’t fully understand why he would be so upset over this, Draco and Pansy make sure to sit with him through it all.

~ ~ ~

On the eve of the thestral lesson in Care of Magical Creatures, Draco goes up to the Astronomy Tower, hoping to get a conversation in with Max. When he gets to the top, however, Potter is already waiting there.

The two boys eye each other quietly, Draco slowly moving further into the open space, uncertain why Potter is there. Had he been waiting for Draco or was he here for some other reason?

“You always talk to Max whenever you get really upset,” Potter finally says into the silence, his arms crossed over his chest, and he glances off to the side. “Figured after that crap with Umbridge we’d both be pretty angry.”

“I had to go have tea with her afterwards,” Draco says slowly, head tilting. “Did you want to speak with Max as well?”

Potter shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind, but I was kinda hoping to talk to you,” he admits and Draco tilts his head the other way, expectantly waiting for anything further. Potter, for a moment, fidgets with the material of his jumper, before saying, “So, you can see the thestrals?”

“Yes, Potter, I witnessed Barty Crouch Jr. murder his father last year,” Draco says like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “From this very spot, actually.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Potter asks, ignoring Draco’s tone.

“Why didn’t you?” Draco shoots back, raising both his brows in question. He had suspected Potter would be able to see the thestrals after Diggory’s death, but he hadn’t brought it up. It didn’t feel like it was place.

Potter lowers his gaze, fidgeting getting worse, and he mumbles, “I guess we both didn’t want to talk about it.”

Something was bothering Potter about this, Draco realizes, as the boy wonder continues not to look at him, and he thinks he knows what it is about. He takes a slow step forward, offering the other boy plenty of time to move away if he so desires.

“Just because I do not share every aspect of my life with you, Potter, does not mean I am keeping secrets or am any less trustworthy,” he says simply. Not soft, not harsh, just straightforward.

“Everyone is keeping secrets this year,” Potter spits, suddenly vicious, but Draco suspects it isn’t directed at him this time.

“Yes, but people are allowed to keep their own secrets,” Draco reasons. “Certainly, anything that pertains to you I think they should tell you,” he admits, “But everything else… It’s hardly personal. I am certain you haven’t told me every, little fact about yourself, either.”

Potter’s lips thin and for a while he says nothing. Draco waits, expecting something, but when nothing comes, he sighs and looks out across the grounds. “There is… one thing I have not mentioned,” he begins slowly and he feels Potter looking at him again. “In the DA… I thought it unimportant to worry anyone, but I have my suspicions about a few of the students and myself and the twins have been keeping an eye on them.”

“Which students?” Potter questions, sounding alert.

“Smith. Edgecombe. Blaise, but mostly because he’s a bit of a loose cannon. I have no proof for any of them and thus did not wish to worry you.”

Draco finally looks back at Potter, the two meeting eyes, and for a moment Draco thinks they’ll start fighting again. He doesn’t want to fight, he’s too tired, but he won’t stand down if the lion begins throwing around accusations or insults.

But then Potter deflates with a deep sigh and he looks a touch sad. “You have to stop doing that, you know.”

“Doing what?” Draco demands, standing up straight.

“Going it alone. We’re part of a team, now. We all want the same thing. You can talk to us. Even if it’s just a suspicion, or a piece of information that leads nowhere, or some kind of gripe, you can tell us. You… you can tell me,” Potter lowers his head and Draco’s brows rise in surprise.

“I want you to tell me. I’m sorry about the other day. I don’t… like fighting with you anymore. Well, I never did, but it used to be because I didn’t like you and you were obnoxious and self-centered, but now… I just don’t like it…”

“I…” Draco pauses to take a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. The shaved parts were getting quite long again. “I apologize as well. While I still stand by the fact that you should be more aware of your actions I, perhaps, approached things too… antagonistically.”

“Ron and Hermione were upset, too,” Potter says with just the faintest of smiles.

“I will procure them PopRocks and a new wizarding book respectively,” Draco nods and Potter’s smile grows. The blonde smiles back at him, pleased that this was being settled so much more civilly than usual. He doesn’t know why Potter suddenly turns pink, however, and ducks his head.

“My, uh… favorite color is blue,” Potter suddenly mumbles out of nowhere and Draco looks at him with furrowed brows, like he must have lost his mind.

“Okay…?”

“You said I probably haven’t told you everything about myself, right? So, I’m… telling you some things,” Potter trails off, biting his lip as if he realizes just how ridiculous he’s being.

And he is being ridiculous, but it makes Draco’s chest bloom with heat and he smiles faintly. “My favorite color is green,” he says after a few beats.

“Because of Slytherin?” Potter looks up, brow arched, not looking too impressed, but Draco doesn’t allow it to bother him.

“No,” he says softly, catching Potter’s green eyes, before nodding over towards the wall where they usually sit when they come up here. They sit together, sides pressed close, and talk into the night about all the little details about themselves they’d never shared with each other.

Favorite animal: Potter’s is a dog and Draco’s is a dragon.

Favorite season: Potter’s is autumn and Draco’s is winter.

Place they most want to visit out of the country: Potter’s is India and Draco’s is America.

Favorite tea: Potter’s is black and Draco’s is chamomile with honey.

They went on and on. They never did call Max that night, but the next evening Potter made sure to join Draco again to make up for it with the American Muggle.

~ ~ ~

There is a Hogsmeade visit at the very beginning of December and Draco has hardly been able to sleep as he looks forward to it. Not necessarily because of the trip, but because of what he’s been planning for some time now.

“Is that Sirius Black?” questions Pansy as a small congregation of Slytherins – Draco, Pansy, Blaise, and Theodore - make their way through the streets. Sure enough, walking in the opposite direction as the train station is Draco’s cousin, and the blonde stifles a sigh of relief. He’d been looking around for that man the second they’d shown up in the little town.

“It would appear so,” Draco nods, hands clasped behind his back. “Political climate as it may be, it would be rude to not greet my cousin,” he then begins to walk in Sirius’s direction, but not before he hears a snort from Blaise.

“You totally invited him, didn’t you?” the dark-skinned Slytherin smirks and Draco’s shoulders go tight.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zabini. He’s clearly a Dumbledore supporter and I would not sully the name Mal—”

“Salazar’s tits, Draco, just go say hi to the man and get whatever you need to get done, done,” Theodore groans, head rolling back, “I wanted to be in the Three Broomsticks by now!”

Draco glances back at the other Slytherins, who all look to be terribly unimpressed by Draco’s weak attempts at trickery. The act probably would have worked on the Gryffindors… Maybe Draco was losing his touch.

He heaves a deep sigh, turns back around, and waves over his shoulder. “Very well. I’ll meet you there,” he calls back and hears the sound of footsteps through the snow as they head off.

“We’ll save you a butterbeer!” Pansy calls, sounding far too entertained, but Draco ignores her.

He approaches Sirius with his nose high in the air, and the man finally notices him and smirks, clearly entertained as well.

“You sure do look like the perfect little pureblood,” Sirius says as Draco finally reaches him.

“Thank you. That’s the point,” Draco smirks back at him, then arches a brow and gives the man’s wardrobe a onceover. He was wearing thick robes for the weather that were lined with remarkably thick, grey fur. It made him look like he’d finally gained some weight. “Warm in there?”

“Like a bug in a rug,” Sirius snickers, before pulling slightly at his fur-lined collar. There is a buzzing noise a moment later, followed by large, green beetle flying out from beneath all that fur. It alights on Draco’s shoulder, hiding partially under his Slytherin scarf.

“Hello, Skeeter,” Draco greets with an over-sweet tone. The beetle buzzes its wings once in way of answer, and Draco doesn’t know how she does it but even that sounds remarkably displeased.

“So, my favorite cousin,” Sirius hums, playing up the “casual” tone in his voice, “You planning anything fun today?”

“Just some research,” Draco hums innocently. “You?”

“Surprise visit to Harry. Might even stay the evening. Walk down memory lane. Fun stuff,” Sirius winks, backing away from Draco and heading further into town. “And that’s the story we’re sticking to,” he finishes off, then gives a mock salute before turning away completely and jogging in search of his godson.

Draco rolls his eyes at his cousin’s antics. “Idiot,” he mumbles and the beetle on his shoulder buzzes its wings in agreement. “Come now. People are waiting for me. It’s time to get this plan into action.”

~ ~ ~

Often times, before the DA gets started, Draco will join the Golden Trio and go over what spells would be taught that day. If they went over any spells from Draco’s Magick’s Shadow: The Sophisticated Guide for Aspiring Wizards in the Dark Arts books, then he would help with going over the theory. Otherwise, it was just a nice way to catch up on what was going on in “Gryffindor World.”

It also meant that Draco was there when Tracey and Luna approached Potter before class.

“Excuse us, Harry. Tracey had a concern,” Luna says, cutting off a very heated discussion between Granger and Weasley. They all look over at Tracey, curious, and she keeps her head lowered so that her curtain of hair completely hides her face.

“I am worried, Harry, and I hoped you would be capable of helping me,” Tracey says ominously. Potter arches a brow at her and glances back at Draco, who shrugs helplessly and shakes his head. Housemate or not, he hardly knew how to explain Tracey.

“Okay, what are you worried about, Tracey?” Potter asks, smiling reassuringly at the girl.

“With dark wizards everywhere,” Tracey begins, tapping her finger against her chin, “Are you able to teach us how to defend outselves against the Unforgiveable Curses?”

A hush very swiftly falls over the room, students looking over in varying degrees of surprise and interest. Potter’s eyes have grown wide and, just behind him, Draco shares worried glances with Granger and Weasley. That had been the last thing they’d expected to hear today.

“O-Oh, right… those…” Potter mumbles, his usual confidence while in the DA dwindling at the subject. It had to be a sore subject for him, it was for a lot of them, but… Tracey had a point. With dark wizards at their doorstep, and with incompetent DADA teachers the last few years, it would be important to know what to do.

“Best option is to put a physical barrier between yourself and the caster,” Draco says firmly, taking a step forward, hands folded behind his back. Tracey and Luna’s matching, dreamy stares flick to him.

“That’s right,” Granger adds brightly, being shaken out of her own surprise as she also hurries forward. “All of the Unforgiveables require a clear path from caster to target.”

“Except for the Imperius Curse,” Weasley says, moving to bump his shoulder with Potter, jostling some of the nerves out of the boy. “That just needs eyesight.”

“But…” Potter swallows, takes a deep breath, then looks out at the room with as much confidence as he can scrounge up. “The Imperius Curse can be fought against. I know last year Crouch put most of his classes through it, but was anyone able to fight against it?”

A few hands raise and Draco looks out to identify everyone. Daphne, Astoria, Eve, Angelina, and even Leandra all have their hands raised, but that’s it. Draco knows he, himself, has managed to fight it off, along with a good number of purebloods in Slytherin, but he’d really expected more people to have been able to.

“Whenever I have fought off the Imperius Curse,” Potter begins, every student very quiet and still, “It was like I had two voices in my head. One was the caster, giving me orders, while the other was my own will. It is… difficult to put into words, if I’m being honest, but the best way to visualize it is to hold onto this stubborn need to not be obedient.”

“Practice was how many purebloods learned,” Draco advises and Potter is suddenly looking back at him like he’s said Voldemort was a nice guy. Draco arches a brow and looks back at him in silent question.

“I have always been very, very awful at countering the Imperius, even though mommy tried to teach me,” Tracey explains airily.

“With everyone’s consent, I could cast the curse as needed,” Draco offers, but his eyes are still on Potter, who very abruptly turns fully towards him and is moving to grab his wrist.

“Can you excuse us a moment?” Potter says back to the DA before dragging Draco away, Granger and Weasley close behind. Draco goes along with little fight, more interested to know what had bothered Potter this time. “Malfoy, what the hell?” Potter finally hisses as they all stop in a far corner of the room.

“What is it?” Draco arches a brow.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” Granger also asks, she and Weasley looking at their friend in confusion. Potter glances back at them, bewildered, then waves his hands at Draco for some kind of emphasis.

“He just offered to cast an Unforgiveable!” Potter finally specifies, but he doesn’t get the reaction he’s clearly looking for.

Instead, Weasley tilts his head and says, “Yeah, with consent. To practice defending against it.”

“That’s not… No, that’s not the problem,” Potter retorts with feeling, then turns back to Draco. “You do not need to do this. Just because you’re the Slytherin doesn’t mean you have to be the one to cast the curses.”

“I don’t mind playing the bad guy, Potter. I’ve had practice, you know,” Draco drawls, trying for funny but Potter only frowns deeper.

“You don’t have to be, though.”

“Harry, practice is the best way to learn to fight off the Imperius Curse,” Granger says softly, gently, but Draco can already tell that tone won’t make Potter feel better. If anything, it will infuriate him more.

“Then we’ll get someone else to do it! I’ll do it,” Potter offers urgently.

“Do you know how?” Draco questions blandly.

“I’ll… figure it out,” Potter deflates some.

“The Unforgiveable Curses are challenging to learn, but the Imperius Curse is deceptively easy,” Draco begins, stepping closer and taking ahold of one of Potter’s wrists and pressing his fingers to the pulse point. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Weasley startle, before grabbing ahold of Granger and dragging her away. He doesn’t know what that’s all about, but he’ll take the privacy for what it’s worth.

“Then I can learn it quickly,” Potter says harshly, but the fight is going out of him.

“I do not doubt you could, but it would be best not to test these things out on a bunch of impressionable children, don’t you think?”

The bespectacled boy is silent, head still ducked, but he hasn’t pulled his hand away from Draco so he counts it as a win. “This is where you’re supposed to be your real self,” Potter finally mumbles. “You’re not supposed to have to be the big, mean Slytherin here.”

“But my real self is a big, mean Slytherin,” Draco smirks and Potter snorts.

“Shut up, no you’re not.”

They’re silent for a few beats, before Draco leans in to speak lowly, ensuring only the Boy-Who-Lived can hear him, “I really don’t mind, Potter.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

Draco sighs in the face of Potter’s stubborn pout, rolling his eyes skyward. “You are impossible, boy wonder. Do you know that?”

“That’s a compliment,” Potter smirks weakly, looking up at Draco through his hair, and for a second Draco feels the air in his lungs catch and hold.

“It’s really not,” he whispers, but Potter is still smirking.

They stand like that for a while longer, just staring at each other, until Zacharias Smith is yelling at them, “Hey! You two gonna kiss or are we getting started anytime soon?!”

Potter turns red, pulls his hand away, and spins around all in one movement that lasts a second, leaving Draco startled and wide-eyed. The Boy-Who-Lived is quick to rejoin the class, immediately springing into the next lesson. From just over his shoulder, Draco spots Weasley glancing his way and shaking his head mournfully.

What on earth was all that about?

Draco slowly rejoins the class as well, partnered with the twins as usual, and Potter does go over a few more points about the Unforgiveable Curses, but they never do get around to practicing resistance. Draco highly doubts this will be the last it is mentioned. He won’t allow it to be the last. If not for himself, then for Tracey and her worries.

~ ~ ~

Draco is waiting in the Room of Requirement after he is finished making his rounds at Hogsmeade. He’d spotted Harry and Weasley laughing excitedly with Sirius, clearly surprised to see the man but happy nonetheless. He’d gone to the Three Broomsticks and had a butterbeer with his friends. He’d dropped by Honeydukes and grabbed a couple sugar quills.

Then he’d hurried back to the castle, all with a very frustrated beetle on his shoulder.

The moment he steps into the Room of Requirement, the room taking on the usual meeting room that he and the Golden Trio had been using, the windows appearing to looking out on a sparkling, wintery scene from Draco’s fantasies, the beetle flies off his shoulder and shifts into a very disgruntled-looking Rita Skeeter.

“How dare you waste my time like that,” Skeeter demands, pulling her tacky, purple fur-lined, turquoise robes tightly around herself as she shivers and makes her way towards a fireplace the room has provided. “I thought we were going to get straight to work. Why did you drag me around Hogsmeade running your… silly little errands like that?”

“I had to keep up appearances,” Draco smiles brightly, “You know this.” He unravels his scarf and drapes it over a chair before sitting down. His smile doesn’t leave his face as Skeeter glares daggers over her shoulder. “So glad Sirius was able to get you out here with such little fuss.”

Skeeter scoffs, her usual, cheesy charm put to the side. She knew it wouldn’t do her any good with Draco. “Oh, yes, he’s a real charmer,” she sneers, facing the fire once more.

“Smelled like dog?”

“Wet dog.”

“You have my sympathies,” Draco bows his head, smirking a little bigger, and he hears Skeeter grumble something nasty but doesn’t quite catch the words.

He’d sent Skeeter a letter some weeks ago expressing an interest in a new series of articles she could write. She could even use her pseudonym, for all he cared, but she would need to actually come to Draco to speak to him for this one.

They still wanted to keep her hidden, however, and not raise any suspicions, so they had called in the help of Sirius Black. On the next Hogsmeade visit he would come into town under the guise of a surprise visit with his godson, smuggling a beetle Skeeter into Hogsmeade as he did so. It would garner the Ministry’s attention, but only on Sirius and Potter, allowing Draco, Skeeter, and Granger to get down to business undisturbed for the rest of the weekend.

Draco felt a little bad sending Sirius and Potter into the proverbial pit, but it was temporary, and Sirius wouldn’t be doing anything Order related while he was present. It would all work out fine…

He did have a pack of M&Ms for Potter, though, just in case he came back to the castle more frustrated than usual.

“So, little Draco,” Skeeter finally drawls, stepping away from the fire and taking a seat across the meeting table from Draco. She leans across the table heavily, hands folded together and her green nails sparkling when they move. “What project have you schemed up this time?”

“I have come up with a multi-series piece that, if we play our cards right, we can get posted in the Prophet. Granger has also devised a plan, but I’ll have her tell you it when she gets here.”

“Busy, busy,” Skeeter tsks.

“I think you’ll actually be quite agreeable to our ideas,” Draco hums, setting out the sugar quills on the table and taking up one for himself. After a few, hesitant beats, Skeeter also picks up a sweet for herself.

“And why is that?”

“Because they’re scandalous, obviously,” Draco says dramatically, then leans back in his seat. “Well, for the Ministry, anyway.”

“A scandalous story about the Ministry that you expect to get published in the Prophet? Oh, I really must hear this,” Skeeter arches a thin eyebrow that is very clearly not the same color as the hair atop her head.

“Simple, we present it as educational studies about subjects that have nothing to do with the current distress in our wizarding society. No dark wizards. No traitors. No liars. To them, they’ll think it is a nice, side article to help distract people from all the discourse, but in reality, it will just be one step closer to wide-spread distrust towards the Ministry.”

Skeeter blinks slowly at Draco, her sugar quill held loosely in her fingers, before she’s rolling her head backwards and bursting out laughing. “You expect,” she cackles as Draco looks at her with narrowed eyes, “You actually expect… a… glorified research paper is going to change that many minds? Darling, tell your parents to get their money back. This school is doing nothing for you.”

“Multiple educational articles on the research of multiple types of sentient lifeforms’ way of living,” Draco grinds out sharply, hands clenching into tight fists, and Skeeter slowly calms down to look at him like he’s insane.

“What ever are you going on about?” Skeeter shakes her head, popping the tip of her sugar quill into her mouth, humor gone only to be replaced by disinterest.

“The Ministry has nearly everything wrong when it comes to the way other, magical, sentient life lives. They still think majority of creatures – like centaurs or merpeople – are savages. I have had to listen to Umbridge go on and on about it constantly.”

“And you want to release a bunch of research that says otherwise,” Skeeter waves around the sugar quill in a couple circles as she speaks, eyes rolling.

“I want to release the truth and trick the Ministry into allowing its publication. They’ll hardly read over an article they think has nothing to do with them or their pissing contest with Dumbledore.”

“And if they do?”

“That’s why we use your pseudonym and I continue to remain anonymous,” Draco says with a flippant shrug, finally peeling his own sugar quill and licking at it. “We get all of our research done ahead of time, interviews and the like, then determine what order they will be published in. After that, they’ll build attention with each paper until we have some properly educated witches and wizards asking why the Ministry would lie about this.”

“Followed by, ‘What else have they been lying about?’” Skeeter finishes for him, but she still doesn’t look impressed. “Yes… truly scandalous…” she adds sarcastically, and Draco scowls at her.

“Perhaps not, but it will certainly pave the way for Granger’s idea.”

“And what does that silly, little girl have cooked up for me?”

“You’ll see when she gets here.”

Luckily, they don’t have to wait long, because a few minutes later Granger is bustling into the room, looking a little frazzled and out of breath, but somehow still put together. Draco doesn’t know how she manages it.

She hurries over to Draco’s side, patting down her robes, then pauses to glance at the wintery landscape outside the faux window. “You always pick a winter scene,” the muggleborn says as she takes a seat beside Draco.

“I like winter,” he replies, offering her a sugar quill, which she takes but does not open.

“Hello, Skeeter,” Granger finally addresses the reporter, her hands folded atop the desk and her back straight. She looks incredibly professional, especially compared to Draco and Skeeter’s relaxed lounging.

“Hello, Granger,” Skeeter says back with a patronizing smile, and waves her half-finished sugar quill in Granger’s face. “I hear you have an idea for me.”

“I do,” she replies, not letting Skeeter’s attitude get to her. “I want you to interview Harry on everything that happened to him during the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Excuse me?” Finally, Skeeter looks interested, sitting up straighter and leaning towards Granger in clear intrigue. “That would be…” she pauses, face twisting, before she flops back in her seat in agony. “That would be the piece of a lifetime… except the Ministry would never allow such a thing in the Prophet.”

“Then we don’t post it in the Prophet,” Granger says firmly, waiting until Skeeter peers at her curiously, “We post it in the Quibbler.”

Almost immediately Skeeter is sneering and scoffing. “Uhg, idiot girl, no one cares about the Quibbler.”

“They will after all of the articles we’ve published prior to its release,” Draco smirks and Skeeter arches a brow at him, tentatively interested. “Sensationalize the research articles as much as you like, so long as you keep them factual. I’ll be proofreading, as usual. Then, when you write Potter’s article, keep it completely straightforward and exaggeration-free. The prior articles will drive more and more people away from the Prophet and the Ministry, and when they find the Quibbler’s article the tonal shift and all the factual information will be the final nail in the coffin.”

“You hope,” Skeeter says firmly, sharply. She eyes the two students for a moment over her tacky glasses, before pointing back and forth between them with a glittery nail. “You don’t actually know that this will happen. None of this is a done deal, sweethearts, and you’re only hoping for a particular outcome.”

“We still have to try,” Granger says harshly, brow lowering in her clear displeasure, but she takes a calming breath when Draco lays a hand on her shoulder.

“And besides,” Draco shrugs, looking back at the reporter, “You don’t have much of a choice, now do you?” he reminds her and her scowl is something to behold. That’s right, she was still under his thumb and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he could. “We’re graciously giving you all these great ideas, too, do you really have room to complain?”

Skeeter glares daggers at Draco, fist clenching so tightly around her sugar quill the stick snaps in half. Draco just keeps smirking, waiting, until she releases a long, angry breath.

“Where did you want to begin?” she growls through grinding teeth.

“Tonight, you will interview Potter. Tomorrow we will go around and interview the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest and merpeople in the Black Lake.”

“And the house elves in the Hogwarts kitchens,” Granger adds on swiftly, earning a patient glance from Draco.

“Right… and the house elves in the kitchens. Then, in the evening, you will sneak back onto the Hogwarts Express with Sirius and it will be up to you to get the rest of the research.”

“What other… sentient lifeforms will you be leaving me responsible for?” Skeeter questions, sounding downright furious. It really put a smile on Draco’s face.

“Goblins. Oceanic merpeople. Giants, if you can manage. If you think of any, go for it, and if we come up with any, we’ll contact you,” the Slytherin replies with a cheerful smile, Skeeter’s glare only getting harsher.

“This is slave labor,” Skeeter hisses lowly.

“No,” Granger says before Draco can reply, and she’s back to looking like the definition of professionalism. “This is business.”

~ ~ ~

“I hate her.”

“I know, Potter,” Draco drawls for the millionth time that evening.

“I really, really hate her.”

“I hate her too! And I don’t even know her,” Max calls over the radio.

It was the evening of Sirius and Skeeter’s arrival and Draco and Potter had ended up heading up to the Astronomy Tower to vent and talk with Max.

The interview had been strenuous, Potter not too excited to recount everything that had happened to him, especially to a scowling Rita Skeeter. But, with Granger and Weasley flanking him, supporting him, and Draco reading Skeeter’s notes over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t trying anything funny, he was eventually able to confidently tell his story.

They’d all left the Room of Requirement afterwards, adjusted it into a guest bedroom, and let Skeeter inside on her own. Unbeknownst to the reporter, Draco had placed multiple charms on the door that would tell him if she attempted to leave and snoop around.

That was when Draco and Potter had snuck away and Draco and Max got to hear all about Potter’s day, adjusted for Muggle ears.

From what Draco could gather, Sirius’s presence had definitely gotten the Ministry’s attention and Umbridge had made a very abrupt, unwanted entrance. She’d demanded to know why Sirius was there, demanded he leave, called him a lying criminal, and when nothing seemed to garner any desirable effect, she’d decided it was her duty to tail them.

“A whole day out with Umbridge,” Draco shakes his head in sympathy. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a stone wall, with the radio in his lap while Potter paced around.

“I finally get to see Sirius again and she comes along and ruins it. Ron hardly helped, either!” Potter waves his hands around animatedly, clearly still furious.

“Did Weaselby abandon you?” Draco coos.

“He abandoned me!” Potter throws his hands skyward and across the radio Max’s laughter can be heard clear as day. “Ran away the first chance he got!”

“Perhaps he knew he would only make things worse with the pink terror? Weasley is surprisingly observant in the most peculiar instances,” Draco offers, though he can’t be sure. He can’t think of any other reason Weasley would bail like that.

“You should totally get him back, though!” Max exclaims, suddenly incredibly excited, and Potter pauses in his pacing to look at the radio.

“Any suggestions?” Potter asks and Max makes a show of humming loudly in thought.

“Cover all his things in tinfoil?” they finally offer. Potter, for a moment, looks thoughtful, before he groans in frustration.

“I don’t know where I’d even get that much tinfoil,” he growls and Draco arches a brow at him.

“I can send it in your next care package!” Max says giddily, “Eric just got his driver’s license. He’ll drive me to the store—”

“No I won’t!” comes Eric’s voice in the background.

“Mama will drive me to the store!”

“Perhaps we can determine something more affordable at a later date,” Draco finally cuts in, smirking when Potter pouts and Max whines loudly.

Evidently done pacing, Potter finally moves over to sit beside Draco, plopping down with his arms crossed and, with little preamble, dropping his head onto the blonde’s shoulder with an unhappy grumble. “You really are having a bad day,” Draco observes, surprised by Potter’s complete lack of hesitation, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches up with one hand to card his fingers through the other boy’s dark curls in a move he hopes is relaxing.

“I’m real sorry you gotta deal with such shitty teachers, Harry,” Max says after a few beats. “Trust me, I know the feeling. Best thing you can do, usually, is just not draw attention to yourself.”

“That doesn’t sound very like you at all,” Draco observes, glancing at the radio.

“Meh. Maybe not, but sometimes, y’know, it’s just not worth the trouble. It’s not like these teachers are gonna change any time soon. They think they’re in the right!” Max pauses to take a breath before they can wind themself up too much. “At a certain point you just gotta take care of yourself first.”

“Malfoy is always trying to tell me how important being selfish is,” Potter grumbles, his face burying itself more and more into Draco’s shoulder the more Draco pets his hair.

“Well – and don’t let this get to your head, Draco – he’s right!” Max exclaims with feeling and Draco can feel Potter shift to glance at the radio. “We’re all human. We’re all allowed to be selfish every now and again. Make choices just for ourselves. It doesn’t take away any of our value. If anything, it adds to our own personal value in ourselves!”

Draco feels Potter smile more than he sees it, which manages to make Draco smile, too. “I’m still sorry you gotta deal with that… what did you guys call her?”

“The pink terror?” Draco suggests.

“Hmm, no. The other one.”

“The toad?” Potter says and Max snaps over the connection.

“That’s it! Sorry you gotta deal with that toad…” the Muggle trails off momentarily, before coming back with, “Hey, do’ya think she’d turn back into a prince if a princess kissed her?”

Potter barks a laugh at that, pleased, before he’s saying, “I’d rather we not find out, thanks. We already got Prince Charming, here, he doesn’t need the competition.”

“I am insulted you think anyone could be competition to me, Potter,” Draco drawls overdramatically, and Potter snickers.

“I would never, your majesty,” Potter says with a flourish of one hand before crossing his arms again.

“Because there is no one who compares to me,” Draco puffs out his chest.

“No one,” Potter agrees with a chuckle.

Then Max is groaning over the connection, sounding exhausted and agitated, before they’re saying, “Oh my god, you two are killing me with this crap.”

“What are you on about, peasant?” Draco questions.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Pretend I’m not here!” then, in a grumble they add, “You’re blind to everything else, anyway.”

“What?” Potter asks.

“What?”

“What did you say at the end?”

“Pretend I’m not here.”

“No, after that.”

“What?”

“The thing you just said.”

“What about it?”

“What was—”

Draco lays his hand flat atop Potter’s head now, stopping him as his agitation was clearly growing. “Stop while you’re ahead,” Draco hisses and Potter groans, sinking back against Draco’s side, the two listening to the familiar sound of Max’s laughter.

~ ~ ~

Marietta Edgecombe was winding up to be the only person in the whole DA that Draco was suspicious of. Smith had proven to be devoted to the lessons and Blaise appeared to be enjoying himself with everything he was learning. But Edgecombe hadn’t calmed down throughout the entire year.

“Her mother is in the Ministry, isn’t she?” Pansy questions from her place in her bed. Draco had been dragged into the fifth-year girl’s dorm room by Eve, who wanted to spruce up his undercut before the winter break. Draco had argued at first, seeing as he was trying to look like the perfect pureblood right now, but Eve had reminded him that there were ways of styling his hair to look all nice, proper, and boring.

Millicent wasn’t present, thankfully. She was the only girl in their year that Draco didn’t trust at all. Pansy, despite not being a part of the DA, knew plenty about it and they knew she wouldn’t rat them out.

And it was so easy to appease Pansy with some gossip.

“Was it her mom or her dad?” Daphne asks as she hands Eve a hair pin to pin up some of Draco’s hair. He’s sitting on a stool in the middle of the dorm room, completely surrounded by Slytherin women, one of whom had a whole series of sharp implements right behind him.

No wonder everyone was scared of them…

“It is her mother,” Tracey says distantly, sitting on her bed as she braids a colorful gimp out of shoelaces. Draco would not be here for Christmas, he would be at the manor, so he had gone ahead and given out a few Christmas gifts. Tracey’s had been a How-To book on making “gimps.” Apparently, they were all the rage in Muggle America right now…

He’d already given Eve hers – a collector’s edition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy he’d managed to get with Tana’s help – and now he’d handed out his gifts to the Slytherin girls while he’d been in their room.

“She works as a Floo Network Regulator,” Draco offers, Eve pinning up all the hair they would want to keep long on him. “And she’s a big supporter of the Minister.” He’d not met her in person, but a few people had stood out during his visits to the Ministry over the summer. Particularly the devote Ministry supporters.

“And she keeps tabs on the Floo Network?” Eve mumbles around the bobby pins and clips in her mouth. “That’s definitely not good.”

“Definitely,” Sophie agrees. She’s got a pack of chocolate frogs from Draco that she’s very swiftly devouring with no shame, examining each card she finds in each packet. “The Ministry could have her pay specific attention to the floos in a certain area and figure out exactly where they come and go.”

“Which is a massive breach in privacy, but there are likely no laws to regulate it,” Eve grumbles, displeased.

“Nope!” Pansy says, chipper, a brand-new fairy Life-Mimic Figurine from Draco fluttering around her fingers to add to her collection. “But it all makes sense why Edgecombe is all nervous in your little club. Her mother probably told her to behave or something.”

“She is attempting to make decisions for herself while fully conscious that these decisions could have dire consequences to her mother’s position and her family’s reputation, but if she went against Dumbledore’s Army she would be going against her best friend Cho and any trust she has built up with the other students, likely ruining her own, personal reputation rather than her family’s,” Tracey says blankly, her big eyes focused on her braiding.

The room falls silent, looking over at the spacey girl, but she does not acknowledge them further, so they go back to their own talking.

“Almost makes you feel sorry for her, doesn’t it?” Daphne mumbles. She has a new romance novel from Draco in her lap, and a simple pendant for Astoria. Draco didn’t know Astoria very well, but she always had on some kind of jewelry and he figured a pendant would be a nice addition.

“Not really, no,” Eve says blandly, Pansy and Sophie letting out snickers while Daphne turns a little pink. “She wasn’t forced to join the DA. She should live with her choices and deal with the consequences.”

“I thought you said she was pressured into joining by Chang?” Pansy asks.

“Pressured. Not forced,” Eve waves her comb at Pansy for emphasis, which Draco can see out of the corner of his eye.

“That pisses me off too, actually,” he says when Eve moves back to measuring out where she wanted to shave. “Whatever Edgecombe decided, she still would have been a threat to the DA because of Chang. She shouldn’t have said anything to her, friend or not. She put the whole plan in danger by spilling it to the nearest Ravenclaw she knew.”

“And they sure love showing off how much they know,” Sophie mumbles, half to herself, but Draco doesn’t notice her. Instead, he’s focused on the devious smirk growing on Pansy’s face.

“Just spit it out, Parkinson. You clearly want to say something,” Draco rolls his eyes and Pansy giggles.

“Alright, but you asked for it,” she shrugs, then slips off of her bed to saunter over and stand over Draco, still smirking. “Are you really all that upset over what Chang did because of what it could have done to the DA? Or are you just upset because it’s Chang?”

Draco arches a brow in confusion and behind him he hears Eve groan loudly. “Why would I be upset because it is just Chang?” he questions. Once again, Eve groans, this time louder.

“Because Potter’s got the hots for the Ravenclaw Seeker,” Pansy purrs, leaning forward so she’s in his face.

Draco’s heart suddenly jumps, speeding up, but he stamps down on that and keeps his voice steady, “Yes…? He does… And? I suppose it does get rather annoying watching Granger constantly trying to get them alone. Painful to watch, really.”

“You think that’s painful?” Eve hisses to herself in clear agony, although Draco really doesn’t understand why.

“Now, now, Draco, no need to be coy,” Pansy purrs, but as Draco keeps staring at her blankly, her expression begins to shift to dawning shock. “Oh Merlin, he’s not being coy.”

“He’s not being coy,” Eve agrees, finally moving back to Draco’s back to finish up her preparations. Pansy looks at the muggleborn Slytherin in clear shock, before looking back at Draco.

“What are you two on about?” Draco demands, growing frustrated.

“This is what I have to live with,” Eve says, pulling a little more roughly at Draco’s hair than he thinks is entirely necessary.

“You have our sympathies,” Sophie snickers as Pansy finally steps back and flops onto her bed with a groan of misery.

“Seriously, what are you all talking about?!” Draco questions, trying to turn his head, but Eve yanks it back into place and holds it still.

“I dunno…” Daphne says, but she isn’t talking to Draco. She’s talking to the rest of the girls in the room. “I don’t think he actually has that much to worry about with Cho. It looks kind of like only Hermione and Cho think there’s something there.”

The buzz of the clippers cuts off any question or demand Draco might have for them, Eve yelling over the noise, “No more talking! Only shaving!”

He never does get a proper answer for his questions, but that evening, during a wandless tutoring lesson up in the Astronomy Tower, he notices Potter looking at his fresh undercut, followed by the boy wonder tripping over his own feet.

~ ~ ~

Whenever anyone of the DA was spotted in the halls, near the evening, heading for a meeting, they would always say they were heading up to practice their wandless magic. They still wanted to be careful about being spotted too often, however, so it was meant to be used only as precaution.

Draco, being the double agent of the group, had a bit more leeway. He could start heading for the meetings far earlier, sometimes even right after meeting Umbridge for tea, and if anyone asked what he was doing all he had to say was Prefect work.

It was thanks to his capabilities to leave early that he ended up at the Room of Requirement before any of the other students. It is also how he ended up running into Dobby during the last DA meeting of the year, who was in the process of decorating the entire room with Harry Potter themed Christmas decorations.

“Well, Dobby, you’ve really outdone yourself,” Draco says, eying an ornament with the Boy-Who-Lived’s face on it.

“Dobby just wanted to be festive,” Dobby replies, ears lowered, looking downtrodden. “Does Master Draco think Dobby should take them down…?”

“No, absolutely not,” Draco immediately replies, smirking as he pulls out his wand. “Why, in fact, I think I’ll help you along.” Dobby quickly brightens, just about vibrating out of his multiple, knitted hats. Draco had wondered where all of Granger’s knitting was going…

They finish up decorating in record time and, upon a request from Draco, Dobby goes and fetches them two party poppers. The moment the door opens and Potter finally makes his appearance, both Draco and Dobby startle the life out of him with the poppers, before exclaiming, “Have a Harry Christmas!”

Dobby looks particularly pleased with himself, while Draco’s grin is downright evil while Potter clutches his chest and looks around at all the decorations. When he realizes what’s happened Potter turns bright red and looks to Draco in clear embarrassment, anger, and accusation.

“Oh, don’t look at me, Potty! This was all Dobby’s brilliant idea!” Draco says brightly, motioning to the little house elf. “Aren’t you grateful?”

Potter is still bright red as he turns to Dobby, but he tries to force a smile. “I am… very grateful. Thank you, Dobby. You shouldn’t have,” he says through clenched teeth. Dobby looks like he’s been given the world, beaming at Potter.

When the elf finally apparates away, Draco keeps grinning as Potter marches towards him and points an accusatory finger into his face. “You’re helping me clean this up,” he growls, then spins around and begins removing every ornament with his face or name on it he can find.

“Aww, but Dobby and I worked so hard on it,” Draco whines overdramatically, laying the back of his hand to his forehead.

Slowly, so slowly Draco thinks he hears scraping, Potter turns his head to look back at him and glare. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you’re not getting out of this one so easily,” Potter hisses and Draco raises his hands in surrender, but a laugh is still bubbling out of his mouth. He’d never seen the boy wonder so embarrassed!

“Very well,” he shrugs, sauntering over to Potter’s side, smirking. He pulls down a few ornaments in silence, before leaning towards Potter and whispering in his ear, “You know… You’re not very intimidating when you’re all red like that.”

If possible, Potter turns an even deeper shade of red, a shiver running up his back, before swatting at Draco, making the blonde laugh again. “Oh, shut up and get that ridiculous sign down,” he snaps and Draco makes a show of bowing to him, before shifting into a snow leopard and climbing easily into the rafters. He unhooks the sign that reads “Have a Harry Christmas” with his claws before leaping back down, shifting, and folding it up.

They make decent progress getting rid of all the decorations together when Luna and Tracey come in. Draco is back up in the rafters, removing some of the tinsel that had little lightning bolts hanging from them, when Luna says, “Oh look. Mistletoe.”

He glances down where Luna is pointing at a strand of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling and Tracey is following her finger up to it.

“I bet that stuff is infested with nargles,” Tracey replies.

“Oh, they are,” Luna agrees. She’s wearing a necklace made of shoestrings, braided as a gimp, with a single bottlecap dangling from the middle. Beside her Draco can just see through her curtain of hair Tracey wearing earrings with slices of cake at the end.

Evidently, they’d exchanged their Christmas gifts early, too.

“You two are also standing right beneath it,” Draco calls, then wiggles his fingers at them and smirks. “Kisssssss.”

“Ignore him,” Potter calls from behind one of the many trees, still removing ornaments. “You don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, it is alright, Harry,” Luna says before bending forward to place a kiss on Tracey’s cheek.

“That doesn’t count!” Draco calls, still smirking and having far too much fun.

“Sometimes a kiss on the cheek is more meaningful than a kiss on the lips,” Tracey says sagely, but her cheeks have turned pink.

“Could you get that down while you’re up there, Malfoy?” Potter requests, glancing up at him, and Draco looks over at the mistletoe.

“What? Why? It’s so entertaining! What if we could get Granger and Weasley under it?”

“That would be quite the underhanded thing for a best friend like me to do,” Potter says, placing his hands on his hips while looking up at Draco. “So, it’s a good thing I’m not the one up there to make that decision.”

The two boys smirk at each other and Draco leaps back down, the mistletoe left alone.

~ ~ ~

Two days before the final DA meeting of the year, just before the Christmas Break, Draco and the Golden Trio find themselves in the Room of Requirement’s meeting room. The faux windows show an autumn scene of a forest of aspen trees, their leaves fiery oranges, yellows, and reds.

Draco has learned this is usually Potter’s doing when he is the first one to come and set up the room.

They had been going over their plans for the coming year and the spells they could all work on over the break for the DA. Draco had assured them they wouldn’t need to worry about their Trace readings, either.

“They ignore the Trace for students during the school year, even during breaks, since they’re constantly surrounded by magic and it would be pointless,” Draco explains.

“Always wondered about that,” Weasley says around a mouthful of biscuits. Max’s family had sent Draco a massive tin of “Royal Dansk Butter Cookies” for Christmas.

“This thing is huge!” Potter had exclaimed when Draco had shown him the bucket-sized tin.

“It’s for y’all to share! You’re always mentioning your friends, so Mama and Papa thought it’d be a nice treat,” Max says over the radio, sounding chipper and giddy.

“We call them biscuits here, you know,” Draco says, popping off the lid to look at the careful assortment of cookies.

“We call them cookies. Biscuits here are all puffy bread and butter,” Max says back.

“That’s a scone here,” Potter offers absently as he takes one of the rectangle cookies with sprinkles on top.

“I like cherry scones. Papa sometimes makes a bunch of them for bake sales at my school.”

Draco had already shared nearly a third with Eve, who had seemed particularly excited to see the tin before Draco had even opened it. “It either has butter biscuits inside, or popcorn,” Eve had explained when asked, then took plenty for herself and for her mother when she went home for the holidays.

Granger had also been excited when Draco had lugged the big container into the Room of Requirement, quickly snatching one biscuit of every design, while Weasley just kept reaching in and grabbing the first thing he could grab. This had to be some Muggle tradition, he was realizing, munching on his own biscuit.

So, they had snacks while they planned. Spellbooks were opened all around them, including Draco’s three volumes of dark arts, and they were pouring over some possible new spells to learn.

Each of them would practice what they already knew while attempting at least one new spell, then hopefully share it with the DA when they got back. Potter was attempting to make a few lesson plans ahead of schedule and looked like he was getting a particularly nasty headache.

“Teachers have my sympathy,” the bespectacled boy grumbles, still looking down at his parchment where he’d scribbled out schedule after schedule, uncertain what would flow best.

“You’d make a good teacher, I think,” Draco says, looking up from where he was skimming through one of the library’s spellbooks. “Professionally, I mean.”

“I agree,” Granger hums, glancing back from where she’d been writing on the chalkboard all the spells they were finding that seemed to be useful.

Potter’s cheeks clearly redden at the compliments, but he offers them both a small smile. “Thanks. I’m just glad this is helping anyone,” he replies after a beat, then they all go back to their work.

It isn’t until a few minutes later, after Draco and Weasley have given Granger a few more spells to write on the board, when Potter looks up like he’s just remembered something.

“Oh! Malfoy!” Draco looks over curiously, pausing mid-chew of one of the biscuits. “The Weasley’s invited me to the Burrow over the Christmas break, and I asked Mrs. Weasley if it was okay, so… uh…” Whatever Potter had been about to say, quite abruptly he seems nervous to say it. He’d been so high energy about it, too.

“He wants to know if you wanted to come, too,” Weasley says around his own mouthful of biscuit, crumbs flying onto the table when he speaks. Draco glances at him, one brow arched.

“I doubt I’d be very welcome,” the Slytherin states honestly. He didn’t feel very upset about that, either. He didn’t know the Weasley family too well. He was closest to the twins, then Ron, then maybe Ginny thanks to the DA, and the rest were pretty foreign to him.

“That’s not true! Mrs. Weasley said she’d be happy to see you again,” Potter says stubbornly. That’s right, the last time Draco had seen the matriarchal Weasley had been at the end of fourth year when he’d shifted into a snow leopard and laid with Potter in his infirmary bed.

“You might as well come,” Weasley says with a shrug. “Nobody thinks you’re as bad as you used to be and with Percy doing… whatever the hell he’s doing, we got a little extra space.”

Draco blinks owlishly at the ginger, coming up short in way of reply. The pureblooded Gryffindor was acting flippant about it all, like it was no big deal, but Draco could see right through that. This was a big deal for the Weasley family to be extending an olive branch to a Malfoy like this.

“Plus, I think mom already knitted you a jumper,” Weasley adds swiftly, not looking at the blonde.

“That basically means you’re stuck,” Granger says, and when Draco looks at her, she’s smiling at him.

“Oh… well…” Draco pauses, swallows, then lets out a long breath. “I’ll… see what I can do about visiting. I planned to head home for the holidays, spend time with mother. Plus, father has floo powder that can lead him straight to the Ministry I was hoping to use.”

“Floo powder? I thought it was the floos themselves that allowed people to travel directly into the Ministry,” Granger questions, looking confused and curious.

“Usually,” Weasley says, finally swallowing his food as he speaks to the girl. “But some officials, like Aurors, travel so much that they designed special powder for them instead. Bloody brilliant stuff.”

“Well, father travels enough that he was given the privilege of this specialized powder,” Draco waves his hand dismissively, “and I intend to take full advantage of it while I can.”

“But you’ll try to visit?” Potter asks hopefully.

“I’ll try. I’d imagine there would be tons of land for me to run around on in my animagus form?” Draco asks.

“Tons,” Granger nods.

“Sirius has already taken advantage of that, too,” Potter chuckles and he and Draco share a small smile, before finally they go back to what they had been working on before.

~ ~ ~

When the final DA meeting of the year ends, no one immediately rushes out. Students linger to wish each other happy holidays, ask what they plan to do over the break, and a couple exchange gifts before heading out.

“Everyone’s really chilled out, haven’t they,” Eve observes at Draco’s side, the two of them watching as Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and Sophie Roper exchange a series of haircare products, Blaise Zabini and Zacharias Smith snicker with their heads leaned towards each other, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass walk alongside Ginny Weasley as they head for the door, and Luna Lovegood and Tracey Davis are debating with Anthony Goldstein over the existence of… something.

It is remarkable how much the students have eased up around the Slytherins. Draco isn’t sure when it all started, but it is refreshing to see how every house intermingles with each other.

“I think it’s lovely,” Leandra says, standing on Eve’s opposite side.

“As do I,” Draco agrees with a nod. The class had been great, as usual, even if he hadn’t managed to trick Weasley and Granger under the mistletoe. They’d managed to get Abbot to kiss Longbottom’s cheek and, later in the lesson, Blaise had literally dipped Lee Jordan and given him a loud smacking kiss on the lips. The whole class had shrieked with laughter as Lee had stood up straight with a shocked look on his face, the twins particularly giving him a hard time.

So, a success in Draco’s books.

“Looks like everyone’s heading out, though,” Eve says, watching as, with most pleasantries and presents out of the way, the students were making their exit. “Guess we should, too.”

“Go on ahead,” Draco waves off the two girls, looking around for the Golden Trio. Leandra calls a good-bye as she and Eve head off and Draco turns away when he finally spots Potter standing at the front of the class.

Potter spots him, too, when Draco starts walking over, and the smile he sends the blonde is blinding. His whole face lights up and Draco is amazed he’s able to keep walking with how his legs suddenly feel weak.

Then, like a switch has been flipped, everything feels heavy when he spots someone else approaching Potter from the side. Cho Chang is making her way towards Potter, looking sheepish, and just beyond her Draco can see Granger nudging Weasley giddily.

Oh… Oh! Draco sees what’s going on. It was finally happening. Potter and Chang would finally get a moment alone to “hash things out.” No wonder Granger looked so excited as she dragged Weasley towards the door.

That didn’t explain why Draco suddenly felt so cold inside. Like his bones had frozen up, but his very tendons were set afire. Draco didn’t understand it, but he must be making a face because Potter’s own face looks concerned, and he’s opening his mouth to likely call out to Draco, but then…

“Hey, Harry?” Chang calls, drawing Potter’s attention away from Draco, and without his striking green eyes on him, Draco quickly turns away and makes his escape. Although he isn’t sure why he feels like he’s “escaping” anything.

He’s out in the halls before he knows it, walking along swiftly, and trying to work out the energy that is suddenly coursing through him. He spies the twins and Lee talking lowly in a nearby alcove and decides that’s as good a distraction as any.

“Heya, Draco!” calls Lee when he approaches. Draco wasn’t as familiar with the twins’ best friend, but he seemed like an okay sort. Loud and blunt, but remarkably aware.

“Hello, Lee. Fred. George,” Draco nods to each one individually, confident in his newfound capability to tell the twins apart. The two Weasley boys certainly seemed happy someone other than Potter and themselves could do it.

“Doing alright there, Draco?” Fred asks and George’s hand lays on his shoulder, holding him steady.

“Yes, yes, just fine.”

“You coolio?” George asks with a smirk and Draco snorts, arching his brow at him.

“Yes, I’m very coolio,” he says with a roll of his eyes, the twins immediately snickering so Draco looks to Lee. “Wouldn’t mind a distraction, however. Discussing any new inventions?”

“Just a couple new varieties on their sickly sweets, or whatever they’re calling them now,” Lee shrugs.

“I was actually wondering what you all thought of a skeleton key,” Draco suggests, and the twins brighten up immediately at the prospect of new ideas.

“That’d be pretty handy,” Fred says with a nod. “A classic.”

“We’d need to find a way of making it affordable, though,” George reminds his brother.

“And legal,” Lee adds, but is mostly ignored. He and Draco share a longsuffering look. Any voice of reason very rarely penetrated the twins’ bubble when they got like this. Lee, however, was the type to then go along with the twins anyway, while Draco was the type to walk away and watch at a distance. Maybe sell tickets, too, if given the opportunity.

“My other idea was portable music players,” Draco tacks on, watching in amusement as the twins quickly take that idea in, too. He’d been wondering why wizarding society hadn’t figured out portable music yet, especially after he’d experienced the wonders of a Walkman with Potter.

“Maybe something to hook to a belt?” Fred suggests, eyes sparkling.

“Or strap to your wrist?” George nods along.

“A necklace might work,” Draco adds, and the twins eagerly agree.

“What about a keychain you can move to multiple places depending on what you want?” Lee says and the twins look like they might explode with excitement. Because of that excitement and Draco’s desire for distraction, he hardly notices the dragging footsteps behind him until Fred and George both look over his shoulder in clear surprise.

“Whoa, Harry, you look awful,” George says and Draco looks around swiftly, eyes wide when he sees a downtrodden Potter walking right past them, a vacant look in his eyes until he’d been called out to. It looked like he hadn’t even noticed the four scheming students.

“Are you alright?” Draco asks, immediately on alert. Hadn’t he just come from finally talking to the girl he liked? Shouldn’t he be coming out of there in a happy daze? Instead, he looked completely miserable, not delighted.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Malfoy, don’t worry about it,” Potter immediately waves him off, trying for relaxed and failing miserably. “Not sure when I’ll see you next so… Happy Holidays, Malfoy… See you.”

Draco tries to open his mouth and say something else, but Potter has already turned away and is hurrying off, his shoulders up to his ears as he slouches in on himself.

Draco watches, mouth hanging open, but unsure what to do. He has no idea what that had been about, and he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to even address it, but then a hand is falling heavily on his shoulder and he turns around. Fred, George, and Lee are all looking at him with overdramatic understanding, Fred’s hand on his shoulder.

“Go to him,” George says with more emphasis than seems needed, but Draco learned long ago not to question their antics. He just needed to take them at face value and… yeah, going after Potter seemed like the thing he should be doing right now.

He nods, turns, and hurries off down the corridor, following after Potter’s trail. Except, clearly, Potter had been moving a lot faster than Draco thought he’d been, and he can’t figure out which way he must have gone.

Not one to be so easily deterred Draco shifts into a snow leopard, sniffs carefully at the air, then takes off.

When he finds Potter, still alone, he appears to be walking down a corridor he really has no business in. It doesn’t lead him to Gryffindor Tower, or the Astronomy Tower, or anywhere Draco can think Potter would want to be at this time. That, in itself, concerns Draco.

“Potter!” Draco calls as he shifts back into a human midstride, his long legs hurrying to catch up as Potter startles and swirls around.

“Malfoy? What are y—” Potter begins, clearly still intent to pretend like everything’s fine, but the moment Draco is close enough he’s grabbing ahold of both of Potter’s wrists.

“Do not lie to me again,” Draco warns, but there is little heat to his voice. “What is wrong?”

Potter’s eyes have widened behind his glasses, staring up at Draco in surprise. This close Potter has to crane his neck upwards to look at Draco, and Draco has to crane his down, but neither seem to care.

“I saw you and Chang before I left,” Draco begins and Potter’s eyes shift to just the slightest bit horrified and it sets off alarm bells in Draco’s head. “Did something happen? I would have suspected you to be happy if something had but…” Realization dawns on Draco, and along with it such an unexpected surge of anger it has him speaking through grinding teeth, “Did she turn you down? Is that what happened?”

“No! No, that’s not it at all!” Potter quickly jumps in, eyes watching Draco as he seethes, before widening. The Gryffindor extracts one of his hands from Draco’s with some effort, then reaches up and lays it on the back of Draco’s neck, fingers brushing through buzzed strands at the base of Draco’s head. “Malfoy. Breathe.”

Draco takes in a sudden gulp of air. He hadn’t even realized… Damn it, why was this all making him so upset?

“She’s wrong if she turned you down,” he says with feeling once he’s gotten his breathing back under control and he watches Potter bite his lip and look away. “I’m not wrong, Potter,” he insists roughly, “Anyone would be lucky to—”

“She didn’t turn me down!” Potter nearly yells, silencing Draco, and the fingers still laying at the back of Draco’s neck curl self-consciously. Then, far more quietly, “I… turned her down…”

“What?” Draco blinks a few times in surprise. His grip on Potter’s wrist loosens some, his fingers a loose hook around the appendage. “Why…? I thought… Granger always went on and on about getting you and Chang together…”

“Yeah, well… Hermione can be blind, sometimes, when she sets her mind to something. Ron actually figured it all out before her…”

“Figured what out?”

Potter stiffens, like he’s suddenly very frightened by what Draco has asked, and he still isn’t looking at the blonde. Feeling bold, Draco’s loose fingers shift to instead hold and squeeze Potter’s hand, running his thumb over the knuckles.

“That I… like someone else…” Potter finally whispers.

“What?” This was news to Draco. “Since when?”

Potter swallows, takes one, two, three deep breathes, then finally looks up at Draco with the most mournful eyes he’d ever seen. “Since Yule Ball.”

“Last year?” Draco’s brows rise, “Potter, I—”

Draco is silenced when Potter suddenly pulls at the back of his head, bringing him just low enough for him to stand on his toes and press his lips to Draco’s lips. It is urgent, but soft, like Potter couldn’t stop himself but he’s absolutely terrified while he does it.

Draco, for his part, can’t move. He’s frozen, staring right at Potter’s eyes that have screwed tightly shut, feeling the way the Gryffindor presses in close to get to Draco.

One of them is shaking, but Draco isn’t sure who, and it feels so foreign and surprising, but so incredibly right and perfect and… it is over far sooner than it should be, with Potter releasing Draco and backing up quickly like he’s been burned.

The other boy’s head is lowered, eyes turned away, and he’s curling in on himself as he takes more and more steps backwards. He’s retreating, Draco realizes with a jolt. He’s retreating because he’s scared of how Draco will respond. Draco doesn’t even know how he’s going to respond; he just knows Potter shouldn’t be afraid of him like this.

“Potter…” he starts quietly, but Potter shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You…” Potter stops, swallows, then says, “Happy Christmas, Draco,” then turns around and flees through the castle as fast as he can.

Draco is left standing there, in the middle of the corridor, with a hand coming up to touch his lips where just a few seconds ago Harry Potter had been kissing him. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He’s just… shocked. Shocked and… so… so incredibly, unbelievably, astonishingly happy he isn’t sure what to do with himself.

And Potter just ran away without properly explaining himself!

He was going to strangle that boy when he sees him tomorrow. He was going to strangle him and demand answers and Salazar’s tits, he was going to kiss that boy back for all he was worth!

When Draco finally manages to find his legs again and makes it down to the dungeons, he finds Eve, Pansy, Theodore, Crabbe, and Goyle all sitting around the fire in the common room. It’s pretty vacant otherwise.

“What’s up with you?” Theodore asks bluntly as Draco sits in the sofa beside Eve, his hand still at his lips.

“You look really out of it, Malfoy,” Goyle adds, concerned.

“I…” Draco begins, voice cracking, and he stops to just breathe for a second. When he finds his voice again, he says, with his gaze distant, “Potter just kissed me…”

The group falls deathly silent, all eyes staring at Draco as the moments tick by, until Eve throws her arms into the air and screams, “FUCKING FINALLY!”

~ ~ ~

“Max, I’m serious, I can’t find him anywhere,” Draco says not for the first time as he paces around one of Hogwarts’s greenhouses. He doesn’t even know which one he’s in right now, just that it had been abandoned when he’d been hurrying around the castle.

Tomorrow morning he, and many other students, would be heading out for Christmas Break. His bags were all packed and ready to go, but Draco himself wasn’t faring too well. He’d had every intention of speaking to Potter the day after the last DA meeting. The day after Potter had kissed him then run away.

But when Draco had gotten down to the Great Hall only Granger could be spotted at the Gryffindor table. Potter was gone. All of the Weasleys were gone. And none of them popped up through their classes.

They even had Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions that day and they didn’t show up. Draco is certain he would have driven his partner up the wall if he hadn’t elected to sit with Tracey that day, who quietly took charge of the potion while Draco fidgeted and fretted.

It was driving Draco insane. He’d attempted to catch Granger alone to talk to her, but he was completely sure she was avoiding him.

An illogical – and he knew it was illogical – part of his brain told him it was his fault. Potter had kissed him, admitting to liking him in that heated moment, and Draco hadn’t responded quick enough. He hadn’t done anything and Potter had been scared – he’d never seen Potter so frightened – and now Potter had run away.

Except that wasn’t like Potter, the Weasleys were gone too, and the teachers wouldn’t have stood for such a flimsy excuse as “teenage romance gone awry.” Still, that dreadful thought had planted itself in Draco’s head, despite his reasoning, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

When he’d finally fled for the nearest quiet spot and pulled out his radio he was near tears and he knew it.

“Draco,” Max’s voice comes through, gentle and patient, “I’m sure he’s fine. If something happened wouldn’t the teachers have announced it?”

“Yes. No. Maybe? I don’t know!” Draco argues even though he doesn’t want to argue. He wants Max to be right. Why would he fight them on this?

“Maybe he got sick? Have you checked the infirmary?” Max asks, not rising to Draco’s panicked tone.

“I did! And besides, all the Weasleys are gone, too.”

“You and Harry are always saying that the Weasleys took him in. What if there was a family emergency? We’ve had kids at my school leave pretty abruptly when something like that happened.”

Draco gulps, terrified, too, at the concept that something had happened to Sirius or one of the Weasleys. He didn’t want any of them hurt. But no explanation he could come up with for why so many people had disappeared from Hogwarts was satisfactory. All of them had someone getting sick or hurt or kidnapped or killed or… Draco’s head was coming up with some of the worst, possible scenarios again and he hated it.

Logic and reason had always been his allies. Why weren’t they working now?

“Malfoy? Are you okay?”

Abruptly, like the world is slowing down, Draco freezes at the new voice. His back goes stiff, spine rigid, before he manages to turn around and look for who has just interrupted his panicking.

Neville Longbottom stands at the front of the greenhouse, door shut behind him, and a concerned expression on his face. He’s wearing his dragonhide gloves already along with casual clothes and an apron. He looks like he’s prepared to be in the greenhouse for a long while.

“Y-yes!” Draco says far too loudly, then cringes and looks away. “I’m fine, Longbottom, I was just on my way out.”

“Is it Harry?” Longbottom asks and Draco stiffens all over again, eyes widening as he chances a glance at the beanpole of a Gryffindor. The other boy has a sympathetic look on his face and it makes Draco’s teeth clench. “You’re worried about Harry?”

“What’s it to you?” Draco snaps, but he doesn’t get the response he’s hoping for. He hardly gets a response at all. Longbottom just keeps standing there, watching, fingers idly folding and unfolding with each other.

“He had a nightmare,” Longbottom explains and Draco stands a little straighter. “Don’t know what about. He just woke up screaming. Woke the rest of us up, too, and Ron took him to Professor McGonagall. After that Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the twins all left in a hurry.”

“A nightmare…” Draco says quietly, brows furrowing in thought. It would surely sound strange to anyone else, to just pack up and leave after a nasty nightmare, but they’d suspected for some time now that Potter had a connection with Voldemort that he experienced through his dreams. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities if something far bigger happened within those dreams than what it seemed.

Draco thinks he feels some of the tension loosen from his shoulders. Hardly all of it, he still didn’t know what exactly had happened or where Potter was, but he had a feeling he was, at the very least, safe.

Then Longbottom has to say the one thing Draco isn’t suspecting and every vein in Draco’s body freezes. “I like your radio…”

Draco’s eyes widen as panic takes him over. He hadn’t hid the radio. He doesn’t think he’d even turned it off, which meant Max had likely heard everything. Had they said anything incriminating? Anything that would frighten the Muggle away? Had he… had he… Oh, Merlin, had he fucked up?

And now Longbottom knew. He knew and he was going to tell and everything was going to fall apart and Draco would lose everything. This would be the Gryffindor’s perfect revenge for how Draco had mistreated him in the past. For all the taunts and ribs and pranks.

Draco’s grip on the radio tightens but he can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. The room is getting tighter and tighter and Draco is the only one who can feel it. The only one being crushed by the pressure.

There’s noise to his side, from the radio, but Draco can’t hear it. It is all garbled and distant, like someone yelling through water. Then there’s noise in front of him, but he can’t hear that either.

The grip on both his shoulders he feels, though, and the hands squeeze harshly, giving him a sharp shake. “…lfoy! Foc… Brea… Malf…”

Draco tries to focus his gaze, but everything is blurred, and he realizes it is because his eyes are filling with thick tears that keep rolling down his face. He thinks he sees a familiar, frightened face in front of him and he tries, desperately, to remember how he’s supposed to function.

The first voice he hears, however, isn’t from in front of him, but from the radio in his hand, and it isn’t Max’s.

“Tell him to breathe. Focus on breathing. That’s the most important part,” Max’s mother says softly and the blurry vision of Longbottom nods.

“Malfoy, try to focus on breathing. Just breathe,” Longbottom repeats.

“In and out, sweetie. In and out. It’s okay. You’re okay,” Max’s mother adds, her voice gentle and soft, like caress against Draco’s psyche.

Draco gulps thickly, trying to blink away the tears and the panic. It takes a few tries, listening to the gentle words from his radio and from the Gryffindor, and he still feels like he must be submerged in something as he manages to breathe again. He raises the radio up to cradle it to his chest, gulping in air, and manages to croak, “I… I think I’m okay…”

“Oh, thank god!” Max’s voice can be heard and Longbottom releases a breath. He doesn’t release Draco’s shoulders, however, which the Slytherin is secretly grateful for. He felt weak, his body cold and shaky, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d collapse if left alone.

“I’ve never been on this side of one of those before,” Longbottom mumbles and Draco raises his sleeve to scrub furiously at his face.

“Get some water, Draco. And some rest,” Max’s mother says softly. “We’ll leave you be to sort yourself out, alright? You contact us the moment you feel able.”

Draco gulps, the motion hard on his throat, and he murmurs, “Y-yes ma’am…”

“And thanks for the help… uh… strange guy I don’t know?” Max says and Longbottom glances at the radio.

“Oh, uh… I’m Neville.”

“Hi Neville! I’m Max! Make sure Draco rests, okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll do my best.”

And just like that, the radio falls silent, Max having turned off their end of the connection, and Draco is left alone with his terror and Longbottom.

“Don’t tell…” Draco mumbles and Longbottom quirks his head to the side.

“I won’t. I’m the last person to judge somebody for a panic attack,” the Gryffindor says, but that just manages to make Draco scowl and, in a sudden bout of fury, he pulls out his wand and points it at Longbottom’s chest.

“Not that, you dolt!” he near screams and Longbottom’s eyes widen. “The radio! Don’t… you can’t tell anyone. No one can know! They’ll take it away and I’ll have nothing! Do you understand?! You can’t say anything!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Longbottom says, cutting off Draco’s tirade. He still hasn’t let go of Draco’s shoulders even with a wand jabbing his chest. “Malfoy, I’m not going to tell anybody about that, either. I promise. I would never do that!”

Draco stares at him, manic and frightened and not sure what to trust. He’s shaking, can see it in his wand, and he still feels the fresh tear tracks on his face.

“They’re Muggle, right?” Longbottom eventually asks when Draco makes no move to respond. “That Max… guy… girl…?”

“Person,” Draco mumbles.

“Right… That Max person.”

“Yeah… they are…”

“I like them,” Longbottom says softly, glancing at the radio still clutched to Draco’s chest with one arm. “They were really worried about you. And their mom was really nice. You were out of it for a while, Malfoy.”

“They’re…” Draco stops to sniff and the wand finally begins to lower. “They’re my…” They’re his family, but he can’t find the voice to say it. He can’t lose them. None of them. Not Max. Not their mother and father. Not Eric. They mean far too much to Draco

“I promise not to tell,” Longbottom says with feeling, squeezing at Draco’s shoulders, before glancing off to the side. “Did you want to sit down? I was going to do some last-minute tending before the break… I promise not to bother you.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I think I should sit,” Draco finally nods, lowering his wand completely and allowing himself to be maneuvered over to an upturned pot. He takes a heavy seat, eyes down, his wand held loosely between his fingers, and the radio still pressed to his chest.

When he hears the sound of shears snipping across the room he finally takes a deep, steadying breath and shrinks the radio, slipping it back into his pocket.

He and Longbottom don’t say a word. The Gryffindor works on his plants while Draco, eventually, begins practicing wand movements idly, not sure what else he can do.

Nearly an hour later, Draco finds his legs, stands, and slips out of the greenhouse without a word.

~ ~ ~

Dumbledore is ignoring Potter.

That’s what Draco and the entire Golden Trio realize remarkably early in the school year. They’d already known he was acting strangely over the summer, never speaking directly to Potter yet still attempting to keep the Boy-Who-Lived on a short leash “for his safety.”

It really had been hell when Draco had been trying to convince Dumbledore of the merits of giving Potter that time off during the summer. Draco may have downplayed it a little with Potter and Eve, but it had taken every last bit of effort on Draco’s part to finally convince the old wizard.

But then, during the school year, they’d all illogically assumed that would end.

He hardly even looked in Potter’s direction. Draco suspected he had more communication with the Malfoy heir than he did the Boy-Who-Lived.

That’s what he figured, anyway, since he was the one currently sitting in the Headmaster’s office in the middle of October when Potter hadn’t even come up once.

“As far as I can tell, everything you suspect about Umbridge and the Ministry is correct,” Draco explains, nursing a cup of tea as Dumbledore sits at his desk, watching him with a serene expression on his face. “They want to take control and get you out of here. They want to ensure none of the students are being trained as your personal fighting force. Pepper in a variety of racist comments and that’s fundamentally every tea break I’ve had with Umbridge.”

“As I suspected, then,” Dumbledore nods, not at all surprised by Draco’s monthly report. Draco rarely had anything new to say since his contact to the Ministry was limited to just Umbridge while within school walls. Everything he learned was something Dumbledore already knew.

“Do you still possess your IM camera?” the headmaster inquires after a sip of his own tea. Dumbledore’s tea was significantly tastier than Umbridge’s, not brimming with sugar, but there was still some underlying flavor that made Draco’s nose wrinkle up.

“I do,” Draco nods, setting down his cup and pulling out two disposable cameras. One was green and yellow, his plain camera he used for his own, personal photography. The other is purple and blue with a little, gold “WM” printed on the side. This was the magically charged camera Draco and the twins had crafted that connected to the fax machine they’d given Dumbledore.

Draco didn’t know where in the massive, messy office the fax machine currently was, but he knew it had to be somewhere…

“Good. It would be wise to keep ahold of that in the coming months. I will always keep my eye out for your distress signal if anything happens,” Dumbledore promises as Draco slips the cameras back into his pocket.

“You think there will be cause for it?” Draco questions with an arched brow.

“I do not know,” Dumbledore says honestly, smiling sadly. “I certainly hope not, and myself and the rest of the staff here at Hogwarts will do everything we can to keep you all safe, but these are dark, confusing times, Mr. Malfoy. It is best we are all prepared for the worst.”

“Is that why you won’t speak to Potter?” Draco questions sharply and one of Dumbledore’s eyebrows arches up. Draco can’t tell if the man is surprised, upset, or anything else.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because you aren’t speaking to Potter and it’s very clearly upsetting him,” Draco retorts. He’d learned speaking bluntly with his Headmaster was the best way to get an answer with him. He was a cryptic son of a bitch, and Draco would have none of it.

For a while Dumbledore and Draco just look at each other, no one saying a word, until the elder wizard sighs sadly and folds his hands together on his desk, tea momentarily forgotten. “Mr. Malfoy… In times of war—”

“’Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die.’ Herbert Hoover. ‘What a cruel thing war is, to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors.’ Robert E Lee. ‘You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war.’ Albert Einstein. ‘We must concentrate not merely on the negative expulsion of war but the positive affirmation of peace.’ Martin Luther King Jr.”

Draco is baring his teeth by the end of his outburst and Dumbledore is giving him a surprised look. The man’s eyes still twinkle, however, and that just makes Draco’s frustrations worse.

Then Draco growls, “I know a lot of quotes about war, too,” mostly thanks to the WW2 museum, “I also know a lot of philosophies about war. I don’t care about any quote or lesson or mysterious message you might give me; I’m asking about your own actions right in this moment.”

Dumbledore watches the fuming boy in silence, waiting as Draco slowly begins to calm down. “You have grown so much, Mr. Malfoy,” the Headmaster finally says, pride lacing his words, and it makes Draco sick.

“Don’t change the subject. If you’re not going to tell me, just say you won’t. Or you can’t. I’m risking my neck too, you know. The least you could do is show me some respect.”

“You are right,” Dumbledore nods, looking sad again, “You do deserve respect and I apologize if I have not shown mine properly.” In one, fluid movement the older man stands and makes his way around his desk. He sets a hand on Draco’s shoulder once he’s close enough, a reassuring pressure that only makes Draco feel worse. “I am sorry, but I cannot tell you everything you wish to know. Not right now.”

“Will you tell Potter?” Draco questions, eyes narrowing. “He deserves respect as well.”

“Yes, he most certainly does,” Dumbledore agrees with a nod, but his expression is still sad. That is all he says on the matter, however, and he instead turns away and walks back to his desk. “You should not dilly-dally here too long, Mr. Malfoy. You have wandless tutoring this evening, don’t you?”

Draco’s brows furrow. No, he didn’t have wandless tutoring tonight. He had a DA meeting… Then he spots the knowing smile on Dumbledore’s face and he flushes in embarrassment. Of course Dumbledore would know about the DA. He was Dumbledore.

Although, when he thinks about it as he gets up and heads out, somehow knowing that Dumbledore is aware of the DA and hasn’t done anything with that knowledge… somehow that is far more infuriating to Draco than it is reassuring.

~ ~ ~

It is only a passing comment Draco hears while sitting in Cecil Duke’s cubicle at the Ministry of Magic. It was the very first day of break and Draco had almost immediately headed off to the Ministry. His father had not been in the manor and he had wanted to take advantage of that.

He’d arrived at the Auror offices and walked confidently up to Duke’s cubicle, familiar with the layout even after a few months away. The massive Auror had been surprised but happy to see him, despite not smiling, allowing him to take a seat as he went off to fetch some reports for him to proofread.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing stressful. Just familiar work that Draco would be able to study as he fixed errors.

It made it easy to listen to idle chatter, too, which was how he heard the whispers about the attack a few floors down. Apparently, an official had been hurt so badly he’d been rushed to St. Mungo’s. Draco doesn’t hear a name, but it definitely piques his interest when he hears it happened the very day Potter and the Weasleys had disappeared from Hogwarts.

He finishes up a few more reports quickly, then stands and slips away with the excuse he was going to go fetch something to eat. No one pays him any attention. Duke would be the only one who cared and he had gone off to work on something or other while Draco took residence in his cubicle.

It isn’t hard for Draco to maneuver through the Ministry, certainly not like when he had snuck in during fourth year, and he slips into the elevators with no one even batting an eye. He stops at every floor, meandering about, looking for something that might look like a scene of a crime or listening for anymore murmured rumors.

He hears a couple people talking about it, occasionally, but he never gets a name nor a place, so he just has to keep looking.

It isn’t until he reaches the basement of the Ministry that he finally finds something. There are a few more Aurors walking around than usual, as well as people in full, black robes that Draco has to assume are Unspeakables.

Draco slips past anyone who might find his presence suspicious on this floor, namely the Aurors that might recognize him, until he comes to a corridor lined with doors and people. He keeps his distance, watching and listening as officials talk to themselves.

“Just clean it up, already,” a familiar voice says and Draco is startled to find Minister Fudge facing off with a stern-looking Auror. “We don’t need this here, worrying anyone else.”

“We still need to investigate, Minister. We have no idea who could have done this to Arthur,” the Auror replies firmly, their posture stiff like a soldier.

The breath catches in Draco’s throat. Arthur? As in Arthur Weasley? He’d been attacked?

Okay, think. Draco had to think. It made sense, then, that the Weasleys would have left if the victim were their father, and Longbottom had said this all began because of a dreadful nightmare Potter had… A nightmare likely linked to Voldemort, which meant…

Which meant Voldemort was likely responsible for this.

The question was “why?” Why would Voldemort care to attack Mr. Weasley? Perhaps he was attempting to get to Potter? Hurt him. But, then, why here? Why in this seemingly random corridor in the Ministry of Magic’s basement? They were nowhere near Arthur Weasley’s office.

That either meant he had been brought down here or had already been down here. Either way, there was likely more to this part of the Ministry that meant something to Voldemort…

“Excuse me,” comes a voice behind Draco and he turns around, acting as calm as he can to appear like he is meant to be there. He finds a middle-aged witch standing just behind him, her orange robes oversized and dragging on the floor behind her, her salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun atop her head. Her eyes are downturned and bleak-looking. She looks exhausted in the creases of her face, but she’d looked that way when Draco had first found her file all those months ago…

Poppy Ebru. The woman that had taken Terence Davis’s position in the Records Department until Draco had secretly tethered Potter’s Trace onto her. She’d been demoted, though she was still somewhere in the same department, and in her misery she had been approached by Order members hoping for a more sympathetic ear.

Draco didn’t know what she did in the Order, but he knew she was a part of it now. Dumbledore had informed him.

“Are you Draco Malfoy, then?” Ebru asks, her voice rough and scratchy, like she’d smoked too many pipes in her younger years.

“I am,” Draco nods.

“I’m Ebru. Poppy Ebru,” the woman says, then waves long, frightening looking fingers at Draco. “What do you think you’re doing here, huh? You’re not supposed to be down here. Trip into the wrong room and a brat like you could cause some real damage somewhere like the Hall of Prophecy.”

The Hall of Prophecy? As in the rumored department in the depths of the Department of Mysteries? That was a weirdly specific location for Ebru to bring up… Unless…

Unless she’d said it on purpose? Could what Voldemort be looking for… could it be in the Hall of Prophecies?

“Anyway, Order told me to give you this,” Ebru is still speaking, reaching under her robes and pulling out a badge. It is a simple design in the shape of a geometric, gold octagon on a black background. In the middle of the crossing lines sits a tiny piece of amber.

She shoves it at Draco with a scowl. She wasn’t a very pleasant woman, he was quickly realizing, and he wondered how much she knew about his involvement in her demotion.

He eyes the badge, though, confused. Why would the Order want her to give him this? “You can go bother Terence all you like with that thing,” Ebru says, then pauses to cough, the sound making Draco cringe when he’s almost certain she’s about to hack up a lung. “So, be a good little boy and scram,” Ebru finishes, wiping at her mouth with the sleeve of her robes, “I have to record these stupid Aurors’ findings.”

“Of course. Thank you, Miss. Ebru,” Draco nods, pinning the pin to the lapel of the trench coat his mother had gotten him with the expanded pockets.

“Are you still here?” Ebru grumbles, shoving past Draco and making her way towards the Aurors and the Minister.

Draco quickly and quietly steps out from the corridor, keeping his walk confident, and moves as quickly as he can up to the Ministry’s atrium, then changing direction for the Records Department.

If Ebru had been telling the truth and insinuating what Draco thought she was insinuating, this pin was Draco’s ticket into the Records Department. Whenever he wanted!

The Order already knew he had a talent with getting what he needed from the massive department, plus they knew he had a connection to Terence Davis. With his ease traversing the Ministry it made sense for the Order to get him such access.

Except, they had forgotten something very important.

Draco was selfish.

He would get the Order any information they needed, but he had every intention of getting his own answers, too. The Order had been keeping secrets, and Draco wanted to know what they were.

He suspect, now, that there was something in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps in the Hall of Prophecy, that Voldemort wanted. He isn’t sure why Ebru had put such emphasis on such a place, didn’t know what she could gain from doing that, but he would take what he could get at the moment.

Arthur Weasley had been found, attacked by Voldemort, in said Department of Mysteries. Voldemort, if he was attempting to get something from this place, would not have drawn attention to it by dragging Mr. Weasley’s body there, so logically Mr. Weasley was already down there.

This suggested the Order already knew about Voldemort’s desires. It would not be outside the realm of possibilities for the Order to have sent guards down there.

Which reminded Draco… back at the beginning of the school year, Sturgis Podmore, an Order member, had been caught trying to break into an unknown department in the Ministry. It would make sense if it were the Hall of Prophecy…

When Draco gets to the heavy, metal door to the Records Department the pin at his chest begins to faintly glow. Glowing, golden lines begin to draw themselves onto the door right beside the handle, forming a geometric octagon, before fading away and the click of a lock can be heard.

Draco takes ahold of the door handle and pulls, the heavy door opening for him easily, despite the weight.

The massive room feels pleasantly familiar as Draco steps inside. The filing cabinets are still as tall as the ceiling, the far side of the room is still too far away to see, and right in the middle sits a desk where the form of Terence Davis sits.

His hair is still long enough to curl along the ground and each paper he finishes stamping or writing on folds up into a paper airplane before taking off to its necessary stack.

“Hello, Mr. Davis,” Draco greets, finding he actually is quite happy to see the strange man again.

For a moment Mr. Davis does not acknowledge Draco. He’s mumbling as he reads over a file, long, ink-stained fingers trailing over the words, before he nods, writes something into a notebook at his side, then takes the third stamp in a row of seven and presses it onto the document. The file folds up a moment later and off it goes.

Finally, with that done, Mr. Davis looks up, adjusts his monocle, and blinks his big, blank eyes at Draco. “Hello,” he says, his voice as haunting as ever. He really was Tracey’s father… “Mr. Malfoy… Tracey talks about you.”

“Well, I think she’s a lovely girl,” Draco says with a smile. As strange as Tracey was, she was certainly one of the good ones.

“My little octopus,” Mr. Davis sighs, happy to be talking about his daughter, Draco figures, and then his head tilts to one side. “She tells me you are a very kind boy who refuses to acknowledge how much you have grown, which is why you have issue accepting honest gratitude and believe your actions to be unimportant and lacking in personal worth.”

Draco’s eyes widen and his jaw goes slack as he stares at Mr. Davis’s blank stare. Neither say a word, Draco unsure where to even begin with… that emotional timebomb getting dropped on him. Mr. Davis just blinks at him, too, unaware of what he’s just said.

Then, Mr. Davis slips out a scraggly-looking wand from his sleeve and holds it up. “Do you want to see me balance my wand on my nose?”

“Uh… no. No thank you,” Draco says slowly, his shoulders sagging. It was the weirdest change in topic he’d ever heard, but he’d take it. “How is Tracey? Is she home for the holidays?”

“She is with the Lovegoods for half of her break, then she and Luna will join me for the last half,” Mr. Davis says, slipping his wand back into his sleeve.

“That’s lovely to hear. Listen, I actually wanted to ask for your assistance, Mr. Davis,” Draco finally moves onto why he’d really hurried to the Records Department the second he’d been offered access. Mr. Davis says nothing, just tilts his head to one side. “Everything is recorded here. What about…” he was taking a chance here, “Prophecies?”

Mr. Davis blinks slowly, then pulls out a slip of blue paper. He takes up his quill, then writes something down on the paper, before tapping it with his wand and it folds up into an origami jellyfish that begins to slowly swim through the air in the direction of… something.

“All prophecy files are kept in the same cabinet. It will lead you there,” Mr. Davis explains dreamily, voice distant as ever.

“What if I’m looking for a specific file?” Draco asks, immediately anxious. Every possible file on prophecies took up an entire, ceiling-high cabinet? He’d never find anything in those.

“Ask the jellyfish. They do not have brains, but they are good listeners,” Mr. Davis replies, then turns away from Draco and gets back to his work, dismissing the blonde.

Draco sighs, but takes what he can get. He heads after the jellyfish, finding the slow-moving origami creation easy to track and walk behind.

When it finally reaches the cabinet Draco needs, he turns to the jellyfish. If this really was something Voldemort was after… it would make sense if it was about the Dark Lord, wouldn’t it? “I need files on prophecies pertaining to Voldemort,” he says, but the jellyfish doesn’t move. “Uh… Can you show me prophecies about Voldemort?” he tries instead, but when the jellyfish still doesn’t move, he adds, “Please?”

Finally, the jellyfish begins to swim upward and Draco hurries to follow it, clambering up the drawers like they are a ladder. When he finally gets to the drawer the jellyfish stops at he’s out of breath and so grateful to finally be there. He pulls out a drawer on the cabinet beside him to sit on top of, then opens up the one he needs and begins rifling through the files.

It takes the better part of an hour to go through them all, but finally he spots a familiar name. Except it isn’t Voldemort’s.

The file he removes is labelled like all the rest, stating the legitimacy of the prophecy, who made the prophecy – Professor Trelawney?! – followed by who it was about.

“Pertaining to one Harry Potter and one Dark Lord.”

Well, it looked like whatever Voldemort was looking for really was in the Hall of Prophecies, but this particular one, whatever it was, wasn’t just about Voldemort? This had to do with Potter, too?

It was beginning to make more and more sense why Potter and his friends kept getting left out of the loop. Now, all he had to know was what the prophecy said…

Except, when he opens the folder, he finds hardly any further information. It talks about where the prophecy was made, who turned it in – Dumbledore?! – and the shelf it was being kept on within the Hall of Prophecies - row 97 shelf 3 - but not much else.

Draco was confused by this, so he clambers back down the cabinet and hurries back towards Mr. Davis’s desk.

He needed to know about this prophecy. He needed to know why the Order was defending it and why Voldemort wanted it so much. He needed to know how it affected Potter and why. He needed to know so he could tell Potter, Granger, and Weasley and get something finally moving, because they’d been in the dark far too long.

“Mr. Davis,” he says as he stands back in front of the desk, “Why do the prophecy files not have a transcript of the actual prophecies in them?”

Mr. Davis does not answer immediately, instead finishing up the file he’s on like he had before. When he looks up at Draco he looks as distant as he always does.

“Prophecies are personal things. We record most information, but the prophecy can only be heard by the one it pertains to, and it can be passed on by that witch or wizard if they so please,” Mr. Davis explains.

“Are you not allowed to write down the prophecies?” Draco arches a brow, glancing down at the file in his hands. Mr. Davis nods, but does not reply. “Could I… retrieve a prophecy? The file gives a specific location.” Perhaps, if he could retrieve this prophecy he could bring it to Potter. It would solve a lot of their problems, surely…

“There is a myth…” Mr. Davis begins, brandishing his wand and tapping a stack of blank, black papers. The papers fold themselves into little figures that move along to Mr. Davis’s explanation. “That only the one that a prophecy pertains to can retrieve their Prophecy.” Most of the figures appear to look one way while a single one steps apart from them and picks up a tiny, origami ball. It holds it aloft, victorious.

“This is both the truth and a lie,” Mr. Davis says and, with a swish of his wand, the figures unfold, then refold together into an impressive recreation of a crystal ball. “Anyone can touch these orbs,” Mr. Davis says, poking the origami orb, “But a curse is placed on the prophecy records that does not allow one to lift and inspect them unless they are the Keeper of the Hall of Prophecies, or the one the prophecy is about.”

Fuck. So much for Draco retrieving it, then. “Is there a way to counter such a curse?” he asks, hopeful, but not expecting much.

“You would need to know the original curse. It drives one mad instantaneously.”

“What if…” Draco hesitates, considering, “What if you… knocked it off the shelf?”

“It would shatter.”

“What if you caught it?”

Mr. Davis is silent, staring at Draco blankly, before his head tilts to the side. “Magic is full of loopholes. I would not test it, however.”

Draco heaves a deep sigh and nods in agreement. “Yeah… not really worth the risk.” Still, he makes a copy of the file and hands Mr. Davis the original, which he makes fly back to where it belongs. “Thank you for your help, nonetheless,” Draco bows his head and Mr. Davis nods back before going right back to work.

Draco is quick to slip out of the Records Department, shrinking down his copy of the file and slipping it into one of his many pockets. He heads back up to the Auror offices, intent on getting back to work.

He was pretty certain he knew what Voldemort was hunting for, now, and thus what the Order was guarding, but he had no way of doing anything about it. A prophecy about Potter and Voldemort… given by his own Professor Trelawny to Headmaster Dumbledore. What could it say? Draco wouldn’t be able to know unless Potter or Voldemort picked up the damn thing and decided to share it with him.

Draco had every intention of sharing his findings with the Golden Trio, they deserved to know, but what could they do with this knowledge? Dumbledore likely knew the prophecy, so maybe they could try to get answers from him?

Actually… if the prophecy was such a big deal, why hadn’t the Order just destroyed it? Mr. Davis himself had just said pushing it off the shelf would only succeed in shattering it. Why not destroy it since they already had Dumbledore on their side to tell them what it actually was?

Unless… they didn’t want to destroy it. The prophecy appeared to be the only thing Voldemort was interested in right then. With it sitting here, in the basement of the Ministry of Magic, Voldemort would run quite the risk of outing himself to the public if he showed up here.

Which would be exactly what the Order would want.

Growing more and more stressed by the second, thinking himself in circles, Draco growls and forces himself to not think about it. He could brainstorm with Granger or Potter later, maybe when he visited the Burrow. Right now, he was doing himself no favors.

When he finally gets back into the Auror’s offices he heads back towards Duke’s cubicle. The massive wizard is still gone, even after how long Draco had been off on his own, but the cubicle isn’t abandoned.

“Tsuki?” Draco questions when he spies a familiar barn owl sitting on Cecil Duke’s desk. Eve’s owl tilts her head to look back at Draco, before squawking in frustration at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I make you wait?” Draco smirks, reaching down to take a letter folded in the owl’s talons.

What would Eve be writing him for so suddenly? They’d only just started their break. Maybe she’d misplaced something and thought Draco knew?

When he opens the letter and reads the incredibly short passage, however, he promptly drops it back onto the desk with a gasp, his eyes wide in terror.

“Harry’s at my house. Ran away from Order. I found him. Get over here immediately!” Then right beneath that was a hastily scrawled address in the midst of London.

What? What?! What?!

What the hell was Potter doing?! He’d ran away from the Order?! That complete and utter imbecile! He was in constant danger already! Running off without telling anyone could have been his death sentence is Eve hadn’t found him. Why would he pull something so, so stupid?!

Draco snarls out in frustration, attempting to gather himself and think of the bigger picture. He doesn’t get far, however, his brain going back to Potter, Potter, idiot, Potter. He had to get to him immediately. He had to make sure he was okay, get some answers, and knock some sense into his stupid head.

Still, he manages to calm down enough to write out a very quick, ”Potter is safe. Keep you updated.” He gives the note to Tsuki and tells her, “Take this to Dumbledore.” The owl hardly hesitates, taking off immediately and swooping through the doors of the office and off through the Ministry.

The Order was likely panicking up a storm with Potter gone. He might as well calm them down… He would tell them where Potter was after he had a word with the boy wonder, though.

He needed to figure out what was going on without their meddling.

~ ~ ~

“This is demeaning,” Rita Skeeter says as she shifts out of her beetle form the second Draco brings her into the Slytherin common room and they are certain no one else is around.

It is the Sunday after hers and Sirius’s arrival and they had already gotten started pretty early on their sentient lifeform interviews.

“What are you talking about?” Eve, just behind Draco, coos. Both she and Draco are smirking at Skeeter, who has a horrendous level of mud all over her tacky robes. “I think the centaurs absolutely LOVED you.”

Skeeter glares back at the two of them before straightening herself out and attempting to give herself some dignity. “Why are we in your damp, dark common room, anyway?” she demands, making a sweeping motion with her hand at the room at large.

“See those windows?” Draco says, pointing to the floor to ceiling windows on the far side of the room. “They look out to the Black Lake.”

“How lovely,” Skeeter drones, clearly not impressed, and Eve snorts as she walks past Draco and Skeeter and over to the windows. The Slytherin girl turns back to look at Skeeter, a smirk on her face, before tapping out a particular pattern against the glass.

They wait a few seconds, Skeeter crossing her arms judgmentally, until a shadow surges up from the depths of the lake and hovers within the frame of the window. Skeeter shrieks, surprised, while Eve and Draco both begin to laugh.

Floating in the window, expression open and curious, is a merman. He’s a sickly grey color with huge, yellow eyes, his wide mouth set in a thoughtful frown but Draco knows long, terrifying fangs sit within. His hair is dark green, tied back into what look like the underwater equivalent of dreadlocks, and he has decorated himself with jewelry made of pebbles, bones, and tiny, driftwood carvings.

“This is Agimaritaq,” Draco says brightly, stepping up beside Skeeter and making a grand motion with his hand towards the window. With his other hand he discreetly reaches out and pushes her forward. “He is one of the many merpeople who take residence in the Black Lake.”

“We call him Agi,” Eve adds, then turns to the window. Agi looks down at her and slowly offers a thin smile, then proceeds to make a series of hand motions at the girl. Eve watches carefully, before chuckling and nodding, then also making a series of hand gestures.

“Is that… sign language?” Skeeter questions, baffled, as Eve and Agi have a silent conversation with each other.

“It is,” Draco nods, “The merpeople have always come by to examine Slytherin house whenever they got curious, but we had no way to communicate with them. They cannot speak above ground, we cannot breathe underwater, and this glass if far too thick to be heard through.”

“There is a Slytherin, however,” Draco looks to Skeeter, “Who is a… third year, now, I believe, named Alexander Walton. He’s pureblood and his family had a blood curse that emerged in him and left him mute.”

“He spoke in sign language, obviously,” Eve calls back, glancing over her shoulder. “His whole year of Slytherins is pretty fluent at it by now.”

“The rest of us are… efficient,” Draco waves his hand dismissively and glances off to the side. So he wasn’t spectacular at sign language. At least he knew the whole alphabet.

“Sounds like someone’s bitter,” Skeeter smirks at the blonde, who immediately turns to scowl at her.

“I grew up speaking multiple languages,” Eve cuts in, giving the two disapproving looks while Agi watches in clear amusement. “My mother is originally from Japan, for instance, and she’s the smartest woman I know. Screw anybody who thinks otherwise just because of her accent!” Draco raises his hands placatingly and smirks at Eve, who clears her throat and nods. “And my father was deaf, so sign language was a must with him. I still had all kinds of sign language books from my youth I got sent in and we propped them all up facing the windows so the merpeople that came by could see.”

“And now Slytherin house can finally talk to the merpeople,” Draco says with grandiose flare, before offering a proper greeting to Agi. The merman, one of the kinder of his people, smiles and does a swift series of signs. Draco attempts to keep up, but almost immediately loses track, and judging by the laughter in Agi’s big eyes he is fully aware of this.

“Anyway, Agi volunteered to be our interviewee for the article on inland merpeople,” Eve says, “And I’m here to translate.”

“Lovely,” Skeeter mumbles, clearly not finding this lovely, pulling out her notebook and a quill. It wasn’t her Quick-Quotes Quill that skewered every word out of a person’s mouth, Draco had forbidden that. “I get to interview a fish and freeze my toes off in your dank dungeon. Tell me, little Draco, are your rooms cells down here?”

“Sooner you finish, sooner you can leave,” Draco drawls, ignoring the jibes. As the day had worn on Skeeter’s insults had continued to downgrade until they felt more like schoolyard taunts.

They interview Agi for some time, Eve translating for everyone, while Draco sits off to the side and watches. He wasn’t very close with the merpeople, but a few Slytherins had found them to be spectacular company when they decided to drop by. Some were as harsh and vicious as the horror stories said, while others, like Agi, didn’t see much point in fighting with a bunch of children who only wanted to get to know them.

When the interview is finished nearly two hours later, Skeeter occasionally have to quickly shift into a beetle whenever students walked by, they say their good-byes to Agi and Draco takes up beetle-Skeeter. Next up they’d be meeting Granger in the kitchens to interview the house elves. Then, after that, Potter had offered to help sneak Skeeter back out to Hogsmeade where Sirius would be waiting.

Their plan was slowly coming together. Draco could only hope it wouldn’t be for nothing.

~ ~ ~

Eve lives on the fifth floor of an apartment building in the heart of London. Draco isn’t sure what her mother does for a living, but clearly it leaves them pretty well off considering the location.

It takes Draco a little while to figure out where Eve’s apartment actually is, however, because the numbers feel like they don’t make sense to him and he doubles back on more than one occasion.

He does eventually find the room and the door swings open after only two knocks. Eve stands there, clearly frazzled, and she hardly waits for Draco to say anything before grabbing ahold of his collar and yanking him inside.

“Thank Merlin,” Eve breathes a sigh of releif as she shuts the door behind her. “I’m so… so…” Eve lets out a short, guttural growl to express her true frustrations. Usually, Draco would wait to let her explain everything on her own time, but he’s really not in the mood to wait around right now.

“Where is he?” Draco demands and Eve’s expression swiftly hardens before she’s leading Draco through her apartment. The eating area is right beside the kitchen, the space well-lit by bright, natural light. Sitting at the kitchen table is Eve’s mother, dressed in pink, plaid pajama bottoms, an over-sized grey shirt, and fluffy, white slippers. Sitting across from her is Harry Potter, a single bag sitting at his feet, as he and Eve’s mother both nurse mugs of something steaming.

Seeing the boy again makes Draco’s body fill with relief and uncontrollable fury all in one.

“Potter!” Draco shrieks the second he sees him and the Boy-Who-Lived jumps, nearly spilling his drink.

“No yell in my house!” Eve’s mother snaps, pointing a finger at Draco, who takes a shaking breath and offers a nod.

“My apologies, Ms. Hushburn. I am simply… upset,” Draco says with very slow, measured words. Potter hasn’t turned around to look at him, but his whole body has gone rigid.

“Me too,” Eve’s mother agrees, standing from the table with her mug and walking around towards Draco and her daughter. “My daughter’s friend show up, clearly upset, and not tell us why. I do not like this at all. You find out why and you tell me.”

“Okaasan,” Eve whispers, pleading, and the woman straightens herself up before nodding and making her exit.

It leaves Draco, Eve, and Potter alone in the silence. The only sound Draco can hear is his own, strained breathing.

“What…” Draco begins, trying desperately to withhold his screaming, and in doing so he falls back on a cold, harsh calm. “…in the nine circles of hell…” he slowly walks around Potter, hand brushing his shoulder, then moves to sit at the seat Eve’s mother vacated. His silver eyes are narrowed into furious slits as he stares down Potter, “…do you think you’re fucking doing?”

Potter doesn’t say a word. He just keeps his head down, hands curled tightly around his mug, his body clearly shaking.

“I found him at the café I frequent,” Eve explains lightly, almost sing-song, as she moves to sit beside Draco, also staring Potter down. “The one we’d always meet at ahead of time over the summer.”

“Why were you there, Potter?” Draco hisses lowly. “You ran away from the Order. You put yourself in danger for no good fucking reason and—”

“I had to get away, alright?!” Potter raises his voice in a panic and Draco leans back in his seat, lips twisted in disbelief.

“Why?”

“Because… because I’m a danger to all of them, alright? I had to get away,” Potter’s voice wavers and Draco and Eve exchange a glance.

“Why would you ever be a danger to the Order?” Eve asks, head tilted in confusion as she leans against the table.

For a few seconds they aren’t sure they are going to get any kind of answers out of the boy, he won’t budge or say a thing, but as the seconds tick by, so too does Potter’s resolve begin to crumble. “Two nights ago… I… I had a dream where…” Potter gulps and Draco finally takes some pity on him.

“Mr. Weasley was attacked at the Ministry of Magic by Voldemort,” Draco fills in for him and Potter looks up at him with a snap. It makes Draco flinch when he sees the other boy’s face. He’s paler than Draco’s ever seen him, his eyes watery with dark circles beneath them, and clear panic in their green depths.

“H-how…?”

“I was just in the Ministry. There were a few rumors, doubled with Longbottom telling me about the nightmare… It was just a matter of putting two and two together after that,” Draco shrugs, his gaze not leaving Potter’s. He realized a lot of his anger was very swiftly washing away and making way for unbridled relief, no matter how stupid Potter was.

Draco really was just happy to see him here and alive.

“You… you’ve got to understand, then, right?” Potter questions, frantic, and Eve reaches out to take his mug before he can tip it over. Once it is out of the way Potter grabs instead for Draco’s nearest hand, clinging like his life depends on it.

“Understand what, Harry?” Eve asks softly.

“Voldemort, he—When it all happened, when I was dreaming… I was the snake! Don’t you see? He might… Voldemort might… what if he could control me? Make me hurt people?”

“Like possession?” Draco asks for clarification and Potter nods frantically.

“Moody thought it possible and I… I couldn’t stay there. I had to leave. I’m a threat, Malfoy, I shouldn’t even be here!” Potter’s eyes are widening the more he seems to take in his current situation, and he looks to Eve. “What if I hurt you and your mother?!”

“That’s not going to happen, Harry,” Eve denies, confidence in her every word, and then she shrugs. “Besides, I’m way more terrified of my mother than I am of Voldemort.”

The comment doesn’t garner a laugh, no one is really in the mood for jokes, but it makes some of the tension in Potter’s shoulders begin to lessen.

“Did you speak to Ginny?” Draco asks and immediately Potter’s gaze is back on him.

“Ginny? Why would I…?”

Draco groans and rolls his eyes skyward, asking some higher power for strength, before looking back at Potter with a bland expression. “As I recall, in second year our dear Ginny Weasley was actually possessed by the Dark Lord. If anyone knows what it’s like to be possessed by him, it’s her.”

“But… but Moody…”

“Is a paranoid piece of shit who doesn’t know how to keep his own thoughts to himself,” Draco snaps, and finally he rises from his chair and moves over to crouch beside Potter’s seat. The Boy-Who-Lived watches his every move, until he shifts sideways in his chair to properly face Draco.

“You can’t do this to us,” Draco says lowly and from the corner of his eye he spies Eve slipping from her own seat and moving quietly out of the room, giving them their privacy. “We were… fuck, Potter, I was terrified.”

“I’m sorry,” Potter whispers, fingers curling more tightly into Draco’s hand, the nails digging into skin. “I… I had to, though… The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black told me I was being a coward and Dumbledore sent the message to stay still, but…”

“But…?” Draco urges.

“But I… Fuck, I just had to leave. I was a danger and I was scared and… well, shit, you’re always telling me I should allow myself to be more selfish.”

Potter offers a wobbly smile and Draco barks a surprised, watery laugh. He hadn’t even noticed the tears forming in his own eyes, but there they were. “Of all the times for you to finally listen to me, you chose the literal worst opportunity…” Draco muses and Potter hiccups something between a laugh and a sob.

Draco doesn’t know who moves first, if he drags Potter down or if Potter moves down himself, but a second later they are both on the floor, Potter curling both her arms around Draco’s neck and burying his face against Draco’s throat. Draco pulls the shivering boy into his lap with no further hesitation, holding on tight to Potter’s waist and not letting go any time soon.

“I don’t know shit about possession,” Draco mumbles, pressing his face to Potter’s head, “but I know you’re not a threat. There’s no way. And if there is some way for Voldemort to mess with your head? I’ll do everything in my power to stop it.”

“My Prince Charming,” Potter sniffles, the shake in his voice sounding like he’d been going for a light and airy tone but failed. Still, Draco goes along with it.

“Your Prince Charming,” he smiles weakly, tears rolling down his cheeks as he holds the shaking boy as tight as he possibly can.

“Should we…” Potter mumbles, then gulps around the lump in his throat. “Should we… talk about… the other thing that happened…?”

“Other thing…” Draco’s brows furrow. What other thing? He was just happy to have Potter here again.

“You know… after the last DA meeting, when I…”

Oh… Oh! Right, the kiss. Merlin, yes Draco desperately wanted to talk about that, but not now. Not with how upset and out of sorts both of them were. Neither of them were in any condition to be talking about something like that right now.

“Later, Potter,” Draco whispers, raising a hand to run his nails up and down Potter’s back. It makes the other boy positively melt into him, but he doesn’t seem finished.

“But, don’t you want—”

“Harry,” Draco emphasizes and Potter – Harry – sucks in a sharp breath. “Later.”

He can feel Harry nod against him, slow and shaky. “Okay… Okay…” he mumbles, then even more quietly, “Thank you, Draco.”

They sit like that for who knows how long, fading in and out of awareness, just clinging to each other like they were each other’s lifeline, tethering them to the mortal realm. It is serene and sad and peaceful and lovely all at once and Draco doesn’t want it to end.

A loud banging at the front door, however, has them startling out of their reprieve with a sickening drop in their stomachs.

~ ~ ~

During the eight days Potter and Draco get their reprieve at the beginning of the summer they really do attempt to go to as many, possible locations as they can. Draco has always wanted to travel and experience as much as he can, while Potter is trying to fill in all the gaps his childhood left him with when it came to experiencing his own home.

One of these days, with Eve leading the way, they end up at something called an “aquarium.” Draco does not know what it is, and neither Eve nor Potter will tell him.

“Just let it be a surprise,” Eve laughs, one of Draco’s disposable cameras in her hand, the non-magic one. She’d wanted to see what the big deal was with taking his photos, so she’d nabbed it from him.

“I’ve only ever been to the zoo,” Potter is explaining and while Draco knows a zoo is where one can view animals, he does not know how it pertains to the current situation. “I set a python on my cousin.”

Draco and Eve both look to the Boy-Who-Lived sharply where he walks between them, their eyes saucers, and a very pleased smile on Potter’s face. “Are you serious?” Eve questions.

“Dead serious,” Potter smirks at her, clearly holding in laughter.

Draco, however, doesn’t feel like holding anything back and he throws his head back to let out a loud guffaw. “Serves that asshole right!” He really, really hated the Dursleys after all his visits to 4 Privet Drive to pick Potter up.

Potter looks to him, laughter of his own finally bubbling out, while Eve cackles behind her hand. “It was the first time I spoke to a snake. Didn’t know it was anything special, then.”

“I’m surprised it wasn’t earlier than that,” Draco observes when the laughter dies down. “Didn’t that rotten family make you tend their gardens? I’m amazed you never ran into a little rat snake or something while doing that.”

“Oh, I did,” Potter nods, “And I would get bored and talk to them, sometimes, but that was just me using my imagination.”

Eve and Draco fall quiet, watching Potter with raised brows, and the Gryffindor falters, looking between them. At first he’s clearly confused, but then slowly realization dawns on his face. Realization mixed with horror. “Merlin’s beard…”

“Did we just blow your mind?” Draco smirks.

“It wasn’t my imagination,” Potter moans, covering his face with his hands in apparent agony.

“Were they at least nice snakes?” Eve asks sweetly, nudging Potter’s shoulder playfully.

“Yeah… They were nice…” Potter pauses, then abruptly lowers his hands. “Mikey was an asshole, though.” The three of them share another round of laughter at the idea of a tiny rat snake named Mikey being a jerk to baby Harry Potter.

When they get to the aquarium the building within is dimly lit with families milling about. It doesn’t seem to be a high tourist spot, but it does seem popular with local groups.

Eve goes on ahead to get them passes, taking some of Draco’s money with her, and gets herself a camera pass so long as she keeps the flash off.

“Is it a museum?” Draco asks Potter when he hears about the no flash rule, but Potter just chuckles at him.

“Just wait and see, Malfoy,” the boy wonder says lowly, then hooks their arms together and drags him after Eve when they get the passes.

And see Draco does.

Massive, massive tanks of water, filled with brightly colored fish, small sharks, rays, coral, and all kinds of other aquatic life greet them as they step into the main attraction. The room is dark, but the tanks have blue and purple lights that waft out, giving everything a dreamy feel, like Draco might just be underwater too.

“Wow…” Draco whispers, frightened to speak much louder, and he feels Potter hum in content agreement from where their arms are still hooked.

They follow Eve at a distance to more specified tanks and exhibits, taking their time as they watch the leisurely sway of the creatures. There are arbs set into walls filled with jellyfish, a tube of piranhas that just hover in the water, waiting, a penguin exhibit that Eve probably takes the most pictures of, and petting pools where they can touch some of the safer aquatic creatures.

That last one nearly has Eve in stitches. From her perspective, Draco knows, she’s watching both Draco and Potter, pressed close together as they lean over the water to touch all they can, and completely surrounded by a congregation of children who think these “adults” must be the funniest things in the world. They especially take to Draco, considering he, too, has to ask what ever single creature is, and Potter is the one to lean to the side to read the animal descriptions on all the signs.

Draco hears the camera shutters behind him but doesn’t care. He’ll likely get a kick out of Eve’s photos, too, when he finally develops them.

At some point they do end up losing Eve. She hurries on ahead while Draco and Potter linger behind. They are in a tunnel made of glass, aquatic creatures floating all around them, the light a faint blue from the tank.

It really is beautiful, the two boys stopping to admire the view. Draco doesn’t even try to hold back the smile on his face as he looks all around him, eyes sparkling as they take it all in. He must look like a fool, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he’s ever been at peace like this before. Despite all the families and children, it has been relaxing and quiet, faint orchestral music playing from distant speakers Draco can never find, and the sounds of water all around him.

The sound is abruptly interrupted by a camera shutter, and he looks back in surprise. Eve has returned and stands in the middle of the tunnel a few paces away, camera just being lowered and a smile on her face.

“What was that?” Draco asks, curious. It looked like Eve had been pointing the camera at himself and Potter, not the tank.

“Nothing, nothing,” Eve waves him off and Draco glances at Potter, expecting some equal level of confusion. Except the raven-haired boy isn’t looking back. Instead he’s looking ahead, eyes a little wide, and his cheeks and ears pink. Draco doesn’t have a chance to inquire what might be wrong because Eve is already talking again, saying that there’s a gift shop just ahead, and Potter is already following after her before Draco can get a word in at all.

Confused, but not thinking much of it, Draco follows, too. He ends up with a sting ray plush, Eve with a penguin plush, and Potter grabs the largest shark plush he can carry. They’ll have to sneak it past the Dursleys, but if they get back late enough they’re usually asleep anyway.

It won’t be until many months later that Draco gets this particular roll developed, thanking Tana as she hands him all of the glossy photos. It isn’t hard to find Eve’s stunt with the camera, the pictures starting off far shakier than Draco’s and including their aquarium visit.

Draco does laugh at the images of himself and Potter surrounded by children at the petting pools, and then his breath catches when he finds it.

“It” is a photo of the tunnel, Draco and Potter standing side by side. Draco’s looking up at the water, lights making his hair and face glow strangely, a dopey, amazed expression on his face as he watches. Standing beside him, Potter has a very similar expression on his face, but his focus isn’t on the tank at all.

His focus is solely on Draco.

~ ~ ~

After the round of heavy knocks, Draco and Harry nearly trip as they untangle themselves and hurry to the archway separating the kitchen and eating area from the living space.

Eve and her mother had clearly been sitting on the couch, but now both have stood up and are staring at the door. Eve glances back at the two boys, concern on her face, but her mother’s face is set to something hard and furious.

“Stay,” Eve’s mother says sharply, pointing over at Draco and Harry. The two boys nod but pull out their wands just to be safe.

Eve’s mother makes her way over to her door, unlocks the handle and chain, then swings it open. “We do not want any!” she announces without waiting for the person to introduce themselves.

“I… apologize. I am not here to sell anything. I was actually looking for someone,” says their visitor in a deep, but kind, voice. A voice that is particularly familiar to Draco, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Auror Duke?!” he exclaims, coming around the corner to see if it really is him. Cecil Duke’s massive frame takes up most of the Hushburn’s doorframe, but he isn’t wearing his Auror robes. Instead he has on a white V-neck, dark denim jeans, heavy boots, aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar, and he has a leather jacket draped over one arm.

Draco has never seen the man outside of uniform. It’s like seeing a dragon without its scales.

“Hello, Draco,” Duke greets with a nod, before looking back down at Ms. Hushburn. The woman is miniscule next to this man, but with the way her face is set Draco feels significantly more terrified of her than him. “I apologize again, ma’am, but I came to speak with Mr. Malfoy. Would it be alright if I came in?”

For a long stretch of silence Eve’s mother glares the man down. Duke, for his part, keeps up a calm presence, although Draco thinks he sees a bead of sweat roll down his temple.

“You know him?” Eve hisses to Draco and the blonde glances over at her, then back towards Harry, who is carefully inching his way into the room, wand still drawn and eyes narrowed.

“He’s Cecil Duke, an Auror for the Ministry. He’s… actually, I don’t know why he’s here,” Draco says slowly, and Duke offers him a small smile. Draco’s never seen him smile before.

“Nothing bad, I assure you,” Duke promises and, finally, Eve’s mother steps aside. She still looks vicious as she ushers Duke in, her glare never letting up as Duke walks fully into the living room. He spots Harry first, his only eye widening, before his face sets into a kind expression and he nods in greeting. “Hello, Harry Potter. Pleasure to meet you.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just nods a greeting, clearly not certain he can trust this man just yet. Draco hates to admit it, but he’s on the same boat. He has no idea why Duke would be here.

And then the Auror dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper and Draco feels his face flush.

“Is that the note I sent you?” Eve stage whispers, one of her brows arched, and Draco ducks his head in shame.

He’d left Eve’s note on Duke’s desk. The note saying Harry had run from the Order and the exact address of where he was now. Draco was an idiot.

“Next time, take a breath before you run off,” Duke says, handing Draco the note with a playful smirk. It was so unlike the Auror Draco knew. “If someone else had seen this… Well, you all could have been in a lot more danger.”

“But we’re not with you?” Harry demands. He’d managed to step completely up to Draco’s side by then, wand loose but clearly a threat if Duke tried anything funny. The giant wizard looks at the wand, then up at Harry’s face, his attention shifted to the Boy-Who-Lived.

“I am no threat to you,” Duke says firmly. “I agree with Dumbledore. Always have. And I believe you, Mr. Potter. That You-Know-Who is back.”

“Why haven’t you said anything, then?” Harry demands, face twisting in anger and distrust and Draco discreetly moves his hand to the small of the other boy’s back, keeping the pressure there as Harry forces himself to take a breath and calm down.

“If I announced my beliefs, I would be removed from the Aurors. If I told the Order, they would expect me to join. Neither of these options are what I need,” Duke answers honestly.

“So… is this about your career, then?” Eve asks slowly, one brow curling upwards in suspicion.

Duke looks to her for a moment, then to Draco, then Harry’s wand, then back to Harry. “Tell me… does crime stop with You-Know-Who back?” Duke questions, face carefully level and posture straight. This is more like the Cecil Duke Draco knows. “Do criminals just stop acting up while You-Know-Who ‘takes over’? No. If anything, the moment the public knows You-Know-Who is back, the crime rate will likely increase, but most Aurors will put their focus on Death Eaters and Dark Lords and dark arts. They will forget that there are other people out there that need to be taken down.”

“And that’s what you’re doing,” Draco whispers in realization. Duke had always been carefully quiet about his opinions on the Minitry’s stance and every file Draco got to look over was of crimes completely unrelated to Voldemort or his followers.

“I put away a man who murdered his wife and children in a blind rage not too long ago. He had absolutely no ties to any dark wizard. He was just a sicko that would still be at large if someone hadn’t stopped him,” Duke says firmly and finally Harry lowers his wand.

“I hadn’t thought of any of that,” Harry admits lamely, head bowed, and Draco presses his hand a little more firmly against his back. None of them had thought about that. None of them except, apparently, Cecil Duke.

“Not many people do,” Duke smiles softly at Harry. “I know my opinion will mean little to you, we just met, but I wanted to tell you that I am proud of you, Mr. Potter. You have stuck with your convictions through all of the ridicule and cruelty, and that takes a strong kind of soul.”

Harry’s cheeks pink at that, but a small, pleased smile begins to form on his face. “Thank you,” he mumbles and Duke nods to him, then turns to Draco.

“Be more careful with your things,” he says firmly, pointing at the blonde and frowning until Draco nods an affirmative. Then he’s taking up his aviators and slipping them onto his face. They must be magic because the one side that sits where he is missing an eye and ear doesn’t slip down his face.

“Uh… no offense, but you don’t look much like an Auror in that get up,” Eve comments, arching a brow and smirking. “Don’t misunderstand! Totally badass, but not very official.”

“Evangeline!” Eve’s mother snaps, before saying in a rush, “Sono kotoba o iwanaide kudasai!”

“Okaasan!” Eve whines as her mother glares at her and Duke looks between the two women with an amused smile on his face.

“Well, I’m off the clock, and leather jackets are good protection while riding motorcycles,” Duke explains and Draco looks up at him sharply.

“I’m sorry, what? You ride a motorcycle?!” he demands, ignoring Harry’s snicker to his side.

“You have helmet?” Eve’s mother questions sharply and Duke nods to her.

“Yes ma’am, I do. And yes, Draco, I ride a motorcycle. I’ll show it to you some time if you’re so interested, but for now…” Here, Duke’s demeanor turns serious and he looks to Harry, “Rest. There is no reason for you to be in danger in this location, no one should believe you’re here, but be careful and return to the Order once you are feeling better.”

“What? You’re not going to take me to them yourself?” Harry questions, brow lowering suspiciously. Despite everything, they still couldn’t know if they could trust Duke entirely.

“No, Harry, I’m not,” Duke shakes his head. “Whatever led you here…” Duke hesitates, then lets out a deep sigh. “You need to take care of your mental state as much as your physical. We all want you to make it out of all this alive, and that is priority, but I think we should aim for you to make it out still with the ability to be happy, too.”

Harry sucks in a breath, rather suddenly, and Draco looks to him worriedly. The bespectacled boy waves him off before he can ask after him, but Draco still moves his hand from the small of Harry’s back to his nearest hand, interlocking their fingers and squeezing.

“Thank you, Auror Duke,” Harry mumbles and Duke smiles sadly, before reaching out to gently ruffle the boy’s messy hair.

“Duke or Cecil is fine when I’m off the clock,” he says, then looks to Ms. Hushburn and smiles. “I owe you thanks…”

“Yua Hushburn,” Eve’s mother introduces herself, but does not stop giving Duke a hard stare. She was a hard one to win over…

“Thank you, Ms. Yua Hushburn. I will take my leave, now,” he gives a low nod, before finally turning and squeezing out the front door, sliding his jacket on as he goes.

Ms. Hushburn hurries to shut the door behind him, quickly locking everything back up, then marching back into the living room. “You,” she says, pointing at a startled Harry, “Sleep in guestroom. You,” she points at Draco, “Sleep on couch. I will have no teenage sexing in my house.”

“OKAASAN!” Eve shrieks, mortified, as Draco and Harry yelp and spring apart, their eyes huge and surprised by the sudden bluntness of it all. “They’re fifteen!”

“Yes,” Ms. Hushburn continues, beginning to walk in the direction of the guestroom to get it ready, her daughter right behind her. “Bad time for sex. I am not blind, Evangeline, I was teenager once too.”

“Okaasaaaaaaan.”

Draco and Harry are left to stand in the living room, both blushing a deep red, Draco ramrod straight while Harry fidgets furiously. For a moment they won’t look at each other, but when they both finally chance a glance, hysteric giggles begin to fill the air.

“You heard her, Draco,” Harry wheezes, “No sexing.”

“Merlin, stop!” Draco can hardly get out, the giggling picking up again.

When it finally manages to fade off, the two are left quiet and unsure what to do anymore. Draco had been thinking for days what he wanted to say to Harry, what he wanted answered, but now nothing was happening. Nothing could come out. This was a quiet he didn’t like.

Eventually, before either can even begin to formulate a conversation, Eve and her mother are coming back and making suggestions for dinner. Ms. Hushburn wants to cook for them, but they’re all so hungry and worn out that they really don’t want to wait, so Draco gets to experience the Muggle invention “pizza” for the first time.

The three teenagers gather around the living room, eating, and talk about nothing. Draco makes a fire call to his mother in the Hushburns’ “fireplace,” even though it was apparently specialized for apartment living and didn’t have any “emissions” or a chimney. It was just a fancy, metal box with a fire inside. It still worked for Draco’s purposes, though, letting Narcissa know he is okay and he’ll be spending the night at a friend’s house. She sends over a pack of clothes with Columba, who Ms. Hushburn immediately begins feeding treats and cooing to in Japanese.

“She spoils Tsuki, too,” Eve rolls her eyes.

When it is time for bed Draco makes a show of complaining about his sleeping conditions, much to Eve and Harry’s entertainment. He wasn’t happy about having to sleep on someone else’s couch, but he was hardly as upset as he was presenting himself.

Eventually, in the quiet of the night, when everyone has gone off to their own beds and he is sure they must be asleep, Draco pulls out his radio.

“Thank god!” Max heaves when Draco tells them Harry is okay and they are currently staying at the same place together. “That’s—Wait, did you just call him ‘Harry’?”

Draco blinks owlishly, before turning a faint shade of pink. “Um… yes. I did. Is that a problem?” he asks haughtily, flicking his hair.

“No, no, it’s great! Just… y’know. Wondering if anything happened?” Max says with such a swagger to their words Draco is sure they’re teasing him.

“I… what? Like what?” Draco squeaks, even though, yes, something most definitely did happen.

“Oh, I dunno… Something?” Max cackles and Draco pouts at the radio in frustration. “I can hear your pout, my dude.”

“Does it sound like irritation?” Draco snaps but that has never managed to deter Max.

“Noooo… No, sounds like denial. And that I’m onto something!”

“It’s not…” Draco stops to heave a breath, before curling his knees up to his chest, the blanket left out for him draped over his shoulders. “It’s not denial, Max…”

“Ooooooooh, BOY! Tell me everything!” Max immediately exclaims, growing energetic and giddy, and Draco smiles at the radio despite himself.

“Harry… kissed me a few days back,” he ignores the loud squeal Max lets out when he says that, instead continuing on. “He kissed me, then ran away, and then he went missing because Mr. Weasley got hurt.”

“Family emergency. I knew it,” Max says sagely, then adds with a more somber tone, “I’m sorry about Mr. Weasley, though. I hope he’s okay?”

“Last I heard he’s recovering fine…” Draco mumbles, before biting his lip. “Max… nothing feels different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… nothing feels different now that Harry kissed me.”

Max is silent for a moment, before they ask quietly, “Do you not like him like that?”

“I…” Draco takes a deep, shaky breath and lowers his forehead to his knees. “I like him so much I don’t know what to do with myself, and I must have liked him for so, so long and not realized because nothing feels different, I just…”

“You’re realizing that you’ve felt this way for him all this time,” Max mumbles. “Nothing’s different, you just know how to identify everything now.”

Draco gulps. “Yeah…” How to even begin to explain how he felt for Harry Potter? He’d despised him so much at first, wanted what he had, wanted to be him, and now, here he was, constantly worrying about him, wanting him to live the best life he could, wanting to do everything in his power to assure Harry could be happy.

He wanted to protect Harry and he wanted Harry to protect him. He wanted to travel the world with Harry, he wanted them to sass each other, he wanted to fight and make up, he wanted to share candy with Harry, he wanted to learn spells, bicker, and rid themselves of these personal barriers they’d built up for so long.

He wanted to curl up and sleep with Harry – in any of his forms – he wanted to hold hands, he wanted to hug Harry and be hugged back, he wanted kiss him all over his stupid face and never let go.

It felt like déjà vu, this feeling. That feeling of, “Ah, yes, I recognize this, it has happened before,” but he can never place where, exactly, it comes from. Like it is some infinite paradox of brand-new yet so familiar it feels like Draco was born with it ingrained into his bones. That’s what this feels like, and Draco doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Whoa…” comes a quiet breath from the hallway and Draco looks up sharply, eyes falling on Harry where he stands in the entryway to the living room. The boy’s eyes are wide, staring at Draco, and his face has flushed. And, in mounting horror, Draco begins to realize why.

“I said all of that out loud, didn’t I?” he groans miserably.

“Yeah. Ya did,” Max says brightly, glee in their voice as they add, “I’ll leave you two alone, okay? Night, Harry! Night, Draco!” and then the connection goes silent.

Draco, very slowly, turns his own radio off before slipping it into the pocket of his trench coat hanging on the back of the couch. He refuses to look up at Harry, his face probably bright red in embarrassment.

“Draco?” Harry ventures, stepping carefully into the living room, and Draco flinches. “Draco, listen…”

“Whatever you’re about to say… don’t. I don’t…” Draco takes a shaking breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I could handle it right now.”

He feels the couch dip beside him from where Harry takes a seat. “Okay…” the Gryffindor says lowly as one of his hands runs up Draco’s neck and lays itself on the back of his head. “Okay, I won’t say anything. Tonight.”

Draco gulps at that as Harry’s other hand lays on his far cheek, gently urging him to turn his head until finally they are looking at each other. Harry looks so hopeful it makes Draco’s chest hurt, and without his say-so his own hands find themselves resting just above Harry’s hipbone.

“Did you come out here to talk to me, then?” Draco questions, attempting to pull up some of his usual cockiness and missing the mark entirely. Still, Harry smiles at him.

“I actually needed some water,” he admits casually and it makes Draco snort, Harry’s green eyes glittering with mirth.

And then their lips are pressing firmly together. Draco doesn’t know who moved first or if they moved together, but one moment they are joking and smiling, and the next they’re eyes are shut and they’re kissing with far more urgency than the few days prior. And this time Draco is sure to participate.

It feels foreign, neither of them experienced kissers, but it feels right and good and Draco doesn’t want it to end. Harry’s lips are soft against his, if a little chapped, and he doesn’t care. He just wants more, his hands shifting until he’s hugging Harry closer, pressing more firmly into the kiss, and Harry’s fingers are curling in his hair while his other arm drapes over Draco’s shoulder.

Their balance gets thrown when Draco pushes a bit more than he needs and then they’re tumbling back onto the couch, blanket getting tangled up around them, and yelps leaving both of their lips. They blink at each other, surprised to still be on the couch and not the floor, before they both begin to giggle, hysteric, and Harry bumps their foreheads together.

“You’re purring,” the Boy-Who-Lived whispers. Draco smirks down at him, feeling the rumble throughout his chest and not feeling the need to stop it.

“I’m happy,” he whispers back.

“What a coincidence. So am I,” Harry smiles, free and joyful like he hadn’t been in so long, and Draco presses down until their lips are meeting in yet another kiss, his purr and Harry’s laughter intermingling with every move.

Chapter Text

Draco realized, after a few years of knowing Max, that the Muggle child got upset over some of the most peculiar things. Yes, there was the usual “Draco said something I disagree with so I won’t talk to him for a few days,” but the rest of the time Draco really had no idea where Max’s worries were coming from.

Sometimes it was over a quiz at school that hardly meant anything. Sometimes it was over a “level on a video game” they couldn’t get past. Sometimes it was over something Eric said or did that was so deeply ingrained in sibling behavior it left Draco puzzled and lost. Sometimes it was over something small and pointless that happened at school or home or the park.

And sometimes it was entirely Max’s own fault.

They were both eleven, Draco packing up nearly three weeks in advance for his trip to King’s Station and, thus, the Hogwarts Express. He’d been struggling with his cases for a while and had decided to take a break, slipping into his en suite and sitting in his tub with radio in hand.

He hadn’t expected Eric to pick up the radio. Usually, if Draco spoke to Eric, it was while already speaking to Max or one of their parents. Eric very rarely was the one to answer first.

“Hey, Draco, sorry. I don’t think Max is in any shape to chat right now,” Eric says, sounding distracted. There are sounds of a struggle in the background and Max’s voice calling, “Eric, put me down! Put me down! You jerkwad, put me down!”

“What is going on over there?” Draco demands almost immediately, worried something had happened and someone might be hurt.

Eric’s withering sigh, however, insinuates there really isn’t anything immediately wrong, but likely something still stressful in the works. “Max, here, is running themself ragged with all the projects they’ve taken on,” Eric explains, grunting as he and his sibling likely begin a more physical struggle. “We’re cutting them off. They need to relax. So, sorry, no radio today.”

“I’m fine! I told you I’m fine! Once I get everything sorted out it’ll be fine!” Max’s voice screeches in the background.

Draco takes a deep breath in, then lets it out slowly. Right. Projects. He already knew Max had a penchant for researching and learning about subjects that had nothing to do with school, and sometimes this led to all kinds of experiments, projects, or study binges that left even Draco dizzy.

He also knew these projects often stacked on top of each other. He’d seen it happen once before, about a year prior, while Max had still been attending classes for the year. They had homework to do, tests to study for, and a science project to do all on top of building a working, model plane, studying the tigers at the zoo, experimenting with a rock polisher from the store, and learning how to work with resin crafts. It had been so much to just listen to, and soon Max had begun to spiral.

They hardly slept, wanting to get so much done, and their grades began to suffer. They were crabby and stressed and randomly started crying to Draco over the tiniest things going wrong.

In the end it could have been worse. They still passed their tests, but just about everything else suffered. All their projects fell apart and their grades dipped. Not to a failing level, but certainly noticeable. In addition, once Max had rested and gathered themself again, they had found complete disinterest to outright hatred for all the research subjects they’d previously been interested in.

The rock polisher was donated, the resin kits were thrown out, and the model planes were destroyed. The only one they didn’t react violently to had been the tigers and the zoo, but Draco would have been shocked if animal-lover Max actually ended up boycotting the zoo.

It had left Max bitter for a few days, unable to look at these things without growing angry or distressed, but Draco had reminded them that it had been their own fault they’d gotten to this point. They had chosen these things to learn and had laid too many things on top of themself. They should take responsibility for that.

They’d snapped at Draco, clearly not in the mood, and the two had dropped it, moving on to talk about something else.

And now, apparently, Max was doing it all over again.

“What has Max gotten bogged down by now?” Draco asks with a sigh.

“I don’t even know,” Eric grunts painfully, probably from a strike from Max. “They’ve been working a bunch with all these kits from the art supplies store and they won’t stop going to the library and—”

“It’s research, Eric! It’s interesting research!” Max screams and finally Draco has had enough.

“Max, stop.” Slowly, grudgingly, the fighting sounds fade. “Eric, I would like to speak with Max.”

“Yeah, little man, do your thing,” Eric sighs, sounding pointedly exhausted himself, before there is a rustling and the radio is handed over.

“Finally!” Max exclaims, “Ignore him, Draco, it’s all good—”

“Get some sleep, Max,” Draco doesn’t wait to hear any excuses or reassurances. Even while attempting to go back to normal Max had sounded strained, their voice thin. “You’re pulling yourself in too many directions again. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“What? No, no, this’s nothing like tha—”

“You ended up failing everything you were attempting. You only survived all your classes because your grades were already so good,” Draco interrupts, readjusting the radio in his hands.

“That’s really not—”

“Then, after you finally got some rest, you ended up hating everything you’d been so excited about before.”

Max pauses, for a moment, before mumbling dejectedly, “I didn’t hate the tigers…”

“You are incapable of hating any animal, peasant,” Draco rolls his eyes, “You don’t even hate spiders despite your arachnophobia.”

“They have an important role in our ecosystem and assist in keeping bug population in check… They just need to stay away from me.”

“Nonetheless,” Draco sighs, “Do you really want to end up exhausted, miserable, and despising the things that once intrigued you?”

“No…” Max mumbles, sounding sad and defeated. It made Draco smirk. He so rarely got the opportunity to win these encounters.

“Then listen to your brother and get some rest. We can talk tomorrow about making a proper schedule for you and your projects. My tutors taught me some of the best methods.”

Max sighs, loud and overdramatic, sounding closer to a groan than anything, before grumbling, “Fine… I’ll go take a nap.”

“You do that.”

“You get some sleep, too,” Eric says when the radio changes hands once more. The older boy sounds relieved to not have to fight with his little sibling anymore. “It should be nighttime over in the UK right about now, yeah?”

Draco pauses to glance out his open window right above his head. He can see the night sky from this angle and a patch of stars twinkle through the clouds. “Very well. Let me know if Max pulls anything else like this again.”

“Will do,” Eric laughs, “Night, Draco.”

“Good night, Eric. And good night, Max.”

~ ~ ~

Draco is still scowling as he joins Harry at the Hushburn’s kitchen table for breakfast.

The night prior he and Harry hadn’t managed to get much talking done after kissing for… a long amount of time. They were both exhausted from a long day and had instead fallen asleep curled up close to each other on the narrow couch. Despite the discomfort of the furniture, Draco had slept peacefully.

And then he’d been awoken by Ms. Hushburn smacking both him and Harry across the head with a rolled-up newspaper. She’d yelled a lot in Japanese, clearly not happy about finding the two boys together on her couch when she had put in effort to keep them separate.

When the steaming woman had finally stormed off to prepare breakfast, Eve had come in, smirking and giving them both a mug of coffee. Draco knew he wouldn’t be living this one down anytime soon.

After that he and Harry had gone off to dress for the day, Draco taking significantly longer in the bathroom to fix his hair and make himself presentable, before coming out.

“Of all the ways to be awoken,” he grumbles, sitting beside Harry.

“To be fair, she did say ‘no sexing’,” Eve snickers as she comes in, a new roll of newspaper in hand that looks a little different to the one her mother had been brandishing earlier.

“There was no sex!” Draco yelps, glaring at Eve as she drops the new newspaper onto the table in front of them. Ah, it’s the Daily Prophet. Of course it looked different than Ms. Hushburn’s Muggle paper with its motionless pictures.

“Lot of kissing, though,” Harry snorts, taking up the Prophet, and Draco turns to him with a betrayed expression on his pinking face. At least Harry is blushing too.

“Congrats, by the way,” Eve leans her cheek into her hand, elbows on the table. “Ron and I have been suffering in the background watching you two morons dance around each other for ages.”

Draco grumbles as he sinks further into his seat, pouting and not rewarding that comment with a response. Beside him Harry snickers behind his paper, clearly amused if still quite pink in the face.

“You see what happens?” Ms. Hushburn suddenly says, turning away from her kitchenware to point a wooden spoon at her daughter. “You drag feet and break the poor boy’s heart and he finds someone new.”

“Okaasan,” Eve says, her tone swiftly changing as she grits her teeth. “We talked about this… You know why it wouldn’t work.”

Draco arches a brow as he and Harry exchange a look, then turn back to watch the mother and daughter conversation. Slowly, after a few swift blinks, Ms. Hushburn throws her spoon-hand skyward and makes a sharp noise of realization. “Ohhh, yes, yes. You like girls now. You still break his heart. Should feel ashamed.”

“Yeah, Evangeline, you broke my heart,” Draco smirks, enjoying the tables turning as Eve slowly turns a blue glare on him. Although, as fun as this was, it was nice to see Eve’s mother hadn’t disowned her daughter like she’d feared. Draco hadn’t even known Eve had finally come out to her mother.

“Watch it, Malfoy, I know where you sleep,” Eve warns sharply as her mother finally comes over with multiple bowls of food.

“She is very sorry,” Ms. Hushburn assures Draco, then looks to Harry with a smile and pats him on the head. “Harry is a nice boy. You not let this one go, Draco,” she says, waggling a finger at Draco.

“Yes ma’am,” Draco suddenly finds it quite hard to speak, but the smile on his face is probably far too large to keep any dignity. Eve shakes her head at him and mouths the word, ‘disgusting.’ He glares back at her smirking face, but doesn’t feel ashamed at all. He would need to get a handle on his reactions, but they hardly felt wrong.

“You find nice girl like Harry, Evangeline,” Ms. Hushburn is swiftly back to addressing her daughter, who groans.

“I HAVE. You just haven’t met Leandra, yet!”

“If I not meet her, how I know if she is nice?”

Draco and Harry exchange one more look, amused and baffled by these two women, before chuckling and looking down at their food.

The meal prepared for them is traditionally Japanese, Ms. Hushburn explains. She wanted them to experience a little culture while they were over at her home and had prepared rice, miso soup, grilled fish, salad, and a bunch of sides Draco isn’t even going to attempt to pronounce. It is the weirdest, yet most filling, breakfast he’s ever had, despite the Hushburn women getting a clear kick out of watching himself and Harry attempt to maneuver chopsticks. Eventually Eve fetches them silverware, but only when Harry has resorted to stabbing his fish with the sticks.

“Your article’s in the Prophet,” Harry says when the dishes have been taken away and now he, Draco, and Eve are just sitting around the table with new mugs. These have even more coffee in them. Apparently Yua Hushburn was a bit of a coffee fanatic…

“MY article?” Draco questions, confused for a moment when he looks over, until Harry slides him the paper to show what he means. A relatively small article sits in the middle of the paper, nothing too exciting, but certainly not to be ignored either. It’s a modest piece, really, entailing the research and first-hand interviews with house elves on what a house elf’s life is like.

Right. The research articles.

“This is the… second one published now, I believe,” Draco considers, reading over “Daisy Hayworth’s” research and findings. The research was properly formatted with the correct diction while the rest was given an exciting, but still truthful, flair. Just as planned.

“First was goblins,” Harry nods, smiling faintly, “They hardly told Skeeter anything.”

“She probably insulted them before asking for an interview,” Eve sighs with a roll of her eyes. Draco grunts an unfortunate agreement before finally sliding the paper back to Harry. “So, what creature is your ringer?” Eve asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Excuse me?” Draco questions drearily, not in the mood for vague questions this early in the morning. Did the Hushburns always get up so early?!

“The final article planned? The one that’ll really knock the Wizarding World’s socks off?”

“Oh. Currently it is the centaurs scheduled for the final article,” Draco shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. His had been sweetened to a delectable level. When he lowers the mug, though, Eve is giving him an unimpressed look. “What?”

“Centaurs? That’s your big finish? Come on, Draco, you can do better than that!” she whines and Draco straightens up, insulted.

“What? The centaurs gave us a spectacular interview with information that the Ministry has clearly failed to spread. Why wouldn’t we use it?” Draco demands defensively.

“Yeah, but…” Now it’s Harry talking, and Draco looks to him sharply. The Boy-Who-Lived is hardly fazed by Draco’s glare, just shrugging and continuing on. “No one knows anything about centaurs, partially because of their secrecy. Ministry involvement or not, no one is really going to blame the Ministry for not getting the information out there.”

Eve snaps and points a finger at Harry, clearly pleased as she grins. “Now he’s thinking like a Slytherin! Look at that!” she laughs and Harry, used to these kinds of antics with the two, actual Slytherins, smiles and bows his head theatrically.

“Do you have a suggestion, then?” Draco questions, clearly frustrated at being so quickly outnumbered.

“Well…” Harry starts, drumming his fingers on the table as his eyes trail around the room. There are a lot of modest, Japanese and Scottish decorations scattered around the entire apartment, including the kitchen, and it gives Harry plenty to linger on as he considers. “What about something from another country?”

“Oh?” Draco asks, agitation fading to make way for curiosity. What was Harry on?

“Think about all the stuff we had no idea about when it came to other wizarding schools. The Dark Arts classes at Durmstrang, the wandless methods in Uagadou, that kind of thing. Not even you knew about some of that, Draco, and you grew up with all of this,” Harry explains.

“It’s true,” Eve nods, “There’s a lot about the other schools and wizarding communities that isn’t easily shared, including sentient magical beings. For instance, I’d say go speak to a Long for your final article, but I can’t think of a way you could do that.”

Draco had been winding up to continue the train of thought, begin listing off some places they could research and send Skeeter to, but he pauses on Eve’s last comment. “You’d have me speak to a what?”

Eve blinks, glancing between the two boys, before groaning heavenward. “Europeans, I swear.”

“You’re European,” Harry deadpans.

“Only on dad’s side,” Eve waves him off. “A Long is the appropriate name for a Lung Dragon, the intelligent variants of dragons that originate from China and have spread their territories to many other Asian countries, including Japan.”

“A sentient dragon?” Draco questions disbelievingly, “I adore dragons, but even I think that’s a little farfetched. Don’t you remember Harry’s first task in the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Didn’t you miss that completely?” Harry questions Draco.

“Yes, doing my interrogation for you, you’re welcome.”

“Primates are a wide range of species,” Eve argues with an arched brow. “Longs are to Wyvern Dragons – because that’s what they are actually called around here – as humans are to apes. Common ancestor. One is a lot smarter than the other.”

“And we’ve never heard of them,” Harry adds, “So, if we could find one and talk to it, we could get the people to start asking why they had never heard of them before, whether it is due to Ministry interference or not.”

“Except Skeeter would need to find one, first,” Eve grunts, “They keep to themselves, too. I only brought it up as an example. We don’t actually have a way of speaking to one!”

“How do you even know about them?” Harry asks, looking to Eve in confusion.

“Okaasan takes me to Japan to see family pretty often and I’ve dropped by magical communities while I’m there. Longs aren’t some big secret in Asia like they are here. Not sure why that is, though…” Eve replies, tapping her nails against her mug.

“Lovely, so that was all for nothing,” Draco growls, fists clenching around his mug in frustration. A moment passes and then a hesitant hand is sliding over his own fingers, easing up the tension, and Draco looks up at a weakly smiling Harry.

“Don’t worry,” the bespectacled boy says quietly, “We’ll figure this out. If you get to be there for me, then I get to be there for you, too.” The uncontrollable urge to smile overtakes Draco again and he can feel his entire face soften as he looks to Harry.

Yes, he wasn’t alone in this. He hadn’t been for a long time.

~ ~ ~

Harry decides they will contact the Order that day, let them know to come and get him, but he decides to wait until evening. “Just give me a little time,” Harry had whispered, sitting between Draco and Eve on the Hushburn’s couch, “I’ll be fine. I just need a second.”

“Take as long as you need,” Eve had smiled, “You’re always welcome here.”

They talk for a while, avoiding heavy subjects. Eve pulls out a list of places she’d remembered they should visit in Muggle London sometime in the future. Draco mentions some ideas for movies they should go see – all from Max, whom he doesn’t mention because Eve doesn’t know, but Harry smiles like he understands. Harry talks quite a bit at first, but slowly begins to quiet, his eyes growing distant.

When Eve suggests a card game and she goes off to fetch a deck, it leaves Harry and Draco alone in straining silence.

“So…” Harry begins, tapping his fingers on his knees, “Are we…” Harry pauses, reevaluating whatever he’d been about to say, and Draco waits for him to sort it out. “What should I tell Ron and Hermione we are?”

Draco’s brows rise in surprise before he shifts from where he’d been lounging against the armrest, taking up far more room than was necessary. He instead leans towards Harry and presses their shoulders together. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“No. Not really… but it’s something I’ve been wondering,” Harry admits honestly with a shrug.

Of course. With everything going on, everything weighing on Harry, this was probably the safest “serious” thing he could manage to talk about without breaking down. “Well,” Draco begins, “we will need to keep this quiet while walking around Hogwarts. We wouldn’t want Umbridge or any unsavory students to figure out I’m not your rival anymore. I figure the DA could know about this, too, if you’d like.”

“But what is this?” Harry insists, looking to Draco with a kind of measured calmness the blonde isn’t expecting.

“I am unsure,” Draco admits on a whisper, and one of his hands comes out to curl around Harry’s clenching fingers. He squeezes. “I’ve been rather blind, you know,” Harry smirks at this and Draco gives him a warning glare. “I am still sorting some of this out in my own head.”

“Putting a name to it would make it a lot more official,” Harry mumbles, looking away but resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m not going to make you do something you really don’t want to… But, I’d really like to tell people we’re dating… All the people we can tell, anyway.”

Draco sucks in a deep breath at the word “dating.” Was that what this was leading up to? Dating? It sounded so normal, though, for something that felt so much grander in Draco’s head. But… yes, dating was what came next, wasn’t it? They were two people who clearly liked each other, who wanted to know each other more fully in a more romantic setting, and wasn’t that what dating was?

“We’d be boyfriends,” Draco says, testing out the title on his tongue.

“Is that a problem?” Harry questions, shifting back away from Draco so he can look at him, his brows pulled together. He looked worried and anxious.

“No, no, I just have to get used to it,” Draco waves him off, then proceeds to start saying “boyfriends” over and over again in varying tones and pitches.

“Get used to… does that mean you—”

“Want to date you? Yes, I do believe it does,” the blonde says with such nonchalance it clearly takes Harry a moment to realize what’s been agreed to. In that time Draco continues to say the word “boyfriend” in increasingly ridiculous ways, no longer testing it out but instead attempting to be as obnoxious as he possibly can.

He’s silenced by a pair of lips on his own, Harry pulling him closer by his shirt and pressing in urgently. “You’re ridiculous,” the raven-haired boy laughs, pressing their foreheads together when he pulls back.

Draco reaches up to stroke Harry’s cheek, running his thumb over tan skin, before saying in the most posh, ridiculous voice he can manage, “All for you, my dear.” Harry snorts loudly, giving him an exasperated smile, before kissing him again.

They pull back away, however, when Eve’s voice calls from the hallway, “Can I come back in now or are you two still being mushy dorks?” She doesn’t wait for a response, reentering anyway, and the two boys can’t help but smile giddily.

“Harry and I are dating, now,” Draco announces proudly.

“I gathered as much. Did you want me to teach you a new game or not?” Eve deadpans, but there’s a smirk on her face as she moves around to ruffle Harry’s hair.

They are then introduced to the Muggle card game Magic: The Gathering. Eve had an impressive collection of cards, which Draco found intriguing despite none of the pictures moving around. They reminded him of the chocolate frog cards. Harry mentioned hearing about the game from his cousin, who thought it was stupid, which only managed to make Harry want to play it more.

When they do eventually contact the Order that evening, despite the Aurors that show up clearly being unhappy with Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived is in a far better mood than when he arrived. He has a new deck of Magic cards in his pocket, a new boyfriend that kisses him good-bye, and they all get to watch as Ms. Hushburn, while brandishing the knife she’d been using to make dinner, tears the Order members a new one for not taking better care of Harry’s mental state.

~ ~ ~

Six-year-old Draco thinks the World War 2 museum is biased. It is shortly after the horrifying discovery that this was, in fact, a real historical event that he begins to revisit some of the exhibits and see them in a new light.

Everything, all these killing machines, all these attacks, all these deaths and celebrations, were real. All of it.

What was wrong with Muggles?!

How could anyone in power have allowed this to happen, let alone started it? How could people so evil take up such political positions without question? How could so many people have gone along with any of this and never stopped to ask if they were doing the right thing?

Draco hesitates as he passes the wall covered in information about the two, nuclear bombs that had been used as the final act of the war. So many people, wiped from the face of the earth, and he’d thought it was just a disturbing part of some Muggle fantasy. But, no, it was real. The United States had actually done that. Had actually killed that many people without batting an eye.

This is when Draco begins to process that the museum must be biased. There is clear praise to the Allied Forces and condemnation to the Axis Powers, but look at what only one of the Allied Forces had done. Look at the death they’d caused. What more happened that the museum wasn’t showing?

But… look at the death the Axis Powers had caused, too… how could anyone claim any country was a hero after all of this death? How could any of this be celebrated after all the wrong that had been done?

“Are you alright, Draco?” Max’s mother’s soft voice says beside him and one of her hands lays on his shoulder. Draco gulps, then reaches up to wipe the tears that had begun to form in his eyes.

“This really happened, didn’t it?” Draco whispers, looking up pleadingly at the Muggle woman. He desperately wanted her to tell him he was wrong, that it really was just a story, but based off the shocked look on her face it is clear Max’s mother always thought Draco knew it was real.

“Yes… yes it did,” she says softly, sliding her hand off Draco’s shoulder and crouching down to be closer to his level.

“Why would you have a museum dedicated to it, then?” Draco questions, baffled by these Muggles and a little bit horrified.

“Remembrance. Dedication. Historical intrigue,” Max’s mother offers gently, glancing up at the photos of the mushroom cloud hanging on the wall. “Morbid curiosity.”

“It’s disgusting,” Draco snarls, stepping back from Max’s mother and glaring at the ground, his hands curling into tight, tiny fists.

When the Muggle woman says nothing, however, Draco looks back up at her. She’s giving him a thoughtful look, free of judgement, before taking a deep breath and nodding her head. “It certainly can be. There are many things in this world we cannot change, however. The things we can we should strive to make better, but the things we can’t, such as the past… all we can do is change the way we view it.”

“I view this all as a lesson,” Max’s mother stands back up, straightening out her shirt as she does. “No side of this war was free of evils. No war really is… But, it is part of our past, and no amount of denial or anger can change that.”

“Aren’t you angry though?” Draco asks, baffled how anyone couldn’t be infuriated by all of this, but Max’s mother smiles down at him softly. She looks a little sad.

“Sad, yes. But, I am not angry over the past; I am angry over those that do not learn from it. We should get better after all of this, but many people have not. In fact, some people have only gotten worse, spreading hatred and prejudice…” Max’s mother trails off, falling deep into thought as her eyes trail back to the information on the walls. Something lingers in her expression, something haunting, but Draco hardly knows how to address something like that.

“I’m going to be better,” the little wizard announces, standing straighter, and the Muggle woman looks back down at him. “You said people who don’t learn and get better make you mad… so I’m going to be better!”

Max’s mother just about beams down at Draco and Draco thinks that this must be where Max got their own smile from. “That’s a great goal, Draco,” she praises, making Draco puff up even more, just barely keeping his own grin down. “I promise to cheer you on the whole way.”

Draco nods meaningfully, his grey eyes sparkling eagerly, but before anymore can be said Max is rushing over to them and taking Draco’s hand. “Draco, Draco, they have a gift shop! Gift shop! Come check it out with me!”

“We aren’t done with the museum, yet, Max!” Max’s father calls from across the room, clearly frazzled, but Max keeps pulling at Draco, unaware of the conversation they’ve interrupted.

“Come on, come on, come on! I’ll get Papa to pay for something for us both,” Max grins excitedly, but Draco, as much as he likes being given things, suddenly feels disconcerted. It felt wrong to go shopping around in a gift shop after all of the devastating things he’d just learned. It felt wrong for the museum to have a gift shop at all.

But then he’s glancing sideways and finds Max’s mother smiling fondly at them. She reaches into her purse and then hands over a few sheets of thin “paper” to Max. Draco wonders if that is seriously Muggle currency. “There’s no point in staying upset, Draco,” Max’s mother says, turning her smart eyes on the young wizard. “Both of you find something you like and then we’ll keep looking around. We have a lot to learn, still.”

Draco swallows, but finally nods his head and allows Max to drag him to this gift shop.

In the end Max buys a “yoyo” and Draco a “slinky.” He can’t bring himself to even look at the WW2 themed toys. And besides, Draco thinks, as strange as his slinky might be, he probably got the superior toy because, whatever a yoyo is supposed to do, all Max manages to do is tangle their own feet up trying to play with it and trip onto their face.

~ ~ ~

The remainder of Christmas break is strained. Draco stays one more night at the Hushburn apartment, reading with Eve and speaking cordially with her mother, who is a charming, straight-forward, spitfire of a woman. He’d especially taken a liking to her after the whole brandishing a kitchen knife at a group of witches and wizards, as a Muggle, and demanding they get their shit together.

After that he returns to the manor, finally sitting down with his own mother and attempting to decompress. It works a little. One of the house elves brings them tea, they talk about Draco’s classes, about his feelings on Umbridge, and how he is getting along with his schoolmates. There is a tightness in Draco’s gut, however, that never quite goes away, not while he’s in Malfoy Manor and his father could make a reappearance at any time.

Draco knows his father must be back within the Death Eater ranks, especially after Harry saw him at the graveyard the year prior, and with Lucius’s extended absences… it was impossible to ignore. It left Draco feeling antsy and cornered, like there was nothing he could do but watch from his ivory tower.

So, in response, he left the manor as much as possible. The Ministry was his usual spot, continuing to build up his reputation, but also focusing on Auror work or hiding away in the Records Department.

He was eternally grateful he could access the Records Department whenever he wanted, now. All the research and information at his disposal. It left him probably giddier than he needed to be…

He continued his research on prophecies whenever he could. He hadn’t told Harry about what he’d discovered just yet. The boy needed a breather and having yet another thing to worry about right before sending him off to the Order? He just couldn’t do that. Draco felt a little sneaky about it all, but it didn’t deter him. He was a sneaky guy, wasn’t he?

In addition, he had every intention of telling Harry the moment they saw each other again at Hogwarts, and this additional time to research might give him more answers that Harry and the Golden Trio were sure to want.

He hoped for answers, anyway. So far, prophecy research was pretty flimsy. Some people were Seers – but there was no precedence as to who would be born as one – and these Seers can randomly, randomly, experience visions of the future, which they wouldn’t even remember predicting afterwards.

It was so, completely, utterly nothing it was driving Draco up the wall. Plus, there were contradictions. Some files claimed the Seers viewed the future, some claimed it was fate, and some claimed it was only a prediction. Draco was leaning towards the prediction idea himself, honestly, because some of these prophecies he was reading – which were so, incredibly old they had entered into wizarding public domain and could be written out – were so VAGUE. It sounded like the hokey fortune tellers Max had told him about in Louisiana.

But wizards, and thus the Ministry, put so much weight into a Seer’s visions it made them more like self-fulfilling prophecy rather than some amazing, predictive force.

No one knew how Seers came to be. No one knew where their visions came from. Of all the realms of magic the Department of Mysteries researched the Seers didn’t dip into any of them, as far as they could tell.

And Merlin did the Department of Mysteries have a lot of research departments. Despite being a “mystery,” the Records Department hardly redacted anything from Draco’s curious gaze. He was diving down the rabbit hole fast on this one and he didn’t even care. He was hooked. And not only was he learning about the areas of study, but also the physical layout of the Department of Mysteries, too.

Upon entering, down a short corridor, was the Entrance Chamber, which apparently had some sort of disorientation spell set on it, and from there many doors to many different divisions were located.

The Brain Room, the oldest known division, originating with study of the Muggle mind, and now studied the mind as a whole.

The Space Chamber, where they studied one of the two most mysterious limits of magic; space.

The Time Chamber, housing the second most mysterious limit of magic; time.

The Love Chamber, which was evidently locked so securely no one but authorized Unspeakables could ever enter.

The Hall of Prophecies, which Draco already knew about.

The Death Chamber, which housed the oldest artifact in all of the Ministry within it, but was not the oldest division.

The Locked Room, which apparently locked itself some time long, long ago and nowhere can Draco find any record of what was once studied within it.

The Blood Quarters, which apparently studies the physical elements and limits of magic, but began on a study of blood-related magic.

The Dark Room, which seems self-explanatory to Draco, where the study of dark magic takes place and the only way to access it is through the Blood Quarters.

The Unhideable Hall, where the study and housing of an immense number of beasts that are endangered, highly dangerous, mysterious, or just unhideable from Muggles takes place. This includes all kinds of creatures Draco’s never heard of before – and he thinks Luna would have a ball with this list – including “Nisse,” “Barghests,” “quarziks,” “lindworms,” “Lung Dragons,” “werepyres,”—

Draco nearly falls backwards off his seat on an open cabinet, grabbing frantically for the folder he’d nearly flung in his surprise and hurrying to right himself.

He swiftly skims back over the file, back to the list of creatures housed in Unhideable Hall, until he finds what he’d just read. His eyes widen and he scrambles to find more files on the specific creature he’s just identified.

Of all the creatures… the Ministry had a Lung Dragon in its basement.

~ ~ ~

Harry gets escorted back to Hogwarts directly by Sirius Black. Draco knows this because he and Eve end up sitting with Granger, Weasley, and Ginny on the Hogwarts Express and they explain that Harry had gotten into some serious trouble for his fleeing stunt. He had hardly been left out of anyone’s sight the entire remainder of the break and he’d had to be escorted just about everywhere.

Although, as far as Draco could tell, they had all given a valent attempt to talk with Harry and get to understand why he was so upset. It seemed Ms. Hushburn’s lecture had left an impression.

“I think even Mad-Eye was scared of her,” Weasley muses and Eve barks a very pleased laugh.

Ginny also, apparently, had a few stern words with Harry. Once she’d found out his fears about being possessed, she’d marched up to him and set him straight, which Draco was grateful for.

“He told us about you two,” Granger suddenly says when Draco is cackling over something Ginny said and it takes the Slytherin a second to realize Granger is addressing him. He looks over, processing her words, and noting the suddenly very serious expressions on the three Gryffindors’ faces.

“You mean that we’re dating, yes?” he clarifies and he wonders how he says it so evenly. The three don’t frighten him – well, Granger and Ginny can certainly be intimidating when necessary – but to actually say it out loud, to someone other than Harry, feels both invigorating and terrifying.

“Yes, that,” Granger nods and she looks to be the most flustered by it all. “So, it’s true…?”

“Why would we lie about that?” Draco narrows his eyes. He had had a feeling he was going to eventually get this talk from Harry’s friends, but that didn’t mean he was just going to bend over backwards and take it.

“It’s not that!” Granger huffs, crossing her arms. “It just seems to have come out of nowhere and I would like to make sure nothing uncouth has taken place.”

“It really didn’t, ‘Mione.” It’s Weasley, shockingly, to come to Draco’s momentary rescue, the ginger wizard glancing at Granger with a pained look on his face. “They’ve been dancing around each other for a while now.”

“Ever since I’ve known them,” Eve sighs dramatically. She’d pulled out a book when she’d found the conversation veering in an uninteresting direction, but now she sets it into her lap. “Years, now…”

“Feels even longer,” Weasley grumbles, looking to the Slytherin girl in understanding exasperation.

“It was so painful! How is it possible for two people to be so blind?”

“I know! I have to stay in the same dorm room as Harry and he has basically obsessed over Malfoy since—”

“Forever?”

“Alright, alright, thank you,” Draco cuts them off, cheeks glowing pink in embarrassment and a scowl on his face.

“Yes, I think that’s enough,” Granger huffs, also looking rather embarrassed, but likely for an entirely different reason. After all, she was supposed to be the observant one of the Golden Trio. How could she have missed this?

“I dunno, I could have watched some more,” Ginny smirks and Granger frowns at her.

“What I want to know,” Weasley is facing Draco now, his face like thunder as he leans towards the blonde, “Is what you intend to do with Harry.”

“Looking for details, Weasley?” Draco drawls, but Weasley doesn’t take the bait.

“Looking for motive.”

Draco’s brows furrow, not quite liking the wording of that. His motive? That made it sound like he was committing a crime. Which, despite everything they’d gone through, was likely what Granger and Weasley thought Draco was doing.

“I do not like the term ‘motive,’ but my intentions, I assure you, are honest,” Draco decides to take this as seriously as he can. As ridiculous as this might all seem, he really, really wanted to date Harry, and these people weren’t just his friends, they were his family, and that meant Draco needed to play ball. “I would like to get to know him more and more everyday. I would like to be there for him when he needs me and let him be there for me as well. I would like to laugh and argue and enjoy each other’s’ presences as often as we can.”

“What you just defined is what you already do,” Ginny muses, a small smile on her face, and Draco arches a haughty brow at her.

“The making out is certainly a nice addition,” he drawls and the sudden outcries in the compartment make him smirk. Weasley kicks at his leg while Eve shoves his shoulder, everyone whining at him that he hadn’t needed to go there, but the air is relaxing again. It seems, whatever the Gryffindors had been looking for in Draco they’d, thankfully, found it.

“We’re still going to keep an eye on you,” Weasley warns anyway. Draco snorts, but holds his hands up placatingly until the conversation changes.

As the train nears their destination and a few, late holiday presents can be passed out – a bag of PopRocks has been given to each in the compartment and Ginny has passed Draco a Christmas package from the Weasley family – Draco decides to get down to business.

“Granger. Weasley,” he says sharply, getting both their attention, “Tomorrow, after lunch, you both and Harry should meet me out on the grounds. I’ve made a few discoveries over the break that we desperately need to discuss.”

Granger and Weasley glance worriedly at each other before facing Draco again. “I don’t like the sound of that,” Weasley mumbles.

“What have you found?” Granger questions.

“I’d rather not talk here. Too many wandering eyes and ears,” Draco warns, glancing at the compartment door. The two grudgingly agree, still looking worried, but no one brings it up for the rest of the trip to Hogwarts.

That evening, when Draco is back in his dorm room unpacking his things, he takes a moment to pull out the package Ginny slipped him. She’d made it out to be no big deal, and Draco isn’t expecting much, except when he pulls on the twine holding the lumpy package together and opens it up, his mouth drops open.

A famed Mrs. Weasley jumper sits within, silvery-grey in color, with a green snake on the chest in the shape of a “D.” Draco pulls it out, examining it to make sure it is real. It is big a lumpy but feels soft to the touch and looks like it must be warm. He doesn’t waste much more time to pull it on and see how it fits.

It really is as soft and warm as it looks…

“I like your jumper, Malfoy,” Goyle says honestly from where he’s attempting to sort through his own mess of clothes from his trip back home.

“Thank you, Goyle,” Draco nods to the large boy, who beams at him, then returns to his sorting.

“You look like my grandma,” Theodore comments as he passes by.

“Fuck you, Nott.”

~ ~ ~

The snow still covering the Hogwarts grounds is remarkably soft and perfect for cushioning someone’s fall. Draco knows this because the day after arriving at Hogwarts, a Sunday, not long after he goes out to the grounds to wait for the Golden Trio, does Harry Potter bowl him over in greeting. They both flop gracelessly into the snow, Harry’s laughter echoing in Draco’s head, while Draco is still too surprised to respond.

When he gets over himself, however, he retaliates by taking a fistful of snow and dumping it into Harry’s hair. “Hello, Potter,” Draco snarks, laying on his back, and Harry, laying on top of Draco, shakes the snow out of his hair.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Harry snarks back, but then smirks and leans down to press a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips. When he pulls back Harry looks positively giddy.

“Happy to be back?” Draco asks softly, not even caring that he can feel snow under his shirt.

“Very,” Harry nods. He’s bundled up in warm, casual clothing, a Gryffindor scarf thrown around his neck. And, when Draco finally urges them both to sit up he spies Granger and Weasley following after Harry at a more subdued pace. They are dressed similarly to Harry, all bundled up, except Granger has on additional mittens and Weasley has earmuffs.

“Could you two move any slower?” Draco calls out to them.

“We just wanted to give you both some privacy!” Granger calls, miffed by Draco’s attitude.

“For making out!” Weasley adds and Draco hears a very sharp, “Ronald!” from the muggleborn followed by snickering.

“They got comfortable with that quickly,” Draco muses. He and Harry are still sitting on the ground, facing each other and comfortably close, Draco’s crossed legs nearly on top of Harry’s.

“Mostly Ron,” Harry smirks, glancing back at his friends, before looking to Draco. “Both of them have been a lot more… I hate to say it, but, bearable this break.”

“You’re allowed to be frustrated with the people you love,” Draco shrugs and Harry sighs deeply.

“I know… Feels like this whole year I’ve been frustrated at somebody I care about.”

“Even me?” Draco bats his lashes.

“There’s always an underlying layer of agitation when it comes to you,” Harry teases back.

“Ouch.”

“Even Sirius,” Harry continues, both his bare hands finding Draco’s, clearly attempting to warm themselves up. “He’s free, but with all the attention from the Ministry he’s had to be really careful what he goes outside of his home. It’s almost like he’s on house arrest, and he acts like it too.”

“He doesn’t seem the type to take being cooped up with much grace,” Draco muses, remembering how much Sirius had said he hated his family home, but was only there to appease the Ministry and give Harry a place to come and be safe.

“He’s reckless,” Harry huffs, growing more frustrated. “He obviously wants to be out, doing something, but he can’t. He has to appear as normal as he possibly can. He even gave me this package, said I could use it to contact him if I’m ever in trouble.”

“Sounds nifty. What was in it?”

“Don’t know. I refuse to open it,” Harry grumbles, “It’s clear he just wants an excuse to rush off into danger, and I’m not going to give it to him. I’m not going to invite him to do something stupid and reckless just because he’s bored.”

“Who’s stupid and reckless?” Weasley questions as he and Granger finally trudge up to the two still sitting in the snow.

“You are, but we weren’t talking about you,” Draco waves off the ginger, who glowers at him.

“Merlin, Malfoy, how are you not freezing to death?” Granger squawks, shivering as she kicks away some snow then sits down next to Harry and Draco. Weasley flops into the snow at her side, smiling sheepishly when he splatters snow against her and she glares at him.

Draco takes a moment to look down at himself. He was wearing a black turtleneck and some comfortable jeans and green “Chuck Taylor” shoes sent to him from his Muggle family over the holidays. He’d considered wearing the Weasley jumper, but he knew he couldn’t be seen around the castle with that.

He was chilly, certainly, and bundling up somewhere with something warm sounded delightful right now, but he was hardly uncomfortable. Strange.

“It’s his snow leopard blood,” Harry says confidently.

“It’s my snow leopard blood,” Draco decides to agree because why not?

“Well then, logistics of that notwithstanding… what did you discover over the break, Malfoy?” Granger sighs, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. Maybe Draco should have brought a blanket to sit on… but then again, he hadn’t thought they’d end up sitting on the ground.

“I spent a lot of time at the Ministry over the break,” he explains, pulling out the pin given to him by Ebru and passing it to Granger. “That lets me get into the Records Department whenever I like and Terence Davis likes me, so he doesn’t ever report me.”

“That’s certainly helpful,” Granger hums, examining the pin in clear curiosity. “I suspect you found something in the Records Department, then?”

“I did,” Draco nods. “I heard about what happened with Arthur Weasley,” he doesn’t allow Harry and Weasley’s flinches to slow him down, plowing through his explanation, “and when I went down to investigate the crime scene, I began to piece things together.” Draco pauses to reach for his bag, knocked to the side when Harry had tackled him in greeting, and pulls it over. He removes the copied file on the prophecy and hands it to Granger, taking back his pin as he does.

“Voldemort wants that.”

The Golden Trio shift to press around their bushy-haired genius, looking at the file together, everyone eager to finally get answers to all the Order’s secrets. “A prophecy?” Granger questions first, her brows furrowed.

“A record, technically,” Draco shrugs.

“Why would he care about something like that?” Harry asks sharply, taking the file from his friend as his eyes frantically scour over the minimum information.

“Look who the prophecy is about,” Draco says quietly, watching as Harry’s eyes widen behind his glasses.

“Me and… Voldemort?” Finally, Harry tears his eyes away from the file, looking up at Draco, searching for answers.

“From what I can tell… That prophecy was made some time before your birth. Whatever is said within it is vital to Voldemort, and the Order is standing guard at the Ministry to protect it,” the Slytherin explains as calmly as he can. He can see the tension building in the Gryffindors, especially Harry, which meant Draco would need to keep a level head or things would get unnecessarily messy.

“This is the weapon…” Weasley realizes, paler than usual, and then he looks to Draco with a severe expression. “You’ve been sneaking all over the Ministry… were you able to get it? Find out what it says?”

“Only the person that a prophecy pertains to is capable of retrieving the record,” Draco explains, gently pulling the file out of Harry’s hands. He’d been crinkling the pages with his tightening grip. “There is some heavy, magical security down in the Hall of Prophecies.”

“But that would mean I could get it, right?” Harry questions, hands moving to grip his own knees now that he doesn’t have the file to hold. His expression is intense, a far cry from the giddy, happy smile he’d been wearing a few minutes ago.

“Harry, no,” Granger cuts in quickly, looking to her friend with stern worry.

“Why not, Hermione? It’s about me, isn’t it? I have a right to know what it says,” Harry snaps, turning to Granger with a swift movement.

“The Order knows what it’s doing, Harry, please… don’t jump into this when you don’t need to,” Granger pleads, but there’s an edge to her tone, like she’s already growing frustrated herself.

“This prophecy could turn the tides against Voldemort, since he wants it so much,” Harry argues back.

“Or it could be useless,” Draco suggests casually, allowing the words to sink in as the Gryffindors turn back to him. “It’s just a theory… but what if Voldemort only thinks the prophecy is worth anything? It would explain why the Order wouldn’t care whether Harry recites it to them or not. They don’t care what it says, they just need Voldemort to want it.”

“If the only people capable of retrieving a prophecy record are the people that a prophecy is about… then that means the only other person who could retrieve the prophecy is You-Know-Who,” Granger sorts out quickly, her eyes widening.

“And if he ever shows up at the Ministry, the Order is waiting to out him to the Wizarding World,” Weasley tacks on. Harry looks between his two friends, some of the fire in his eyes beginning to die out.

“The prophecy… is bait?” Harry says softly, brows furrowed.

“Either that or the prophecy is even more important than we realize and the Order is remarkably incompetent for not allowing you to just… take it, hear it, then destroy it,” Draco shrugs.

“I don’t believe that’s it,” Granger whispers and Draco grunts in agreement.

“Are we just meant to do nothing, then?” Weasley asks, looking frustrated himself just as Harry finally appears to be calming down. Draco arches a brow at that. Did the Golden Trio take turns getting pissed? He’d never noticed, but it would be interesting to keep track of.

“What else can we do?” Granger replies, “That’s likely why they never told us anything, so we wouldn’t stress over it.”

“I feel more relieved knowing what’s going on than when we were in the dark,” Harry mumbles, takes a shuddering breath, and looks up. Granger offers him a sad smile and Weasley reaches over to pat his shoulder. When Harry looks back to Draco, he’s smiling a little. “Thank you for figuring all this out.”

Draco’s stiffens, cheeks pinking, then looks to the side. “Do not thank me. The information just about laid itself out for me,” he says swiftly, waving them off, and he hears Granger snort.

“Did it now?” the muggleborn retorts and Draco scowls as he looks back at them. They all look rather entertained.

“Yes. It did. Along with another piece of information for my continued vendetta against the Ministry,” he says more harshly than needed, but they don’t appear fazed.

“Oh, really?” Harry questions, smirking, “Do tell.”

Draco arches a brow at him, before smirking and leaning forward towards the three. “Over the break, Eve mentioned magical beings known as Lung Dragons…”

~ ~ ~

The snap of camera shutters is what has Theodore looking up in surprise, like a unicorn caught at wand point, Draco thinks. It was the first Tuesday evening of the week back after Christmas Break. Draco and the Golden Trio had already had a planned fight in the halls, Umbridge was still a toad, and a wandless tutoring lesson was to take place later that very evening.

In the meantime, Draco had slipped out to take a few pictures, chatting with Max as he did. They’d had a mild argument over something stupid…

“Seriously, Draco! If there’s such a thing as casual dating, why can’t there be competitive dating, with points and prizes and stuff?”

“That is the dumbest sentence I have ever heard!”

But all was well in the end.

When Draco had realized he was venturing further into thestral territory – he’d made a few visits with Luna and Tracey before – he’d said his good-bye’s and moved more quietly.

Luna and Tracey were, in fact, already there, throwing meat at the herd, but what Draco hadn’t expected was to find Theodore Nott with them as well.

So, Draco had done the logical thing and snapped a photo when Theodore wasn’t looking.

“Hello, Draco,” Luna greets pleasantly as Theodore, who was clutching his chest from the surprise, glares at him.

“Hello, Luna. Tracey. You’re still feeding the thestrals despite Hagrid’s return?” Draco replies cordially, smirking over at Theodore as the tall boy attempts to go back to approaching a familiar thestral with a scar over their left eye. It is Lucky, Draco realizes belatedly.

“He asked Luna to keep feeding them on occasion,” Tracey replies, blinking out at what she sees as empty space. “I invited Theodore because he secretly likes the thestrals now and I wanted him to meet them.”

“I do not—” Theodore begins to protest, looking over his shoulder, but then bites his tongue and growls, looking back at Lucky and attempting to beckon the thestral closer.

“Quite the turn around,” Draco muses, both amused and pleased as he watches.

“He has been sneaking out in attempts to see them since their Care of Magical Creatures lesson,” Tracey continues, no shame in outing Theodore like this.

“Always knew he had squishy insides,” Draco smirks.

“Not as squishy as yours, Malfoy,” Theodore can’t help but call, but there’s little bite because he’s finally managed to get Lucky within touching range and is running his fingers over the skeletal snout.

“We all have squishy insides,” Luna comments airily, “Other than our bones, which contain and protect all the squishy parts.”

“Did you know there are different poisons that target specific organs and functions within your body?” Tracey asks with equal airiness. Draco side-eyes her, but Luna looks to her and casually asks what these poisons are. Disturbingly enough, Tracey lists all of them from memory…

Sensing Draco is no longer needed for this conversation, he instead moves around the herd, snapping pictures and moving towards Theodore and Lucky.

“He really does like you, doesn’t he?” Draco comments as he finally nears the pair.

“She. Hagrid told us Lucky is a girl,” Theodore mumbles back, very carefully keeping all his attention on the thestral.

“I was talking to Lucky,” Draco drawls, then smirks when Theodore swats at him without looking. “What made you change your mind?” Theodore had certainly seemed less averse to the thestrals at the end of that Care of Magical Creatures class, but he’d still not been a big fan.

“Well… just had me thinking a lot afterwards, y’know. You and Hagrid seemed perfectly content with them. Not even Longbottom or Potter were scared of them, and they could see them, too.”

“You slept on the idea, basically.”

“Basically,” Theodore shrugs, then snorts derisively. “Plus, anything that hag Umbridge hates must not be all bad.”

Draco snorts at that, in clear agreement. It seemed the only people who liked Umbridge were the people who got something out of her. Which meant only the most stereotypically Slytherin Slytherins could stand her. Unfortunately, these were also the most vocal Slytherins…

“How are you doing, by the way?” Theodore suddenly asks, finally glancing over, but swiftly looking back to the thestral like she might decide to bite him in his negligence. “I saw the paper… With your aunt?”

Draco stiffens and looks down at his camera. That’s right, this morning the Daily Prophet had released an urgent article stating ten Death Eaters had escaped Azkaban the previous day. It was clear from any sane person’s point-of-view that this was the work of Voldemort, but the Ministry had said otherwise. No, they were placing the blame on Peter Pettigrew, but also had the audacity to note that “two of Pettigrew’s former associates, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, currently walk free.” Despite Lupin and Sirius having done nothing, the Ministry had no qualms turning them into scapegoats for their own needs.

And now Bellatrix Lestrange was free once again. Draco’s absolutely insane aunt, Narcissa Malfoy’s sister, Sirius Black’s cousin, was out in the world once more. Draco had hardly been able to eat after reading that…

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Longbottom was going through.

“I will survive,” Draco eventually sighs. Theodore grunts in agreement, knowing intimately what having unstable family was like. After all, after his mother’s death, Theodore’s father had never been quite right again.

Draco thinks that must be the end of it, except Theodore isn’t quite done. “Have you been keeping up with the Creature Files?”

“The what?” the blonde arches a brow, thoroughly confused by the title. He’d never heard of anything called the Creature Files.

“Oh, that’s what a lot of younger students are calling them… those articles that keep popping up about the ‘sentient magical creatures with complex cultures.’ They’re pretty interesting, actually. There’s stuff in those the textbooks never got right!” Theodore explains, reaching into his robes and pulling out that days Prophet. He swiftly folds it back to a center page and hands it over.

There, in front of Draco’s eyes, is one of his and Skeeter’s articles. “The True Lives of Nagas” by Daisy Hayworth. Each one of these articles began with “The True Lives of…” creating consistency for readers. Draco hadn’t expected them to garner a fan name, however, and certainly not “Creature Files.”

“Nagas, huh?” Draco mumbles, remembering the strain it had been to convince Skeeter to visit India for that one. Nagas could be found all over the world, but their culture had begun in India.

“It’s pretty cool, right? Never even thought about what they’re daily lives must be like,” Theodore says, taking back the paper when Draco passes it over.

“A lot of people are reading these, then?” Draco also hadn’t been expecting that. He’d just wanted a few intellectuals to notice the articles and make some comments. Build up a stir. He didn’t think they would have built some kind of cult following.

“A decent number, I guess,” Theodore replies. His full attention has been, thankfully, on Lucky this entire time, allowing Draco to not have to control his shocked facial expressions. “A few people are even kind of angry, I hear.”

“Angry…”

“Yeah,” Theodore draws out the word, “I don’t really get it, though. I overheard this Ravenclaw and Gryffindor talking just the other day about the severity of… they worded it way more impressively, but basically that it’s a big deal that we’re learning all this from a ‘gossip column,’ their words, and not our classes.”

“It is rather disheartening,” Draco mumbles, mostly as an afterthought. Theodore shrugs, not really caring, but Draco doesn’t mind. People were talking about the articles and their implications right here in Hogwarts. This wasn’t something that was happening out in the Wizarding World outside of Draco’s view. This was happening here, with Draco’s peers.

Kids weren’t stupid, Draco reminds himself. He remembers Max’s story of their class asking questions in their Religion class and being told they were “Little Nazis.” Kids asked questions until they were told not to all the time.

Hell, if Draco hadn’t had his Muggle family constantly urging him to question and search for answers, to not just accept everything at face value, he likely would have stopped asking so many things pretty early on. That was clearly what Lucius had wanted of him, and to a tentative degree Narcissa as well.

The thoughts follow him through the rest of the day, building up his optimism as he heads to wandless tutoring. He feels confident and invigorated, adrenaline coursing through him as he finally manages to cast Alohamora on his padlock – Longbottom had managed it first, which was becoming less and less of a surprise for the gathered students – and Sinistra had applauded him in her emotionless way.

“You are in high spirits today,” she notes with her bland voice.

“Got some good news right before this session,” Draco replies, trying to fight off a grin. Sinistra stares at him a moment, unmoving and considering, before nodding.

“Magic without a wand is raw. For some, it is this that makes it more malleable,” she begins, looking back at Longbottom, who was helping out a younger Hufflepuff student who was still working on their Levitation Spell. “But for most, it becomes tied to our mindset. Confidence, happiness, positivity. These mentalities assist in the flow of magic in all forms.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that before?” Eve, who is a few paces away with Leandra, demands, clearly frazzled from trying to figure out this spell. She was almost as bad as Granger…

“You cannot force emotion,” Sinistra says, turning back to look at the girls, completely emotionless herself. “In the end, practice will assure you success, just as with any spell.”

“When we feel the most positive, though, we should practice some new spells wandlessly?” Leandra suggests and Sinistra nods an affirmative, then goes off to help another student in need of her assistance.

It’s all a rather grand evening, Draco thinks. He’s in significantly higher spirits until he’s lying in bed that night and remembers that while his efforts are making dents in the Ministry, nothing is being done to put dents in Voldemort and his followers.

~ ~ ~

“I’ve heard a rumor.”

Draco hesitates, his fork halfway to his mouth where he sits in the dining room of Malfoy Manor. Despite not seeing much of his father over the Christmas Break, that didn’t mean Draco didn’t see him at all.

Lucius had graciously joined Draco and Narcissa for dinner two nights after Christmas day and Draco had become hyperaware of every word that he spoke in front of his father. He’d put on his pureblood mask, discreetly swept his hair into something more “appropriate,” and donned some of his finest robes.

Whatever rumor Lucius must have heard, however, was likely nothing good…

“A rumor, father?” Draco asks, looking up and setting his fork back down. His mother and father sit on far ends of their long, black, polished dining table, with Draco somewhere in the middle. He is a few seats closer to his mother, however.

“Yes. Undersecretary Umbridge was at her Ministry office a few days ago and called me up for tea,” Lucius begins, pristinely cutting into a finely seasoned roast on his plate.

“Dolores Umbridge,” Narcissa begins, as if she’s just remembered the name, “Is she the one with all those gaudy, pink robes?”

“The very one,” Lucius smirks, seeming to share a joke with his wife. Then, he is looking back to his son and Draco feels a distinct drop in his stomach. Lucius doesn’t look mad or disappointed or enraged like Draco had been panicking he would be. Instead, he looks proud. Once upon a time, that would have felt good…

“She tells me you have made great strides to redeem yourself after previous attempts at rebellion,” Lucius says brightly and Draco covers up a nervous gulp by taking a sip from his goblet.

“I realized how foolish I was being…” he says with false humility. He had to act the way his father expected him to act. He had to be the perfect, pureblood son. He couldn’t mess this up or all of this would be for nothing. “I did not wish to bother you with any of it. It was my responsibility to mend any damage my actions might have had on our family name and my own reputation.”

Lucius takes a deep breath, like he’s holding onto this moment. “I am very happy to hear this, Draco,” he says, looking back to his son with a shine to his eyes. “You make this family proud.”

Draco smiles, despite the twisting in his stomach at those words, then looks to his mother. Narcissa has been watching the interaction, not eating, but occasionally sipping at her wine. When she looks back at her son, she offers him an elegant, but real, smile. “My son. I will always be proud of him,” she says meaningfully, and it takes everything in Draco not to choke up.

“Of course, of course,” Lucius flippantly agrees and both Draco and Narcissa look back to him. “She tells me you have taken up an interest in the Ministry. Tell me what you have been looking into. I will get you contacts for all the appropriate people in those departments.”

For the rest of the evening Draco carefully weaves his story to fit his father’s expectations, properly putting him in such a good mood he doesn’t even notice the large portion of his specialized, Ministry-appointed floo powder that goes missing at the end of the Christmas Break…

~ ~ ~

The thing about Saturdays at Hogwarts is that most professors have set hours in their offices. To a younger student, or to a student less prone to mischief, one might think the best time to sneak into a professor’s office is during the scheduled timeframe they won’t be in it. Except, most professors set up minor charms when they aren’t scheduled to be in their offices to alert them when someone enters, meaning it is likely the second worst time to sneak in, just behind when they are actually inside.

Draco doesn’t know if he set off alarms when he snuck into the imposter Mad-Eye’s office the previous year, but it likely didn’t matter whether he did or didn’t. What he does know, however, is he wouldn’t put it past Umbridge to put plenty of security charms on her office when she knows she won’t be in it.

This is important because Umbridge’s fireplace is the only one not monitored by the Ministry.

All of the fireplaces in Hogwarts have not just the capability to fire call, but also to work as a floo. Usually, the latter doesn’t mean anything because there isn’t any floo powder in Hogwarts, and the fireplaces in the common rooms are monitored by the headmaster anyway, so no one even tries.

But Draco has floo powder, now. Special floo powder, stolen from his father, that will take him directly to the Ministry, and Umbridge has a fireplace that isn’t being monitored by said Ministry. He also knows the best time to sneak into a professor’s office is when they are scheduled to be in it, but aren’t, so there will be no security charms at play, and the best way to do that is with a distraction that forces them to leave immediately.

It is all a perfect combination to sneak Draco back into the Ministry, when no one is expecting him, and sneak down to the Department of Mysteries to find the Unhideable Hall and get his notes on the single Lung Dragon he knows of.

Despite all the talk around Hogwarts – which Draco only hears about from third parties – there still isn’t any sign of action or outrage thanks to the research articles Skeeter gets published. Draco knows he needs a big piece to finally set everyone over the edge, Harry and Eve had been right, and the Lung Dragon is his best bet, as far as he can tell.

He had been unable to sneak down over the break, namely because he’d found out about the Lung Dragon near the end of it all and he’d used his remaining days to scout out the Department of Mysteries. Plus, if he suddenly disappeared for hours on end Duke wouldn’t be able to efficiently cover him. This was all fine, thought, especially when he’d started planning and managed to nab some of his father’s specialized floo powder.

The twins eagerly agree to help Draco out with his plan when he poses it to them. He doesn’t want to wait too long into the term to go, wanting to get the information sent to Skeeter as soon as possible, so they aim for the first Saturday of the term, most people still groggy from their Christmas Breaks.

The twins will set off a distraction to lure Umbridge out of her office early in the morning. Nothing too dramatic, just jarring enough, and they can easily flee. They will then wait for exactly 1 o’clock in the afternoon, setting off another distraction to lure her out again, and Draco will time his return through floo to perfectly synchronize and he can slip back out of the office.

It was so far from being foolproof, but it was the best Draco had.

“What did you get Fred and George to do, again?” Weasley whispers from where they both crouch in the corridor just around the corner from Umbridge’s office.

Oh, right… and Weasley was coming along…

When Draco had told the Golden Trio about his Lung Dragon discovery, and thus his plan to sneak back to the Ministry to interview it, Harry immediately grew upset. Granger and Weasley were, too, but not as much as Harry. They didn’t think he should go it alone. They thought all four of them should go together.

Draco, having suspected this, had shot them down. All four of them was too much. They’d draw far too much attention. He would, however, take one person to appease them.

Again, as Draco predicted, Harry was first to jump at him, declaring he would go… except Draco had to turn him down, too.

“You’re the Ministry’s number two enemy, just behind Dumbledore. You shouldn’t go anywhere near them,” Draco said softly. He was sorry he couldn’t take Harry. He would have loved to sneak off with his boyfriend – and that word still made his insides hop with every thought – but he had to be pragmatic.

“He’s right, Harry. It’s far too dangerous for you,” Granger had said and Harry immediately bristles.

“Then who will you go with?” Harry had snapped, doing a valent effort of ignoring Granger to keep from blowing up at her and her babying.

“I was thinking Weasley,” Draco says quickly, before he can talk himself out of it.

“ME?!” Weasley yelps, clearly startled to have been picked. Everyone knew the ginger was Draco’s least favorite of the Golden Trio, but he’d thought about this in detail. He knew he’d end up having to take one of these heroes to keep them happy, so he had to consider which would be best.

“Yes. In the end, I know exactly where to go and I can hold majority of the interview, but if we get into trouble I need the person with the most knowledge of the Ministry I can get,” Draco explains evenly, giving Weasley a displeased but resolute look.

“That should be Hermione, then!” Weasley motions to the bushy-haired girl beside him and even Granger is nodding along.

“As much as I am eternally impressed by your book smarts, Granger, I need personal experience. Weasley’s father is an official at the Ministry as much as my father. I’ve seen him in passing when I was little and visiting, too. Plus…” Draco pauses to scratch at his cheek and look off to the side, “We’ll be down in the Department of Mysteries. If we get caught we can just say Weasley wanted to see the spot his father was attacked for ‘vengeance’ purposes.”

“You want to use…” Weasley begins slowly, then takes a breath to keep from exploding, “my father’s assault… to your advantage?”

“Yes,” Draco says immediately, watching the clear displeasure on the Gryffindors’ faces, and he shrugs nonchalantly. “What? Might as well. It already happened and we should get something out of it.”

Weasley fumes for a while after that, but eventually concedes. Harry, however, takes a bit more time to calm down. It is clear he is displeased with being left behind, but because the planning moves so fast Draco and Weasley hardly have a chance to talk to him and make amends.

They’ll just have to do it when they get back…

“Something noisy, but preferably quick enough they can flee in time,” Draco replies absently the Weasley’s question, his eyes firmly on Umbridge’s door.

“And when are they supposed to do it?” Weasley grumbles, shifting from watching the office to lean against the wall behind them.

Draco takes a deep, calming breath to keep from snapping. He’d had to swear to Granger, since Harry was being distant, that he’d be on his best behavior. Weasley was making it very tough for him, though.

“Any second—” Off in the distance there is a very abrupt, very loud cacophony of bird noises at that very moment. Screams and calls of crows and maccaws and cockatoos and peacocks and all kinds of birds Draco can’t identify at that moment. He turns back towards Weasley and smirks. “Now.”

“Don’t act like you knew that would happen,” the ginger growls in warning.

“You don’t know of my powers,” Draco snarks, but their argument is forgotten a second later as, from around the corner, an ostrich comes running with a shrieking Dobby on top attempting to control it. Whatever the twins have managed, there is surely a story behind it… but the twins will just have to fill them in later, because Umbridge’s office door is crashing open and the menace in pink is rushing out.

The two boys don’t waste a second, hurrying over and slipping into the vacated office just as the door is swinging back closed. They don’t even say anything, focus set, as they hurry to the fireplace. Draco pulls out a vial, filled with a portion of the special floo powder, and uncorks it. He pours half into Weasley’s palm.

“Do I need to say anything?” Weasley questions as he clambers into the fireplace.

“No, it will only take you to the Ministry,” Draco explains, pouring the rest of the powder into his own hand and pocketing the empty vial. They wouldn’t need any for the trip back. Both of them knew the floos at the Ministry were always charged and working, no powder necessary.

Weasley throws his powder and disappears in the green flames, Draco hardly waiting before he’s following after.

~ ~ ~

An unexpected effect of Longbottom knowing about Draco’s radio is that Draco finds out the lanky Gryffindor is surprisingly poetic. Not that he could ever write a poem, but more that he was a deep thinker when encouraged.

Draco discovers this because the greenhouses are still one of the places he regularly goes to talk to Max. He still hides the radio whenever someone comes in, but whenever it is just Longbottom, Draco no longer has to flee or make up an excuse as to why he’s there.

Longbottom also doesn’t speak to Max like Harry does. He keeps his distance for the most part, going about his work with the plants and letting Draco and Max continue talking off in a far corner, but sometimes Max calls out to him, requesting a short talk or answer. This is how Draco discovers Longbottom is a surprisingly deep, poetic thinker, because anytime Max has some ridiculous question that comes out of nowhere, Longbottom has an equally ridiculous answer.

On more than one occasion Draco has hissed to stop encouraging them, but Longbottom never listens.

“Hey, Nev,” Max will usually begin and pause long enough for Longbottom to meander closer to Draco and the radio. “Do you think mirrors reveal the truth… or show the lie?”

Draco sighs. The conversation had begun as a rant from Max about unfair body standards in magazines and how it effects the youth of today. Somehow it had come to this...

And Longbottom considers the question, taking it seriously every time, which Draco just finds frustrating. “Could you argue that both of those are the same thing?” Longbottom replies and Draco lets his head thunk against the beam behind him as Max gasps dramatically.

“I hadn’t thought of that!”

“I hate you both,” Draco will usually grumble. At first Longbottom had looked worried he’d angered the Slytherin, but as time went on, and when nothing came of the comments except laughter from Max, Longbottom had calmed down.

Another time Draco had to listen to Max and Longbottom have a very in-depth conversation about whether centaurs were insects or not, and another time Max had posed the question of whether domesticating sharks would be ethical and the two had debated for nearly an hour until Draco had cut them off. The meaning of flowers was a pretty regular topic, along with all kinds of philosophy.

It was a little endearing, but Draco would never admit that, and it gave him an interesting view into the cowardly Gryffindor’s mind he hadn’t thought would be so noteworthy.

Max brought out the most intriguing sides of people. They’d done so with Draco, even a little with Harry, and now with Longbottom, too.

“Do you think snails feel pain?” Max asks one day in the middle of the term, just as Longbottom is walking nearby, and the Gryffindor pauses in clear interest. Draco gives him a sharp look in warning not to get Max going again, but at this point most of his glares are ignored.

“Did you sprinkle salt on one and now you feel bad again?” Draco deadpans and the resulting silence is all the answer he needs. “I suspect they do, since they writhe around when it is done.”

“I guess… and pain is the brain’s way of saying ‘something is wrong over here,’ so I guess they’d need it… Wait, does that mean things without brains can’t feel pain? Do jellyfish not feel pain?!”

“Max…” Draco groans, cutting off the Muggle’s tirade before it can get much worse.

A nervous chuckle sounds over the radio, followed by Max saying in the least sorry tone, “Sorry. Just got me thinking. One of the snails I poured salt on survived and I felt even worse…”

“Well,” Draco sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I suppose.”

“I don’t know…” Longbottom finally cuts in and Draco looks over. The tall boy doesn’t look as curiously thoughtful as he usually does, though. Instead, he’s staring at a pot he’s prepping for a new plant, but not really looking at it. “Sometimes what doesn’t kill you just…hurts.”

Draco’s first response is to ask what the fuck that kind of answer is, especially when they are just talking about snails, but the look on Longbottom’s face stills the Slytherin. Max begins groaning about being a terrible, snail-torturing person, but Draco isn’t paying attention. Longbottom looks distant and drawn in at the same time. It is clear that whatever Longbottom had been thinking about when he made that comment, it ran a lot deeper than where Draco and Max had been.

Draco doesn’t question it, though. Instead, he eyes the tall boy as he hops back into conversation with Max. Eventually Longbottom gets back to work, but Draco decides waiting around an extra hour or two more than usual isn’t that bad of an idea.

~ ~ ~

The Ministry was arrogant when it came to break-ins. Draco realized that long before he’d ever become acquainted with the Golden Trio and had noted a severe lack in magical defenses when visiting his father’s office.

While there were security wizards, and the Aurors were just a call away, there were hardly any charms or spells anywhere to deter thieves or hooligans. Lucius had once said it was due to the sheer number of comings and goings it would never be efficient to catching anyone.

Draco knew better now, though. Duke had really laid it out for Draco, and even some of the pro-Minister Aurors had jumped in with their own complaints.

The Ministry felt like no one would ever attempt to pull a fast one over on them to such an extent that Aurors wouldn’t be efficient enough. They did not fund permanent, foundational security charms, despite there being rumors that the most influential officers did, in fact, gain extra security for their offices.

This left the Aurors to cast their own protective spells on their own offices and rooms, which meant the moment an Auror went home for the day, their charms dissipated. Sure, they were safe when clocked in during the day, but during the night the Ministry was shockingly barren of magical defenses.

The Unspeakables, to Draco’s understanding, did the exact same thing in the Department of Mysteries. Sure, it would be easier to sneak around at night, when no one was there, but Draco and Weasley didn’t have that option with their floo situation. It would have been significantly more helpful to have had an Invisibility Cloak with them as they made their way down to the Ministry’s basement, but it would alert the Unspeakables to their presence due to their currently active security spells.

It left Draco and Weasley having to swiftly hide behind statues or pillars or inside halls to avoid detection, and it was quickly riding their patience raw.

“Can’t we move a bit faster?” Weasley hisses not for the first time.

“If we do, we run the risk of being heard and caught,” Draco snaps back, not even looking over. “Do me a favor and stop trying to rush around like your incompetent Quidditch performances.”

“Excuse me?” Weasley somehow manages to squawk and whisper at the same time. “How is rushing around not a good Quidditch strategy?”

“You get too anxious and jump the gun,” Draco waves him off, trying to look around a corner. They were almost to the elevators. They’d had to take the scenic route to avoid notice. “Any idiot with eyes could see that.”

“No one’s mentioned it before,” Weasley growls, punching at Draco’s arm unkindly.

“Because they’re all too nice,” Draco rolls his eyes, restraining the urge to rub at his arm where it would surely bruise. “They won’t tell you your real problem.”

They don’t get a moment to finish that statement, because right then they find themselves beside the elevators, a congregation of officials just stepping out, and leaving it barren. They rush to slip in, pulling the gate closed as quietly as they possibly can and setting the elevator for the basement.

“Alright then, tell me, since you’ve clearly got all the answers,” Weasley grinds out as they stand side by side, just waiting for the elevator to get to their destination. “What is my real problem.”

“You don’t have confidence in yourself,” Draco shrugs, arching a brow and side eying Weasley, who immediately turns red in the face. “You put a bunch of emotional baggage and meaning to your success in Quidditch, then wrap yourself up in all this anxiety of what will happen when you inevitably fail, and thus begin to believe all you are is a failure because that’s the only thing in your head.” Some of that wording was thanks to a very observant comment from Tracey a few weeks before Christmas, but Weasley didn’t need to know that.

“Now, clearly, based on evidence, you are a failure,” Draco drawls and Weasley is quick to steam in fury, which only makes Draco smirk in amusement, “You gave Slytherin so many points. I even came up with a song, do you want to hear it?”

“No. Fuck you,” Weasley growls, most likely questioning why he even agreed to come along. “You don’t know anything.”

“You just need to get out of your head,” Draco waves him off, glancing at the elevator gates before them. “Put yourself in the present. It’s a Quidditch game between a bunch of idiot teenagers. Why the fuck do you even care how successful you are? Aren’t you just supposed to be enjoying yourself or some rot?”

“Or some rot. What, don’t have fun with the Slytherin team?” Weasley sneers, not willing to even play along with Draco’s very kind, very free advice.

“I adore Quidditch, but it is more of a statement of power in Slytherin than it is a game. Recall I was bought onto the team,” the blonde huffs as the elevator finally comes to a stop. He opens up the gates and Weasley storms out first, hardly even paying attention, just wanting to start moving again.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have any room to talk about ‘staying in the present,’ Malfoy,” Weasley snaps back as they head for the Department of Mysteries’ Entrance Chamber. Draco keeps his eyes peeled for any Unspeakable that might be wandering about. They’d be lucky not to get caught with how recklessly Weasley was moving.

“And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?” Draco growls despite his better judgement.

“You have to put yourself in everything. Have to ‘investigate’ every, little thing. Have to butt your nose into everyone’s business, but the moment it comes to you? Nothing. No one gets to know about Draco Malfoy. Bloody hell, you can’t even get your own shit together long enough to take a damn ‘thank you’ from somebody.”

Draco has to fight the urge to reach for his wand, anger very swiftly boiling to the surface, and he has to halt in the hall to take a breath. Up ahead, Weasley has noticed the pause and has also stopped and turned around, glaring at the blonde.

“Nothing smart to say to that, ferretface?” Weasley snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, and Draco snarls at him. This was a terrible idea, both the argument in the middle of the hall and bringing Weasley along. Draco should have stuck with Granger.

“I share plenty with people,” he starts evenly.

“Yeah, to Harry, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re just as freaked out by failure as I am,” the ginger is quick to retort and Draco steps forward. He doesn’t pull out his wand, but he does point a menacing finger at the other.

“But the difference between you failing and me failing, you see, is if you fail you’ll just lose a game of Quidditch, but if I fail I could completely destroy the feeble foundation keeping the Order afloat and put everyone involved at risk, including you and your friends,” Draco snarls viciously, eyes narrowed, and Weasley glares right back. “Your rigorous desire to be someone ‘important’ is pathetic and insulting.”

“’Insulting?’ How the hell is—”

“Is Harry and Granger’s love not enough?” Draco stops him dead with a growl, the ginger’s blue eyes widening and the fight very swiftly running out of him. “You mean the world to them, yet you act like it’s not enough. You need everybody’s approval, don’t you?”

The silence is deafening, but Draco doesn’t care. He thinks he’s made his point and is ready to move on, when Weasley’s open, shocked expression compresses into boiling rage. “You would know, wouldn’t you? You constantly need approval to convince yourself you’re not as unimportant as you really are.”

The surprisingly harsh words don’t cut as deep as Draco expects. Perhaps because a moment later, as the silence stretches on, even Weasley looks surprised with himself. Perhaps because of the numbing cold that settles over Draco’s veins. Perhaps because it doesn’t feel like a baseless accusation…

For a long, long while neither boy says a word, just facing each other, heavy emotions dangling in the air but unable to be addressed. Draco doesn’t know what Weasley must be thinking, but the ginger doesn’t look as furious anymore. He looks strained and lost, like he doesn’t know what came over the both of them, and Draco doesn’t know, either.

They’d argued plenty before, but this had gone a lot farther than either one of them were comfortable with. At one point in their pasts, they wouldn’t have cared. They would have spat the most vile things at each other and never felt remorse. But that wasn’t their reality anymore.

Draco feels strangely numb as more and more of the conversation sinks into his skin. He regrets having lost his temper. He regrets his comments on Weasley’s failures, but also thinks someone needed to set him straight eventually. He has no intention of apologizing, he doubts Weasley does either, but that’s fine. They’ve never apologized to each other before.

What has lodged itself firmly into the forefront of Draco’s mind, however, is the word “unimportant.” Weasley had called him unimportant, or at least insinuated that Draco had once believed himself to be so and had done everything to get people’s attention as a response. It was true that Draco had been a brat in his younger years while searching for acknowledgement. He still liked attention, but in the past he’d felt obligated to it.

It hadn’t been that he felt unimportant, it was that he felt too important. He’d assumed he was the most important wizard in the room thanks to the false assurances of pureblood ideology. He’d been fed so many wealthy promises and bigoted security, but now he knew better. Sure, he was still learning, but he was trying to make amends for all that he had done in the past.

But… to have that word thrown in his face. Was that what he really was? If he wasn’t as important as he’d been raised to believe, what did that leave him as? He had his missions, his responsibilities, but that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Draco…

Draco swallows, immediately not liking where his mind is taking him, and he forces down all the sickening feelings that are building up inside him. He couldn’t address this now, couldn’t think about it. He and Weasley were on the clock and they couldn’t dilly-dally anymore.

“Hurry up. We still have work to do,” Draco says, his voice rough, and he moves past the ginger to head into the Entrance Chamber. Weasley seems relieved to just move on, following after with no complaint.

They stand side-by-side in the circular chamber, the walls beginning to move and spin and shift around them, doors being lost in the motion. Draco can see why this would be disorienting to an intruder, but he hardly gets confused. He isn’t paying close enough attention for the shifting walls to throw him off. He knows from all the files he’d read that it won’t do him any good.

Instead he stares at his feet, waiting for the Entrance Chamber to settle, tense from the atmosphere that still swirls around much like the walls. Draco can only think of one way to break it…

“Bumpkin,” he mumbles, just loud enough for the other boy to hear him, and Weasley looks over sharply, his brows up in his hairline from surprise. Then, slowly, Weasley’s shoulders sag and he smiles ruefully, shaking his head.

“Ponce,” Weasley mumbles back on a weak huff, not quite a chuckle, but good-natured enough to finally put Draco at ease.

Things aren’t fixed or better, but when have they ever been between a Malfoy and a Weasley?

~ ~ ~

“I found the slinky your father bought me when we first met,” Draco says one winter when he is ten, sitting in his tub, radio in his lap, slinky in both of his hands.

“Oh! I remember that! I still have my yo-yo!” Max exclaims happily, the noise of them clambering over something coming through, followed by a triumphant cry, “Here it is!”

Technically, Dobby found the slinky while cleaning up some of Draco’s old toys and hadn’t understood what it was. Wizards didn’t have slinkies, after all, but the house elf had been entertained by the metal spiral when Draco had demonstrated it.

“You were unable to use that properly,” Draco rolls his eyes, enjoying the way the slinky moves as he hops it between his two hands.

“Whatever, I totally figured out how to now. Walk the dog! The elevator! Around the worl—OW!”

“Did you hit your face?”

“I hit my face…”

The two laugh at that, despite Max’s pain, before the Muggle sighs dramatically. “Did I ever tell you I’m super grateful you hung out with us that day? Mama and Papa think your parents must’ve been super worried, but they liked you being with us, too.”

Draco’s brows rise in surprise, not expecting the honest comment, and lowers the slinky so he can pull the radio closer. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely! You listened to me even when I got super obnoxious, you danced with me, and we got to pick on my brother together! It meant a lot to me… Papa always says it’s important to love ourselves, but sometimes people need reminding that other people love them, too, so we should always let people know when we appreciate or care about them, and I super appreciate you, Draco!”

Draco stares at his radio in amazement, not for the words, but for how they make his chest feel lighter very suddenly.

“Well,” the blond eventually huffs, “You would be a fool not to.”

“Oh, booooo! That’s not how you’re supposed to respond!” Max whines and Draco can’t help but laugh at their plight, grin wide on his face. He thinks his care for Max and their family is rather clear, but he thinks a reminder here and there isn’t too awful of an idea, either. Just not today. Max is too funny when they get all pouty like this, after all.

~ ~ ~

When the Entrance Chamber finally settles Weasley grips Draco’s shoulder to keep from teetering over in his dizziness. “That’s what you get for trying to keep up with the doors,” Draco deadpans to the ginger, before stepping away and moving to one of the twelve doors.

“How do you know which one it is, then?” Weasley demands petulantly as Draco jiggles the handle. It’s locked, which either means it is the Love Chamber, where only specialized personnel can enter, or the Locked Room, which locked itself so long ago no one knows what’s inside anymore. It smells oddly fruity on the other side, though, and Draco suspects this must be the Love Chamber.

“I don’t. You just have to try each one,” the blonde shrugs, moving to another door. When he opens it, he finds a room filled, wall to wall, with jars and glass containers of brains.

“Oh… that’s not disturbing,” Weasley mumbles sarcastically, peaking over Draco’s shoulder. Draco grunts an affirmative and closes the door. “So, there’s twelve doors… Does that mean the Department of Mysteries is only researching twelve things?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Draco shakes his head, closing the next door when all it reveals is a room filled with floating orbs of water everywhere. “Many rooms connect to each other, and some must be reached by going through one of the other rooms, first, such as—Aha!” Draco turns back towards Weasley triumphantly, holding open the door.

The ginger moves in first, followed by Draco, who shuts the door quietly. The room they find themselves in is dark, the walls and floors seemingly made out of the night sky, galaxies and stars spiraling by. Recreations of the planets float around them, moving in seemingly random patterns rather than following an orbit.

“The Space Room,” Draco announces, then steps around Saturn, ducking under its rings, beckoning Weasley to follow, then pointing up at the ceiling. The files Draco had obsessively researched when he had been looking into the Lung Dragon had told him exactly where to go. “We can reach the Unhideable Hall right through there.”

There, on the ceiling, is a door. Like all of the doors in the Department of Mysteries it is mostly black, making it difficult to spot on the nebular ceiling, but when one knows where to look it becomes a lot easier.

“We didn’t bring our brooms. How are we supposed to get up there?”

“There are gravity spots all over the place. We must simply find the right one.”

It takes them a few tries of walking around just under the door, finding spots of both increased and decreased gravity, until Weasley stumbles and falls onto the wall. When he stands back up, rubbing his nose, he’s turned completely sideways and standing on the wall.

“Found it!” Weasley announces proudly when he realizes what he’s done, a wide grin on his face and arms on his hips, and Draco moves to join him. They walk a straight path up the wall and to the door in the ceiling. Draco expects to feel lightheaded, but he doesn’t as they open the door and step inside.

Everything feels normal again, they no longer appear to be standing on a wall, and instead find themselves in a positively HUGE hall. The walls are made of glass and the vaulted ceiling is so high up Draco sees birds flying above them but can’t identify them from this distance. There are doors that line the hall, and thanks to the glass walls they can see that the doors lead into equally sized glass domes, each with a compressed world within. The immediate one to their right appears to be a swamp of some kind, and the one to their left is completely underwater.

They remind Draco of snow globes.

“They must be larger on the insides,” Draco muses as the two begin to walk, both looking around at the expanse in amazement. There are hundreds of doors and hundreds of domes, each seemingly unique.

“What did those files say were housed here?” Weasley questions as they pass by a door and spot movement from within the dome behind it.

“It began as a place to house magical creatures that could not be hidden from Muggle eyes, thus the name,” Draco replies absently. Each door had a plaque with a letter and number on it, followed by the corresponding animal’s name just underneath. The Lung Dragon was in F8, according to its file. “Now, however, they also keep endangered creatures, interesting creatures for examination, dangerous creatures, and creatures in need of medical attention, if needed.”

“There might be beasts in here that no one has ever heard of before!”

“Or from myth.”

A giddy, dumb chuckle is all the warning Draco gets before Weasley is hurrying over to a random door up ahead. Draco pauses to watch the idiot’s back as he swings open the door without preamble.

From where Draco is standing, he can see a jungle within, miles and miles of it, with clouds and a blue sky above. There’s also a blast of humid air that smacks him in the face a moment later, but he isn’t paying it all that much mind, as impressive as it might be.

No, his, and likely Weasley’s, full attention is on the massive Tyrannosaurus Rex currently staring at them just inside the door, surprised at their sudden intrusion, a chunk of meat hanging from its huge, sharp teeth. The silence is palpable, Weasley and Draco staring up as the T. Rex stares down.

Then the T. Rex – which Draco thinks it is prudent to remind himself is SUPPOSED to be extinct – begins to pull back its lips, showing more of its fangs, until it is stomping to face them and letting out a mighty roar. In response, the two boys scream, and Weasley slams the door shut just as the dinosaur is taking a step towards them. They both begin scrambling backwards, as if the massive creature will be able to break free and get to them, both speaking far louder than seems necessary.

“What was that?! What the bloody hell was that?! Was that a fucking dinosaur?!” Weasley is shrieking as Draco yells, “Read the plaque, you idiot, the plaque! What are you doing?!” But both stop as they, in their scuffle to back away, run straight into the door opposite across the hall. Draco doesn’t know if one of them nudges the handle or if the Hall is trying to kill them, but the door is opening on them and they both go tumbling backwards and crash into warm, salty water.

The world goes muffled as Draco is submerged, fighting drastically against a struggling, thrashing Weasley who has latched onto his robes and won’t let go. Whatever environment they’ve found themselves in, it is completely ocean water, the waves rocking Draco’s body from above.

This is what he got. This is what he got for taking along a Weasley.

He attempts to motion at the other boy to start swimming up and stop yanking on him, but then Weasley is falling completely still and Draco has to twist about to see why.

The water is murky and dark, hardly any light penetrating far through the surface, but it isn’t difficult for Draco to see, from the dark depths just beneath them, the shapes of thousands of tendrils swirling around a monstrous body easily the size of two cruise ships. Then, somewhere at the top of the body, where a head should be, hundreds of glowing, red eyes begin to open, staring straight up at the two boys from what Draco has to assume is the depths of Hell.

Two, muffled screams emerge from the boys, bubbles clouding their vision, but they waste no further time swimming to the surface and clambering back through the door that, from the inside of the enclosure, just looks to be hovering over the expanse of ocean, no walls in sight.

Draco slams the door shut behind them before both he and Weasley tumble onto the ground, heaving for breath and soaking wet.

“The Kraken,” Weasley gasps and when Draco looks at him, he points at the door they’d just fled from. Indeed, on the plaque just beneath a rusted “O15” it reads “Kraken.” “They have a bloody Tyrannosaurus Rex across the hall from a Kraken. What kind of nightmare world is this?”

“I just wanted to find the Lung Dragon,” Draco snaps, struggling to stand back up, the black, tile floor slippery from all the water they’re dripping on it, “You’re the one that decided to go adventuring like an idiot Gryffindor.”

“We’re in a hall filled with beasts we’ll likely never see again. Sorry to sound like Hagrid, but what did you expect me to do?” Weasley snaps back. They’ve both managed to get to their feet by now and are struggling to continue down the hall, tracking water everywhere.

“Not that? Possibly? Was that too much to ask?” Draco sneers, turning to keep his eyes on the doors that they pass. He just wanted to find the damn Lung Dragon and be done with this little adventure already.

“How is it possible for you to not want to look around?” Weasley groans in frustration, then turns to observe one of the plaques. “Hydra. They have a hydra! Or,” the ginger moves to the next door, Draco trying to ignore him, “Anthropophagus… I don’t even know what that means. But what about…”

When Weasley trails off on the third door Draco finally glances over. The ginger is staring vacantly at the plaque, the color on his face gone, and Draco carefully steps over. “What is it…?” he begins to ask, glancing at the plaque, then going still.

“Q13 Nargles.”

For a few seconds Draco doesn’t know what to say. It feels like his soul might have left his body because surely this can’t be real…

“We never speak of this,” Weasley eventually mumbles, breaking the silence, his expression grim.

“Agreed,” Draco croaks, nodding, and the two boys turn away swiftly and keep walking down the hall, conversation left behind along with what they had just seen.

It takes them a long time to find F8. It doesn’t appear as if the doors have any proper order. R2 is right next to L85 and across from Z9. There is no rhyme or reason to how the exhibits are organized, no direction that makes any kind of sense, and it leaves Draco more and more agitated as they go. He’s fuming after what feels like hours, trudging through the depths of the hall, but must only be a few minutes since both he and Weasley are still dripping water as they walk.

And then they see it, like a beacon of hope. “F8 Lung Dragon,” the plaque hangs on a door just like the others but appears to have a bit more wear to it. There also appears to be very faint scorch marks along the upper corner of the door, but it could be a trick of the light.

“This is it, then?” Weasley mumbles as Draco stops to face the door, his hands shaking. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. Wyvern Dragons, as Eve had specified, were the dragons he’d always known about, and they were highly dangerous and wild. Lung Dragons, on the other hand, were meant to be intelligent and wise, even revered in legend as a holy beast rather than a monster.

But it was still a dragon and Draco was having a tough time looking past that.

With a deep breath, and then another, the Slytherin stamps down viciously on his nerves and takes a step forward, Weasley behind him. He opens the door and steps inside in one motion before he can begin to reconsider.

The air is thin in this enclosure. Thin and cold, and it takes a moment for Draco’s eyes to adjust to the seemingly natural, bright sunlight. When he can look around, he finds that they are standing atop a stone formation that is so high up it has breached the clouds. If Draco glances down over the edge the ground cannot be seen, hidden away by a floor of fluffy, white clouds and fog. The stones are slick, moss growing along the smooth curves, and a path of carved out stairs lead up the formation. They curve and twist until leading to a red structure even higher up on a precipice, one half dangling over the edge with angled stilts of wood holding it up.

Clouds swirl around the stone structure, like a vortex protecting them from the outside world, rays of vibrant sunlight leaking through and giving the space a heavenly glow. The breeze seems to be constant, but it isn’t strong, the cold making Draco shiver and pull his robes a little tighter. He glances backwards as Weasley shuts the door behind them. Similar to the Kraken’s enclosure, the door appears to stand on its own here, no walls in sight. Just a door standing at the start of a path. Although, Draco can’t help but note, this side of the door looks to be littered entirely with scorch marks and gashes.

“We should head up to that building. See if the dragon is there,” Draco decides, flinching at the way his voice echoes. They turn and carefully make their way up the stairs, not wanting to slip on the damp stone.

“How big are these things supposed to get, anyway?” Weasley questions.

Draco gulps. “I… don’t know,” he admits. The files hadn’t said. Though, he hopes the size of the building up ahead is a good indicator. It’s not very large, would hardly fit a Wyvern Dragon, so Draco hopes that means Lung Dragons are relatively small creatures.

“Lovely…” Weasley grumbles but they say nothing more afterwards. The building appears to be Asian in origin, but Draco knows too little about the variety of cultures to confidently identify it beyond that. It is mostly made of wood painted a vibrant red, with rounded pillars, a thatched roof, golden accents, and a porch. It is only one floor tall, but the roof comes to a point at the top with a decorated, metal finial at the top.

“Hello?!” Weasley calls when, after a few moments of standing before the building, nothing happens. Draco isn’t sure exactly what he feels, like a chill up his spine that has nothing to do with the cold, but he can’t help but glance sideways at the swirling clouds. They look like they are moving differently, suddenly. “Anyone home?!”

Beyond the slowly mounting dread in Draco’s stomach, nothing else happens. Weasley’s voice bounces around the enclosure a few times before fading away. “Hey, maybe you can smell it?” Weasley suggests and Draco looks to him sharply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As an Animagus,” Weasley rolls his eyes and Draco’s hackles lower. Ah, right. It was worth a shot.

He shrugs helplessly and, with one fluid motion, shifts into a snow leopard. Not a moment after does he realize something is very, very wrong. Professor McGonagall had mentioned that, as an animal, Draco would become more aware of the environment around him. Yes, his senses would be enhanced, but he would also notice a heightened sense when it came to barometric pressure. It was how most animals became aware of natural disasters long before they hit.

Whatever was happening in this enclosure, it was setting off all of Draco’s alarm bells, and even Weasley could tell. “Whoa, your fur is—OW!” the ginger had been going to touch Draco’s pelt, which was all standing on end, but jerks his finger back when a shock of static electricity snaps him.

All around them the clouds are beginning to churn, the sunlight dimming, and Draco shifts back into a human. “Maybe we should go,” he says frantically, eyes wide as he looks around him. They weren’t alone, he could feel it, and a shifting shadow in the clouds reestablishes that. “This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t be here.”

“What?! After coming all this way?” Weasley exclaims, stepping up to Draco’s side and looking at the Slytherin like he’s lost his mind. “We can’t just leave like tha—”

A flash of lightning silences them as it strikes at the metal filial atop the building beside them, a shockwave accompanying it and knocking both boys off their feet. The stone hurts where Draco lands and he grunts and squeezes his eyes shut, cringing. When he manages to crack his eyes back open, looking above him, the formerly gentle, rolling clouds have turned grey and menacing, wind whistling, and bolts of lightning jumping through the sky.

A mighty shadow, long and serpentine, is momentarily illuminated by the flashing lightning, the creature shifting through the sky like it’s swimming, and Draco scrambles to his feet. “Hello?!” he cries into the storm. It was too late to run, so the next best thing Draco could do was talk. It was one of his greater talents, after all. “Please, we mean you no harm!”

A bolt of lightning crashes into the ground just a few feet to Draco’s left, making him shriek and leap away. He collides with Weasley, who’s managed to get to his feet too, and they both tumble back to the ground. The roar that echoes through the air sounds somewhere between thunder and a banshee, Draco covering his ears as he crouches on his knees.

“Really! We just want to talk!” he tries again. Rain has begun to fall, splattering his face like knives, and he squints against the onslaught.

“My name is Ron Weasley!” the Gryffindor calls up, “He’s Draco Malfoy! We’re only students! We wanted to do some research, that’s all!”

“RESEARCH,” a voice booms through the storm, high above them. “I HAVE HAD BLOOD AND SCALES TAKEN, MY PEARL DESTROYED, MY FREEDOM STOLEN FROM ME. WHAT FURTHER RESEARCH DOES YOUR KIND SO DESPERATELY DESIRE?”

Was that what the Lung Dragon was here for? For the Ministry to experiment on him? What kind of life must this creature have been living locked away in the Ministry of Magic’s basement?

“We just wanted to talk!” Draco calls, staying low to the ground, but looking up as the allusive shadow finally stills within the clouds. He can tell it is long, so long it wraps entirely around the stone structure twice while still keeping in cloud cover, and it rears back a head with mighty horns that look like branches atop it. “Honest! We want to know your story, that’s all!”

The whistle of the wind has died down, and the rain no longer feels like knives. Lightning still leaps around the shadowy figure, but he isn’t moving anymore, appearing to peer down at the two humans in consideration.

Feeling bold, Draco and Weasley scurry to stand back up, looking up at the head of the Lung Dragon. “We want to publish the research we gather here today and properly demolish people’s trust in the Ministry. We aren’t here to manipulate you,” Draco promises, no longer needing to yell over the storm.

“No…” the beast’s voice echoes, no longer a painful boom, but still deep and powerful. He sounds almost aristocratic, if Draco’s being honest. “You are merely here to manipulate your government. Typical humans… Constantly fighting each other.” The shadow shifts and begins to fly circles around the stone structure, staying hidden in the clouds, but still speaking. “It is because of your endless fighting that they forgot why I was originally here. They forgot, and thus assumed. They assumed I was a threat. They built new governments atop my head and believed they kept themselves safe keeping me locked away down here.”

“I am very sorry,” Draco breathes, trying to follow the dragon’s movements but swiftly growing dizzy. “We had no idea.”

“Alas, even I have forgotten why I originally came here. Perhaps I was hurt. Perhaps I was helping. I do not recall,” the Lung Dragon sighs in clear dissatisfaction.

“How long have you even been down here?” Weasley asks, looking bewildered. The two wizards must look a mess with their soaked robes and wind-thrown hair.

“Ah, I do not know…” the dragon sighs again, now sounding mournful. “It was the birth of the Xia Dynasty when I ventured to this land. I know your Ministry was not developed at the time.”

Draco does not know the timeline of the Chinese dynasties, and thus cannot garner a proper estimate, but he can only assume it has been a very, very long time since the Lung Dragon arrived here. Long before the Ministry of Magic was officially established, apparently.

There were precursors to the Ministry, though. Ruling factions of witches and wizards that would eventually evolve into the government Draco knew today. They must have been the ones this dragon had interacted with.

“However,” the dragon’s voice abruptly booms, and the shadow comes into better focus as he hovers once more, looking down at the two boys, “distaste towards human infighting aside… I find myself intrigued and, I dare say, sympathetic to your desire to disrupt Ministry standings.”

“Will you speak to us, then?” Weasley questions, sounding eager.

The shadow of the dragon’s head tilts and Draco gets the distinct feeling they are being laughed at. “I shall,” the dragon finally agrees, and the shadow begins to move in. Clouds curve around the body of the dragon as he emerges, curling around him leisurely, the storm properly subsiding as the giant creatures makes his appearance.

He’s serpentine, body as thick as the Knight Bus is tall, with two front legs and, much farther down the body, two hind legs. Draco counts five fingers on each hand, long claws on each, and a mane of white fur runs down his entire spine. His scales are pitch black, but gleam a faint blue in the sunlight, and his branch-like horns shimmer white like marble. Two, long whiskers at nearly a fourth the length of his body emerge from above his lip, and his eyes are green and intelligent.

He curls himself more snuggly around the stone structure, body relaxing, and his front claws hold himself up just in front of Draco and Weasley. When he lowers his head towards the boys his eyes crinkle as if he’s smiling and he opens his mouth, showing large, sharp fangs as big as Draco’s head.

“Greetings,” the dragon says, voice still deep but far more friendly, “My name is Huang-Jun.”

~ ~ ~

“Why do you two look like drowned cats?”

Both Draco and Weasley shoot scathing glares at the grinning twins. After everything – tripping into a Kraken enclosure and getting stormed on by a Lung Dragon – they were still dripping water by the time they made it back to Hogwarts.

Thankfully, their well-timed return had worked perfectly. The twins had set off another distraction, pulling Umbridge away and giving Draco and Weasley the opportunity to slip back into Hogwarts through her fireplace. The only people who would know about their usage of the floo network out and in of Hogwarts would be themselves and, probably, Dumbledore. Dumbledore seemed to know everything that happened in these walls.

“Nothing ever goes easy for you guys, does it?” one of the twins questions, but Draco is too exhausted to pay them any attention and determine which is which.

“We got the information. What more do you want?” Draco growls.

“Did Umbridge catch you?” Weasley asks his brothers, momentarily looking worried.

“Nope!” the other twin pops the word, “No detention for us! Harry helped us escape with the Marauders Map, so we were in the clear from the get-go.”

“Harry helped you?” Draco asks, suddenly fully invested in the conversation. Weasley gives him a smug, knowing look, which Draco swiftly glares back at.

“Yeah? Why, was he not supposed to?” George questions skeptically, both he and Fred arching matching eyebrows.

“No, no… He has merely… not wanted much to do with this particular mission until now,” Draco sighs, dejected at the mere thought. First week back, with a boyfriend, and they were already having disagreements.

“He’s not really talking to us,” Weasley tacks on, scratching at the back of his head and looking as dejected as Draco feels.

“Well, he still wanted to help,” Fred shrugs, both twins’ eyes sparkling with mirth at Draco and Weasley’s misfortune.

Weasley sighs, head hanging, before he shakes it out and sprays water droplets everywhere, making Draco scowl and the twins step back. “Nothing to do about it, I guess. I’m gonna take a warm shower and let Hermione and hopefully Harry know how everything went.”

“You do that…” Draco grumbles, turning away from the three gingers. “I’m going down to my room. I’ve had enough of today…” He doesn’t wait for a response as he starts walking, but he throws back an absent wave when he hears the twins call good-bye.

After walking what felt like the entire Ministry, stressing over getting caught, getting roared at by a dinosaur, getting soaked, nearly getting struck by lightning, getting soaked again, and dealing with everything Weasley… Draco was ready for a nice, long nap. A shower first did sound nice, but definitely a quick one, and then he was getting some rest. He could proofread his notes and send them off to Skeeter later.

When he arrives in the Slytherin common room it is, blessedly, quiet, and most of the people there only give him confused looks as he passes, shoes squelching from all the water. He thinks he is in the clear after that, certain none of his dormmates will ever attempt to bother him when he’s in such a sour mood, but the moment he opens the door there’s a very surprised call of his name.

“Draco?!” The blonde cringes, feeling a headache coming on, and looks up to snap at whoever it might be to just leave him alone already, but then promptly trips over his own feet when he sees who it is.

Harry Potter is sitting casually on Draco’s bed, like he owns the place, chatting with Blaise, the only other occupant. At Draco’s arrival Harry had hopped off the bed and was looking at Draco in clear shock at his soaked appearance.

“Harry…” Draco says slowly, more confused than he’s been all day, frozen in place just inside the door. “What… How…?” He feels like a fool, unable to form a proper question, and slowly Harry is giving him an amused, smug smile, clearly entertained.

“It helps to have friends in low places,” Harry says grandly.

“You… What?” Draco attempts again, flailing his hands helplessly, and Harry shrugs and jabs a thumb at Blaise, who looks particularly bored.

“I asked Blaise to let me in and he did.”

“Not like I had anything better to do,” Blaise sighs, shifting to get off his own bed and meander in Draco’s, and the door’s, direction.

Harry arches a brow at that, then rolls his eyes, looking tired of Blaise’s attitude. Draco wonders how long he’s been down here, stuck with only Blaise for company, the poor Gryffindor… “You know, acting like you hate everything doesn’t make you interesting,” Harry huffs.

“I don’t hate everything,” Blaise replies, flicking his head, “I just know I’m better than everyone.”

“You’re really not…” Harry grunts and Blaise looks at him over his shoulder.

“Do you want to be left alone with your boyfriend or not?” Blaise snaps and Harry offers an angelic smile, causing the other boy to scoff then slip past Draco and out the door.

Draco, finally finding his voice, points back at the way Blaise had left. “You told him we were dating?”

“Well… yeah. He let me in, after all, and he’s DA. I knew we could trust him,” Harry shrugs, not seeing any issue with this.

“Yeah, but I’m the one that has to live with him,” Draco whines, sagging, then pouts when he hears Harry laugh.

“You’ll be fine. I want to know what happened to you at the Ministry, though,” now Harry is looking concerned, stepping up to Draco and setting his hands on the taller boy’s arms. “You’re soaked! What happened to you and Ron? Are you both okay?”

Draco’s brows rise up, before his entire body begins to relax. He doesn’t know what it is, but having Harry here, in his room, talking to him again and being concerned like this… it was putting Draco more at ease than any shower or nap could do. Although, both of those things still sounded marvelous.

“You know, Weasley went up to your tower to tell you and Granger all about our little adventure,” Draco can’t help but snark, “You didn’t have to come down here.”

When Harry shifts back away Draco feels shockingly cold and he regrets the snark. “I wanted to come down here. Is that so bad?” Harry says sharply, glaring off at a wall to the side, and Draco steps forward, reaching out and taking ahold of Harry’s hand.

“It is the farthest thing from bad, I assure you,” Draco says lowly and Harry releases a breath, then looks up at him. “Nothing bad happened, if that is what you are worried about,” Draco begins to answer Harry’s concerns. “The Unhideable Hall was huge and Weasley got overzealous. We nearly got eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, then fell into an ocean enclosure holding a Kraken.”

“I’m sorry, what nearly ate you?” Harry asks, askance, his eyes widening in surprise.

“A T. Rex, Harry, keep up, please,” Draco waves him off.

“Right, of course, how silly of me,” Harry sasses, not looking too impressed, but allowing Draco to continue.

“When we found Huang-Jun, that is the Lung Dragon’s name, he was furious and threw a lightning storm at us. After that, though, he was perfectly friendly to Weasley and I,” Draco says, then reaches into his robes and pulls out his parchment. He’d magicked it dry before writing on it and it was, thankfully, still in perfectly good condition.

“These are the notes?” Harry asks, taking them from Draco and skimming over the writing.

“Yes. I’ll reread them and send them to Skeeter later, however. I am dreadfully tired,” Draco sags, allowing some of his exhaustion to show, but not yet succumbing to it.

For a moment, Harry is silent, reading over the notes swiftly, before he’s promptly rolling up the parchment and tucking it under his jacket. “Take a shower. While you do, I’m going to bring this to Hermione. She’ll read over it and send it off,” Harry commands, shifting behind Draco and nudging him in the direction of the dorm’s bathroom.

“You do not need to—” Draco begins, but Harry hushes him.

“That’s what I’m doing, end of story,” Harry says sharply, “Then, afterwards, I’ll come back down. Blaise said the password to get in was ‘hognose.’ Is that right?”

“It is…” Draco says slowly, then stops to turn around and face Harry again. “You’re coming back down? You would risk being caught a second time?”

At this Harry’s unimpressed expression returns. “You just snuck around the Ministry of Magic. I think I can handle sneaking around my boyfriend’s dorms a little more, whom I haven’t spoken to in a week.”

“You’re the one that wasn’t speaking to me!” Draco yelps, affronted.

“Because you’re a knob!” Harry says back like it is the most obvious thing in the world, then shuts up any further comments from Draco by stepping forward and grabbing ahold of his robes. Draco is pulled down sharply and his and Harry’s lips meet more roughly than usually, but he’s hardly complaining.

“Get a shower,” Harry mumbles when they break apart, his green eyes intense. “I’ll be back shortly.” Then Harry turns around, pulling out his invisibility cloak from seemingly thin air, and disappears before Draco’s eyes.

The door opens and closes on its own, leaving Draco with the dumbest of smiles on his face, and a bit more energy in his step as he turns and heads into his bathroom for a shower.

~ ~ ~

“I have never visited Oyashima, you know. It was always right there, but I never went,” Huang-Jun says in the middle of Draco and Weasley’s interview. Well, more so Draco’s interview. When it had become abundantly clear that the Lung Dragon was no longer a threat, Weasley had moved to lounge on the porch of the red building. He still threw in a comment here or there, such as in this case when he had mentioned Evangeline Hushburn being their only source of information on Lung Dragons that they had.

“It’s called Japan now,” Weasley says, leaning back where he sits on the stairs up to the porch.

“Nippon to natives,” Draco adds, then pauses, “I think…”

“Hushburn is not a very… native name, I notice,” Huang-Jun arches a large, scaly brow.

“Her father was Scottish,” Draco shrugs, then moves on because he really wasn’t here to talk about his fellow Slytherin. “Actually, am I correct that Lung Dragon is the incorrect name for referring to your species?”

“The native term is ‘Long,’ but Lung Dragon is not incorrect,” Huang-Jun replies. What Draco had swiftly learned from speaking to Huang-Jun was that he was remarkably eager to share as much information with them as he possibly could. He likely had never had a respectful audience, judging by all the horror stories he’d recounted of his time here, locked up in the Ministry.

He continued to demonstrate this by going on with little encouragement from Draco. “There are many races of Long as well, just as there are races of human. I happen to be Tianlong, for instance. You can tell this by the color of my scales and my affinity to storms. In addition, I originate from China. See?” Huang-Jun raises one of his foreclaws, spreading out the fingers and wiggling them in front of Draco. “I possess five fingers. Longs from ‘Japan,’ as you call it, only possess three.”

They continue to talk about the variations of Lung Dragons all throughout Asia, namely China, and how they differ or stay the same. Eventually even Draco’s legs begin to grow tired and he shifts over to sit on the porch steps beside Weasley, but without the disrespectful lounging. This prompts Huang-Jun to shift forward and, in one smooth motion, begins to shrink.

He shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until, still proportionately the same, he can fit into Draco’s lap. Both Draco and Weasley fall silent, before erupting with questions over what powers a Lung Dragon might possess. Huang-Jun, amused by their reactions, kindly offers to demonstrate as many of his powers as possible.

Lightning breath, storm creation and dissipation, growing and shrinking in size, and the ability to fly without wings. He also explains that Lung Dragons tend to reside in rivers or bodies of water, healing and growing stronger from the natural magics that reside within.

“Alas, I am far from fully powered,” Huang-Jun eventually sighs, miserable, as he shrinks back down and rejoins the two boys, this time on Weasley’s shoulders. “If I had my Pearl…” the dragon trails off and Draco and Weasley share a concerned look. For the most part Huang-Jun had seemed rather upbeat, if cynical, but now…

“You mentioned a Pearl before… what is that?” Draco asks softly, not wanting to upset the dragon any further, but desperately wanting to know. Huang-Jun had so much interesting information… Even just after the first ten minutes of interviewing him, Draco had known that this article was going to be worth every struggle.

“Ah, yes, I did, didn’t I?” Huang-Jun smiles sadly. Despite having fangs and a muzzle, Huang-Jung was just as expressive as any human Draco knew. “Gemstones have unique, natural magic flowing through them, as I am sure you know…” Weasley nods for the both of them and Huang-Jun continues. “Lung Dragons have the ability to tie our very essence, our soul if you will, to a particular gemstone to offer ourselves enhanced abilities. We would carve out orbs of the stone and carry them around with us…”

The little dragon takes a deep breath and then lets it out. He shifts, moving from Weasley’s shoulders to curling up in the ginger’s lap. “I recall my ceremony for receiving my Pearl. Mine was made of opal… And now it is gone.”

“Opal isn’t pearl, though,” Weasley questions bluntly

The dragon chuckles and looks up at Weasley, eyes crinkled. “Yes. A Long’s Pearl was very rarely made of actual pearl. I am afraid not even I know where the naming convention comes from.”

“And the Ministry took yours?” Draco asks, but already knows the answer before Huang-Jun even looks at him.

“Not only that… They knew it was the source of my great power. Shortly after it was taken from me, I abruptly felt my connection to it vanish…” the dragon lowers his head, crackling with energy in his mounting fury, and Draco sees Weasley tense up from the electrical jolts. “They destroyed it. I was no threat to them, but they feared me. They feared me and they acted upon that fear. Now… Now I am something for them to fear.”

It takes a few moments for Huang-Jun to calm down, and when he does Draco can’t help but ask the question he’s been fretting over since he started this interview. “You despise the Ministry, rightly so, but you don’t seem to hate us… Why is that? We are as wizard as they are…”

Huang-Jun looks up at Draco, before smiling sadly. “No mind is exactly the same to another. You would not be an intelligent species if they were,” the dragon explains, “I once did desire the destruction of the whole, human race, but that was many years ago.”

“Did someone change your mind?” Weasley asks, his eyes wide and a little nervous, like he’s just realizing just how deadly the creature in his lap actual is.

“I changed my own mind. Even in captivity, allowing my hatred to fester only did me harm. I am fully aware that most humans would not even know of my existence, let alone endorse my treatment.”

“The article,” Draco says quietly, gulping, “We can’t say we got all this information from you. The hope is that it will cause a stir, but if the Ministry knows the interviewed Lung Dragon was the one they keep imprisoned…”

“It will put myself and all involved in danger,” Huang-Jun nods, sighing, “Yes, I suspected as much, but I still wish to help. A first step is still only a first step. I can only hope that the upheaval will eventually lead to my freedom.”

“You’re surprisingly calm about this,” Draco mumbles, feeling his guts twist in discomfort.

“I am resolute, strong, and I have had many, many years to steel myself to the evils of man. I can last a short while more,” Huang-Jun assures, but it doesn’t do much to calm Draco down. Apparently, it doesn’t do much for Weasley, either…

“Let us help you get out,” the Gryffindor is suddenly saying, leaning towards the dragon in his lap, his expression intense and stubborn. It makes Draco swiftly reach out and smack Weasley’s arm.

“We can’t do that, you idiot,” Draco hisses, glaring at Weasley when he glares back. “There are sensors to indicate when one of the creatures gets out of their enclosure, we’d be found out immediately and it would all be for nothing.”

“I doubt you would be able to release your article afterwards, either,” Huang-Jun huffs, sounding bitter, but then he begins to hover off Weasley’s lap, flying through the air using magic instead of wings. “But that you would consider such a plan brings me joy. Do what you can outside these walls to better your world and do not forget about me. I can wait.”

Weasley, despite having relaxed through most of the interviewing process, suddenly seems very invested. Draco isn’t sure where along the line the other boy had connected with Huang-Jun, what could have been said to tug at Weasley’s heartstrings, but he sees the devastation on the ginger’s face now, knowing they can’t offer Huang-Jun immediate assistance.

“We’ll do what we can,” Weasley promises.

“That is all I ask. As desperate for freedom as I might be, I find it irresponsible to request so much from children still finding their own way in life,” the Lung Dragon says, smiling at both boys.

“You’d be one of the few, then,” Draco huffs roughly, looking away to glare off at the clouds.

“Oh? I do believe it is time for me to hear your stories, then,” Huang-Jun twirls in the air, then resettles in Weasley’s lap, looking at the boys expectantly.

Weasley starts them off, attempting to recount to the dragon as much of their time at Hogwarts as he can, but they soon realize just how much Huang-Jun has missed along the way and Draco has to interject with a few history lessons to fill in the gaps. They talk for the remainder of their visit, exchanging stories rather than interviewing, and when it comes time for Draco and Weasley to rush off it feels like they are leaving Huang-Jun behind.

“We’ll get him out,” Weasley mumbles as they hurry through the Ministry. “One day, we will.”

Draco doesn’t respond, but he knows he will be completely on board with whatever will need to be done when the time comes to act.

~ ~ ~

In Draco’s first year at Hogwarts, Gemma Farley was Slytherin’s female prefect who had welcomed all of the Slytherin first years to their common room and dorms. She’d had a perfectly planned out speech emphasizing how proud they should all be to be part of the serpent house, how there was greatness in their histories, and how they would need to look after each other because no one but a Slytherin ever cared about a Slytherin.

She also had tried to put the fear of Salazar into all of them, declaring that no one outside of Slytherin had managed to get into their common room for hundreds of years. Draco had thought that something to be proud of… until second year when he’d been made aware that Harry and Weasley would be sneaking into his common room polyjuiced as Crabbe and Goyle. Or, in fourth year, when Eve had blatantly dragged Hermione around in Slytherin dorms right before the Yule Ball. It made him think of how unlikely it actually was for no one to have gotten into their common room in such a long time.

Still, at the beginning of fifth year, when it had been his own and Pansy’s duties to welcome the first years into their new house, they’d said the same thing as Gemma Farley. They all knew, by then, that the “no outside houses” rule was more of a tradition than anything else.

And Draco was all for breaking traditions.

The first time Draco actively invites such action is on that day, after Draco and Weasley’s trip to the Unhideable Hall. When he gets out of the shower and slips back into his dorm, dressed for bed despite it being midafternoon, Harry is already back and waiting for him. He looks out of place surrounded by all the Slytherin green and silver and black, his eyes glued to the windows that look out into the lake.

Despite looking out of place, however, he is still perhaps the most welcome sight Draco’s had in a while, and the blonde smiles and moves towards his bed. Harry looks up as he arrives but doesn’t even get a word out before Draco is flopping down, face first, on top of the covers.

“Ron told me more about what happened,” Harry says and Draco begins to squirm to get under the covers. He hears the Gryffindor snort at him then attempt to help, also pulling the blankets over himself as they both settle properly into the bed. Draco sighs deeply, finally allowing his body to relax, sinking into the mattress and letting himself be surrounded by the warmth and comfort of bed.

When he peaks open one eye to look beside him, Harry is facing him, eyes already open, and looking content where he lay. “It sounds like you both had an exciting adventure.”

“Never again,” Draco groans, shutting his eyes and trying to bury his face in the pillow, ignoring Harry’s laughter.

“I’m just impressed you and Ron didn’t kill each other.”

“We came close…” For a moment the argument that had gone too far floats back into Draco’s mind. He remembers all the cruel things he and the ginger had thrown at each other, for once actually feeling every blow, and he feels himself grow cold when he remembers that word.

Unimportant.

He smashes down on the thought, crushing it beneath his mental heel, and forces himself to focus on the here and now, in his bed, with his boyfriend beside him. It’s a much nicer thing to focus on.

“I apologize for not bringing you with me,” Draco suddenly says, looking to Harry’s face, too tired to make the proper expression but hoping his voice expresses his unhappiness. “But you must understand why you couldn’t come…”

Harry sighs and shifts closer, a hand reaching out under the blankets and taking Draco’s own. “Yeah… I get it. I got it as soon as you said it. I just didn’t like the thought of anyone going off into danger without me being there.”

Draco blinks slowly, staring at Harry, before he’s smirking. “You really do have a hero complex, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Harry shoots back, but then leans in even closer, leaving very little weight to his words. Gently, Harry presses their foreheads together, his hands beginning to fidget with Draco’s fingers. “I’m glad you’re okay. Ron, too.”

“Please don’t mention Weasley while we’re in bed together,” Draco drawls, laying on the double innuendo so thick it doesn’t take Harry long to splutter and grow flustered. The Gryffindor doesn’t give a vocal answer, rather grabbing one of Draco’s many, many pillows and smacking it against Draco’s face. The blonde grunts and scrounges up enough energy to retaliate by reaching forward and wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, dragging him closer and nuzzling at the other boy’s neck until he shrieks with ticklish laughter.

Draco eventually stops, but doesn’t move, and neither does Harry. This is comfortable, tangled up together. Draco already knew it would be, they’d technically cuddled plenty when he was transformed into a snow leopard, but to get to do this as a human… Draco feels spoiled and privileged in a way his upbringing has never made him feel, and he adores it.

The silence is comfortable, the sounds of the lake against the windows beginning to lull Draco to sleep, when Harry rouses him with a slight nudge.

“There was something I wanted to say, though… I planned to say it when we first got back to Hogwarts, but… well…”

“You got pissy and stopped talking to Weasley and I for a week?” Draco offers sleepily, eyes closed, but forcing himself to stay awake.

“You should be proud. I was emulating you,” Harry huffs and Draco smiles cheekily against his neck. “What do you know about occlumency?”

That question has Draco shifting back, eyes cracking open so he can properly look at Harry, confused. “As I have mastered such an art, I would say I am quite familiar with it. Why?”

Harry’s eyes widen comically, his glasses crooked from how he’s been laying down, and Draco half-consciously slips the glasses off and sets them on the side table like it is second nature. “YOU know occlumency?!” Harry questions, baffled.

“Yes… quite a few purebloods are privy to some mental securities. I, however, am particularly skilled in the ability. I ask again… why?”

“Snape is teaching me occlumency Monday and Wednesday nights to better protect me from Voldemort…”

Draco’s brows must be somewhere in the stratosphere with how high he’s raised them, shocked by the turn of events. “Well… I can see the logical conclusion that occlumency would be beneficial to you…” Draco admits very carefully, because the angry expression on Harry’s face feels like a minefield. “However, I do not see how they could believe assigning you Uncle Severus would be such a good idea. The man blatantly despises you, and you need a calm teacher to work on occlumency.”

“A teacher like you,” Harry says with feeling, drawing Draco short. “If I’d known you knew occlumency I would have just told them I could take lessons from you!”

“I doubt they would have listened,” Draco replies, watching Harry’s excitement dwindle with a twist of his lips. “They’re still on you for your runaway act and, in the end, Uncle Severus is still a far better skilled occlumens than I.”

“I still think anyone calling him ‘Uncle Severus’ is weird,” Harry mumbles, half to himself.

“Why could Dumbledore not have taught you, though? He seems like a better suited instructor, if you ask me.” At Harry’s tense silence Draco has his answer, along with a new feeling of rage bubbling up in his gut. “He is still ignoring you? He disappoints us yet again.”

“That’s not… He hasn’t disappointed me,” Harry scrambles to defend the headmaster, as if he is trained to do so, and Draco gives him a displeased glare.

“Just because he’s some great man that means a lot to you doesn’t mean he is absent of or incapable of making mistakes. He is making one now, treating you this way,” Draco declares firmly, his hold on Harry tightening, but Harry doesn’t look like he believes him. “I am not obligated to say this because we are now dating. I have believed so since the beginning. I even told Dumbledore off near the beginning of the year.”

“You did what?!” Harry yelps, and Draco shrugs.

“I told him off. What he’s been doing to you has never been fair and I’ve always believed that. You’re not his soldier—”

“I want to fight, Drac—”

“You. Are not. HIS. Soldier,” Draco grounds out, copying Harry’s own, previous action by pressing their foreheads together. “You may choose to fight, to play the part of soldier, and that is your right, but you are not something to be owned. Do not give yourself to a person. Give yourself to a cause.” Draco’s thumbs begin to rub gently over Harry’s shirt, an absent expression of comfort, as Harry’s hands curl into Draco’s own shirt at his sides. “And whatever you might choose to fight for, expect me to be there as well, fighting with you.”

“I thought,” Harry croaks, “you’re not supposed to fight just for one person. I’m just one person, Draco.”

“I would not be fighting just for you,” Draco says quietly, honestly. “I plan to fight for all that I hold most dear in this world. I plan to survive, and to drag along everything, and everyone, that mean the most to me, just as I suspect you will.”

Harry shuts his eyes, keeping their foreheads pressed together as he attempts to ground himself. His grip on Draco hasn’t let up and Draco’s own hands begin to gently run up and down the other’s back.

“I like that,” Harry finally whispers, peaking open his eyes. “Am I really one of the people you hold most dear in the world?” he asks on a breath.

Draco doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t allow himself to, as he replies, “Yes.”

Harry’s smile is blinding, making Draco’s chest jump around in response. “You’re one of mine, too. Since long before we started dating…”

Draco leans in to press a kiss to Harry’s smile, the other boy laughing at the abrupt show of affection, and pressing even closer.

Eventually they fall asleep like that, tangled up together, not a care in the world. They fade off, at peace and more exhausted than anyone should be in the middle of the day.

But, just a few hours later, they are awoken by the other Slytherin boys arriving and beginning to get ready for bed. It’s properly time for bed, now, but that’s not the first thought in Draco’s head.

No, the first thought in Draco’s head is how he forgot to pull his curtains closed and that he and Harry have been in complete view of his dormmates this whole time. Dormmates who Draco still isn’t sure he can one hundred percent trust. Dormmates who could, very easily, go tell Umbridge everything they saw.

Draco is already beginning to think of exit strategies, damage control plans, with Harry still slumbering beside where Draco has sat up, when Theodore looks over.

“So, is this a thing now?” Theodore questions, standing up straight and crossing his arms.

Blaise, the only one Draco thought he could trust in this dorm, lazily waves at Theodore. “It’s a thing now.”

“Et tu, Zabini?” Draco snaps at the boy, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you wake us up before everyone came running in?” Beside him, Harry stirs, eyes cracking open, and Draco hands him his glasses without a second thought.

“Draco…” Blaise begins, leaning towards Draco like he was talking to a particularly difficult child, “None of us give a fuck.”

“What…?” Draco questions, finding that hard to believe. Sure, Blaise was in the DA and had willingly helped Harry out to get into Slytherin. Theodore had voiced displeasure with Umbridge before and generally didn’t make a fuss unless something directly concerned him. And Crabbe and Goyle had, for some time now, been slowly veering away from the traditional pureblood ideals, questioning things they’d never questioned before.

But did that actually mean they could be trusted?

Harry is finally sitting up beside him, yawning and rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. Draco gets his answer to his concerns a moment later, in a most unexpected twist.

“Potter!” Crabbe and Goyle say in unison, the Boy-Who-Lived jumping in surprise and finally looking around him, confused. The two, large wizards have moved over to the side of Draco’s bed Harry is currently sitting on, both of them carrying crinkled and frayed parchments in their hands.

“Perfect, you’re awake,” Crabbe says, “We wanted to ask if you could get Granger to proofread these.” Both boys then hold out their parchments to Harry, who numbly takes them before they can be smacked into his face, his expression shell-shocked.

“What are you two on about?” Draco demands, suspicious and on edge, and from the corner of his eye he sees Blaise and Theodore roll their eyes.

“Oh, well… Uh,” Crabbe startles, fidgeting, then looks to Goyle for help. Goyle seems even less inclined to talk, but he gives it a try, anyway.

“We just… we finished our Potions papers, right? And… we aren’t very good at proofreading… but Granger is, so… so… smart, you know? And… well…”

Despite everything, despite the weirdness of it all, Draco can’t help but feel affronted at this. “Potions paper? I’m the best in Potions! I could have just as easily read over them,” he snaps and Harry arches a brow back at him. He doesn’t seem as shocked as he’d just been. In fact, he seems at ease. Amused, even.

“Yeah, but…” Crabbe begins quietly, looking away, “You’re really mean about them when you do…”

“And all your notes don’t make sense…” Goyle says, dejected.

“You do like using big words,” Harry adds, looking far too pleased for this situation, and Draco shoots him a glare before scoffing and sticking his nose in the air.

“This perfidious behavior towards my sesquipedalian capabilities is atrocious,” he says, purposefully pulling out some of the largest words he could think of, properly making Crabbe and Goyle gawk while Theodore groans and Blaise just turns away.

“You just made those up,” Harry accuses him, but he’s smirking still.

“Allow me to make things more monosyllabic for you, then,” Draco sneers, “Fuck you.”

So, apparently, Draco had very little to fear from his dormmates. And to be proven this by Crabbe and Goyle desperate for academic help… It felt surreal.

And it didn’t stop feeling surreal, either, because that wasn’t the only time Harry snuck in. They had so few places where they could be themselves, hidden away from the majority of the school body and Umbridge, it made perfect sense to exploit the password entry system for their houses. Well, Harry exploited it, really. The Gryffindor still slipped his own password to Draco whenever it changed, but the boys in Harry’s dorm weren’t all on their side.

Seamus Finnigan had been a right ass to Harry, Granger, and Weasley all year, vocally declaring his distrust in them, and Draco knew if he snuck in and was seen by the explosion-prone lion then things would get problematic fast. Perhaps it wouldn’t reach Umbridge, but there was no telling with the monster that was the Hogwarts rumor mill.

So, despite Harry passing on his own password as well, it was only Harry who ended up down in Draco’s dorm room on the regular. Sometimes only for an hour or two, sometimes for the whole night. They still go to linger around with their friends at their highly warded library table or up in the Room of Requirement, and they still sneak up to the Astronomy Tower to talk to Max or walk around secluded spots on the grounds, but it is nice to have one more place where they can completely relax.

The Slytherin boys mostly leave them be, thankfully, and after the first few weeks, when no one snitches on them, Draco finally begins to relax around them again. Sometimes even some of the Slytherin girls from the DA will pop in to say hello.

Even still… Draco doesn’t like how much they have to sneak around, hates that this is a requirement for them just to stay happy and in control of any part of this hellish year, but he’s glad to at least have this. For just a little while, it can feel like everything is alright and he doesn’t have to be suspicious of every other person he comes across.

For just a little while, he can just be a teenage boy, trying to find quiet moments with his boyfriend, without any wars hanging over their heads.

~ ~ ~

“What do people dating each other do on Valentine’s Day?” Draco wonders aloud as he walks along the edge of the lake. His camera is out, snapping photos of the new plant growths as they emerge with the shift into Spring, but he’s not paying the closest attention.

“Don’t ask me. I ain’t got no clue,” Max snorts over the radio and Draco arches a brow.

“You ‘don’t have a clue,’ not ‘ain’t got no clue,’ Max,” Draco drawls, ignoring the following raspberry the Muggle blows at him over their connection. “And what about that boy you were waxing poetic about some time ago? Did you two not have a relationship of sorts building?” Max didn’t often talk about their romantic life or leanings, but it had been mentioned on a few occasions that they’d finally approached the newest boy in their class in hopes of making something of their feelings.

“Adham?” Max asks, sounding startled, before their voice suddenly drops. “Oh… no, we broke up. He, uh… yeah, no, that wasn’t working out.”

Draco pauses in his walk, lowering his camera to give his radio his full attention. That voice did not sound good. Not at all. “What happened?” Draco questions, eyes narrowing dangerously as worry mounts inside him. If Max wasn’t sharing something with him, it usually meant something bad.

“Nothing, nothing!” Max hurries to assure him, but it doesn’t work. Draco knows something has gone down that Max doesn’t want him to worry about.

“Max, if you don’t tell me then I’ll just figure it out from Eric or your parents,” Draco growls, clutching the radio tightly.

“No, you wouldn’t, they don’t know what happened either,” Max grumbles back and Draco smirks.

“So you admit that something happened?”

There’s a pause on the line, before Max mumbles a grumpy, “Fuck you, knob.”

“Just tell me what happened and it will be over wi—”

“He cheated on me, okay?”

The silence doesn’t do much to calm the very swiftly growing heat in Draco’s gut. It isn’t a pleasant heat, either. It burns with rage and shock, disbelief attempting to block it all off but doing a poor job of it. “He… what…?” Draco whispers, voice nearly cracking, and Max sighs miserably.

“We weren’t dating for that long,” they begin and Draco snarls.

“That is no excuse!”

“And it was with this girl from a nearby public school,” Max continues, ignoring Draco, and they sound more tired than miserable. How long ago had all of this happened? “I found out about it from one of her classmates… We grew up in the same neighborhood and… yeah…”

Draco gulps, feeling sick with the fury inside him, and the knowledge he can’t do anything about it from here. “Did you approach him?”

“Duh! I’m not gonna keep quiet about something like that!” Max snaps, sounding affronted, and Draco supposes that’s a fair response. Max wasn’t one to keep quiet about the things that really bothered them. “And…” the heat in Max’s voice vanishes, sounding defeated instead, “When I did confront him, he… he said that ‘at least she knows what gender she wants to be’.”

There’s a bang on the other end of the connection, like Max might have hit something, and Draco snaps his mouth shut, his eyes wide. How was someone even supposed to respond to that? How could anyone? It hadn’t even been directed at Draco and it left him feeling nauseous. How had Max dealt with something like that in the moment?

“I know what I am!” Max is going on, voice no longer defeated but furious, but there is still a warble there that Draco worries about. “I’m a proud Two Spirit, thank you very fucking much! Fuck Adham Najjar and his pompous ass! Just because I’m not something you understand doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

“Of course you’re not wrong,” Draco whispers. They’d never really talked about Max’s identification before, it had always just been an understood. There were a few points at the beginning of their friendship where Max had corrected a pronoun here or there, but there had been nothing beyond that. Max was Max, and that was all to it. “I don’t… I don’t know what Two Spirit means…”

A wet huff of laughter comes through the radio, followed by a sniffle and a clearing of Max’s throat. “Oh, uh… It’s a Native American term for someone who isn’t a boy or a girl. It’s kinda this umbrella term? Mama taught me it a few years ago… It felt so right…”

Draco hums in understanding, making note of the term for Harry and Longbottom, who had both voiced confusion over Max’s identity before. Then he releases a breath, certain he will be angry for some time, but attempting to keep a cool head for his Muggle friend. “So… no Valentine’s advice, then?”

Max barks a laugh, sounding a little hysterical but no longer upset. “Nah… ‘fraid not, sorry,” they say softly, and Draco smiles faintly. “Just do something that’ll make you and Harry happy. I’m personally way more invested in the day after Valentine’s, anyway!”

“The day after?” Draco’s brows furrow as he begins to walk again, but doesn’t go back to his pictures.

“Yeah! When all the Valentine’s candies are discounted at the store! Best. Day. Ever.”

Draco rolls his eyes as Max begins to cackle, thinking his best friend must be the most insane, strongest person he’s ever had the honor of meeting.

~ ~ ~

Draco slips out of Snape’s office with a very vacant stare on his face. It is the Thursday before Valentine’s Day, a DA meeting is scheduled this evening, and Draco really isn’t sure what his life has just become.

The evening before, Draco knows, Harry had an occlumency lesson with Snape. Draco had attempted to offer advice on how to use occlumency, as had the majority of Slytherins that Harry spoke to whenever he snuck into Draco’s dorm, but the lessons were still a mess that left Harry feeling vulnerable and ill. After especially bad lessons, usually, Harry would slip in and stay the night with Draco, but he hadn’t the day before and Draco had assumed it wasn’t a bad lesson.

Then, Thursday morning, he received a note telling him to come to his godfather’s office after classes for a word.

And what a word it was…

“Hello, Malfoy,” Granger greets as Draco slips into the Room of Requirement. The Golden Trio are already there, moving around a few of the Death Eater dummies to be ready for the lesson. “Everything alright? You look rather pale,” the muggleborn continues, sounding more concerned now, and the other boys look over.

“In contrast to…?” Weasley smirks and Granger shushes him, ignoring his smirk while Draco shoots him a glare.

“I just had a very… interesting conversation with my godfather,” Draco offers, and he spots Harry going stiff and looking away. Draco blinks at that, then decides to speak directly to Granger since she’s the one who asked. “It would appear he is aware of mine and Harry’s relationship.”

“Oh…” Granger says, eyes wide. “That’s… something…”

“Good thing he’s part of the Order, then, right?” Weasley offers in his own way of reassurance, but Draco gives him a bland look.

“Certainly… except the last person I want to hear a ‘if-he-hurts-you-I’ll-kill-him’ talk from is Severus Snape.”

“He did WHAT?!” Weasley yelps, grinning like a fool as, quite abruptly, this all becomes far more entertaining to him. Granger also looks surprised and reaches up to cover her mouth to likely keep from giggling, while Harry just looks mortified.

“Evidently, during last night’s occlumency lessons, he saw a memory or two of us both,” Draco sighs dramatically, waving his hand around in the air, and he hears Harry groan in embarrassment.

“I tried to keep him out, I really did,” the Boy-Who-Lived moans in misery, covering his face with his hands. “He didn’t say anything afterwards, just… sent me off to bed…”

Weasley howls with laughter and Harry slouches even further than he already is. Any minute now he’ll end up on the floor in a ball.

It had been mortifying to stand there, in Snape’s office, slowly realizing exactly what he knew. Draco had probably glowed red from the embarrassment, remembering Snape’s almost casually comment of, “I feel the need to remind you that every Potions textbook has a variety of reliable poisons to choose from.”

“Are you…” Draco had squeaked, then gulped and tried to rein in his voice. “Are you offering to… defend my virtue with poison?!”

“That would be a highly inappropriate thing for a Hogwarts professor to insinuate to one of his students,” Snape had replied coolly, hardly even looking up.

“A professor, yes. What about a secretly overprotective godfather?” Draco demands.

Snape says nothing, just looks up at Draco, and perhaps to anyone else he looks as dour and angry as he always does, but Draco has known this man his whole life. He can tell Snape is entertained by this and Draco desperately wishes the floor would just open up and eat him right there.

Draco decides to go ahead and recount all that to the Golden Trio, Weasley now laying on his back, crying with laughter, while Harry crouches down and keeps his face buried in his hands. Granger is doing an impressive job keeping her cool.

“I think, all things considered, it is refreshing to hear Professor Snape show concern for his godson,” the bushy-haired witch says, looking at the bright side of this situation.

“Yeah, except he’s probably going to kill me because of it!” Harry argues back, finally looking up from where he’s crouched then, as an aside, he snaps at Weasley, “Shut up, Ron.” The ginger just keeps laughing.

“Is that any different than how he usually acts?” Draco smirks, “Although, I’d consider getting someone to test your food ahead of time for a few weeks. Just to be safe.”

When the laughter finally dies down the four of them finish prepping the room together, waiting for the first few people to arrive. The class goes as smoothly as usual, working on offensive spells today. Ginny proves she is most likely the most powerfully destructive witch in the room by vaporizing her dummy, Longbottom has forgone his wand by now, focusing purely on wandless magic and succeeding at a far swifter rate than he’d been before, and Chang, despite being more awkward than usual upon the beginning of term, respectfully pays close attention to Harry’s tutelage throughout the entire class.

The only concerning aspect seems to be Edgecombe, but that’s almost natural by now. She seems jumpier upon returning from Christmas Break, which doesn’t surprise Draco too much. She had gone home to her family, last he heard, and would have likely seen all the things that have been concerning her this entire year. Her family’s reputation was on the line, after all, and she’d likely been reminded of that over her vacation.

Still, to Draco’s knowledge, Umbridge was still clueless. He still had tea with her regularly and she was currently none-the-wiser.

At the end of the DA meeting Harry begins wrapping everything up and offering some final remarks. “We’ll keep up with the speed we’re at, but I’d like to, soon, begin work on the Patronus Charm.” An excited murmur ripples through the room, the students immediately brightening up at the concept, and Harry waits for silence. “It’ll take a few more lessons, but go ahead and start thinking about the happiest memory you can think of. Write a few down if you have to, and…”

Abruptly, Harry pauses to glance at Draco, hesitating, and the blonde doesn’t know what he’s about to say that could warrant such a look. “And… also begin thinking up any memories of when you felt powerful. The happiest and the most powerful memories. Alright, that’s it for today.”

The DA lingers, as they always do, speaking to each other while a few begin to head out. Draco, confused, makes his way up to Harry. “The most powerful memory?” he questions, curious.

“Yes…” Harry whispers, looking up at him, “I figure… it’s about time we addressed that Militus Charm you’ve been so eager to work on.” Draco’s eyes widen and Harry smiles, seeming pleased by the reaction, as Granger and Weasley walk up.

“But, none of us know how to cast that, yet,” Granger says, pauses to give Draco a questioning look to double check that she’s correct, and when he shakes his head she continues, “How are we meant to teach it?”

“I figured we teach the Patronus Charm first, then whenever we’re planning everything here we can start practicing the Militus Charm on our own,” Harry offers with a shrug, but Granger doesn’t look convinced.

“It could work,” Weasley says, tapping his chin in thought, then he shrugs too and smiles at his best friend, “Got to start somewhere, right?” Harry smiles back at him and nods, appreciating the support.

“I’ll bring the notes I’ve gathered on it to our next study meeting,” Draco agrees, his smile a little softer. He knew that learning the Militus Charm wasn’t a favor to him, it was something that could truly benefit them all, but he still felt honored, like he was finally being listened to. Harry, seemingly sensing this, smiles back at him.

“Thanks, Draco,” he says, then steps forward to press a kiss to Draco’s cheek. Weasley makes a show of audibly gagging, and Draco throws an Earworm Jinx at him, sticking “Rise Above” by Black Flag into his head.

~ ~ ~

Draco remembers Firenze. They’d met once, in Draco’s first year, when the centaur had arrived to rescue Draco and Potter in the Forbidden Forest. It was a short meeting, if it could even be called that, but Draco remembers him. He also remembers the terror and confusion as he rode on the centaur’s back, clinging to Potter and just wishing the night could be over already.

Looking at the centaur now, Draco wonders if, perhaps, he’d remembered him wrong. Firenze looks exhausted and jumpy, glancing back to the woods every few words like he expects someone to pop out at him. It certainly doesn’t help that Rita Skeeter clearly doesn’t like talking to him.

With Potter’s interview out of the way the day previous, bright and early the following Sunday morning Draco had snuck Skeeter out onto the grounds. With Hagrid still absent for the time being, they’d kept near the half-giant’s cabin, out of sight, for their first “magical beings” interview.

It had been Weasley who had met them out there, the ginger volunteering to go into the woods and fetch a centaur while Potter remained inside, within Umbridge’s view, and Granger attempted to convince the house elves to also take part in the interviews later in the day.

“He seems jumpy, doesn’t he?” Eve notes, standing with Draco and Weasley some ways away, just watching the centaur and reporter. She would be helping with the mermaid interview next, but until then she was sticking with Draco, watching his back while they snuck around.

“I think it’s because the rest of his herd isn’t very happy he’s ‘fraternizing’ with us,” Weasley makes air quotes with his fingers, not looking overly concerned. Draco thinks he remembers other centaurs, that night in first year, and he’s… pretty sure they hadn’t been happy with Firenze then, either. Draco suspected this centaur was a rebel of sorts, but not yet fully invested. It would make sense why he kept eying the woods, likely looking out for any of his fellow centaurs.

“It sucks that so many sentient beings hate witches and wizards so much,” Eve sighs, everyone pausing as they watch Firenze grow frustrated with something Skeeter says, stamping a hoof so hard mud splatters the bottom of her robes. The three students smirk viciously, offering no help, before continuing their own conversation.

“Can you blame them? We’ve been dreadful to them!” Weasley leans around Draco to look at the Slytherin muggleborn. “Stealing land, treating them as lesser creatures, hunting some of them…”

“You sound like Granger,” Draco deadpans, attempting to distract from the twisting in his gut just thinking about the appalling ways his people have treated anything that wasn’t magic or human.

While Draco and Weasley shoot glares at each other, Eve makes a long, disheartened noise. “I get the point of these interviews is for disrupting people’s trust in the Ministry… but I hope it also helps shine a light on the way we’ve treated so many of these beings.”

“Destroy trust in the Ministry, build trust with sentient life,” Draco offers and Eve hums in agreement. “I won’t disagree. That would be nice. Perhaps they will one day hear names such as ‘Parkinson,’ ‘Crouch,’ or ‘Malfoy’ and not feel trepidation at what is to come.” There was no beating around the bush… the Malfoy name had a reputation. Either an intimidating one in higher circles, or a hated one in all the rest. Draco hoped, one day, that reputation could be changed into something much kinder.

When Weasley snorts at him, Draco looks over, glare back in place. “And what is so funny, Weaselby?” he snaps, ignoring Eve’s groan beside him.

Weasley looks back at Draco with a smarmy smirk on his face and Draco can feel an argument mounting. Like a storm. “Good luck with that. You do know ‘Malfoy’ means ‘bad,’ right?”

Draco scowls, baring his teeth, and shoots back, “You do know ‘Weasley’ means ‘rodent,’ right?”

Weasley opens his mouth, prepping up another retort, when Eve cuts them off, sounding completely done with their bickering. “You do know ‘Hushburn’ means ‘shut the fuck up or I’ll set you on fire,’ right?” The two boys hesitate, glancing back at the girl, before grumbling and doing their level best to ignore each other for the rest of the interview.

When the interview wraps up, Weasley doesn’t join Draco, Eve, and beetle-Skeeter back to Hogwarts, claiming he wants to catch up with Potter or Granger elsewhere. This is fine by Draco, happy to see the ginger travesty leave their company. It was near impossible to deal with the other boy on a regular basis even with friends, Poprocks, or some combination of the two present.

Merlin, Draco was just glad he had no need to be alone with the youngest, male Weasley any time soon. That was bound to end poorly for all involved…

~ ~ ~

Valentine’s Day, despite all of Draco’s fretting, turns out to be one of the more relaxed days of Draco’s year. The teachers don’t give too much homework the week before, there are all kinds of sweets both in the common rooms and the Great Hall, and even Umbridge is keeping her general distance. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if love was her natural repellant.

Certainly, there are still stresses later in the day, but not anything like Draco would have expected.

Draco is prepared, that morning, to take Harry with him into Hogsmeade and sneak around, attempting to have a pleasant time without getting spotted. He’s trying to think of a way to actually do that while walking through the halls, when he’s yanked to the side and shoved into a hidden alcove. The lips on his surprise him, but assure him on who exactly has decided to manhandle him today.

“Good morning, Harry,” Draco greets when they both come up for air.

“Morning,” Harry smiles, “I, uh… forgot today was Valentine’s Day. Hermione just reminded me, and, well…”

“Don’t have anything planned for it?” Draco hedges a guess and Harry’s smile turns sheepish.

“Possibly…”

“Well, I couldn’t come up with anything befitting the whole thing, so I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade with me,” Draco attempts for suave, but falters when Harry cringes in distaste.

“And sneak around all day? Rather not,” he says, then presses in close, leisurely wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and settling against his front. “Want to just go around the grounds? It’s bound to be quiet with everyone in Hogsmeade.”

Draco hadn’t thought of that, and he feels rather embarrassed that he didn’t, but he agrees with no argument because it does sound nice. They walk around the grounds for the most of the day, slipping into the forest, searching for the thestrals, taking pictures, talking, kissing. It is quiet and calm with no one around, but they do spot a few people flying around over at the Quidditch pitch.

“Gryffindor practice,” Harry explains.

“Your team has been rather disappointing without you on it,” Draco hums, grunting when Harry shoves him in retaliation.

They, unfortunately, can’t go flying together because of that practice. They’ve talked about it before, but haven’t been able to find the right opportunity. Instead, they stay outside, walking, and enjoying each other’s company to the fullest.

When the sun is finally beginning to set and students are returning to the castle from their day out, they also make their way back inside. “You know,” Draco observes as they both wait around a corner for a group of older students to walk by. They were going to the library to meet with their friends. “I detest sounding like Skeeter, but it would make sneaking around quite a fair bit easier if you were an Animagus.”

Harry snorts at that. “I’ll consider it,” he says, but Draco doubts he really will, and then they are moving swiftly through the now vacant corridor, heading for the library.

Eve, Leandra, and Granger are already at their usual table when Draco and Harry arrive. Weasley will likely be joining them shortly, right after his Quidditch practice, surely smelling like a barn.

“Did you both enjoy Valentine’s Day?” Granger asks as the two boys take a seat. Despite being quite upset about not knowing Harry and Draco had been pining for one another for some time now, once Granger had gotten over that, she had jumped fully into what Eve affectionately called “support mode.” It was kind, if a bit annoying at times.

“We did,” Harry nods, stretching out his legs under the table. “We walked around the grounds mostly.”

“Don’t tell Daphne that. She’s going to want a far more romantic story,” Eve smirks over her book. She and Granger both have matching Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls in their hands, while Leandra hefts a thick, ancient-looking tome in her hands, likely studying.

“I think they’re romantic just as they are,” Leandra comments, pouting at Eve, who shrugs.

“Sure, sure, but Daphne’s always looking for romance novel stories rather than real life,” Eve huffs, then turns to smirk at Draco, “I was talking to her and her sister the other day, actually. Did you know Astoria thought you and Harry were already dating?”

Harry snorts, giggling under his breath, as Draco’s eyes widen. “She didn’t,” he argues, disbelieving, but Eve just smirks wider.

“She did.”

Draco groans, rolling his eyes skyward. Had he really been the only one who hadn’t realized his own feelings for Harry? Him and Granger, anyway. Even the younger students had noticed.

“What’re you working on, Leandra?” Harry finally asks, taking pity on Draco and changing the subject. Despite that, however, both Draco and Eve have a quick, silent battle by making the ugliest faces at each other they possibly can.

“Oh! It’s a family book, actually,” Leandra smiles sweetly at Harry, showing him the cover of the book. There isn’t any visible writing on it, however, rather one large, intricate design carved into the leather. “I got it over Christmas. It is called The Geoscript, and I’m finally old enough to learn from it… If I can understand it.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Eve assures her girlfriend, and Draco absently wonders what these two girls did for their Valentine’s Day. Should he have asked? Too late now.

“It’s a family heirloom,” Granger adds on, looking suddenly displeased, “Which apparently means no one outside of the Cass name is allowed to read it.” Leandra shoots Granger an apologetic look and Draco suspects they’d likely already spoken about this before Draco and Harry had arrived.

“That’s pureblood tradition for you,” Draco shrugs, but then Granger is looking to him, her brows furrowed in question.

“Leandra’s half-blooded, though… right?” she asks, looking to the Hufflepuff in search of answers.

“I am,” Leandra nods, giving Granger a reassuring smile and nod.

“The Cass family, however, is pureblood,” Draco tacks on and now he has Granger, Harry, AND Eve looking at him in bafflement.

“Oh, Merlin, are we seriously talking about pureblood crap?” comes a voice to their side, the wards around them warbling and distorting as Weasley steps up to the table. He’s still wearing his gear and, Draco had been right, he smells like a barn. He looks exhausted and dirty, but not upset, so Draco assumes the practice wasn’t TOO awful.

Although… he is beginning to look displeased as he sits down on Harry’s far side, not at all happy to be delving into pureblood politics.

“I’m… I’m very confused…” Eve admits, looking between her girlfriend, Draco, and Weasley.

“It’s actually not all that confusing,” Weasley assures her, but then adds, “It’s just stupid.”

Draco swallows down the instinctive urge to snap at that, and instead shrugs and agrees, “The man’s not wrong.”

Granger has set down her book by now, Eve too, and is now leaning on the table, jabbing a finger at both Draco and Weasley. Draco can’t help but notice no one’s demanding anything out of “sweet, little” Leandra… “Explain,” Granger demands.

Draco gives an overdramatic sigh but decides to take over. He didn’t doubt that Weasley knew what he was talking about on this, being a pureblood as well, but his teaching methods left quite a bit to be desired. “There are multiple kinds of purebloods,” Draco begins, “Often people get confused and believe the Sacred 28 are the only recognized pureblood families, but that’s not true. The Sacred 28 are simply the oldest—”

“Self-proclaimed,” Weasley adds with a bite.

“Self-proclaimed,” Draco concurs, “pureblooded families that have also remained pureblooded for as long as possible. Which… well, it means incest and inbreeding.” The table’s faces all immediately crinkle up in distaste. “I’d like to point out, however, that the Malfoy line actually avoided these things, though after all of the supremacy, prejudice, and likely murder… eh, it’s a void point…”

“This system is also where the term ‘blood traitor’ came from,” Weasley adds with a scowl, crossing his arms, his uniform making scraping noises as he moves around. “A family in the Sacred 28 that doesn’t agree with pureblood bullshit? Must be traitors to their own blood. Then the whole family is shunned from higher culture, all money suddenly vanishes, and any connections you once had suddenly want to see you suffer.”

“That’s terrible,” Granger whispers, looking to Weasley in sympathy, and for a moment the ginger seems to flounder at the response, going pink in the cheeks and losing his train of thought. Draco decides to take that moment to continue his own lesson, but he does give a curious glance between Weasley and Granger.

“Right, well, the Ministry might recognize the so-called ‘validity’ of the Sacred 28, but they didn’t recognize them as the ONLY pureblood families. Within Ministry law, any family that has been consistently within the wizarding community for a minimum of four generations is considered to have pureblood status. This means, after four generations, if a Muggle, muggleborn, or half-blood marries into a designated pureblood family, and takes that name, the family continues to retain said pureblood status rather than the individual.”

“The pureblood families that are all high and mighty, though, won’t be happy about it,” Weasley grumbles, glaring at the table now.

“What if someone outside of a pureblood family marries in, but they take on the former’s name?” Eve asks curiously, and this time it is Leandra who answers.

“Oh! There’s actually an example of that in Gryffindor. Seamus Finnigan.”

“Seamus?!” Harry exclaims, sitting up straight, and Leandra looks to him with a nod.

“Oh, yes. His mother was a member of the… oh dear, I might get this name wrong, but I believe the Tracklebon family? They were considered purebloods, but she took on her Muggle husband’s name and, without anyone else to carry on the family legacy, the Tracklebon’s lost their pureblood status,” Leandra explains, “The process is called ‘squiking’.”

“Why do all wizarding words sound made up?” Eve groans to the heavens, leaning back in her chair, then tilts her head. “Also, weirdly sexual…”

“Anyway!” Draco cuts Eve off before she can get them moving on that particular subject and instead looks to Granger and Harry. “So, that’s what being a pureblood actually means. Your family has been part of the community for a long enough time.”

“That’s it? That’s seriously it?” Harry demands, looking upset.

“I’m afraid so. Wizards like my father and the Death Eaters and Voldemort… They have manipulated society to believe something else… and at one point I believed it too,” Draco sighs deeply. “Leandra is, as an individual, a half-blood, but she is also, technically, a pureblood because she is a member of the Cass family. You as well, Harry, are technically a pureblood.”

“Wait, wait, what?” Harry’s eyes widen comically as he turns to the Slytherin beside him. Throughout the entire conversation their hands had been laced together between them, and suddenly Draco is flinching from how tightly Harry is squeezing his hand.

“Well… yeah, mate,” Weasley says as Draco attempts to pry his hand free, “The Potter family is historically pureblooded… Didn’t you know?”

“No… no I didn’t,” Harry mumbles, ducking his head and staring down at the table. A tension fills the already ward-filled air, the students uncertain what to say in the face of Harry’s mounting distress, until finally Draco frees his hand and instead reaches out to lay it against Harry’s back. Before he can offer any words of comfort, however, Harry is looking up at him sharply. “Are the Potters part of those Sacred 28 assholes?”

“No, they aren’t,” Draco replies, “The creator of the system, from my understanding, thought ‘Potter’ was too much of a Muggle name and thought Muggle interaction had already ‘tainted’ the family line.”

“Plus!” Leandra perks up, evidently remembering something, “The Sacred 28 are historically European. I’m pretty sure the Potter side of your family has heavy Indian roots? I’m not sure specifically where, though…”

“Indian…” Harry repeats, looking surprised. As he looks to Leandra, Draco takes a moment to look at Harry. Draco had never been good at identifying specific, cultural heritage through a person’s physical characteristics. Usually, he found out due to reputation, whispers, or accents. Draco was quite good with accents. But, he was dreadful with visuals, and with his family name being so famous for its prejudice… well, he’d never wanted to assume.

Harry had always had a darker skin tone, but usually Draco only compared these kinds of things to himself and didn’t think beyond that. That left most people with a “darker skin tone.” That was likely a mistake on his own part…

“You did tell me, once, that if you could travel anywhere you wanted to go to India,” Draco says quietly, “Maybe, this is more of a reason for you to go one day.”

Harry is silent, so silent the tension is quickly returning to the table, and Draco begins massaging his fingers over Harry’s back. When the silence goes on, Draco finally decides that, as short as their sit-down was, it was time for them to go. He bids the table good-bye, everyone seeming relieved, then ushers Harry up and out, maneuvering them around the lingering crowds of students as they walk.

“Not exactly how I thought our first Valentine’s Day would end,” Draco observes, trying to break the silence, heading in the direction of the Astronomy Tower. He figured now was a pretty good time for a much-needed conversation with Max. The Muggle had a way of putting both boys at ease. Or, at the very least, distracting them.

“I had no idea,” Harry whispers, staring at the ground and allowing Draco to pull him around the castle. “I had no idea. How do I know so little about my own family?” Harry’s voice is growing frantic, pitch going up, his eyes flicking around like they can’t focus on anything, and Draco steps closer.

“Harry…”

“No one said a thing! Not Hagrid, not Dumbledore, not Sirius, not McGonagall, not Lupin, not… not… not anybody!” Harry reaches up to press his palm to his temple, like that will somehow help him gather his swirling thoughts. “Why… why didn’t they? This is supposed to be their job, isn’t it? Why couldn’t someone have just mentioned my culture?! That’s important, too!”

“Yes… it is,” Draco says softly, moving his hand to grip Harry’s wrist, fingers feeling his fast heartbeat. “But, it isn’t going anywhere, and after all this is through you will have plenty of time to explore that culture and find what works for you.”

“I guess…” Harry growls under his breath, looking away, and Draco pauses in the middle of the corridor, taking a chance as he turns towards Harry. He reaches out, laying his hand on the other’s cheek, and tilting Harry’s head until he has to look at him.

“You are allowed to be angry,” Draco assures him, not removing his hands from Harry’s wrist or his cheek. “You are allowed to be furious. Just… don’t obsess over this. Please… You have too much to worry about already.”

Harry stares up at him, his green eyes still hard, but inch by inch he begins to sag, a hand coming up to lay over Draco’s. “I won’t… Promise,” he whispers, and finally smiles when Draco leans down to press their lips together. With his head finally back on his shoulders, it doesn’t take long for Harry to realize where Draco has been leading him. He smiles a little wider, then proceeds to drag Draco the rest of the way up to the Astronomy Tower.

Max is, as usual, in high spirits when Draco pulls out his radio. They ask how Draco and Harry’s Valentine’s Day was as a couple, not judging them for their choice of date as Eve had, and Harry leans heavily against Draco where they sit on the floor.

“How have you spent the holiday, Max?” Draco asks at one point.

“Oh, well, me and a bunch of friends from school went to the local pastry shop and there was an ant hill in the parking lot so we dared David Martinez to stick his whole hand in it!”

Harry shifts where he’s rested his head against Draco’s shoulder, eying the radio in bafflement. “Why… did you do that?”

“I am certain…” Draco begins, struggling to come up with a logical reason for such an action, “Max was merely attempting to test the limits of the human psyche… A science project! They are quite privy to such things, after all.”

“Oh, nah dude, we were just bored. We each had to buy him a giant cookie since he did it, too, so now I’m down three dollars…” Max replies flippantly and Draco sighs. So much for applying logic…

The conversation goes on for a while longer, until the sun has finally set and it is time to head for bed. Not much else is said, not much else needs to be said, until they come to the point where they will head for their own houses. Still, tired from the day, they have little to say, and instead just smile at each other.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry says softly.

“Goodnight, sap,” Draco replies and Harry huffs, smile changing to a smirk.

“Goodnight, ass,” Harry corrects himself and Draco laughs under his breath, right before Harry is reaching up to share one more kiss, before they’re both heading their separate ways, content from such a full day of being together.

Did that make Draco a sap, too? Probably. But he found he didn’t much care at all.

~ ~ ~

When the Lung Dragon article finally drops Draco has to be careful. Where, with all the previous articles, he had to keep his ears to the floorboards to find out people’s responses, when the final article on sentient, magical beings finally comes out, everyone is talking about it.

It isn’t a rush or roar of gossip, though, more of a hushed murmur that ripples through the school, students whispering to each other, “Did you read this?” in the middle of meals, classes, or the hall. Most students appear to just be interested in a new type of dragon they never knew about, but others begin mumbling accusations. Asking questions.

“Why didn’t we know?”

“Why was this kept from us?”

“The only people with that kind of power is the Ministry, but what do they gain?”

It makes Draco want to puff up and preen, but he holds himself together. He has to appear unaffected to absolutely ensure no one can connect him back to the articles. He still gets a few knowing glances from a few members of the DA, but he ignores them.

He can’t help the swell of pride, however, as he sees his plot working just the way he had hoped. And he can only imagine what must be happening outside of Hogwarts walls, especially when he finds a particularly aggravated Umbridge when he approaches her for tea. She’s twitchy over the article, and the hushed reaction, but she has no idea who to even begin to blame.

“I say ignore it,” Draco shrugs, doing his best to appear uncaring. It is hard not to smile as he watches Umbridge squirm, unaware the current source of the Ministry’s problems is sitting right across from her. “It’s not like anyone is rioting or causing a scene. The interest and novelty of it all will fade, and all will be forgotten.”

That seemed to appease Umbridge, the pudgy woman graciously agreeing with Draco’s assessment, but Eve has made sure Draco’s assurances would not come to fruition. Someone needed to keep fanning the flames – “poking the dragon,” so to speak – to make sure this article isn’t forgotten, and Eve had volunteered herself and the other Slytherin girls, bar Millicent. A comment here, a question there, and they can get people talking anew about the untrustworthy nature of the Ministry all over again.

This will not blow over. Draco refuses.

Which is also probably why it is such a chaotic mess when Harry’s own article drops in the Quibbler. It’s just over a week after the Lung Dragon article, people still in a murmur over that, but the moment Harry’s story is finally released to the public the whole school seems to explode.

Gone are the whispers. Gone are the hushed questions. It is the talk of the school, no one seeming to shut up about it, and Draco wishes he could just sit back somewhere and watch the chaos unfold.

This time Umbridge is far less forgiving. With the Lung Dragon piece there had been no one to punish, and the goal was for it to eventually be shoved under the rug, but the article with Harry’s direct quotes? Umbridge wastes no time attacking Harry with more and more detention, forbidding the Quibbler, but only succeeding in the paper becoming a hot commodity among the students.

The effects ripple through Hogwarts for days to come. People approach Harry and apologize, though some still accuse him of being a liar. The trust in the Ministry, and Umbridge, further crumbles away, some students even demanding answers in their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. They usually get detention, but it’s a start…

For majority of the nights Harry has detention he sneaks down to Slytherin house to stick to Draco’s side. None of the Slytherin boys ask him invasive questions about meeting Voldemort, which Draco thinks Harry must appreciate, save for the single question from Goyle about what the dark wizard looks like. After Harry’s brief description, his eyes downcast, Theodore makes the comment, “Do you think he smells with his tongue now?” and the group of boys mostly ignore him, moving on to other subject matter.

Seamus Finnigan also gets his act together.

At the first DA meeting following the article’s release, Finnigan is present amongst the students, looking excited but also a little nervous. He stays glued to his friend’s, Dean Thomas’s, side for the majority of it, and keeps eying all the Slytherins like they might bite him.

It probably doesn’t help that Tracey, very abruptly, tells him never to become a healer. Ignoring better judgement, the new DA member asks for clarification.

“You have an inclination towards explosions,” Tracey states bluntly, head very slowly tilting to one side, “What if you blow up someone’s internal organs while they are still inside them?”

“So, Finnigan is your friend again?” Draco asks the twins as he watches Finnigan pale and Tracey continue to stare at him through her curtain of hair.

“Something like that,” Fred shrugs. “Heard he apologized and everything.”

“Still a little shit, though,” George snorts and Draco chuckles at him, before they get back to practice.

~ ~ ~

“Professor?” Draco questions, poking his head through the door of Aurora Sinistra’s office.

The room is tiny, smaller than most of the other offices, and cluttered with all kinds of knick-knacks and decorations. Medallions of varying types of medals and jewels dangle from the ceiling, shelves are stacked with books and scrolls and memorabilia. Every available surface has some kind of item covering it, be it more books, a handmade tea set, a plush rabbit, a sextant, a series of masks, and much more. There is a massive window off to one side with a telescope propped up in front of it, and across the room from that is a fireplace, a charmed, indigo fire crackling within.

It doesn’t feel messy, necessarily, but it does feel full and claustrophobic. Maybe the office isn’t tiny at all… it just feels that way with all the stuff.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” Sinistra greets, sitting behind her desk, the only relatively clean surface in the room. “Might I be of assistance to you?”

Draco pushes his way fully into the office, shutting the door behind him, and standing before his Astronomy teacher as confidently as he can. He can’t sit. The chair has a chess set in it made of glass.

“I was hoping to ask you a question, professor, but…” the blonde trails off, glancing to the side. “It isn’t a question to do with classes.”

With Educational Decree #26 in effect it left students and teachers unable to speak outside of accepted material from their classes. It was a nightmare, especially right after the Azkaban break out, and it had left many of the teachers clearly furious.

Usually, it didn’t bother Draco. He wasn’t affected by it because he was Umbridge’s favorite. He was allowed to have tea with her and his godfather and no one was ever punished for it. To Umbridge, Draco wasn’t the target, after all, and she had nothing to fear from him.

But that was still only with Umbridge, who trusted him, and Snape, whom Umbridge assumed would keep Draco on the right path.

Professor Sinistra, however, was a different story. He didn’t want to get her in trouble, but he was desperate to speak to her. He didn’t often get the opportunity, but every time before the Astronomy teacher had surprised Draco with surprising insight, encouraging him down paths he would not have originally thought to take.

Sinistra looks to Draco with her blank stare. She’d been writing something, likely grading, and gently sets her quill down where it belongs. It’s a lovely quill, too, the feather looking as if it was made from space itself, stars twinkling in its deep, dark depths.

“You worry over Educational Decree Twenty-Six,” Sinistra observes, head tilting.

“I do. It is nothing, really, I was just hoping for your help with something. I can go. I’ll tell Umbridge I had a question about homework if she brings it up,” Draco says in a rush. He doesn’t know how Umbridge could ever know about this kind of meeting, but he wouldn’t put it past her… somehow…

Sinistra straightens, blinks very slowly, then says, “You wish for help?” Draco nods, still turning back towards the door as if to leave, but Sinistra isn’t finished. “Educational Decree Twenty-Six specifically states that teachers may only give students information that is strictly confined to the subjects we are paid to teach. As I am a teacher, you see, I am paid, specifically, to assist students better their academic careers in any way possible.”

Sinistra raises a hand towards Draco, palm up, like she’s offering something. “Thus, logically, it is within my bounds to offer any kind of information to… help,” she says, then lowers her hand as Draco turns fully back to her, surprised but incredibly pleased.

“I’ll still say you helped me with Astronomy homework,” Draco mumbles and Sinistra nods in acceptance, before folding her hands on top of her desk and watching Draco quietly. She waits, unmoving and unaffected, until Draco realizes she’s waiting for him to explain himself.

“Oh! Yes, of course. My question,” the Slytherin nods, stepping closer to Sinistra’s desk and leaning his hands on the edge. “You have surprised me before with your knowledge on the magics that… interest me. You are an Animagus, wandless magic expert, capable of a Patronus, just to list a few.”

Sinistra nods, encouraging Draco on without words.

“I was wondering… out of innocent curiosity… if you knew anything about the Militus Charm as well?”

For two weeks now, whenever Draco and the Golden Trio, or any combination of the four students, went to the Room of Requirement to work on plans and talk, they would set aside some time to practice their Militus Charms. It hadn’t been much time since they’d decided to go through with the spell, but Draco had noticed they’d hardly made any progress with it. At most, Harry had managed a few wisps of shadowy smoke from his wand, but that had been it.

Harry had help learning his Patronus Charm from Professor Lupin. Without that help, Harry admits he doesn’t think he could have ever figured it out on his own.

Perhaps… this would be the same?

“I am familiar with the Militus Charm,” Sinistra nods and Draco feels some of his tense nerves wash out of his body in relief. Professor Sinistra, the quiet, withdrawn Astronomy teacher, was full of surprises.

“Can you cast it?” he asks, and Sinistra tilts her head. She considers something for a moment, then nods again and waves her hand. The furniture and items and decorations covering the center of her office all begin to move, settling themselves neatly against the walls, and leaving plenty of room in the very middle. “Didn’t realize you had a carpet…” Draco mumbles, eying the gaudy, faded, rainbow carpet.

Sinistra doesn’t reply to that, instead making a complicated series of motions with her fingers, then pointing her pointer and middle finger towards the empty space of her room. “Expecto Militum,” she says clearly and from her finger tips emerges a swirling, shadowy form. The dark smoke swirls and twists much as the light of a Patronus, before a creature slips onto the carpet.

The form of a cobra stares back at Draco, smoke curling around it as the form becomes more solid. The moving, swirling pieces of shadow along the Militus’s body look like living wrought iron, black as night, and where eyes would be sit two, pin pricks of light. The cobra observes Draco for a moment, unfurling its wide crest, then curls up more comfortably on the carpet.

Seeing the shadow creature now, Draco can see why people assume this must be a dark art… If he were an enemy and Sinistra was using this cobra weaved from solid shadow to attack him, Draco thinks he’d be greatly unnerved and frightened. But, he isn’t. Draco is Sinistra’s student, not a threat, and he knows, can actually feel, that this cobra Militus would fight to defend Draco, because that’s what Sinistra would do.

Draco feels enamored and safe, looking at the Militus. Where the Patronus was a faint candle at night, or a “nightlight” as Max calls them, to reveal the truth in a child’s room, the Militus was the blanket that same child used to wrap around themselves, warding off the monsters and keeping them safe.

“It’s amazing,” Draco breathes, stepping closer then kneeling on the carpet, wanting to see what the dark, spectral creature might feel like.

“Not all would agree,” Sinistra hums and Draco hears her move from behind him. A moment later she is crouching down on the carpet beside Draco, looking regal the way she settles her robes and lays her hands in her lap. She reminds Draco of his mother, a bit, as she looks to her Militus in thought.

Draco shimmies even closer to the cobra, hand reaching out, and the creature makes a move of examining his hand, head swaying back and forth lazily. Then it leans closer and Draco lays his hand on the head of the creature. There’s a give, Draco notices, along the surface of the creature, before his hand slowly passes through the cool shadows. Not solid, but not intangible either, unlike the Patronus. A Militus has a little bit of heft to it.

It makes sense. After all, a Militus is meant to attack a caster’s enemies, including those as solid as a human. It would need some strength to it for that.

“How do you cast it? All I know is to think of a time when you felt powerful, but the description in my book, I am now realizing, is far too vague,” Draco questions, looking to Sinistra. She is silent for a moment, raising up a hand towards her Militus and the cobra uncurls then moves towards her, curling up by her legs and laying its head in her lap.

“Having such a memory is the first step, but it also matters what kind of power you are pulling from,” Sinistra explains, eyes down on her Militus. She runs a single finger over the head of the cobra as she pauses. “There are different kinds of power we can feel – selfish power, selfless power, mundane power, power in hindsight, and so on – but it isn’t enough to consider any moment where we feel powerful. Do you recall what a Militus represents?”

Draco hesitates, thinking over his answer. He knew what his dark arts book had called it, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. “A witch or wizard’s… warrior spirit?” Draco tries, offering an anxious smile to his professor, who looks at him quietly.

“It is a witch or wizard’s will to survive,” Sinistra corrects with little to no inflection in her voice, but Draco still sags for his wrong answer. “As living, conscious individuals, we all have the instinctive desire to live as long as possible. We may become entirely different people when we are struggling for our lives.”

“And this is what our Militus personifies,” Draco concludes and Sinistra gives a half nod, her shoulders shifting in a way that might be identified as a shrug.

“Yes. But we are human. Nothing is as straightforward as that, especially magic,” Sinistra snaps her fingers, a dark spark cracking off her fingers, and the cobra Militus promptly dissipates into thin air. “Why do you fight to survive, Mr. Malfoy? You specifically.”

Draco takes a moment to consider the question. He wasn’t being asked some greater, philosophical question here. He was being asked why he, individually, fought in his life. Why did he work to stay alive?

He thinks back to his conversation with Harry, about playing the part of a soldier. About fighting for yourself, not for another individual. Draco still believed himself to be right. Even when one loved another, fighting only for them was a very destructive idea.

“I fight for myself,” Draco replies after a time, but it doesn’t come out as confident as he would have liked. It nearly sounds like a question, and judging by Sinistra’s extended stare, she likely can sense his uncertainty as well.

“Think of what you fight for,” his professor eventually instructs, not disagreeing or agreeing with Draco’s personal assessment, but Draco suspects she doubts him very much. He tries not to flinch or look away, focusing on her words instead. “What kind of power might coincide with these feelings?”

If Draco really was fighting for himself, like he often claimed he did, like he preached the importance of, then the corresponding memory of power would be a selfish one, wouldn’t it? When had he felt powerful for solely selfish reasons? He can think of a few, most of which he’s already given an attempt. He chews his lip anxiously but raises his wand anyway and gives the spell a shot.

“Expecto Militum!” he announces clearly, and for a moment a wisp of shadow does emerge from his wand, but that’s it. No creature emerges for Draco and he sighs dejectedly, lowering his hand and wand into his lap. He hardly even cares he and his professor are still sitting on her rug.

It really is a remarkably gaudy rug, too…

“Your wording is perfect,” Sinistra says, praising in her own, emotionless way, and Draco looks up at her. She tilts her head, staring back at him, and repeats, “Think about what you fight for. Think very hard. Reconsider your memory. Try again.”

Draco swallows, but nods and looks away to begin reconsidering. He needed a memory of power that spoke to him, that reflected his desire to fight and keep fighting. He thought selfish power was the perfect way to go for him, but every memory he tried ended in failure.

He thinks, really thinks, about a time when he felt powerful, down to his core, completely justified and playing on his greater, personal purpose. A few thoughts crop up of him playing the Ministry and Umbridge like a fiddle, and while it does make him feel powerful and proud, he can tell it won’t be enough.

He thinks of Max and all the Muggle things Draco has snuck around, taking some control of his life, and striving to be better. He gives that memory a shot, but not even a shadowy wisp appears that time, and Draco’s back to thinking.

Finally, after many minutes of silence, Sinistra patiently watching, Draco sucks in a sharp breath. It had been a passing thought, but abruptly his head was being flooded by very particular memories.

The memory of him tricking the Dursley’s over the summer to allow Harry a chance to be a teenage boy. The memory of Draco charging at Barty Crouch Jr in his animagus form, attacking the dark wizard to get Harry away from him. He thinks of outsmarting the Minister in third year to free Sirius and condemn Peter Pettigrew, all at Harry’s request. He thinks of catching Harry before he fell to his death during a Quidditch game, surrounded by dementors.

He thinks of the Forbidden Forest, the creature he now knows to be Voldemort approaching two first years, and Draco panicking but grabbing Harry anyway, silently promising himself, on some subconscious level, that he cannot allow Harry Potter to be seriously hurt any more than he already has been.

Draco swallows and raises his wand, forcing his body to remain firm. “Expecto Militum,” he says lowly, clearly, and from his wand shadows begin to emerge, curling around each other and compressing. Twisting, moving designs like wrought iron, like they had been on Sinistra’s cobra, now curl around the form of a sly-looking fox. Draco’s Militus stares back at him, sitting regally on the carpet, its pinprick eyes unnerving.

Draco stares back at it, though, and feels a connection to the creature. He can tell, without it doing a thing, that it’s a mischievous thing, and when Draco reaches out to it, it leans its head forward so he can pet it.

“Well done, Mr. Malfoy,” Sinistra nods, finally moving to stand, and placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder, patting it once before returning to her desk. “You must have found a much more appropriate memory.”

Draco nods, still petting the shadowy fox, thinking about what this memory must say about him. He is proud of himself for finally succeeding, and he can’t wait to pass on this tutoring, but he can’t help but feel bad, too. He’s meant to be the selfish one, he’s constantly telling people there is pride in taking care of one’s self, but…

Draco can’t help but feel like a hypocrite the more he looks at his Militus and he isn’t sure what to do about that.

~ ~ ~

“Expecto Militum!” Weasley says for the millionth time, flicking his wand around hazardously, a single splutter of shadows spitting out of his wand. The Room of Requirement was set up for one of their usual meetings, but with their new interest in practicing the Militus Charm the room had offered a small, open space off to the side for occasional spell attempts. Currently, the faux scene outside the faux windows was green, rolling hills alight with summer light, likely meaning Weasley was the one to get there first.

With Sinistra’s secret lesson that Draco had eagerly passed on to the Golden Trio, it appeared they were all, finally, making progress, but not quite perfectly. Weasley was growing more and more frustrated with every failed attempt, while Harry kept ranting about having plenty of “powerful” memories. He kept grumbling about fighting a basilisk and winning, which Draco found endearing…

Granger was the only one who had managed to form her Militus besides the Slytherin. Draco had been expecting some kind of yappy dog, at best, and had even been joking about it for some time beforehand, but then the muggleborn had stated the incantation and out lumbered the dark, menacing form of a grizzly bear.

Draco had shut up after that. Granger kept smirking at him smugly.

Now, his own fox Militus was running circles around Granger’s bear Militus, the two playing with each other while they have no threats to protect their casters from. Draco and Granger sit at the table, watching the shadowy creatures as well as the two, Gryffindor boys continue to struggle with their spells. They’ve already planned out another, fake fight for later in the week, helped Harry schedule the next few DA meetings, and done a hefty amount of their homework. Now, they get a chance to relax.

“Eve can’t decide between Animal Farm or Fahrenheit 451 for our next book club reading,” Draco is saying idly, twirling his wand around his fingers, “She wanted to know your opinion.”

“Animal Farm. I’ll pick Fahrenheit 451 on my turn,” Granger answers absently, “Why didn’t she want your opinion?”

“According to her my opinions are the emotional equivalent of a canker soar.”

“Did you piss her off again?” Granger smirks and Draco scowls, not looking directly at her.

“That is neither here nor there,” the blonde grumbles, ignoring Granger’s giggles.

“This isn’t working,” Harry suddenly cuts in, looking sullen, his shoulders sagging, as he comes over to the table and plops down at Draco’s empty side. He slouches in his seat, watching as Weasley keeps attempting, growing more and more furious.

“Do you think you might struggle because you can already cast a Patronus?” Granger suggests thoughtfully, but then makes a face to indicate she’s reconsidering. “That wouldn’t explain Ron’s struggles, though.”

“Not struggling!” Weasley snaps over at them, continuing to struggle as he waves around his wand like a madman.

Granger hums, ignoring him, but Harry is already sinking lower in his seat. “What if it is the Patronus, though? What if Ron gets it and I never can?” Harry sighs deeply, looking ahead at nothing, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“That’s ridiculous. We’ve already discussed that the Patronus and Militus aren’t opposites. Knowing one should not bar the other from existing,” the blonde assures, looking bored, and reaches out to ruffle Harry’s hair patronizingly. The other boy smacks his hand away, shooting him a glare, which Draco smirks back at.

“From my studying and Professor Sinistra’s advice, the Patronus and Militus feel closer to… cause and effect,” Granger says, tapping her chin, and Draco and Harry look to her, confused.

“How do you mean?” Harry asks, adjusting his glasses as he sits up straighter.

“Well… If you have good, happy memories, then you have more incentive to survive, yes? And, vice versa, if you fight to survive with all your might, you have more opportunity to build a true and happy life,” Granger offers.

“Interesting thought,” Draco replies, nodding thoughtfully. “Perhaps, then, for certain people, it is easier to learn one before the other and going out of order can make it difficult?” Now, Draco looks to Harry. “Just a theory… But, considering your life and what you grew up with…”

“It might have been easier for me to have learned the Militus Charm first,” Harry concludes, looking away and absently taking ahold of Draco’s wrist, rubbing his fingers over the pulse point without even thinking about it.

“This is all just a theory, Harry,” Granger adds, leaning around Draco to offer a reassuring smile at the raven-haired boy. “We have no proof in it. And, besides, if it is true, that still means the Militus Charm is possible for you.”

“Just even more difficult,” Harry grumbles.

“Maybe I should be trying for the Patronus Charm first, then!” Weasley is suddenly speaking up, his fury momentarily forgotten in the face of a possible solution, and Draco gives him a flat look while Granger speaks up.

“Possibly? But, Ron, I just said we have no proof. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Oh, they’re up! Let’s see what I can do!” Weasley says excitedly, turning back to his spellwork, and beginning to attempt the Patronus Charm instead.

As Granger continues to speak to Weasley, attempting to calm him down, Draco hears Harry say under his breath, “Maybe I just need more sleep…”

The Slytherin tilts his head away from the now-bickering Gryffindors and looks at Harry. “What do you mean? Have you not been sleeping?”

Harry sighs, shaking his head and not looking at Draco. “Not really. I try to practice my Occlumency, but every night I see it. The same corridor. The same door.” Harry’s lips suddenly pull back into a scowl of frustration and he leans his elbows on his knees. “Knowing what Voldemort is looking for doesn’t help, either. I would have thought, maybe, it could have eased some of the visions, but it just makes me frustrated.”

Draco, unsure how to respond, instead reaches out and lays his hand flat against Harry’s back, gentle but reassuring. Harry takes a deep, shaking breath, then twists to look at Draco. “I just want to do something already.”

“There’s nothing for us to do except what we are doing now,” Draco says firmly.

“I know that,” Harry growls, looking away again.

“Keep working on your Occlumency,” Draco continues, fingers flexing as he scratches at Harry’s back. “I know you hate it and it is far from your forte, but practicing will be your best option.”

“Can I drop by your dorms tonight? Maybe get some of your dormmates’ thoughts on how they were taught Occlumency again?” Harry questions, sitting up straighter and looking to Draco without the frustration from a moment ago.

“You know how much we Slytherins like to talk about ourselves,” Draco smirks, “They’d be more than happy to offer advice again.”

Harry doesn’t say anything in response, but he does offer a thankful smile. Draco smiles back, a small thing, before his hand is running up Harry’s back to card his fingers through dark curls.

“And keep working on the DA,” the blonde adds. “You want something to do? Focus on that. You’re making a difference in their lives and I don’t think you fully realize how important that is for them.”

When Harry ducks his head in embarrassment Draco moves to follow him, bending forwards so he can get back into Harry’s line of sight. “I’m serious. You have a talent and drive to help others that sometimes greatly concerns me.”

Harry snorts and shoves at Draco, a smirk on his face as he replies, “Excuse you. I’ve been doing a great job with your ‘selfish prick’ lessons, thank you very much.”

Draco hums, not being deterred by Harry’s push, and instead shifts in even closer than he’d been before. “You’ve got a long way to go, however. Next lesson is learning how to say ‘no’ when people ask for a favor. Think you can handle it?”

“Depends. Think you could tutor me?” Harry’s smile turns a bit more playful and Draco’s eyes are momentarily drawn to his lips.

“No,” Draco responds flatly and Harry leans back, clearly surprised, only to scowl when he sees the other’s grin.

“Teaching by example?”

“See? You can be taught!”

“Are you two done flirting over there, yet?” snaps Weasley and Draco and Harry both startle, looking over. Granger and Weasley are both watching them, Granger covering a giddy smile with her hand while Weasley looks like he’s just been tortured.

Draco had momentarily forgotten they were there.

“Harry, think you could give me a few pointers on the Patronus?” the ginger turns to his best friend when it appears Draco and Harry will keep off each other for the next few minutes.

“You know I plan to start teaching that at the next DA meeting, right? You don’t HAVE to learn it now,” Harry deadpans, but is already getting back up to approach his friend. Draco wants to make a comment about Harry already failing to say “no” to a simple request, but he holds his tongue, smirking as he watches the two other boys begin working on their spells again.

“Should we join them?” Granger mumbles as she rejoins Draco at the table. Off to the side their Militus are still swatting and playing with each other.

“Nah. We’ll get our lessons at the meetings. They’re both too wired up right now to encourage successful work,” the Slytherin waves the idea off.

“Good point,” Granger hums, arching a brow as they watch Weasley swing his wand around so hard he nearly knocks Harry over the head with his arm. “Yes. I do believe waiting will be our best option, in this situation.”

Draco grunts in agreement, leaning back in his chair, and watches as chaos ensues.

~ ~ ~

Ever since returning from Christmas Holiday, Draco and the twins had been fine-tuned to the activities of one Marietta Edgecombe. She had gone to see her family over the break, meaning her Ministry mother, and upon her return to school she had been acting even more squirrelly than usual.

It didn’t mean she was up to something and a voice in Draco’s head that sounded suspiciously like Max tells him not to assume the worst in people so readily, but he can’t help the alarm bells going off in his head.