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Chapter Text

Sometimes, all it takes is an idea.

One that latches onto your brain, takes residence, and refuses to leave. One that festers. The kind of idea that changes everything.

In Draco Malfoy’s case, it came from a simple, childish moment of doubt.

Does father truly love me?

He didn’t always consider it a sad, pathetic question. The first time it popped into his head he was a little over four years old. Then, it had been easy to answer a sincere, unequivocal ‘yes’. He would never admit it to anyone but himself that this question had been plaguing his mind for years.  

Each time his answer came less and less assured. As his father grew distant, harsher, colder, Draco’s instant, honest ‘yes’ began to falter. He couldn’t be sure of his own father’s love anymore. With time, he even began wondering if the man knew the meaning of the word.

Once upon a time, he had at least been sure his father loved his mother deeply. And now, here he was, hiding behind a door, listening to them argue. Again. They had been perfectly civil during the final match of the Quidditch World Cup, then started fighting almost as soon as they got back into their tent.

Draco Malfoy was, first and foremost, a son. Shielded, as most children are, from the struggles of his parents’ marriage. One of the most disappointing realities of growing up is noticing things about the world around you that you never did before. In his case, he realised his parents’ marriage wasn’t as perfect as he’d believed.

They were arguing like they had been doing all summer, in moments when they believed he wasn’t around, or thought he wouldn’t notice.

“This is madness, Lucius.”

Though his mother’s voice was barely above a whisper, it still carried all the anger he knew her capable of, “What could you possibly gain from it? If the ministry—”

“The ministry won’t do a thing, Narcissa,” his father interrupted.

Draco was quite familiar with that tone of disdain in his voice, the kind that made you feel you were the stupidest being on earth.

“You’re a disgrace—”

The slap that resonated across the room shocked Draco into absolute stillness. He stopped breathing, afraid to make even the slightest sound. For a split second, he wondered if Lucius could hear his heart beating frantically inside his chest. The feeling faded as quickly as it came, replaced by incandescent anger. How dare he lay a hand on his mother?

“Cissa—”

“Leave.”

Draco peaked through the crack in the door just before his father disapparated. There was so much regret in his voice. But the damage was done, and her one word put a stop to their interaction. Whatever had been going on ended in a swirl of black robes, a glint of gold, and his father no longer in the room. Draco was not stupid; he knew what those robes meant.

His mother stood there trembling, not out of fear but anger. He slipped out of his room, careful not to make much noise.

“Mother?”

Without turning to him, she answered in the clipped voice she only used when hiding her true emotions. “Go to the edge of the forest and stay there. Hide. Stay close to the place where we arrived. I’ll meet you there.”

“But mothe—”

“Now, Draco.”

Knowing better than to object, he changed out of his pyjamas and left the tent.

The screams hit him first. Of course he’d heard screaming before, of happiness, of rage... He especially enjoyed the latter, particularly when it came from scarface or his pet weasel.

These screams, screams of fear. He thought he should enjoy them, but they didn’t sit well with him.

Draco calmly walked to the edge of the forest. He wasn’t in danger after all. His father wouldn’t attack him, if not because he was his son, at least because he was his heir.

When the screaming grew louder, he looked over his shoulder. His blood froze when he saw the group of masked hooded wizards marching towards him, laughing and pointing their wands up, at the four figures floating above, spinning in mid-air.

The muggles who had welcomed them earlier.

Ever since he had use of reason, his father had told him muggles were filth. The lowest of the low. Inferior beings not to be bothered with. Savages. Barbarians. Closer to animals than wizards.

Looking at his father torturing those muggles, Draco doubted he could ever do that to an animal. Could he? Definitely not.

He had never seen nor interacted with a muggle before that day. It surprised him when the man had been polite and well spoken. It was puzzling. His wife had been kind, And the children… what could they possibly have done? Why would his father find it amusing to torture children? Even if—If?!—it was true they were animals.

He hid behind a tree until a loud noise in front of him interrupted his conflicting thoughts. The light illuminated a patch of red hair he would recognise anywhere.

A Weasley.

And the other two-thirds of his stupid trio.

“Tripped over a tree-root,” said the weasel as he got to his feet with the help of the mudblood.

Draco couldn’t help himself, as usual. “Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” he said, waiting patiently for the inevitable confrontation.

The redhead looked at him, incensed.

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Language Weasley. Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?” Draco said, nodding to the girl standing next to the redhead. Even in the dim light, he could see her blush reach her cheeks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her nose turned up defiantly. The usual Granger stance.

Draco made a show of rolling his eyes and fixed his eyes on her. “Granger, they’re after Muggles. D’you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because if you do, hang around… they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.”

“Hermione is a witch.” Potter snarled.

“Have it your way, Potter. If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood, stay where you are.”

“You watch your mouth!”

There it was. A scream of anger from the Weasel. He almost smiled when he saw Granger pulling her attack dog back.

“Never mind, Ron.” She said.

Another explosion had them flinch. Everyone was scared. Truth be told, so was he, he was just much better at pretending he wasn’t. And he had that slight sense of security knowing his father was there and would surely protect him.

Would he, though?

“Scare easily, don’t they?” Draco said with all the false serenity he could muster, ignoring his momentary doubt, “I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to—trying to rescue the Muggles?”

“Where’re your parents? Out there wearing masks, are they?” Potter asked, and Draco felt his stomach twist as he remembered his father disappearing after slapping his mother.

He turned to Potter, hoping his sneer wouldn’t falter, “Well…” Fuck you Potter! “If they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?” He spat his name with every ounce of hatred he felt in that moment.

“Oh, come on, let’s go find the others.” Granger said, pulling the other two idiots away.

“Keep that big bushy head down, Granger!”

Once alone, Draco couldn’t explain to himself why he kept warning them to stay hidden.

After the World Cup, things didn’t get better. If anything, they got worse once they were back at the manor.

The arguments grew more frequent, louder, meaner.

They’d left in a hurry after his father’s… gathering, when the dark mark appeared high in the sky. It was almost as if his father and his… associates, were afraid of it.

For the third time that week he itched to leave for the quidditch pitch. Eager for some peace. Though the manor was certainly big enough for him to hide away and avoid his parents, the whole atmosphere was hostile when they argued. An unnatural chill permeated the place. It made Draco crave some fresh air.

After lunch he announced his plans for the evening and left for his room. When he finally made his way down the main hall he walked past his father’s study. The door was slightly ajar and his parent’s voices carried outside, as clear as if they’d been arguing beside him.

He knew it was improper to eavesdrop, that he should either leave or make his presence known. Naturally, curiosity won, and he leaned closer, careful not to make a sound.

“If not you, then who Lucius?!” his mother hissed.

“I told you; I don’t know! We’ve been over this Cissa, I will not have you question me—”

“Who cast it? Surely you must know. It must’ve been one of you. Only one of you would be stupid enough—”

“I’d choose my words very carefully if I were you Narcissa.”

Draco could hear the threat in his father’s tone, could feel the danger even at a distance.

“Or what? You’ll hit me again?”

Draco froze, alarm flooding his senses. Would he do it again? His father waited a few seconds before answering. Draco wished he could see his face, see if anything he said was even remotely sincere.

“I apologised.”

“Yes… you did.”

The silence that followed weighed even more than her words.

“You expect me to believe it’s a coincidence the dark mark was conjured while you had your little fun?”

Fun? What kind of sick—

“Why does it matter? The Dark Lord is gone Cissa, and even if he weren’t—”

“Then what?”

“You know I would never let anything happen to you… or Draco.”

Though he wasn’t surprised by his father’s slight hesitation, it still hurt.

Narcissa scoffed, “Sure. Just like last time.”

Last time?

His breath caught in his throat. Her voice didn’t waver, and her words were laced with something he had never heard from her when talking to his father. Something very much like resentment.

“He is gone.”

“You have heard the rumours, Lucius. You think you’re the only one who hears the whispers? Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

“He is gone.”

“Are you sure?!”

Draco suddenly couldn’t bear to listen anymore. His ears were ringing as he ran to the pitch. He needed to be alone. Though his father never talked in much detail about the war, he never wasted a chance to mention what an honour it had been to fight alongside the Dark Lord.

And yet, it would seem his mother had been beyond displeased at the thought of the Dark Lord being alive. Why? Draco had never thought to ask her about the war. Never saw the point of it.

It was all too confusing. He needed peace. He needed to not think.

He pulled his broom from its case in the special shed by the pitch, hopped on it, kicked the ground, and soared. Far away from his troubles.

The rest of the summer flew by and before he noticed, he was back at Hogwarts. The train ride to the castle had been delightful. Sharing the information his father gave him him about the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts started an interesting discussion with his friends about other schools and what their presence would mean for the coming year. A tournament banned for two hundred years was bound to spark their curiosity.

After exchanging some words with scarface, the mudblood, and the weasel (Draco couldn’t wait to see the read-head in those hideous dress robes) they made their way to the castle.

All the first-year students looked like drowned rats when they finally made it across the lake. Shoes squelching as they walked along the hall, their robes dripping water onto the stone floor. The poor firsties shivered uncontrollably, some looking more uncomfortable than awestruck. It felt like an eternity had passed before they were all sorted and the feast began. Draco hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until the smell of food reached his nose and made his stomach grumble.

Once the students were fed to their hearts content, Dumbledore got out of his seat and addressed the Hall again. Yes, Draco was excited about the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament. That is, until they were informed the Quidditch cup would not take place that year. What exactly did Dumbledore expect him to do with his free time? Did that mean he couldn’t fly at all? That would be beyond unfair.

Just as the old headmaster was, no doubt, about to tell the students about the tournament, he was interrupted by a loud thunder and the doors of the Great Hall bursting open.

A man—if you could still call him that—stood at the doorway. Though Draco had no idea who he was, he could tell the man was dangerous. His face was hideously scarred, and one of his eyes seemed to roll in its socket in an undefinable pattern.

The man limped along the hall unperturbed, even though all eyes were on him, and a heavy silence reigned the usually noisy room. He approached Dumbledore, shook his hand, and calmly sat at the staff table.

“Mad-Eye Moody?” he heard someone whisper nearby.

Dumbledore confirmed their suspicions. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was none other than Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody.

The man, a legend for some, was nothing but a thorn at Lucius Malfoy’s side, he hated the man with a passion. Draco couldn’t help but feel curious. His father had insisted the man was quite demented. If that was the case, Dumbledore must be going senile if he decided to hire an insane man to teach at Hogwarts. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from the deformed man. That is how he noticed he had been ignoring the pumpkin juice, drinking instead from a hipflask. He watched him as he took a long swig, and put it back into his travelling cloak. Did he expect to be poisoned?

Paranoid freak.

Then again, if he was so paranoid about being poisoned, he wouldn’t be eating either, would he? Before he could go further down that line of thought, the headmaster finally announced the Triwizard Tournament.

“…a very exciting event over the coming months, an event which has not been held for over a century…”

Over two, but who’s counting.

“…to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

Of course a Weasley would interrupt with ridiculous commentary. As if Dumbledore would joke about something like that. And then Dumbledore  obviously had to go on a tangent with some stupid joke he probably heard a thousand years ago. Thankfully McGonagall was there to keep him focused.

“…an impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

Risking one’s life for a measly thousand galleons had to be the most idiotic idea in the universe. As for glory? Being a Malfoy was enough of that, thank you very much. Draco began to zone out as Dumbledore droned on. His father had already told him all about the tournament. Plus, some of it was in Hogwarts: A History so he’d known it even before that. What he didn’t know was that now there would be an age restriction.

The reactions across the hall were annoying even if they were not unexpected. Obviously all the idiots would complain. Which explained why no one complained louder than the Gryffindors.

Typical reckless gits.

The rest of the day went as well as could be expected. Of-fucking-course that dim-witted oaf would find the most repulsive creatures on the surface of the planet for them to study for Care for Magical Creatures. Blast-ended skrewts weren’t even supposed to be a thing!

Right before dinner, Draco found a copy of the day’s Daily Prophet. After reading the article which had called his attention he rushed to the Entrance Hall, eager to find Weasley. Nothing like some Weasley-baiting to make his day.

Just as he arrived, he saw the distinct red hair next to Granger’s bushy head and he just couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

The three friends turned at the same time. Eyes narrowing as if they were one.

“What?” Weasley snapped.

“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” Draco said, as loudly as he could manage without yelling and making it obvious he was trying to get everyone’s attention. He pulled the copy of the Daily Prophet and swung it over his head. “Listen to this!” he said, opening it with a flourish.

Feeling the eyes of curious students landing on him, he began reading. Draco wasn’t even paying attention to what he was reading aloud, he was focused only on the weasel’s reaction.

“Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office—Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley,” Draco said, looking up, “It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” and then continued where he left off.

So, the weasel’s father rushed to the aid of Moody huh? Idiots, both of them. It’s as if they were making it their mission to blow the bloody Statute of Secrecy. Muggle loving fools.

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” He flipped the paper and held it up for everyone to see, and oh how he was enjoying the attention, and the scarlet shade that now covered Weasley’s face, “A picture of your parents outside their house—if you can call it a house!”

That might be a bit over the line…

As usual he couldn’t stop, “Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

That was definitely over the line.

Weasley looked murderous, and so did Potter. To his surprise, even Granger looked ready to attack.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” Potter barked, trying to pull his friend to the Great Hall, “C’mon Ron.”

That’s enough Draco—

“Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?”

Shut up. Shut up NOW!

“So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?”

Both Potter and Granger were now struggling to keep Weasley at bay.

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” Potter said, Draco’s full attention immediately on him, “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” Draco felt a slight flush rush to his cheeks, which only made him angrier. Though he knew he was the one who started it, the mention of his mother made him irrational.

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” Potter said, and turned away.

He could’ve sworn his hand moved of its own accord. One moment it was by his side, the next it had his wand raised and pointed at Potter. He didn’t even remember what jinx he cast or if it even was a jinx.

Next thing he knew he was on the ground. But he was… he was far too close to the ground. He wasn’t—something was wrong. His first instinct was to run to the common room, to seek help, but his legs felt funny. All of him felt strange.

Something was very, very wrong.

Draco tried to run again but something held him in place. Fear coursed through him as he was flung upwards. He could hear screaming at first, then laughter. And then, when he was smacked onto the ground, he felt pain. So much pain. More than he’d ever felt before. He heard cracking when he hit the ground a second time, then he was in the air again.

Time and time again he felt something snap as he collided with the cold stone floor. He tried to get away in vain, heard some screeching, which later he would realise were his own cries of pain. Each time he was bounced on the floor he felt himself slipping further away from consciousness. The pain increased until the edges of his vision began to darken. He was sure he would die from how much it hurt.

And suddenly he was himself again.

He got up as fast as he could, ignoring the excruciating pain. Draco couldn’t stop the tears that began forming in his eyes. It hurt, everywhere. He wasn’t even thinking of his pride, he was in agony. His ankle was surely broken, he couldn’t breathe properly, and his vision was rapidly darkening again. He wasn’t sure he would be able to remain standing much longer. He looked at the madman who had tortured him with all the loathing he could muster and barely heard himself whisper My father— before Moody’s eyes were back on him.

“Oh yeah?” he whispered, sounding very much like a threat, “Well, I know your father of old, boy… you tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son… you tell him that for me… now, your Head of house’ll be Snape, will it?”  

“Yes,” he croaked, struggling to speak with how much it hurt to just breathe.

“Another old friend. I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape… come on, you slimy coward.”

He felt Moody’s hand pull him from the scruff on his neck, dragging him more than leading him to Snape’s office. Draco wasn’t sure he was fully conscious the whole journey. Eventually, Moody let go and Draco fell to the ground again. Unable to stand.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Snape.

The head of Slytherin knelt beside him in an instant. If Draco didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he saw some alarm in the professor’s face. It was difficult to see past his own tear-filled eyes.

“What exactly happened to Mr Malfoy?”

That’s definitely rage.

Draco wanted to be sick. Before he could though, he felt some of his pain recede and found it slightly easier and less painful to breathe.

“He attacked another student when their back was turned.”

Severus Snape looked up from the injured student on the floor to the man in front of him. It took every ounce of his self-control not to attack the ex-auror right then and there.

“And the student did this?”

That flash of defiance that crossed the eyes of Alastor Moody told him everything he needed to know. Severus turned his focus again to Draco Malfoy. Muttering incantations to stabilise him before taking him to the hospital wing.

“It was his punishment.”

“So, you did this?”

Draco winced. He was sure he had never heard Professor Snape sound so… murderous before.

“Making sure young Malfoy knows his place.”

Snape transfigured one of the chairs in his office into a stretcher and levitated Draco to lay on it. Then he stood to his full height, looking at Moody with all the disdain he had spent years perfecting.

“I would kindly remind you Alastor, that punishment of the students falls on the Head of House. In Mr Malfoy’s case, that would be me. If I find out you have taken it upon yourself to punish any of my students, there will be consequences. And if I find any of them injured in any way… you will regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes,” Snape drawled, “Don’t test me Moody. Now, Mr Malfoy clearly needs medical attention, which appears to have escaped your notice. Get out of my office.”

Draco didn’t stay conscious long enough to see if Moody complied.

It was close to curfew when Hermione finally left the library. She had been working so hard on the S.P.E.W badges she’d given herself a headache. One painful enough a visit to Madam Pomfrey would be necessary. She needed a good rest, and didn’t want to wait for the pain to fade by itself.

The hospital wing was empty save one bed. When the figure laid on it stirred, a face came out of the shadows, suddenly illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through the windows. Hermione recognised the pale skin and white-blond hair and felt herself rolling her eyes as she remembered the arrogant boy’s dramatics after Buckbeak reacted as was expected when any hippogriff was insulted. Then Malfoy moved again, and she saw the dark purple bruise that covered the right side of his face. The whole right side of his face.

She gasped and moved closer without thinking. On his bedside were several empty bottles of analgesic and anti-inflammatory potions, one dreamless sleep potion, a blood replenishing potion, and even skele-gro. A weight dropped in her stomach as she saw the still form of Draco Malfoy on the hospital bed.

“Student transfiguration… that man should be dismissed immediately,” Madam Pomfrey muttered to herself as she walked towards the bed, at least five other potions on the tray she was carrying. She stopped in her tracks when she spotted Hermione.

“May I help you, Miss Granger?” she asked, removing the empty bottles and placing new ones by Malfoy’s bed.

“Is Malfoy ok?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself. She had no idea why she’d asked. It wasn’t as if she cared. Except… she remembered the cries of the little white ferret… she didn’t think—but now that she thought of it, it made her feel sick.

I laughed. I stood there watching and laughed as he was being tortured.

Madam Pomfrey turned to her, her eyes narrowed. The animosity between her and that particular student was common knowledge among the faculty, it made sense for her to be suspicious.

“Why do you ask?”

“I—I was there,” Hermione stuttered “It was horrible.”

And yet I laughed. Because it was Malfoy… and apparently, I’m no better than him.

Her stomach twisted with regret, and she felt her eyes prickle. No one deserved to suffer like that. Not even Draco Malfoy.

Madame Pomfrey sighed and looked at the young boy’s still form, compassion mixed with rage in her eyes. “Mr Malfoy had both of his arms broken, a shattered ankle, a fractured tibia, a fissured femur and hip, seven broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a moderate concussion,” she said, then met Hermione’s eyes, “And that was after Professor Snape had already intervened. I’m sure his condition was much worse before he got here.”

She stared at Hermione as if challenging her to make a joke, as if she truly expected her to laugh.

Like I did before.

Hermione nodded. Her own headache forgotten, she left the hospital wing without another word.

She never mentioned what she’d seen to Harry or Ron. They would have probably said something nasty about it and she didn’t want to hear it. Days later, when Hagrid threatened Malfoy with another transfiguration punishment, she did not laugh. Instead, she looked down, her stomach twisting with remorse.

He was in the hospital wing. He had known that’s where he was headed before he slipped into unconsciousness. It still surprised him a little when he awoke. The light of a new day bathing the place in a faint golden hue. Madame Pomfrey checked on him and a few minutes later Professor Snape walked into the room.

“Mr Malfoy. I’m glad you’re doing better.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Are you feeling well enough to tell me what happened?”

Draco felt a surge of anger take over him. This time it was more about his pride than his battered body.

“That demented disfigured troll transfigured me and smashed me on the bloody floor!” Damn him, Draco felt the sting in his eyes and willed himself not to cry again.

“Transfigured you? Why?” Snape asked, betraying no emotion. A sharp contrast to the previous day.

“I had an argument with Potter.” He left out the part where he had fired a hex at his back. He didn’t hit him, so Draco figured it didn’t count.

Snape stared at him with an unreadable expression before leaning closer. “Listen to me carefully Draco,” he whispered, and Draco was immediately fully alert at the use of his first name. Professor Snape had only used it once before. “You need to watch yourself around Professor Moody. You do not have an advantage with him, quite the opposite in fact. Am I clear?”

“Yes sir.”

Something cold washed over him. Whatever Moody’s problem was, he had already known it had nothing to do with him and all to do with his father. Hadn’t Moody threatened him while he dragged him to Snape’s office? A threat to him disguised as a warning to his father. However, having it confirmed left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I would also recommend not mentioning this incident to your parents. It would cause more trouble than necessary to involve your father. I know he threatened you, but the ministry still holds Alastor Moody in high regard. You do not want them poking their noses where they do not belong. Do you understand?”

Draco wasn’t even sure his father would reply if he wrote to him anyway…

“Yes sir.” He winced when his voice cracked. Sod it all, he was still in excruciating pain. It was allowed.

Snape must’ve noticed because he offered him more analgesic potion. Draco was infinitely thankful to his Head of House.

“Now, I have spoken to Dumbledore. You have Defence Against the Dark Arts on Thursdays before lunch, I have a free period then. Come to my office instead. I will be your tutor for that class this year. You will tell your classmates you dropped the class. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“If I find out you’re bragging about this deal, Draco, I won’t teach you anymore.”

“I understand,” Draco nodded. Though he would’ve definitely loved to brag about the fantastic opportunity, he could very well recognise an offer that would vanish should he fail to meet the demand. Bragging wasn’t worth losing that chance. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Good. I must leave. Madam Pomfrey will be back soon.”

Draco nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. The memory of his experience drifted to the front of his mind unbidden. He had never felt so helpless in his life. It was an experience he very much did not want to repeat ever again.

On Thursday, as the rest of the Slytherins headed for their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class, most of them buzzing with excitement and anticipation stemming from the whispers and tales of the students of other houses, Draco headed for the dungeons. He told his friends—and everyone who could hear—that his father had ordered him to refuse to take a class with the demented ex-auror and therefore he had dropped it. He waited until his housemates were out of sight and slipped into Professor Snape’s office.

“Professor?”

“Mr Malfoy, take a seat.”

He sat on the bench Snape had placed inside his office and pulled his book.

“Have you done any reading on the subject?”

Draco really did not want to admit to pulling a Granger, but he had been asked and it would be futile to lie, “I—uh… I read the book.”

Snape’s eyebrows went up for a millisecond, the shocked expression gone in the same instant it appeared. “All of it?”

Draco had to suppress a groan. Surely Snape knew he actually was a good student. “Yes sir.”

“Good,” he said, regarding him curiously now. Draco wondered what the man was thinking. “Shall we begin?”

He nodded, struggling to keep his eagerness as far away from Granger levels as possible. For the first time in a long time, a true and sincere smile was etched on his face.

This could still be a good year.

Chapter Text

The delegations of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived at Hogwarts on the 30th of October. 

At precisely 6 o’clock the first glimpse of the Beauxbatons contingent appeared on the horizon. There, over the forbidden forest, the enormous blue carriage skimmed the treetops as it drew closer to the castle. 

Pulled by a dozen majestic abraxans, it came to a halt precisely in front of the Entrance Hall. Draco couldn’t remember ever seeing an abraxan in the flesh before, though he had always been curious about them. They truly were wonderfully magnificent creatures. He found himself overcome with the need to ride one and idly wondered if it would be possible to keep one or two at the Malfoy estate. They certainly had the space…

The gasp from the crowd pulled his focus away from the magical creatures and back to the carriage. The largest woman he had ever seen emerged from it, elegantly dressed in black satin, followed by a dozen shivering students. Their pale blue robes might’ve been adequate for French weather, but they should’ve known Scotland was significantly colder this time of year. 

His focus shifted again to the abraxans. He faintly heard Dumbledore say that damned groundskeeper would take care of them, eliciting a surge of jealousy. He could already hear Saint Potter and his pet weasel bragging about riding one. All they had to do was ask and the bloody oaf would no doubt bow to them and let them do it. Not Granger though, she would never ask, even he knew she hated flying.  

No matter, he would make sure to write about them in his letter to his parents. They had never denied him anything. Surely they wouldn’t start with something as simple as this. In no time, he was making plans for all the abraxans he didn’t yet have. Where they could build a stable for them, how often he would like to have lessons to ride them. He was lost in his reverie when an odd sound interrupted him.

It sounded much like a drain, or a toilet being flushed. Granted, a huge toilet, and it was coming from—

The lake? What the— 

From beneath the dark waters emerged a long mast, followed by… the rest of a very impressive ship. Whether it was a trick of the moonlight or the ship really was that shiny he couldn’t tell. All he knew was, next thing, a group of people covered in fur cloaks was disembarking, following a tall, skinny man wearing ridiculous silver fur. 

These people were much better prepared for the weather. 

Durmstrang.

The man in silver—their headmaster, no doubt—greeted Dumbledore with a cold, fake smile. Then he called for one student, one Viktor, to get into the castle.

The student walked forward, stepping into the light. 

It was Viktor fucking Krum.

Draco pulled Crabbe and Goyle, and hurried into the Great Hall.

Merlin, sweet Circe and Morgana please, please make Durmstrang sit with us.  

If his father could hear his thoughts… unbecoming of a Malfoy, he would say. Draco couldn’t be bothered to care. Viktor Krum was in the castle. The best seeker in the world. He would be damned if he didn’t at least try to make his acquaintance. 

To his great relief (imagine if they were to sit with Gryffindor ) the Durmstrang students went straight to the Slytherin table and began removing their cloaks to sit with them. A vain thought crossed his mind when he saw their uniforms: That they would look hideous on him. Red was not his colour. He looked away from the students, knowing better than to stare. 

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Viktor Krum had sat across from him, one seat to his right. Willing himself to remain calm, he schooled his face to one of mild curiosity—as opposed to his silly excitement—and extended his hand to the Quidditch player.  

“Hello. I’m Draco Malfoy,” he introduced himself, hoping his voice didn’t betray his true mental state. Krum looked at him with an unreadable expression and Draco continued before he lost the nerve, “I had the privilege of seeing you at the World Cup. Fantastic performance. I’m sorry your team didn’t win as they should’ve.” 

Krum gave a small smile and a courteous nod before shaking his hand. 

“Viktor Krum. Thank you for your vords, Draco Malfoy.”

And then the great Viktor Krum turned away, ending the exchange. Draco felt slightly offended but decided not to dwell on it. He could still gain favour with the famous player; it was one of the things his father had taught him… he shook his head and turned to the top table. 

Dumbledore gave a short speech, and the feast began. Draco was pleasantly surprised to see some French dishes. Good enough, but not really on par to the real thing. He should probably ask his parents if they could go to France over the summer. It had been a while since they last visited the Malfoy Château.

“The moment has come,” Dumbledore started once everyone was done eating, “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start.”

They sure don’t waste time, do they?

Dumbledore introduced the head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Bartemius Crouch, and Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports and, according to his father, the most incompetent man in the entire Ministry.

Filch approached the top table with an intricately carved wooden chest at Dumbledore’s order and placed it in front of the headmaster. 

“As you know, three champions compete in the Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “one from each of the participant schools…”

A rush of stupidity muddled his brain and—for one moment—he imagined himself as the chosen Hogwarts champion. His rational brain immediately recognised it as pure idiocy, and he turned to whisper something or other to Crabbe (or Goyle? One of them). It made them laugh so it was probably something rude.

“…The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector… the Goblet of Fire.”

Malfoy Manor was full of ancient, powerful, magical artefacts—dark or not. He grew up surrounded by them. There was no doubt in his mind that the Goblet was extremely powerful. He wished he could take a closer look. It was fascinating.

“…The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract…”

Perhaps simplify it for your beloved Gryffindors, old man. I doubt they fully understand what that means...

“…There can be no change of heart once you have become champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are whole-heartedly prepared to play—” 

Prepared to die more like.

“—before you drop your name in the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Goodnight to you all.”

Warrington was the first Slytherin to put in his name and would probably be the only one. Draco couldn’t think of anyone else who might want to risk his or her neck for the school. He hoped someone else would, a Slytherin champion would be a fantastic fuck you to the other houses. Sadly, though Warrington was undoubtedly brutal at Quidditch, he was, overall, rather incompetent. For something like this, you needed brains. He didn’t voice his thoughts, instead, he cheered with the rest of his housemates when Warrington barged in after placing his name late at night, congratulating him and wishing him luck.

Next morning, he heard some Hufflepuff sixth year say Cedric Diggory had put in his name in too. Draco had nothing against the Hufflepuff—except that he was a Hufflepuff. Objectively, he had to admit the bloke could be a good choice. He was rather good at quidditch, quite smart if his reputation was anything to go by, and a pureblood. Too bad he was a Hufflepuff. He would have been his preferred choice if he’d been a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin. 

Anything but a Gryffindor.  

Angelina Johnson was rumoured to be the first Gryffindor to put her name in. Unless someone was discreet about it and did it without alerting anyone, which was unlikely for a Gryffindor. Gods, he really hoped the old cup didn’t choose a stupid, reckless Gryffindor for a champion. They would get themselves either disqualified for doing something terribly daft, or killed early for choosing to improvise instead of planning ahead. Something as dangerous as this event, with clear rules and stipulations, needed strategy to win, not just endless dumb bravery. Either a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin would do the job just fine. 

Except, perhaps, Warrington.

The rest of the day went by in a rush. Pucey and Higgs were said to have put in their names. Either would be a good choice. At last, once dinner was over, the Goblet of Fire would make a decision. Despite himself Draco felt oddly excited.

“Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” Dumbledore said. 

It was curious how the old man talked about the artefact as if it was almost sentient. Although, if it was to choose based on merit as opposed to randomly, Draco supposed it probably was at least slightly sentient. Which made the Goblet even more fascinating. 

“I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

Which will most likely be: ‘Try not to die or we’ll look like idiots’.

The air in the room was almost crackling with anxious over-excited energy. Every student was counting the minutes until they would finally know who would represent the school. 

The headmaster extinguished most of the candles, making the Goblet stand out even more, its blue flames illuminating the room giving it an eerie look. 

Suddenly the flames turned red, sparks flew from it and a tongue-like flame shot into the air, a piece of parchment floating down after it was gone. Dumbledore caught the parchment and looked up at the Durmstrang delegation.

“The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum!”

Well, that one was obvious.

Draco clapped with the rest of the students and watched as Krum disappeared through the door. Everyone turned to the Goblet once more. Seconds later, a second piece of parchment was shot out and snatched by the headmaster.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

Interesting. So she’s more than just a pretty face. 

Draco clapped again, albeit less enthusiastically. He couldn’t help but feel a mix of pity and disdain for the Beauxbatons girls who were now crying for not being selected. In his opinion, if they wanted to be worthy of being selected to represent their school, they probably should’ve tried harder. It was only their own fault. 

As soon as this thought crossed his mind his father’s voice calling him a failure for coming second to a mudblood filtered through, filling him with anger. Except, unlike previous times, his anger was directed at his father, as well as himself, instead of Granger. After all, didn’t he just think if the girls wanted to be worthy, they should’ve tried better? Didn’t that apply to himself as well?

He would’ve missed the third time the flames turned red if they weren’t the only source of light in the room. Dumbledore caught the parchment mid-air and held it at arms-length. His expression betraying nothing. Draco was sure the entire Hogwarts student body was holding their breath.

“The champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!”

Draco heard it before the Hufflepuff table roared their deafening cheers. The weasel, unsurprisingly, complained about Diggory. Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

As if any Gryffindor could do better. Delusional Weasley. 

He went back to stare at his plate while Dumbledore kept babbling. A collective gasp made him look up. The cup had turned red again. 

Whispers filled the hall immediately, one look at the confused faces of the staff told him this was not supposed to be happening. A fourth parchment burst out, landing over the table. Dumbledore read it and was quiet for a few seconds before reading aloud.

“Harry Potter.”

A heavy silence fell inside the hall after Potter’s name was uttered, followed by angry whispers that did not stop even after the famous Gryffindor disappeared through the same door as the others. 

Without offering an explanation, Dumbledore sent the students to their common rooms. Draco promptly joined the complaints of the rest of the Slytherins in the common room. Slandering Potter was so second nature for him he didn’t even need to think about it. He joked, laughed and even raged for a while. 

When he finally made it to his dorm, in the slight privacy awarded by the curtains of his four-poster bed he couldn’t remember half of what he’d said. He stared at the ceiling, mulling over what he had witnessed. Everyone else seemed to believe Potter had somehow fooled the age line and got himself selected. Even Draco had had that same initial reaction. However, upon further contemplation, he had to admit he wasn’t so sure. 

Mainly because Potter was far too incompetent to pull it off, and his mudblooded walking library of a friend was too much of a goody two-shoes to help him. He didn’t even think she could manage to fool Dumbledore's spell… 

Unless he got an older student to do it for him. 

Still… he was selected as the fourth champion of the Tri Wizard tournament. Even if he got an older student to place his name, they would’ve had to somehow make a powerful ancient magical artefact choose four champions instead of three. 

And it happened to pull none other than Harry Potter himself.

Draco sincerely doubted there was a single student in Hogwarts competent enough to pull that off. If Potter had been chosen as Hogwarts champion instead of Diggory maybe he could explain it but… no. Something else was definitely happening. Draco Malfoy did not believe in coincidences.

He pulled a piece of parchment and began writing to his parents. If there was something going on, they would know.

The answer he got a couple of days later didn’t surprise him. They assured him everything was fine and that Potter being in the tournament was probably just his usual attention seeking behaviour. Despite being convinced Potter did not put his name into the Goblet—a belief he kept to himself—Draco had never been one to waste an opportunity to make fun of the chosen git and decided to let his doubts and concerns go. 

Instead, he poured his efforts into a project he found immensely amusing. He spent an entire evening producing what would become his pride and joy: Two hundred badges that read in shiny red letters: Support Cedric Diggory, The real Hogwarts champion . 

Draco could’ve left them like that, and they would’ve still been a good blow to Potter. No need to do more really. But he wanted to take it one step further .

It took a significant amount of his knowledge in charms to produce his two hundred inalterable badges. With a magnificent, endlessly funny feature. To see it, all you had to do was press it and it switched to something else . Brilliant idea if he did say so himself. 

He stuffed the box in his school bag and headed to the common room. The next morning, Draco gave a badge to every Slytherin in his year and ordered them to be there early so they could wait for Potter before double Potions. 

Potter and Granger arrived early, just as he’d hoped. Weasley was nowhere in sight. Pity, he was hoping to see his reaction as well. The annoying redhead was always the first to get angry.

“Like them, Potter?” Draco asked as soon as he spotted him, noticed his confusion turn to anger and felt elated at having succeeded in his endeavour. “And this isn’t all they do—look!” 

Draco pressed his badge and watched the red letters of support to Diggory vanish, replaced by bright green ones that read: Potter stinks. 

As usual the laughter he got from his peers was music to his ears. They all pressed their badges. Despite the dim lighting at the dungeons, he could see the blush creeping up Potter’s face. 

Then Weasley appeared at last, followed by the fire hazard and his friend. The redhead didn’t jump to the defence of his beloved friend though. 

Curious.

“Oh, very funny, really witty,” Granger said, rolling her eyes.  

It is funny, and witty.

“Want one Granger? I’ve got loads,” he replied, offering one, “But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it you see. Don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”

That did it. Not the badge, nor the taunting. It was his inexplicable need to use that word that finally made Potter reach for his wand. Draco had been practising and had his out before Potter.

“Harry!” Granger warned.

“Go on, then, Potter,” Seriously Draco… stop. “Moody’s not here to look after you now,” Why can’t you ever just shut the fuck up?  “Do it, if you’ve got the guts—”

They both cast their jinx at the same time.

“Densaugeo!” Draco yelled. He couldn’t hear what Potter screamed. He only saw the jets of light collide mid-air and bounce. The one from Potter hit Goyle, and his hit her.

“Hermione!” cried Weasley, and rushed to help Granger. 

Draco knew what the hex did, in theory. He had never used it before. He watched transfixed how her already large front teeth grew, and grew, and kept growing… It was an accident, much like the hex hitting her instead of scarface. She looked down while her teeth kept growing and one nicked her chin. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was deep enough to draw blood. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. A drop of a shiny crimson liquid emerged from her injury and rolled down her neck. 

Deep red… just as his own. 

Professor Snape came out of the classroom and looked around before setting his eyes on them.

“Explain.” 

“Potter attacked me, sir—” Draco lied quickly.

“We attacked each other at the same time!”

“—and he hit Goyle—look—”

Draco moved out of the way to give Professor Snape an unobstructed view of his friend, now covered in angry boils. 

“Hospital wing, Goyle,” he said.

“Malfoy got Hermione! Look!” Weasley yelled. Calling for the professor’s attention.

Granger didn’t seem to want it though; she kept trying to hide her face with her hands. Draco could see the tears running down her cheeks. 

Snape stared at her for a couple of seconds and then said, “I see no difference.”

What?

Everyone laughed. Draco too, faked a chuckle, only to hide the odd feeling he got in his stomach. She started sobbing and ran away. He’d never seen her so distressed before. No matter what he said or did, she always took it with her head held high. She always fought back. Even slapped him once for fucks sake! How—Why did this make her break?

“Let’s see, fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions,” Professor Snape continued, ushering them into the classroom. 

Despite the momentary bout of guilt, he felt victorious. Who had time to think about that one drop of deep red blood? 

After the Potions incident Draco developed a theory. One which needed corroborating before acting on. He observed the trio for days until he was confident his suspicions were correct. 

He had done his best to forget about the other information he got from the Potions incident. He smashed his curiosity about Granger’s blood, refusing to think about it in hopes he would eventually forget. Instead, he focused on Weasley and the fact he hadn’t seen him with Potter in weeks . 

When he saw him walking alone through the courtyard, he felt giddy, it was time. It had been a while since he’d annoyed the useless weasel. 

“Hey Weasley!”

The redhead ignored him and kept walking. No matter, Draco would not give up.

“Haven’t seen you with Potter in a while,” he continued, walking a few paces behind his target, “Trouble in paradise?” 

“Piss off,” Weasley barked without turning around, and kept walking, hunched over, with his hands deep inside his pockets.

“Aw, Weasley, did he finally realise he’s too good to be seen with the likes of you? Took him long enough—”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Weasley exploded, his blue eyes burning with rage. 

That was… surprisingly easy.  

Draco stopped. They were now standing in the middle of the courtyard. All eyes on them.

“Touched a nerve, have I? Face it Weasley why would the great and mighty Harry Potter want to have anything to do with someone like you? A Weasley…”

“I said, shut your mouth,” he seethed. 

Draco was impressed, it would seem the Gryffindor had learnt some self-control. Weasley didn’t move, he only stared at him with that look on his face, the one he got just when he was about to explode and do something stupidly rash. The kind that got him self-hexed and puking slugs. And Draco? He knew all he had to do was push the young Gryffindor just a little bit more.

He put on his most disdainful sneer and tsked three times. “Weasley, Weasley…” he drawled, “We all knew it was only a matter of time, you see?” 

Without warning the redhead sent a hex which Draco blocked with ease, since he’d been expecting it and he had been practising with Snape.

“Ronald!” Granger yelled, rushing to the weasel’s side. 

“I’m glad Potter realised you’ve been dragging him down,” Draco chuckled.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” 

Draco blocked the next hex as well, and the one after that. 

“Ron stop!” cried Granger. Who was now close enough to interfere—which would be terribly unsportsmanlike.

“Mister Weasley!” McGonagall’s voice rang across the courtyard. Some students scrambled to get away when they heard her, others pretended they weren’t watching what was happening.

Weasley lowered his wand at once. Fuming still but seemingly restrained by his Head of House. Draco would’ve preferred Snape to intervene but… well. Nothing he could do about that now.

“What is the meaning of this?” McGonagall demanded, looking between the two students. 

“He started it!” Weasley spat.

Draco rolled his eyes. He knew the old bat would believe her student over him. Her enraged stare said as much.

“Mister Malfoy?” 

Draco kept his expression neutral, “Ask anyone, professor. I wasn’t the first to draw a wand. And as you saw I was only shielding myself.”

“I did see that Mister Malfoy,” she conceded. Draco could tell she did so reluctantly. “Miss Granger?”

Ah, for fucks sake, Granger? Really? Why not just ask Weasley himself?

Granger looked torn before she tried to answer. “I—Well… I didn’t...”

Huh… 

McGonagall thankfully understood Granger’s hesitation as confirmation that Weasley was the one to cast the first hex. Even if it had been Draco who started the argument.

“Mister Weasley, ten points from Gryffindor for attacking another student.”

What a wonderful day…

“What?!” 

“Let’s go Ronald.” 

Granger placed her hand on Weasley’s arm and tried to pull him back, but he shook her off rather forcefully.

“Let go of me!” 

Weasley stomped away, leaving behind an evidently hurt Granger. Draco found it curious that he was snippy with her, and distant with Potter. He was sure the boy had some sort of sick fascination with her. He had to admit it would be disappointing if the trio was no more. Much of his amusement came from antagonising them. He wasn’t sure it would be as fun to annoy them separately.

Who am I kidding? Yes, it would.

November 22nd arrived, and with it the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.

No one knew what it would entail, yet everyone was excited. People were betting all around. Morbid as it would seem to some, there were even bets on who was more likely to die first (Potter was the favourite for that one). The afternoon rolled in with a wave of excitement for everyone not about to face a deadly task.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, walked towards the arena where the event would take place, trying to guess what the champions would have to face. They didn’t have to wonder too long. They were still a good way away from the arena when they heard it. A loud, unmistakable roar.

Dragons.

“Potter is so going to die.” Goyle whispered, as they kept walking towards the noise. Draco and Crabbe had to agree. Potter and the others would face dragons with no other protection but their wands.

The first one out was Diggory. He did the most Hufflepuff thing imaginable and transfigured a rock into a dog to distract the Swedish Short-Snout. Too bad the poor rock dog didn’t last enough to give Diggory time to get out of the enclosure. He heard the cries of dismay of a group of girls sitting in front of him when Diggory got his face burnt. 

Next was Delacour. Draco was impressed by her spell work. The French witch got a full-grown Welsh Green to sleep. By herself. Absolutely remarkable. Pity she forgot even dragons snore.

When Krum came out, Draco fully expected him to find a way to fly. It would’ve been the obvious option. However, he wasted no time and went on the offensive, attacking the Chinese Fireball’s eyes to get to the egg. As the dragon stumbled around agitated by her sudden blindness, she stepped on her own eggs. The crunch of the eggs and subsequent cries of despair from the dragon were heart-breaking. So unnecessary. Draco was glad when they docked points.

Only Potter was left. 

Draco felt a little sorry for the little Gryffindor when the dragonologists led a Hungarian Horntail into the enclosure. That beast was as magnificent as it was terrifying. 

His next thought was maybe betting for ten minutes of survival had been generous. 

As usual, Potter found a way to defy the odds. Everyone leapt out of their seats and began cheering when the Firebolt came into view. Potter had decided to fly. 

Not only did he survive, in the end Potter tied with Krum in first place and Draco was immensely annoyed. He cursed Krum’s damned dragon for smashing her own eggs. Krum would’ve come first if she hadn’t. Now that Potter led the score, all Gryffindors would surely be unbearable. 

School was predictably boring after that. Such an adrenaline inducing event was bound to produce a massive low once it was over. Now everyone was waiting anxiously for the second task. 

During the first week of December, Draco was swamped with end of term assignments. Therefore, he spent significantly more time in the library than usual. Usually, he would stay in the Slytherin common room, but for some reason lately he preferred to make the trip up to  the library. He was working on a transfiguration essay when someone sat across from him interrupting his flowing ideas. 

Draco looked up, ready to throw some rude scalding comment to get the intruder to leave when he saw who it was.

Viktor Krum. 

All insults died at the tip of his tongue. As his father said, some people could be awarded some… concessions. 

Krum looked straight at him for a second, then looked over Draco’s shoulder to a place on the other side of the library. 

“Draco Malfoy, correct?” he asked in that heavy Slavic accent.

“Yes.”

Krum’s eyes drifted again to the spot at the other side of the library, “Could you tell me who that is?”

Draco looked over his shoulder and had to blink twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Besides Krum’s fan club of giggling annoyances—He truly hated those girls making so much noise inside the library—Hermione Granger was the only one there. 

“Ah… that’s… er… Gra—Hermione Granger…” Draco said, turning back to the Bulgarian player. 

“Herm—own—ninny?”

Don’t. Do. NOT. Laugh!

“Sure…” Draco was too shocked to think of anything else to say, “Why do you—?” 

He didn’t get to finish his question. Pansy plunked herself down next to him, interrupting him and startling Krum. He hadn’t even noticed she was nearby.

“What Draco is too polite to say is that you shouldn’t bother with the likes of her, you don’t want to be seen with her kind—”

Anyone would’ve noticed that was the wrong thing to say. Anyone but Pansy apparently. The change in Krum’s face was immediate, and a bit frightening. His gaze darkened and his previously friendly expression hardened.

“—She’s a Mudblood, you see?” Pansy kept going, oblivious to the change in the Bulgarian’s mood, “She likes to act all high and mighty but ultimately, we all know she’s filth.”

Draco groaned inwardly; Pansy had clearly fucked up. She never did know how to read a room. Krum straightened himself, his scowl deepening by the second. He stared at Pansy for a moment, then turned to Draco, who suddenly wanted to be… anywhere else. Viktor Krum was one of the few people he genuinely admired and now… it was safe to say Krum didn’t like him very much.

“So you judge girl for blood huh?” Krum asked Pansy, who seemed shocked the Durmstrang student didn’t agree with her outright, “Is that vat you think too, Draco Malfoy?”

Well... yes.

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. He could feel Pansy’s eyes on him, no doubt expecting him to confirm what she had said, what his own father would expect him to say.

Krum got up before he could say anything, shaking his head in obvious disappointment, and left. Anger bubbled inside him once more. His careful plan to befriend Viktor Krum was now shattered because Pansy fucking Parkinson couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself. 

“Has no one ever taught you to keep your trap shut, Pansy?” Draco growled before shoving his things in his school bag and leaving a bewildered Pansy behind.

All Slytherin students fourth year and up had been summoned to the common room before dinner. Professor Snape paced the room, looking miserable. Whoever tasked the head of Slytherin with instructing them for the Yule ball must seriously hate the poor man. Even the notoriously stone-faced Severus Snape, could not hide his disdain. Draco himself wasn’t particularly excited, but the potions master showed some next-level hatred for the event. 

“This… event,” Snape drawled with the most contemptuous tone Draco’d ever heard, “Will take place on the 25th of December. The students from the other schools will be in attendance.  All eyes will be on this school, as such—” he said, stopping in front of the window looking to the lake, “I expect the students from my house who chose to attend to NOT make fools of themselves… leave that to the Gryffindors.”   

Being a member of an influential family, Draco had been to his fair share of formal events. This one would probably not even register as memorable. His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t out of nervousness, he just genuinely couldn’t be bothered. Plus, he still needed a date. 

Though he could’ve asked anyone—and they would no doubt say yes, he was a Malfoy after all—he didn’t feel like giving anyone the wrong impression. He was fully aware of who he was. As heir to the Malfoy family and fortune, whoever he asked would surely read too much into it, even if he didn't mean anything by it. Afterwards, he would have to be the bad guy and let the girl down. And then there was his mother, who would also read too much into it. He decided to ask the one person he wouldn’t feel sorry for letting down afterwards. Pansy Parkinson.

The day of the ball came far too quickly. It was late on Christmas day, when he was fixing his black velvet robes in front of his full-length mirror. They were perfectly adequate for a school event, not the best he owned, but suitable enough. He couldn’t wait to leave for the manor. His parents had gotten permission for him to leave the castle after the ball, so he could spend the rest of the holidays at home. 

He waited for Pansy in the common room, already bored out of his mind. She came out not long after him, wearing robes in an obnoxious shade of pink that was definitely not her colour. He could never tell her that, unless he wanted to be beheaded in his sleep by her and her friends. Plus, it would be uncouth. 

“Ready to go?” he asked, careful not to sound even remotely interested.

She batted her eyelashes and smiled what she probably thought was a flirtatious smile before clutching his arm. He really wasn’t in the mood to bear her behaviour. This whole thing was terribly annoying. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t skip the event.

‘A Malfoy must be seen in all the most important social events’ his mother had written in her latest letter. How this school ball warranted being called ‘an important social event’ was beyond him. As usual, he obeyed. 

They were making their way inside the Great Hall when they passed by the champions and their dates. Draco was stunned when he saw Krum. Standing next to the Bulgarian player was a beautiful girl he’d never seen before. Or at least he thought he hadn’t. He had to do a double take, and on that second look he recognised her. The girl with the beautiful smile was none other than Hermione Granger. And she looked absolutely stunning.

No, she doesn’t. No beautiful smile, not stunning.

She looked gorgeous.

NOT gorgeous, Draco. She’s hideous. She’s a hideous mudblood. 

The word felt wrong as soon as he thought it. Oddly, his one complaint would be that her hair looked… wrong. Far too tame. Which could only mean he was going insane. 

You are definitely going insane. Pansy’s a pureblood. She’s safe to look at. Look at her!

But he couldn’t. Not during the first dance, and despite his best attempts, not after. He told himself he was trying to find something wrong with her, but deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely true. To make things worse, Pansy had been almost suffocating in her attentions all night. Draco knew it would happen. Pansy would get the wrong impression from his invitation and start imagining herself already living in Malfoy Manor. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had already started referring to herself as Mrs Malfoy in her head. 

“Pansy,” he said, not softly but not callously, “Why do you think I invited you today?”

She bit her lip and smiled. She probably thought it looked cute, or enticing. It didn’t. 

“Obviously, we’re meant to be. And finally you realised we can have a bright future,” she answered in a self-assured tone, tilting her head to the side and batting her eyelashes again. 

I’d rather face four Hungarian Horntails without a wand.

“No…” he said, and her smile vanished instantly. He felt a bit of regret, but soldiered on, “I asked because I needed a date. Nothing more. I will not marry you. This doesn’t mean anything. If that’s what you are after you’re wasting your time.”

The change in her attitude was frighteningly quick. She dropped his arm and her previously flirtatious expression turned into a hideous scowl.

“That’s what you think right now. You’ll see.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fact.”

“Believe me, I will never change my mind about that.”

Pansy huffed and left, almost stomping her feet. Her pureblood manners were too deeply ingrained to let her do that in public. 

On his way out of the hall he overheard Weasley telling Granger off for being Krum’s date. He should’ve felt elated for their argument, and how hurt she sounded. Instead, he felt angry on her behalf. He was truly losing it. 

Well… at least now the weasel’s little fight with the-one-who-didn’t-die made more sense. Weasley, it would seem, happened to be the jealous type. Funny. Draco could distinctly remember watching the ginger dunce almost drooling for Krum at the beginning of the year. He filed the information for later and went for a walk. He could use some fresh air.

He walked around one of the marble fountains placed around the castle for the event for a while, enjoying the relaxing sound of flowing water; then along some rose bushes that reminded him of his mother’s rose garden at the manor. 

He was about to head back into the castle when he heard voices arguing. He approached quietly, trying to figure out who it was.  

“—you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” 

It surprised Draco to hear the Durmstrang headmaster sounding… afraid? Surely not… 

“It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months, I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it—”

“Then flee.” A second voice interrupted. A familiar, unmistakable voice.

Professor Snape… 

“Flee, I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

Draco felt a lump in his throat. So, something was happening. Hadn’t he noticed his own father behaving strangely? Draco blinked a few times and hurried back inside. It didn’t matter, whatever he’d heard.  He did not want to know. He did not need to know. It was none of his business.

Instead, he went straight to his dorm to get everything ready for his trip home, fully intending to forget every single word he’d heard.

If only it were so easy…

Chapter Text

True to his word, the moment he stepped into the floo to go home, Draco pushed his conflicting thoughts about his parents, his suspicions about the tournament, that incident with Granger’s confusing red blood, everything, he shoved it all to the back of his mind and embraced the holiday spirit.

It worked for a while, but despite his best efforts he couldn’t ignore the fact that something was wrong.

His parents weren’t behaving strangely anymore, that much was true. They weren’t arguing anymore. Quite the opposite in fact. They were barely speaking.  His father had been absent more often than not.

When a couple of days passed without seeing him, Draco’s curiosity got the best of him. He had just finished having lunch with his mother at the solarium, and they were now having tea sitting in comfortable silence under the faint winter sunlight that filtered through the windows.

“Is father joining us for dinner, mother?”

It was an innocent question, a way to indirectly ask what he wanted to know. He feigned indifference, even when his heart began beating rapidly in anticipation to his mother’s answer.

“He will not,” was her dry reply.

Draco was not dropping the subject though, “Where is he?”

Narcissa carefully folded her serviette and sighed before looking at her son with a blank expression. “He has gone to visit some old… associates.”

She really didn’t want her son thinking the company Lucius chose to keep could in any way be referred to as friends.

Her cold reply was the end of that discussion. Draco didn’t bring up his father’s absences again after that. He would never get a straight answer. He would have to get information some other way.

Shortly before midnight on New Year’s Eve, Draco was laying on his bed, hiding from all the fuss of the New Year’s ball his parents had organised. He was still wearing his formal robes, albeit not as pristinely as he had at the beginning of the night.

“Tippy?” he called, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mother’s personal house elf—clad in her pale pink toga-like dress—appeared with a loud crack in the middle of his room, immediately inspecting it for clutter.

“Master Draco called for Tippy?”

“Yes...”

“What is Master Draco doing hiding up here? It is not proper, the party—”

“Tippy… I don’t want to go back to the party,” he whined hoping the little elf would understand the silent request to leave his parents out of it, “Do you know where my quidditch kit is?”

Tippy rolled her eyes and huffed. “Of course Tippy knows. Though no thanks to Master Draco. Master Draco always is leaving his kits everywhere,” she said, shaking a finger at him admonishingly, “Tippy always has to look for things around the pitch. Last time Master Draco was here, Tippy found a glove by the middle goalpost, the one closer to the manor.”

Draco chuckled, remembering being so angry at being called back inside before he was done, he tossed his gloves to the ground while he was still in the air. “You’re right. Sorry Tippy.”

That seemed to calm the elf. She sighed and gave him a gentle nod.

“Master Draco’s kits is where it always is. Tippy knows how much Master Draco loves his quidditch.”

“Thank you Tippy, you’re the best.”

Tippy smiled, gave him a low bow, and disappeared.

Draco changed out of the stuffy dress robes and put on his quidditch kit. Then, careful not to meet anyone, made his way out into the pitch, pulled out his broom and, with a kick, went up in the air. He flew for a while, circling the estate. When the first fireworks burned in the sky he stopped. Draco sat on his broom, enjoying the wonderful display of colourful lights illuminating the night sky.  

Marking the beginning of a new year.

On his last day at the manor, Draco walked to the dining room earlier than usual. His hand was halfway to the doorknob when he heard his parent’s steps approaching. They seemed to be arguing again, in hushed hurried voices. Tired of being kept in the dark, he hid behind a tapestry and waited, hoping he could finally hear what had them at odds.

“I know it’s getting darker!—”

Darker?

“Keep your voice down, Narcissa!” his father warned, looking back the way they had come, probably looking for him, “Now is not the time.”

Draco remembered a piece of conversation he’d heard after the Yule Ball, “It’s been getting clearer…” Karkaroff had said.

“You know what it means, Lucius,” his mother said in a low, angry voice.

“Yes,” his father drawled, a sneer appearing on his face, “I know what it means, and you should be happy.”

“Happy?!”

“Be quiet!”

His mother flinched at the strength of his father’s grip on her wrist. Lucius leaned closer to Narcissa, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“I’m warning you,” he said, before shoving her back and walking into the dining room.

Pulling herself together, Narcissa straightened her back, rubbed her wrist, and followed her husband.

Draco’s mind was reeling. Something was changing. What did his father, Snape, and Karkaroff could possibly have in common?

The Dark Lord…

He stood there, glued to the spot, for a full five minutes before he gathered the courage to walk into the dining room.

“Draco,” his father greeted him, throwing his mother a warning look he probably thought Draco wouldn’t notice, “So good of you to join us. Come, sit. Let’s eat.”

His mother’s careful mask of indifference spoke volumes to Draco. He knew she was hiding some deep emotions behind it. Whatever was happening could not be good.

The new year brought with it one Professor Grubbly-Plank, the new professor for Care of magical creatures. He stood at the back of the group, behind Longbottom and Granger, who seemed to be discussing something.

“They are not slaves Hermione,” Longbottom said, sounding closer to impatient than Draco thought him capable, “Though… they are mistreated sometimes.”

Slaves?

Granger huffed and fired back, “Of course they are slaves—”

She was interrupted by the new professor. Longbottom visibly relaxed once the class began.

Professor Grubbly-Plank was everything Draco had expected from a teacher when he signed up for Care of magical creatures. In that first lesson they learned more than the entire past term with the daft oaf and his stupid exploding beasts. Unsurprisingly, Potter complained. Who else would care more about loyalty and “friendship” than receiving a proper education?

The second task was the most boring thing he’d had to endure in all his miserable life. Staring at the water for an hour? Who thought that was a good idea? He would’ve thought there had to be some sort of entertainment factor for the Tournament. What was the point otherwise? Who cares who wins? Draco wanted to see some action. Instead, water was all he saw.

Until the first champion emerged.

Fleur Delacour was pulled from the water in quite the dramatic fashion. She was barely out when she began yelling, beside herself. Draco had never been more grateful to speak the language, otherwise he would’ve missed the drama.

“Je dois retourner!” screamed Delacour, “Ma sœur!”

She kept kicking and screaming in quick French to be allowed back in, crying for her sister.

They put people at the bottom of the lake? That’s what was taken from them?

Sadly, the drama didn’t last long. The Beauxbatons headmistress pulled Delacour aside and managed to calm her down.

Ten minutes later, Diggory was the first to come up. One minute after the hour. The crowd at the platform helped Diggory and Cho Chang out of the lake, Madame Pomfrey immediately fussing over them.

Viktor Krum followed not long after, and with him Hermione Granger. She seemed dazed and once out of the water shivered uncontrollably. They too were tended to by the matron.

Everyone waited, worried whispers rising at the stands. Maybe Potter drowned?

It would be a sad—and pathetic—end for the one who managed to survive the killing curse.

Potter came out looking slightly blue and spluttering, pulling Weasley and a silver haired girl. Delacour’s sister it would seem, by the cries of the Beauxbatons champion.

Dumbledore knelt by the water to talk to the head merperson, or whatever their title was. After some deliberation they awarded Potter extra points for showing moral fibre.

Moral fibre my arse. Bollocks is what it is.  

Not surprising Dumbledore gave him extra points for playing the hero, he had been doing it since the chosen twat arrived at the school, even if it was due to sheer idiocy.

About a week before Easter holidays, Draco was sitting by the lake, enjoying one of the first days of nice weather. He was behind a tree, hidden from view, enjoying some time for himself, when he heard Granger prating about something to someone who, if the huffs and grunts were to go by, wasn’t particularly interested in whatever she had to say.

They stopped not far from him, and he could hear it clearly. She was talking about house elves. Whoever she was talking to was reluctant to join her misinformed endeavour and was obviously trying to shake her off.

Slaves?

Draco chuckled, got up and around the tree to face her, “Do shut up with this nonsense Granger, don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

He expected them to leave. The Ravenclaw she had been accosting did, she did not. Instead, Granger stood defiantly, reading herself for a fight. Draco had no way of knowing his words echoed something she’d been told recently by one Rita Skeeter.

“I understand perfectly, Malfoy,” she seethed.

Draco remained impassive. If she wanted to argue he would happily oblige. He would have to be careful not to use his preferred slur, it wouldn’t do to have her storm away in anger. She wasn’t one to be beat by simple insults though. She needed to be put down with well thought out arguments.

“Of course, you would think you do,” he said, looking down at her, “And you wonder why we want muggles to go back where they came from.”

“I am a witch.”

“That may be, but you clearly don’t want to be one. You want to be a muggle with magic. Your version of what you think a witch should be. You want magic to fit into your tiny, little, close-minded muggle world. It doesn’t work like that, Granger.”

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second. If he hadn’t been staring at her intently, he would’ve missed it. It was the only indication his words had any effect.

“However you see it,” she said in a low voice, “House elves are slaves. It’s slave labour!”

“Oh, is it?” he mocked, he knew he had the upper hand. How very muggle of her to jump to conclusions without knowing the intricacies of the Wizarding World. “They don’t see it that way.”

“They have been brainwashed—”

Brainwashed?

“Have they now?” his voice rose a little at that. It wouldn’t do to get angry, but she made it very difficult to remain calm, she was so infuriating… “To someone who doesn’t like to read you may appear to have been brainwashed into liking it, don’t you think? Just because you may consider their job as beneath you—”

“I don’t consider the job as beneath me, maybe you—”

“—doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy it.”

“Dobby said—”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh. It only helped making Granger angrier. If her fisted hands and flaring nostrils were any indication.

“I’m sorry, am I to understand you spoke to one elf and suddenly you understand centuries of relationship between two magical races?”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, “No. I read several—”

“So, you read a couple of books in one library and now you’re the expert in wizard/house elf relations?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She frowned, he could tell he made her doubt, and she didn’t like it.

“And you are? A pompous, bigoted—”

“D’you even know why they’re so loyal to one family? Because, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but they are extremely loyal,” he continued, interrupting her rant. If she was recurring to insults, it meant she was out of good arguments, “No? But I thought you knew everything.”

“There’s no information—”

“Just because it’s not here, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

She hesitated a second. He saw a slight blush rising to her cheeks. It filled him with glee to see her begin to realise she was losing.

“The answer is Family magic, Granger. Blood magic. Ancient stuff. Stuff Dumbledore considers far too close to the dark to be housed in this institution.” She opened her mouth, but he was way ahead of her, “And before you mention my father’s former elf; poor Dobby probably doesn’t even know himself. He is a young elf, you know?”

“The books—”

“Don’t contain every ounce of knowledge. Did you even bother asking or you just assumed you knew better?”

“I didn’t—”

Time to go for the kill.

“Of course, you didn’t! That is why you will never belong, mudblood. You don’t want to. You walk around thinking you know better and don’t bother to even try to understand our culture!”

She stared at him with a mix of anger and, dare he say, shame? He sure hoped so. Draco was about to leave when he noticed the badge she had proudly pinned to her cloak. It said, S.P.E.W. He’d heard her say it, something about…

Elfish Welfare. Merlin, she makes it almost too easy.

“Do us all a favour and stop spewing your ignorant thoughts, Granger.”

A speechless Granger… Victory.

He walked away with a huge grin on his face and a lightness in his step, feeling triumphant.

By the time Easter holidays rolled in, Draco was done with school. He wanted to get away from his dim-witted friends, from Pansy’s incessant twaddling—which she seemed to think would somehow convince him to date her—from the stupid Triwizard Tournament buzz, everything. Even if only for a few days.

So, he decided to go home.

In his annoyance with everything Hogwarts, he completely forgot what things were like at the manor. All that tension between his parents was still there, no matter how much they tried to hide it. Draco pretended not to notice but he knew.

Whenever his father was home, and both his parents were in the same room with him, they were civil. Just that. True to their pureblood upbringings, his parents had never been prone to any displays of affection, however, somewhere inside his young, childish mind, he’d believed his parents loved each other deeply. He couldn’t have been so wrong, could he?

He had so many questions. It enraged him that his parents treated him like a child, hiding the truth from him, lying. It was evident something had changed. He needed to know what was happening.

All he knew was that it had something to do with the Dark Lord.

Ever since he could remember, his father had told him of the superiority of purebloods. How they were meant to stand above all others. Lucius Malfoy spent what little time he offered his son telling him those born of muggles were beneath them, that their blood was tainted, impure, dirty. He told Draco they were inferior, less intelligent, that their magic wasn’t as powerful. That they were essentially filth to be stepped upon.

And Draco believed him.

Lucius also told him there had once been a powerful wizard who fought for their right to rid their world of those unworthy. Who wanted a world ruled by purebloods like them. A wizard who would fight to set purebloods back in their rightful place. A Dark Lord.

Lord Voldemort.

His father was devoted to the Dark Lord. For a long time, Draco thought his mother was too. Until recently.

He needed to know the truth.

To do so, he needed her side of the story. One morning, after Lucius had left for the day, he was having tea with his mother when he decided to use a different tactic.

Draco had been thinking about it for a couple of days by then. If he couldn’t find out what was happening now, he could at least get some information on what happened then. There was one topic he could ask about, an event which took place during the Dark Lord’s reign. No one could accuse him of prodding if he asked about that, and maybe he could gather some information.

After all, who could blame a child for wondering about life just before he was born?

He needed to be careful though, so he wouldn’t alert his mother of his real intentions. When he felt brave enough to ask, he took a final sip of his tea, placed the teacup on the saucer and set them on the table before addressing Narcissa.

“Mother?”

She lowered her own teacup and looked at him as she always did when he wanted to speak to her. Like she could sense he needed it and because of that she gave him her full attention.

“Yes, dear?”

Draco had debated how it would be best to broach the subject, a direct approach seemed the best course of action.

“Mother, what is it like to have a sibling?”

He could see his mother tense up at the question. They rarely spoke of his aunts; he knew he had two. One had been disowned; thought he didn’t know the circumstances. The other was in Azkaban. Hardly a cheerful topic of conversation but he really didn’t see any other way.

When his mother spoke again, her tone was wary, “Why do you ask?”

“Well, a few days before the holidays, a Hufflepuff jumped onto the table and yelled for everyone to hear that he was about to be a brother—”

It wasn’t a complete lie, a Hufflepuff did receive a letter telling him he was going to be an older brother, but he didn’t jump or yell, Draco overheard him telling his mates as he was leaving the Great Hall.

It works better this way.

“—it was the most ridiculous, embarrassing spectacle. But it got me thinking…” Draco trailed off, schooling his expression to one of mild curiosity instead of his blooming anxiety.

“Oh?”

He shrugged before continuing. “Well… he looked quite… happy.”

That was completely true. The Hufflepuff alum looked over the moon as he told his friends about the new member of his family. And it did get Draco thinking.

Narcissa Malfoy stared at her only child as a whirlwind of memories flooded her mind. She had known it was possible her son would one day ask about it but had hoped it wouldn’t happen. Foolish of her, considering Draco’s seemingly unending curiosity.

Draco, who was watching his mother closely, couldn’t tell if what he saw on her face was grief or guilt. Either way he felt sorry for questioning her about it. He knew his parents had struggled to have him, which is why his mother used to call him her little miracle, but he’d never asked the details before.

Narcissa sighed, placed her cup carefully on the saucer and looked into her son’s eyes, “I suppose you’re old enough to know…”

“Your father and I… we had no trouble… conceiving.”

Shit… I didn’t think this through…

His displeasure at the implication vanished when he saw her whole demeanour change. She radiated grief.

“I had problems during my pregnancies—”

Pregnancies? Plural?

“—they never went too far… I lost—” It was slight, but it was there, a faint crack in her voice. She cleared her throat delicately and continued, “I lost faith.”

It was a topic rarely discussed among purebloods, what his mother had just shared. Fertility was a matter of pride for a pureblood wife. Failing to produce an heir brought shame to her family. For his mother to agree to talk about it with him meant she trusted him.

“Did you ever know why?”

Pregnancies? Plural?

Her face darkened. Her lips pressed in a tight line and her jaw twitched. She knew why. And she would not tell him. 

“Environmental circumstances,” she said, her voice dripping venom, “That was the healer’s explanation.”

Environmental circumstances? What the fuck does that mean?

She looked out the window, lost in thought. Draco had almost considered their conversation as finished when his mother spoke again. Her tone missing all her previous anger.

“When I got pregnant of you, my dear, I had given up hope. I didn’t expect it to succeed. But you, my darling dragon, you persevered. You were, and you still are, my perfect miracle.”

Draco didn’t trust his voice anymore, so he only nodded. He didn’t feel like asking more questions. His curiosity about the war could wait. He didn’t need to know anything else. What could the healer possibly mean by environmental circumstances other than whatever was going on at home? All those pregnancies must’ve happened during the war. Could his own father, and his unswerving loyalty to the Dark Lord be the cause for his mother’s failed pregnancies? Of her grief? And if so, why did he continue to stand by his side? Didn’t his father always say the Dark Lord always saw for pureblood’s best interests?

Until now the Dark Lord had been only a legend to Draco. A fearsome wizard who could bring a utopic world for them, according to his father’s tales. Stuff of dreams.

Now he wondered if it was more likely the wizard was stuff of nightmares.

Draco hated feeling unsettled. Whenever he dwelled on his conflicting thoughts it always ended in a nasty headache. So, he ignored them.

His life returned to almost normal. After his little… discussion with Granger, he barely saw the trio outside of classes and he could tell she was avoiding him at all costs. That meant his only amusement came from slipping information to Rita Skeeter and waiting to see the aftermath.

It was funny until Granger got that envelope covered with undiluted bubotuber pus. She hadn’t actually done anything to him. Her mere existence was not enough anymore for him to justify his actions. Besides, whenever he felt guilty about something regarding her his mind would fixate on the matter of her blood… that one crimson drop which had looked so much like his own he had refused to think about. He would not think about that. He refused.

On his 15^th birthday he received the usual care package from home. A huge box of sweets and baked goods from the elves, as well as a few things from his friends. His mother wrote in her letter that another package awaited him at home. Draco suspected it was a new broom. He had mentioned the new firebolt to his mother and suspected she had gotten the message and got it for him. He couldn’t wait to fly it.

The end-of-year workload seemed lessened by the promise of a wonderful summer. He was so excited he even joined the general frenzy that had taken over the students before the third task and ignored the rumours that someone had been murdered inside the castle.

Ridiculous gossip. Someone murdered inside Hogwarts? Impossible.

Before he knew it, it was time for the third task. This time they had thought of the spectators. They turned the Quidditch pitch into a giant maze. Though it pained him to see the pitch so disrespected, he was sure it would be back to its normal state for the beginning of the next term. For all her faults, McGonagall loved Quidditch, and so did Flitwick, they would never jeopardise the pitch.

Diggory and Potter were the first ones allowed into the maze, as they were tied in first place. Next was Krum. Delacour was last.

Draco had asked his mother to send his omnioculars precisely for this. He could see the fire from those blasted skrewts the oaf had them caring for during the previous term. Once he even thought he saw the faint light of a patronus, but he could have been wrong. It was gone too quickly to know for sure. The hedges were so high it made it slightly difficult to see. Still, it was far more exciting than the second task.

The one thing they could all see clearly was the Triwizard cup sitting proudly at the centre.

The red sparks came sooner than he expected. He wondered if it was scarface, finally out of his depth. He was disappointed when he saw Fleur Delacour escorted out, looking oddly frightened. Bagman announced her exit it for the crowd in his awkward overly cheerful way.

Potter was still in the game.

The second set of sparks came, and an evidently confused Krum was led to the stands. Viktor Krum started arguing with Karkaroff almost as soon as he was out of the maze. His brow furrowed, he was speaking fast and gesticulating a lot, shaking his head and turning to the maze. He seemed angry.

I would be too if I was an international Quidditch star bested by a fourteen-year-old.

As he watched Krum, Draco’s eyes fell on Moody. Always so stoic, the man was now waiting by the side almost vibrating with… something. Was he worried? Excited?  Draco had never seen him that anxious. As he stared at the ex-auror he saw him drink from that flask and move to the side, closer to the entrance to the maze. Draco pulled his omnioculars again to check the maze, hoping to catch a glimpse of the remaining participants.

A collective gasp and a wave of whispers filled the air. When he looked at the centre of the maze—expecting to see Diggory holding the cup—he found it empty. The cup had disappeared. And if people all around him were to be believed, so had Diggory and Potter.

It seemed like an eternity went by before Potter and Diggory appeared again. Right where they started. Precisely at the entrance of the maze, surrounded by friends and family. Draco trained his omnioculars on them to see what was happening. They were both sprawled on the grass. The cup had fallen a few metres away from them. He was about to look away when he noticed Diggory wasn’t moving. Not just not moving, he was unnaturally still. Draco readjusted the omnioculars quickly, focusing on Diggory’s face… and felt ill.

Cedric Diggory was dead.

He looked again at the people around. Potter was sobbing and shaking his head, whispering something and refusing to leave Diggory’s side.

It all happened so fast after that. Dumbledore started giving orders. Diggory’s mother ran to the body on the grass and let out a cry that everyone present could hear despite the noise. A cry that would probably haunt his dreams for a while. It was so full of sorrow and pain. Unlike anything he had ever heard.

Crabbe said something about Diggory Draco could vaguely recognise as disrespectful but wasn’t paying much attention. Some of his housemates laughed, Pansy and Goyle included. Draco couldn’t bring himself to join them. Dread was flooding his senses.

They were ushered to the common room. Ordered to stay inside. Rumours were beginning to make their way among the students.

The following morning at breakfast Dumbledore asked them to leave Potter alone, to not ask him about the events of the previous night. Those who had read the latest story Rita Skeeter had written about the boy, one Draco himself had contributed to, were already formulating their own crazy theories.

Over the next few days, they got the results of their end-of-year exams. He did as well as expected. Second of his year, again, behind her. He knew what awaited him at the manor when his father got his hands on his results. Another long speech on how disgraceful it was for a Malfoy to come second to a mudblood, no matter how close their grades were. He almost hated his father as much as Granger during those speeches.

For a whole week the students were given free reign of imagination as to what had happened to Potter and Diggory inside that maze.

It wasn’t until the end-of-term feast that they learnt the truth.

As he walked into the Great Hall, he noticed there were black drapes instead of the usual wining house decorations. A mark of respect for Diggory. It was surreal that he was gone. That he had died while at Hogwarts.

At the staff table was Alastor Moody, though he looked vastly different. Sickly. Gaunt and twitchy; he didn’t seem like the man he’d seen over the year. Karkaroff was nowhere to be found and Draco had the sinking feeling the headmaster had perhaps followed Snape’s advice.

When Dumbledore stood up, the room fell silent.

“The end of another year,” he said, looking around at the students, “There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight, but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person—”

Draco looked over at Hufflepuff table and saw a lot of them were crying.

“—who should be sitting here enjoying the feast with us. I would like you all, please to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory.”

Everyone did, even the Slytherins, although not without some complaints from Crabbe and Pansy. No one dared contradict such a solemn moment. Even if there were some displeased at having to do the bare minimum out of respect for their fallen schoolmate.

Dumbledore watched as the students sat again and continued.

“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities which distinguish Hufflepuff house, he was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.”

Draco could feel his heart thundering inside his chest, a lump rising in his throat. This was the event he had been dreading all year. That something that was wrong. What his father, Snape and Karkaroff had discussed…

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

Self-preservation was what kept Draco from emitting any sound. If anyone in this table sees you hesitate…

“The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are.”

Young like Diggory… that didn’t prevent him from being killed…

“It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”

He privately agreed with that sentiment, but remained impassive. Diggory was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. Draco stopped listening to the headmaster, his mind reeling.

The Dark Lord had killed Cedric Diggory. Hogwarts champion extraordinaire.

The Dark Lord, self-proclaimed protector of purebloods, had killed Diggory, a young pureblood, simply for getting in the way. For being in the wrong place. Lord Voldemort had killed a student.

The headmaster’s words pierced through his thoughts, forcing him to listen once more.

“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.”

Draco could only hope one day he would know, without a shadow of a doubt, what the right thing was.

No matter how much Lucius claimed the Dark Lord would always see for purebloods’ best interests he couldn’t help but wonder. He couldn’t ignore what had happened to Cedric Diggory. What if he ever found himself in the wrong place too?

Surely if it came to it, his father would protect him, right?

Are you sure, Draco?

Chapter Text

An oppressive silence reigned inside Malfoy manor.

The instant he stepped into his ancestral home any hope of a normal summer was gone. Much to his surprise, to an unnerving degree, the whole atmosphere was also rather… peaceful.

Alas, it was the kind of peace that could not last long. An illusion which only lasted a couple of days before reality came crashing down on him.

One morning during his first week back, he was still rubbing sleep off his eyes when there was a loud pop in the middle of his room. He blinked a few times before recognising Tippy, who was carrying a tray with his breakfast. That alone wasn’t odd, even if he hadn’t asked to have breakfast in his room. He only had to look at Tippy once to know something was very wrong.

The usually pristinely clothed elf was wearing what looked like an ancient pillowcase. It made her look eerily like Dobby. Except for her pale-blue eyes. The dishes rattled as Tippy set the tray over the coffee table.

“Master Draco,” she said, trying to hide the slight tremor of her hands by toying with the hem of her garment.

“Tippy, what are you—”

“Mistress has asked Tippy to tell young Master he is to stay in his room today,” she interrupted, avoiding his gaze.

In all his life, Draco had never seen Tippy looking scared. Now, she was terrified.

“Tippy, what—”

“Master Draco should not ask Tippy questions she cannot answer,” she interrupted again, her voice barely above a whisper, “Master Draco should listen and stay in his room.”

The plea in her eyes was unsettling, as were the tears that began forming in them. Draco didn’t protest, he nodded. Tippy watched him a couple of seconds, bowed and disappeared.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the change in the manor. Despite what Granger and her idiot friends might think, elves were not routinely mistreated in Narcissa Malfoy’s home. As with much else, the only one who refused to abide by that rule was Lucius Malfoy.

Though he respected his mother’s request that he stay in his suite, he had no intention of honouring it. What he could do was avoid being seen outside his bedroom.

He knew the manor like the back of his hand, years of running around looking into every inch of the place gave him an advantage. He knew long forgotten secret passageways, corridors for the elves, places his father would’ve never wanted to explore, even in his youth, deeming such an activity as beneath him.

Draco now hoped such knowledge would come in handy. He wolfed down his breakfast, and changed out of his pyjamas. Wearing only socks for footwear for good measure, he peered outside, making sure the hall was empty before stepping out.

Instead of walking left as he usually would to head to the main entrance or the dining room, he turned right, as if heading to his parents’ room. Something he hadn’t done since he was four, when his father had made it abundantly clear he was no longer welcome there. That he was old enough to be alone.

He stopped by the large portrait of Septimus Malfoy, a few feet from the door to his parents’ room.  Behind a narrow tapestry depicting a—probably false—account of some heroic action by Septimus, was a small wooden door. It led to a passage used only by the elves of the house, part of a magically concealed network of passageways which connected the entire building. It had been created by one of his ancestors, who charmed the entire building to prevent elves from apparating within, claiming it disturbed his peace to have them popping in and out of rooms. As if any wizard would ever notice a—never mind. That was a far too Granger-ish train of thought. He looked around, making sure no portraits were watching, and slipped behind the thick fabric.

Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Draco waited a few beats, during which he expected someone to reach behind the tapestry and drag him out. When nothing happened, he crouched, careful not to move the fabric, and opened the door. He was growing too big for it, thankfully he was still able to go through. Even if he had to crawl to do so.

He followed the passage, going up and down as necessary, listening for any suspicious sound. So far only his breathing could be heard.

Until he approached the drawing room.

Several angry voices carried along the secret path. They grew louder as he got closer to a vent. He’d seen it many times before. It sat above a portrait of his grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, that towered over the drawing room.

Draco looked through the slits and caught a glimpse of his parents, standing underneath him right in front of his grandfather’s portrait. Partially obscured by shadows, a short trembling figure stood facing them, so short Draco feared it could be a child.

Someone pushed the little creature. A man stumbled forward.

Or something resembling a man.

His filthy greyish skin and sunken eyes gave him a disgustingly sickly look. His head was covered with thin yellowish hair, except for a bald patch on top. Draco’s attention focused on the man’s shiny silver right hand.

“Go on. Speak, Pettigrew,” ordered a familiar voice from the shadows, startling the sickly man.

Pettigrew.

Draco crouched even lower as he realised if the man were to look up, he might be able to see him.

“Now, now, Aldous, let poor Peter settle first. We don’t want to appear as bad hosts,” said Lucius, coldly.

Aldous?... Mr. Crabbe?

Pettigrew straightened himself out, and looked at everyone around him before speaking. “The Dark Lord—”

An eerie laugh came from the shadows, interrupting Pettigrew, silencing him at once.

The tall, imposing Mr. Thaddeus Nott walked out of the shadows. It had been years since Draco had seen the man. Around the time he drifted apart from Theo.

“Do you honestly think the Dark Lord cares what happens to you Peter?” Mr Nott said as he circled Pettigrew, “Useless as you are?”

The man sat on the sofa opposite Narcissa and snapped his fingers. Tippy appeared next to him instantly. She was trembling from head to toe and kept her eyes on the ground, making her look impossibly small.

“Tea,” Mr Nott spat without sparing the little elf a look.

It was easy to see the resemblance with Theo. Same dark wavy hair, both tall and slim, same upturned nose and thin lips. Mr Nott was broader though, as you only get with age.

It was in their eyes that they were different.

Where Theo’s forest green eyes held the kindness of his mother within, Mr Nott’s amber ones were cold and cruel.

Tippy reappeared with a tray, which rattled even more than the one from earlier. Draco prayed she didn’t spill anything.

“Stop shaking, elf!”

Tippy flinched, bowed low, and disappeared. Though he could only see the back of her hear head, Draco thought he saw his mother tense for a microsecond. Tippy was her personal elf, and she never let anyone mistreat her. Narcissa recovered immediately, and turned instead to the pitiful man in the middle of the room.

“Peter,” she said, not unkindly, “You know we mean no harm. We just need some information from you. That’s all.”

Pettigrew seemed to relax at her words. “What do you want to know?” he asked, only addressing Narcissa.

“How did Black escape?” Lucius asked, making the small man flinch.

“I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Lucius asked as he took a few steps towards Pettigrew, who cowered and tried to flee only to be held by Mr Crabbe. “How can that be? He’s your best friend!”

“He is not!”

“Are you sure?” Mr Crabbe asked, dragging him by the collar to the centre of the room, “I remember you were quite inseparable in school. I think you know, you just don’t want to tell us.”

“Peter, Peter… you’re not protecting your friend, are you?” Mr Nott asked in mocking tone, before reaching for a biscuit from the tray.

“Perhaps he could use some incentive,” said Mr Crabbe, finally stepping from the shadows.

Contrary to Theo, Crabbe favoured his mother except in his eyes.

Vincent Crabbe had the same angry and hateful eyes as his father.

“I don’t know! I—I swear!”

“Don’t worry, l know how we can help refresh your memory.” Lucius said calmly, running his fingers along the silver snake of his walking stick. The harsh icy tone from Lucius made Draco glad he could not see his face. Though he had often seen him be less than friendly towards others, this was something else. Someone else.

In one swift movement, Lucius unsheathed his wand and pointed at Pettigrew.

“Crucio!”

Draco was shocked to see how his mother remained impassive. Not even the slightest flinch at seeing her husband use an unforgivable curse. Draco leaned back, away from the vent.

The screams were horrifying.

He had never seen anyone subjected to that curse. He knew what it was, theoretically. It was a very different thing to witness its effects on a human being. Pettigrew’s screams seemed to go on forever, until, just as suddenly as they had started, they stopped.

Only footsteps could be heard. Draco peered through the slits again and saw Pettigrew twitching on the floor, Mr Crabbe walking around him, like a vicious animal circling its prey.

“What say you, Pettigrew?” he asked, crouching by the injured man’s head, “Do you remember now?”

“Let him breathe,” Narcissa ordered, her voice unnaturally calm.

“I don’t know Narcissa, I think he needs another dose,” Mr Nott said with a laugh, then took a long swig of his tea.

Still trembling, Pettigrew coughed, “The Dark Lord will—”

This time it was his father’s laugh that interrupted Pettigrew. The unnatural sound sent a chill down Draco’s spine.

“Peter…” Lucius said, feigning pity, “Who do you think ordered us to ask you?”

The slight defiance on Pettigrew’s face was replaced by a look of absolute terror. Unconsciously, his left hand moved to stroke his silver right.

“How, Peter?” Lucius asked, “How did Black do it?”

“I don’t—”

“Crucio!”

Draco froze, unable to look away from the writhing Peter. He tried with all his might to tune out the screams, but they pierced his senses and burrowed into his mind making sure he would never forget the sound. The whole scene was making him nauseous. They stopped once more, and a sob escaped the wretched man.

“I swear! I don’t know, I swear!” Peter cried with a hoarse voice.

“Peter… you’re disappointing me,” replied Mr Nott before taking another sip from his tea.

It shouldn’t be like this. Draco shouldn’t be feeling sorry for the man. He should be strong like his father. He’d spent weeks hearing Crabbe brag about how amazing it had been seeing Moody torture spiders in class. Then, Draco had been jealous and thought he couldn’t wait to see the effects on an actual person. Now, Draco wished he’d never seen it. He wanted to leave. He should leave. He had no idea what his father would do if he found him spying.

“Please…” Pettigrew begged.

Lucius took a deep breath, and began pacing. He was getting impatient.

“How has he escaped capture then? He’s been a ghost ever since he escaped!” he seethed, and pointed his wand at Pettigrew, making him wince.

“He’s a dog!”

Both Mr Crabbe and Mr Nott roared with laughter. Lucius only narrowed his eyes.

“A dog?”

“An animagus.”

“An animagus?”

Draco had heard that tone often enough. Lucius was disappointed. Whatever answer he expected, it wasn’t that.

“A black dog, yes.”

“A black dog...” Lucius repeated exchanging a look with his wife, then turned to Pettigrew again, “That’s good, Peter. Very good.”

The pleased look on Pettigrew’s face disgusted Draco even more than his torture had. Whatever pity he’d felt before was gone in that instant. His father had just tortured the man and yet, at one word of praise, Pettigrew beamed with a kind of pitiful pride that made Draco cringe.

“Take him away Goyle,” Lucius ordered.

Goyle?

Edward Goyle stepped forward. He had been watching silently from a corner shrouded in shadows. Without a word, he grabbed Pettigrew from the collar of his robes and dragged him out of the room. As he was being pulled, the sleeve of his left arm rode up exposing the tattooed skin on his forearm.

Peter Pettigrew was a Death Eater. Just like them. And yet… they tortured him anyway. One of their own.

“A black dog. That doesn’t help, Lucius!” Mr Nott said.

“We will find another way,” Lucius replied calmly, turning to Abraxas’s portrait.

Draco jumped back, feeling his stomach leap to his throat. His heart began hammering inside his chest. He couldn’t be sure his father hadn’t seen him. He scrambled to leave but stopped when he heard his mother’s words.

“We can always wait until we have the dementors on our side.”

Dementors? Surely not…

“I’m working on that, but it will take some time,” said Mr Crabbe.

“Yes… a pity you can’t work a little faster,” Mr Nott quipped.

“Unfortunately,” Lucius said, before Mr Crabbe could retort, “Right now that’s the only feasible plan we have.”

Draco crawled away as fast as he could. He didn’t want to hear anything else.

What could his parents possibly want to do with Dementors?

July ended and August brought with it the most perfect summer weather. Exhausted, Draco rubbed his eyes and placed the book he’d been reading, 'Ancient Magicks and Protection', over his bedside table.

Piles of books he’d pulled from the library over the past two weeks of relative confinement lay all over his room. Tomes on both defensive and offensive magic—none of which he’d ever seen at Hogwarts—were scattered all over the suite, along with enough parchment covered in his handwriting to paper his walls.

Anything to keep his mind off the fact that his home had slowly been taken over by Death Eaters.

He planned to discuss his notes with Professor Snape when he returned to Hogwarts. When it came to D.A.D.A, self-study had always been necessary. He doubted Dumbledore would suddenly break his apparent tradition of hiring useless Defence teachers.

Except maybe the werewolf. He was competent enough. Not that Draco would ever admit it to anyone.  His only problem with the man was that he was too… careful. Cautious. Not imaginative enough. Though publicly he agreed with his parents that such a creature should not be allowed to teach at Hogwarts, privately he thought the man’s werewolf status made him more interesting than abhorrent.

If handled properly.

While he no longer had a reason to drop the class, he could still ask Professor Snape for guidance regarding his notes. He’d always been good at studying on his own. Not that anyone would ever notice, with that annoying mudblood hogging all the attention.

His mood soured instantly at the thought of Hermione Granger, so much so, he only grunted in acknowledgement when a small voice on the other side of his door summoned him for dinner.

For some reason, the elves had been keeping their distance from him. The state of his room enough evidence of how dire the problem was. After changing out of the pyjamas he’d been wearing all day, he headed downstairs.

He relaxed when he only saw his parents at the table. Over the past few days, they’d always had at least one Death Eater as a guest for dinner.

As was usual whenever it was just them, dinner was spent mostly in silence. Draco avoided making eye contact with either of his parents. Though he didn’t blame his mother for the situation, the prolonged confinement to his room was making him resentful either way.

After finishing his main course and just before calling for pudding, Lucius cleared his throat and set down his fork.

“I have some excellent news,” he said, wiping the corner of his mouth.

Draco looked to his mother first, lately he’d taken to using her expressions to know the gravity of any situation. She wasn’t looking at him though, and seemed just as shocked as he was. Which only spelled trouble.

“In the coming days, the Dark Lord will be gracing us with his presence.”

Narcisa’s already pale skin turned ghostly white, her mouth set in a straight line, and he even noticed the slight change in her breathing.

“Lucius?” she asked, barely managing to hide the fear in her voice.

“I expect him to find our home most… accommodating,” Lucius continued, ignoring his wife, “It would be an honour if he were to choose Malfoy Manor as his base of operations. Which is why I want you both in your best behaviour.”

There was no denying the threat in his father’s voice. Though he was curious about Lord Voldemort, one look at his mother’s reaction made him uneasy about the idea. For Narcissa Malfoy to be afraid, it meant the danger was grave indeed.

“Son,” Lucius said, turning his focus to Draco, “I have spoken to the Dark Lord about you, and he has expressed a keen interest.”

He leaned forward in a way Draco assumed was meant as conspiratorially friendly but instead felt menacing.

“If we play our cards right you could soon join his ranks, Draco,” Lucius continued, a malevolent smile marring his features, clearly expecting the same kind of sick excitement from his heir.

Join his ranks? As in… become a Death Eater?

Draco had to forced himself to keep his eyes on his father. All he wanted was to look to his mother for guidance. He didn’t know what to say or how to react. The memory of Pettigrew’s torture started flashing behind his eyes.

But I’m fifteen…

“I—”

“Lucius, my love, surely the Dark Lord would want to wait until Draco is finished with his studies.”

“The Dark Lord started his mission while still at Hogwarts. It would be a great honour if he were to accept Draco despite him being so young.”

“Is that what the Dark Lord wants? Or what you want?”

Narcissa had an unreadable expression as she stared into her husband’s eyes. Lucius tried to take his wife’s hand, but she snatched it away.

“We want what the Dark Lord wants. Remember that Cissa.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It was remarkable the level of defiance in his mother’s eyes. He’d never seen her stand up to his father like that.

“Draco, go to your room,” she ordered. 

“Cissa…”

Draco hesitated a moment, not wanting to unleash his father’s wrath upon them. Although in that moment, he feared his mother a lot more.

“Now, Draco!”

Not needing to be asked a second time he rushed out of the room. He lingered by the door for a moment, trying to listen in his parents’ conversation. No sound left the room.

Draco went back upstairs. To his cage. Because that’s what it was. He felt like a prisoner in his own home. Left alone with nothing but his thoughts and ideas.

That last conversation only made him feel more trapped than ever.

As he walked along the corridor that led to his room, he stared at the unblemished skin of his left forearm and wondered how long until it was spoiled by a black skull and snake.

The manor was dying.

There was no other way to explain it. An unnatural darkness had fallen over it, consuming every ounce of warmth that had once filled its halls—which wasn’t much to begin with if he was being honest—leaving a cold and gloomy place in its wake. In the blink of an eye, his home was gone.

He checked his robes again. His father’s insistence on an immaculate appearance felt shallow when he considered the rags some Death Eaters wore.

Apparently, for a Malfoy, a meeting with the Dark Lord required him to look his best.

In the days after Draco learnt of his imminent audience with Lord Voldemort, things got worse between his parents. Evidently, his mother disagreed with his father’s plans for his future. Draco also disagreed but, as usual, it was unlikely he’d have anything to say in the matter.

His mother was waiting for him a few steps before the drawing room’s entrance. She examined him before taking his hand and squeezing it gently. Draco refused to be emotional, even though her actions felt too much like a goodbye.

Then she hugged him, something she rarely did, and whispered in his ear.

“Clear your mind, my darling dragon.”

She leaned away from him and looked to the men behind his back. No doubt making sure they didn’t hear her advice. Narcissa looked into his eyes, silently asking if he understood. Draco gave an almost imperceptible nod and she relaxed.

“Good lord, you’re not sending the lad to battle, Narcissa. You’ll see him in a bit,” said Mr Crabbe impatiently, “Off you go Draco. Don’t want to keep the Dark Lord waiting.”

As he was pushed towards the door, Draco felt like a doomed man.

He opened the door, as he’d done countless times before. This time, however, the room somehow felt hostile. Like it didn’t belong.

“You’re late,” Lucius growled, closing the door behind him.

So strange was the air in the room, Draco couldn’t help but look around. The portraits that up until a couple of weeks ago had graced the walls of the manor’s drawing room were gone. The curtains his mother always kept open had been drawn shut, plunging half the room in almost total darkness.

“Young Draco,” came a cold hissing voice from the shadows, “Welcome.”

Welcome? This is my house…

He was startled by an unexpected sensation. Something grazing his mind. Probing. Searching. Remembering his mother’s words, he quickly focused on anything else but his initial reactions. The unexpected presence in his mind vanished suddenly.

“Come closer Draco, don’t be afraid.”

Stepping forward, he unconsciously braced himself for punishment. Dread started overwhelming his senses the closer he got to the source of the voice. It took all his strength to keep his mind blank.

His father walked close behind. Once they reached the middle of the room, where not long-ago Peter Pettigrew had been tortured, Lucius placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed down. Despite his every instinct rebelling against it, he knelt.

Draco took a deep, calming breath as steps drew closer. When he could bear it no longer, he looked up.

Just as Lord Voldemort emerged from the shadows.

Whatever the Dark Lord became when he came back from death, he was no longer human. His skin was almost translucent, crisscrossed by blueish veins all over. He no longer had a nose, only slits for nostrils. A grotesque cross between man and snake. But the most frightening thing about him were his eyes. A deep blood-red.

Evil.

“Get up, Draco.”

At once he was on his feet. Voldemort looked him up and down before offering his hand.

Still fighting his instincts, Draco looked down, and his focus faltered. The long and sharp fingernails had a blueish hue that made Voldemort’s hand look more dead than alive. Fear began to seep into the forefront of his mind. He hesitated just a second before taking the Dark wizard’s cold hand.

“I have great plans for you, young Malfoy.”

Fighting the nausea rising inside him when the intrusion returned, Draco summoned the feeling of elation that took over whenever he caught a snitch and, unwittingly, managed to convince the dark wizard of enthusiastic loyalty.

“My Lord, our family would be honoured—”

“Silence!”

“Yes, my Lord. My apologies,” Lucius said, bowing low, and stepping back.

Dumbfounded, Draco couldn’t help the memory that surfaced.

Once, when he was about four or five years old, he had been playing outside, in the main garden, with Tolby, one of the elves. He accidentally hit the little elf, and Draco apologised profusely. Until his father stopped him. Lucius ordered the elf to get back to work and pulled Draco into the house.

To this day, he could still hear his father’s voice, clear as day: “A Malfoy apologises to no one.”

“Do you have any objections to our stay in the manor, young Draco?”

Draco flinched, coming back to the present. He looked up, and met the Dark Lord’s gaze. He immediately regretted it.

“N—No my Lord. It’s an honour,” he said, looking away. If a person’s eyes were truly a window to their soul, he was sure the creature standing in front of him didn’t have one.

Feeling the dark wizard’s eyes on him, Draco thought of flying. Of the gentle caress of the wind. Of being completely free. Happy.

“Good,” Voldemort said, still scrutinising the young heir, “Because we might be here a while... This place, it… suits our purposes.”

As if on cue, screams echoed from the hallway that led to the cellar.

A wicked grin crossed Lord Voldemort’s face, which widened as the sounds of pain and despair grew louder.

“The boy has potential, Lucius, well done.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see the pathetic look of satisfaction on his father’s face. It reminded him of Pettigrew.

“Young Draco, I’m sure I can trust you will answer my call should I require your services.”

No.

“Of course, my Lord.”

The ease with which he agreed, the effortless bow. It made him sick. But what choice did he have?

Satisfied with the answer, Voldemort walked away. Neither Malfoy dared move until the door closed behind the Dark Lord, leaving them alone.

“You did well, son,” said Lucius.

It had been a long time since he’d seen a look of genuine pride on his father’s face. It almost made him forget what he’d witnessed just seconds ago.

“You will see,” Lucius continued “The dark Lord is sympathetic to our cause. Soon we will regain our rightful place in society.”

Draco stared at his father, careful to keep his face neutral. Rightful place? Where? As that creature’s servants?

For the first time in his life, he could see the man he’d revered for so long and would’ve done just about anything to please, as the deeply flawed delusional man he’d become.

Without another word, he left.

By the time he reached his room, Draco was struggling to remain calm. He stood by the door, his hands shaking slightly, and looked around. The mess was gone, everything was neatly arranged.

It was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

Blood was pounding in his ears. With one swing he knocked over the books the elves had piled over his desk. It wasn’t enough. He tore the last parchment he’d worked on in half, and threw the rest of his carefully rolled notes across the room.

He didn’t stop until the room looked worse than it was before that meeting.

The burst of anger drained him, so he sat on his bed and stared at the chaos. Draco felt a wave of unbearable exhaustion wash over him, he laid back and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths until his heart slowed to a normal pace.

Sleep eluded him. Instead, an unfamiliar numbness took hold. He stared at the constellations that adorned the ceiling for what felt like hours.

Draco didn’t know what to think.

The tales he’d heard throughout his life, of a man who believed magic should be celebrated and not hidden, that it belonged only those worthy. To pureblood wizards. A man who saw the injustice of having to hide from muggles, and worked tirelessly to give wizards the place they deserved in the world.

It was hard to reconcile those stories with the creature he’d met.

How could he believe the Dark Lord was a champion for pureblood wizards, when he’d disposed of Cedric Diggory so easily. When his own mother lived in a state of perpetual fear since she heard of his return, however much she tried to hide it.

When his father had been reduced to a pathetic follower, no better than that gormless Peter Pettigrew.

Was that the future his father wanted for them?

For him?

It felt like he had been offered practically as tribute to this man. Like he was some meaningless disposable soldier, there to serve until he was no longer useful.

Where was that Malfoy superiority his father talked about all the time?

Being a Malfoy was supposed to be an honour. Something to be proud of. To boast about. Being a Malfoy meant you were better than anyone else. Or so his father had said. Clearly, Lucius Malfoy thought himself as beneath Lord Voldemort. Was it just mindless fanaticism?

Or was it out of fear?

Draco had only been in the Dark Lord’s presence once, and he could already attest to how terrifying that experience was. It wasn’t attitude or demeanour, it was something elemental. Something beyond the physical. The very air around Lord Voldemort felt… corrupted. Tainted. Unnatural.

The man who killed Cedric Diggory. A pureblood. Even if Diggory’s parents were traitors. Was the death of their sole heir fair punishment for falling out of line? They weren’t even close to being as problematic as the Weasleys. If the Dark Lord decided to exterminate them then, good riddance. But pureblood families were scarce. It made no sense to eliminate those who could be redeemed.

Clearly being pure wasn’t enough to the Dark Lord.

All his life he’d been told family was the most important thing, that being a Malfoy should always come first. What did that mean exactly? What if his father’s actions threatened the Malfoy line? What then? Did he owe loyalty to the family name or to his father?

And what about his mother?

Draco could feel the beginning of a headache and some nausea rising. It was all too much. He didn’t want to think about it. It was too confusing. All he wanted to do was wait for his Hogwarts book list, and worry about quidditch. Nothing more.

However, there was one thought he couldn’t ignore. One thing he was certain of.

Draco Malfoy would never be anybody’s servant.

He refused to be.

Chapter Text

The day his Hogwarts book list arrived—the very last day of the holidays—a huge weight lifted off Draco’s chest. Finally feeling like he could breathe again, he stared at the familiar envelope with a fondness he’d never experienced before.

The Dark Lord had visited the manor twice after their meeting. Draco had to endure his presence just once, and only for a few seconds. It had been enough to be certain he preferred to be as far away from that creature as possible. Which was why he was unusually eager to return to Hogwarts.

The ancient castle was the perfect place to forget his troubles—or at least pretend to forget—and continue life as it had always been. There, things would go on as before. If not better. He was sure of it. Mainly because of what awaited Harry Potter.

The new pariah.

Why? Because Potter and the old headmaster kept insisting Voldemort had returned. Which was true, of course, as Draco well knew; however, the Ministry insisted all was well and good. It was no surprise who the people chose to believe.

Idiots.

The Ministry had done a terrific job painting Potter and Dumbledore as insane paranoid types, hungry for attention and power. It was too good.

Though he knew they weren’t lying, Draco would never even think of contradicting the Ministry’s official position on the subject, there was a very good chance he might be killed for treason if he blabbed about the Dark Lord’s return. He had no false hope of survival if he committed such an indiscretion.

All he had to do was pretend everything was just as it had always been. Perhaps, if he did, everything would be.

“Are you going to open it, Draco?” his mother asked, a teasing grin adorning her beautiful face. She had confused his distraction with nervousness. It was the letter for his fifth year after all. The year prefects were chosen.

Draco looked at his mother. The amused grin and shining blue eyes had become a rare sight, little moments of normalcy were scarce lately. Seeing her relaxed like that pulled a smile from him.

He took the sharp ivory letter opener the elves had placed beside the envelope and slashed it open. A silver object slid from it, bounced off his empty plate, and stopped with a heavy thud over the dining table.

Shining under the crystal chandelier, a large silver P set over the Slytherin crest stared at him. New and official looking, that small badge meant more to Draco than he would care to admit. It wasn’t only the extra power bestowed upon him to wield over the rest of his schoolmates. It was something else. A weird sense of achievement…

“Draco!” beamed Narcissa, “Congratulations, my darling dragon.”

“Well done, Draco,” Lucius said, face neutral, his mind evidently somewhere else, “You are making your family proud.”

Draco nodded, careful not to show too much emotion in front of his father, gave a small smile to his mother, then barely glanced at the book list—it was most likely as annoyingly simple as usual—before digging back into his plate.

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes before whatever was occupying Lucius’s mind became too much for him to keep quiet.

“This coming year I want you to be careful,” he said, his eyes boring into his son.

Unaware he had his father’s undivided attention, Draco only nodded along the speech and kept eating his eggs benedict.

“There will be someone from the Ministry in the castle,” Lucius continued, undisturbed by Draco’s apparent reluctance to pay attention, “Someone who… sympathises with our cause. Or at least we think she does. Though she isn’t working directly with us yet—Draco!”

The severity with which Lucius spoke immediately put Draco on high alert. He looked up and found his father’s eyes staring into his.

“Listen to me carefully, Draco, whatever her plans are for the school, I want you to help her succeed.”

Unable to look away from the cold silver stare, Draco swallowed his food and nodded dumbly.

“Yes, father.”

Draco’s mind was reeling with the new information. There would be someone from the Ministry in Hogwarts? Working? And apparently, it wouldn’t be just any ministry goon. It was someone who shared their ideals. The possibilities were endless with someone like that in charge—if they were in charge. For the first time Draco wondered if maybe, just maybe, the Dark Lord and his band of feckless Death Eaters—his father excluded of course—actually knew what they were doing. Could it be that their goal wasn’t just chaos and destruction? Could the Dark Lord be on to something?

A cold shiver ran through him as the idea settled in his mind. For some reason, the idea of The Dark Lord in charge of the Wizarding World was incredibly unsettling.

He had never been so confused. He looked at his mother for guidance, but the expression on her face told him nothing. She was as impassive as ever. If she disagreed, he couldn’t tell.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, calmly. Almost unnaturally so. “I have some matters to attend. We must get ready to host our… guests.”

Guests?

Narcissa got up, all the cheeriness and warmth from their little moment vanished. Then, with the elegance and grace she always displayed however angry she might be, she left the room.

Draco was barely halfway through his breakfast, and still hungry. He was debating whether to excuse himself as well or not, until Lucius interrupted his inner struggle.

“You know, Draco, I was at the Ministry this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Did you know that Potter can conjure a corporeal patronus?”

Draco had no idea. A corporeal patronus was quite advanced. He would expect it from Granger, not Potty. However, considering how Potter seemed to be a dementor magnet in third year, it wasn’t too surprising he’d learned.

Why do you know this, though?

“I didn’t know. How—”

“Quite an advanced bit of magic…”

As Lucius trailed off it seemed to Draco, though he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to him he detected a slight tone of… jealousy? Surely not. Still, he could already see where this conversation was going.

“Indeed. Quite advanced,” he finally agreed, bracing himself.

“Are you falling behind Potter as well, Draco?”

“That wasn’t—” in the curriculum. Feeble excuse, he knew that. Subjects not being in the curriculum had never stopped him from wanting to learn, “No. Of course not.”

“I expect you to excel in all areas Draco, if the Potter boy can…”

“Can you?” Draco scoffed.

He regretted it even before he finished saying it. In a split-second Draco saw the flash of anger behind his father’s eyes, a sudden movement, and finally felt the painful sting on the left side of his face. The force of the slap almost made him fall off his chair.  

“Mind your insolence, Draco,” Lucius seethed, “I have been very lenient and forgiving with your failures, lagging behind a mudblood—”

“Everyone lags behind her.”

“You are not everyone, Draco! You’re a Malfoy! You’d do well to remember that!”

So would you.

Lucius glared at Draco, as he had been doing with increasing frequency. So much can be transmitted through one look. For a few beats they stared at each other, with eerily similar scowls on their faces. Draco swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down. Lucius continued scrutinising his son’s face for a few seconds before continuing.

“I demand so much of you because I care—”

Yeah right…

“—and I want you to succeed. We wouldn’t want you to be remembered as a disgrace to our name, would we?”

“No, father.”

Funny, not five minutes ago I was making our family proud, wasn’t I?

“I’m glad you see it that way too.” Lucius pushed back his chair and got up.

Before he reached the door he turned to Draco, “Do not forget what I said. Make yourself useful.”

“Yes, father.”

The door shut with a soft click, and he was left alone in the room. Fists clenched, Draco stared at his unfinished plate, his appetite suddenly gone.

Laying on the bed near the window in the first-floor bedroom at number 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione was examining the gold and scarlet badge which only minutes before she had retrieved from the envelope from Hogwarts. She’d discarded the accompanying book list over her already packed trunk, and laid on her bed, mesmerised by the brand-new token of academic achievement. For the first time in her life, she was in no rush to see what new books she’d explore. All her focus was on the little Gryffindor crest, with the superimposed golden ‘P’.

A prefect.

She, Hermione Granger, was a prefect.

Not that it would come as a surprise to anyone; deep down it wasn’t a surprise to her either, but having it confirmed, being able to hold the physical proof she was the new prefect… it meant everything. Suddenly remembering an important detail, she sat up in one move, grabbed her letter, and ran upstairs.

She was one of two new prefects. And she had a very good idea who the other one would be.

Barging into the boy’s room, she found a bewildered Harry, a confused Ron and two smug looking twins.

“Did you—Did you get—?” She looked at Harry’s hand and saw the badge, identical to her own, glinting under the lamplight. Excitement bloomed within her. It was such wonderful news, the perfect way for Harry to forget almost being expelled.

“I knew it!” she burst, overjoyed her best friend had been honoured so, “Me too, Harry, me too!”

Harry’s face fell at once, “No,” he said, pushing the badge into Ron’s hand, “It’s Ron, not me.”

“It—what?”

“Ron’s prefect, not me.”

What?

“Ron?” Surely not… “But… are you sure? I mean—” she noticed her mouth was open and shut it immediately.

“It’s my name on the letter,” Ron said, matter-of-factly.

Hermione tried her best to hide her confusion. She had been so convinced Harry would be named prefect, she never thought of an alternative. Now she was having trouble believing Ron had been named instead. She loved him, she truly did, but he had to know being a prefect was supposed to be an honour to the best students and he… was not one.

Neither is Harry…

“I… I… well… wow!” Say something nice! “Well done, Ron! That’s really…”

Unexpected?

“Unexpected,” said George, voicing her thoughts.

Yes!

“No! No, it’s not…” she winced. Even to her it didn’t sound convincing. Ron’s face was turning bright red, his scowl deepening, “Ron’s done loads of…” Think Hermione! “He’s really…”

Her struggle to think of something remarkable Ron had done, only seemed to anger him further. Not that she blamed him. For some reason, only memories of the many times Ron had begged her to let him copy her homework came to mind.

“Ginny said the book lists had come at last,” Mrs. Weasley said, bursting into the room with a pile of fresh laundry.

Hermione relaxed, silently thanking the interruption. Still feeling Ron’s incensed eyes on her, and determined to avoid confrontation, she smiled at Molly, who continued talking, oblivious to the tense conversation she had interrupted.

“If you give them to me, I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you’re packing—”

“Mrs Weasley?” Hermione interrupted “Ahm… actually… I’d planned to meet my parents for tea later today and thought I could… perhaps… go get my own things… later.”

Everyone stared at Hermione as if she’d grown a second head.

“Oh…” breathed Molly, looking slightly offended, “Are you sure?”

The smile Mrs Weasley returned didn’t feel genuine. Hermione couldn’t believe she could possibly be annoyed by her lessening the burden. She refused to feel bad for wanting to do her own damned shopping.

“I’m sure. Thank you anyway, Mrs Weasley.”

“No problem, dear, do say hello to your parents from us,” she smiled again—this time a genuine smile—then returned to her task, “Ron, I’ll have to get you more pyjamas…”

Hermione left before the news broke about Ron being made prefect. She walked down the wooden stairs, careful not to make a sound, and slid into her room. She wondered if Molly would ever realise all the rumours she’d read about her during the Triwizard Tournament in her beloved Witch Weekly weren’t true. Despite Harry having assured Molly that she had never done any of those things, Mrs Weasley’s manner had remained frosty towards her.

She sat on the bed that had been hers for the summer and thought about the year to come. She was a prefect. The honour she’d been working towards ever since she started school. It was the one thing muggle and wizard schools shared. Something her parents understood. She had worked hard for it. What had Ron done besides copying her work?

She shook her head, admonishing herself for being petty. She should be happy for her friend. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling it was odd Dumbledore had made Ron prefect over Harry… not that he didn’t deserve it…

Does he though? There are many Gryffindor students with much better grades…

She groaned and covered her face with a pillow. Why did Harry being prefect made more sense to her than Ron? They both were just as irresponsible when it came to schoolwork, neither were even close to an exemplary disciplinary record, and they both had a well-known tendency to be late. Everywhere. Clearly, neither of her friends met the standard of excellency she would expect from any candidate.

Hermione took a deep breath and sighed. She stared at the ceiling as she replayed her earlier mishap in the boy’s room. She would need to apologise for her reaction.

Later.

It was obvious it bothered Ron and she didn’t want her friend to feel bad. She would apologise for not being supportive. Even if deep down she knew neither him nor Harry deserved the position. Because, although Ron wasn’t the best student, Harry didn’t do much better. They both had different priorities; unrelated, it would seem, to academic excellence.

Neither were Gryffindor’s second-best student.

That honour belonged to Dean Thomas. He had been studying hard the past few years and was climbing up in the ranking. Still not in the top five of their year, but getting close.

Giving it to Ron—or Harry for that matter—seemed to her to be a case of blatant favouritism. Something she could not, and would never, point out. Even to someone not so familiar to him as she was, it was obvious Ron struggled with some jealousy and feelings of inferiority at times. Even Malfoy had noticed for fucks sake! And, as expected, had used it to hurt Ron.

Having resolved to apologise to Ron, and keep her mouth shut about her other thoughts. Hermione started getting ready to meet her parents for tea and her later trip do Diagon Alley. Her excitement bubbled again as she planned how she would break the news that she was Gryffindor’s new prefect to her parents. She would bet good money her mum would tear up a little.

Maybe even her dad.

If Draco was to do something, anything, it would have to be done that afternoon. His father had left for the Ministry after their disastrous breakfast, and it was one of those glorious days when his home had no guests. It was the perfect moment to act.

After an hour looking for her, he was starting to panic. Draco couldn’t find his mother anywhere. He’d been to the dining room, the solarium, the front garden; he’d even gone to the kitchens, where he was met by a group of terrified elves.

Only at the drawing room he stopped for a moment, staring at the door that led to the cellar, fearing what he might find down there. He didn’t dare go down. He didn’t want to know.

Out of other options, he went to the back garden. Eventually, he made his way to the farthest side, past the greenhouse and the rose garden, to his favourite place near the pond. The place where he had once thought stables for his imagined abraxans could be built. It felt like a lifetime had passed since he’d had that pipe dream.

Draco peered behind the cherry laurel hedge that separated the garden from the rest of the estate grounds and there, kneeling on the ground, hands covered with her black dragon-hide gloves, completely focused while she harvested what Draco thought was dittany, was Narcissa Malfoy.

“Mother…”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just kept expertly cutting the valued plant, until she said, “Hello darling” without looking up, dropping a handful of dittany into the basket she had by her side, and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her silk top.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Narcissa turned to her son, placing her gloved hand over her eyes to protect herself from the sun. “I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m quite alright, just getting some dittany for—” a haunted look crossed her eyes, only to disappear as soon as it arrived, “I knew this dittany needed harvesting.”

She removed her gloves and got up, carrying the basket. With a quick swirl of her wand her clothes returned to their usual impeccable state.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I wondered if we could go to Diagon Alley. I need to buy supplies for school. You do remember I’m leaving tomorrow, right?”

“Yes…” she said absentmindedly, looking over his shoulder. After a couple of seconds, she turned to him again. “Yes, of course. Are you sure you don’t want to send Tippy?”

“No! I—well… I wanted to stop by Flourish and Blotts as well, and I need some things for quidditch.”

Amused by her son’s love of the sport, and his embarrassment of his reading habits, Narcissa nodded, “We can go after lunch.”

“Thank you, mum.”

A few hours later, they walked into the floo room, just as his father appeared in a flash of green. Holding his walking stick in one hand and his cloak in the other, Lucius stepped out of the fireplace, and stared at them for a couple of seconds.

“Where do you think you are going?” he asked.

“We are off to Diagon Alley. Would you like to join us?” Narcissa asked while fussing with her dress.

Please no.

Whether she asked because she didn’t notice her husband’s hostile tone or out of politeness, Draco couldn’t tell. Lucius narrowed his eyes, still blocking the entry to the chimney.

“School supplies,” Draco said dumbly, hoping it was enough explanation. He couldn’t shake the fear his father somehow knew what he planned to do.

“I’m afraid I’m exhausted,” Lucius finally answered, moving away from the chimney, “You’ll have to go without me.”

His eyes never leaving his wife, he tossed a handful of floo powder onto the fire and gave her an almost imperceptible bow. Narcissa nodded then disappeared into the emerald flames. Before Draco could do the same, Lucius gripped his arm and pulled him back.

“You shall not speak of what you’ve seen here, understood? To anyone,” he growled.

As if I would be that stupid.

“Of course not, father.”

A beat passed before Lucius let go of his arm. With his resolve renewed, Draco made a show of straightening his robes, grabbed a fist of powder and followed his mother.

The crowd buzzed with nervous energy. Parents scrambled to get their offspring ready for the new school year and children pranced around, excited about the return to school or, in some cases, their very first time attending Hogwarts. The school dominated the conversations they couldn’t help but overhear as Draco and Narcissa made their way along a bustling Diagon Alley.

They stopped a couple of times to exchange polite conversation with some acquaintances. People they were expected to engage with, either because they did business with Lucius, or because they were allies to their cause.

Though he had requested the trip solely to complete his self-imposed mission, and initially had no desire to shop for school supplies, by the time they reached their second store he was having such a good time with his mother he genuinely enjoyed choosing parchment for his school notes, new inks in several different colours, and more eagle-feather quills than he could possibly need. They argued at Eeylops about which treats were best for Hermes, his eagle owl, and bought enough to last the semester. When they walked past Madame Malkin’s he had to convince Narcissa the robes she’d had the tailor fit for him at home the week before were enough for the new year. She still insisted they buy more sweaters and a wool coat.

He was exhausted by the time they arrived at Quality Quidditch Supplies, were he got gloves, goggles, and a care kit for his new broom, more to keep the façade he’d set prior to the trip than out of need. Still, it was worth it to see his mother pretend not to care about quidditch.

At last, they made their way to Flourish and Blotts.

It had been such a wonderful afternoon he had almost forgotten why he’d insisted they came. It was easy to forget what was happening at home when surrounded by a familiar, unchanged, environment.

Draco took out his book list from the breast pocket of his jacket and read it for the first time. He frowned as he scanned the list. There were two additions, ‘The standard book of spells, grade 5’ by Miranda Goshawk—which he had expected—and ‘Defensive Magical Theory’ by Wilbert Slinkhard, which he’d never even heard of. He looked up to see his mother studying him.

“Is everything alright dear?”

“Yes… I’ve just never heard of one of the books.”

Narcissa hummed and continued walking along the section on healing magic. Her attention was caught by a particular book on emergency procedures. Why she would need such a thing Draco didn’t want to know.

“Mum—mother, I might… I’d like to—”

“Wander?”

Draco blushed. He cursed himself for having such a childish reaction but still put on his best sheepish smile firmly on his face.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m just warning you… I mean… if you have something else you want to do… especially if it’s something you know I’ll find dull—”

Narcissa chuckled, “Well, seeing as we are already here… I might swing by Twilfitt quickly.” She looked to the book that caught her attention once more, then turned to her son. Her smile faltered a split second before she continued, “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

Draco watched her walk away. He waited until she was out of sight before quickly taking out a second list from his pocket, this one written by him, and ordering the nearest employee to find the books and set them aside for him. 

He was so focused on his plan, so distracted by his fear, he did not notice the pair of brown eyes watching him from behind a bookcase as he left the shop.

It had been the loveliest of days. After a summer of uncertainty, filled with anguish and feeling powerless, Hermione had been in desperate need of a normal day out with her parents. It was such a relieving contrast to be outside in the relative normalcy of the muggle world. Despite the—at times unbearable—heat wave, muggle London still felt familiar and safe.

They met at her favourite coffee place in the heart of Soho, a place her parents had taken her countless times before. Linda and Richard Granger listened enraptured by their daughter’s—heavily redacted—story of her summer. They talked for hours, their mid-morning meeting bleeding into the afternoon. It was while at her mother’s favourite restaurant, where they’d moved their meeting once it was time for lunch, that she shared the news of her having been chosen as prefect.

“Oh lovey, that’s the most wonderful news,” Linda said, with one hand over her heart and the other clutching Hermione’s tightly.

“Congratulations love, I know how hard you worked for it,” Richard added, looking at her as he often did, like she was the most precious person on earth.

They both beamed and gushed with pride when she showed them the badge, then her father had ordered some champagne—of which she was only allowed a sip, for toast purposes—and gave a tearful speech just for them. By the end they were all a bit tearful. The conversation kept flowing; as her parents continued sharing their activities, Hermione realised with great sadness how much she’d missed from her parents’ lives and became painfully aware of how much she’d been lying to them, with increasing frequency.

Once they’d finished their meal, after a heartfelt promise to write more often, they said goodbye. Hermione choked back her tears as she waved, watching them disappear around the corner inside the black cab.

So far, it had been an express visit to Diagon Alley. In less than an hour she’d gotten almost everything she needed. It gave her enough time to wander around Flourish and Blotts. She had picked the two new books in her booklist, one of which had annoyed her tremendously, and was roaming the History section when she saw the Malfoys walk in.

In a most un-Hermione way, she had done something unforgivable and hid behind a bookcase, out of the Malfoys’ sight. True, she’d done it to avoid confrontation. She was alone after all. Nevertheless, it still irritated her to have to resort to hiding, she had never been one to back down. Then she overheard their conversation.

It struck her as odd how Malfoy had gotten rid of his mother, in a very Slytherin-esque way. Alarms blared inside her as she witnessed Draco Malfoy wait until his mother was out of sight to bark orders at the shop assistant and then all but run out of the store. It was suspicious, more so than the usual Malfoy activity.

It was reckless of her to follow him alone, she knew that. Why she decided to do so anyway she would never know. It was probably all the time she spent with Harry.

She had been in such a fantastic mood after a perfect day with her parents, and now she was back to being worried. Hermione pulled up her hoodie, obscuring her hair and eyes, and followed him at a distance, close enough not to lose him, far away enough not to be noticed. Just like she’d once read in one of her favourite detective novels.

In the four years she’d known Draco Malfoy, she had never seen him so… jumpy. She’d seen fear in his eyes—that magnificent moment when she punched his stupid face came to mind—but never paranoia. And if there was one word to describe his attitude, that was it.

Malfoy kept looking over his shoulder. A couple of times she even feared he’d seen her. She now had the suspicion he was searching for a specific someone and, failing to see them, continued his journey. He was nervous, too lost in whatever he was thinking to properly scan the crowd. Malfoy should’ve noticed her.

He was hiding something.

Hermione followed him through side-alleys she had never been to before. Alleys she shouldn’t have been visiting on her own. She wrapped her fingers tightly round her wand inside her pocket and continued walking. On they went until they emerged at Gringotts Square. She stayed hidden behind a jewellery stall, watching him as he walked up the front steps of Gringotts. He stopped halfway, looked over his shoulder one final time, then hurried inside.

Hermione decided to stay, see how long he was inside. Why would Draco Malfoy need to go into Gringotts alone? Why keep it a secret from his mother? She doubted his parents denied him any money. Perhaps he was doing something for his father. Would they hide it from Narcissa? If so, why?

He was sweating profusely underneath his clothes, much more so than usual for such a hot summer day. His palms felt clammy, and he felt a prickle in the back of his neck, as if he was being watched. He was sure his mother bought his story. And his father couldn’t possibly have any reason to doubt his allegiance. Not that his allegiance had changed, what he was about to do was just a precaution.

He was just being cautious.

Draco took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strutted into the building, looking much more confident that he felt. The arrogant stare and accompanying sneer, which were second nature to him, helped complete the image he was trying to portray.

The clicking of his dragonhide shoes echoed along the long marble hall, where goblins worked along the counter, none of whom looked up to see who had entered the building. He didn’t stop until he was at the front desk, where he knew the goblin in charge worked, and cleared his throat once.

The goblin, Ragnok, looked up from the parchment he’d been writing on, and stared at the young wizard.

“Mister Malfoy, what a surprise,” he said in a monotonous way that didn’t betray if he indeed felt surprised. His eyes travelled from Draco to the empty space behind him, probably looking for Lucius or Narcissa. Draco had never been there on his own.

“Are we expecting Lord Malfoy? Or perhaps Lady Malfoy?”

“No. I’m alone.”

The goblin looked at him curiously. Draco refused to squirm under his gaze. Not only would it be unseemly, but it would also be shameful for a Malfoy.  

“I wish to make an inquiry about my inheritance,” Draco said, in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

The goblin said nothing, just inclined his head urging him to go on.

“Is my father alerted to every movement related to it?”

Draco wished he could use his damned wand to cast a cooling charm around him. Not that it would help. It wasn’t the bloody heat making him sweat.

“No, Mister Malfoy. Your inheritance is yours to do as you please—”

“Then I wish to make an account—a separate account, that is, and transfer two thousand galleons a month to it, until the day I tell you to stop,” he said, then as an afterthought, “And this is to be kept secret. Obviously.”

The goblin narrowed his eyes and stared for a few seconds, as if weighing something, making Draco increasingly nervous.

“In that case…” he said, his tone turning conspiratorial, “Perhaps Mister Malfoy would want to… reconsider.”

Reconsider?

“Why?”

“Any transfer above one thousand galleons requires us to alert the head of your family for approval,” he explained, with a pointed look, “If, however, you chose to make a transfer of, say, 250 galleons…”

“Is that the most I can transfer without alerting anyone?” Draco asked, unable to keep the disappointed tone from his voice. Two hundred and fifty galleons a month was ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly be enough for him to live on for a month, he wasn’t a Weasley.

“The limits are, one thousand galleons a month in one transaction, or… 250 a day.” The goblin gave him a wicked smile, showing two rows of pointed teeth.

Though unnerved, Draco smiled back. “Very well. I wish to move 250 galleons from my inheritance inside the Malfoy vault every day to a new account. Until the day I tell you to stop…” he trailed off. He was only then considering he wasn’t sure how large his inheritance was, “What happens if the funds run out before I tell you to stop? Would you have to alert the head of family?”

“It would be years before that happened Mr. Malfoy, I doubt you’ll have that problem.”

“Are you required to alert him?”

Ragnok conjured two very old-looking pieces of parchment and, after examining it for a moment, turned back to Draco. “If it were to happen before you turn seventeen, then yes. But, like I said, you won’t have that problem.”

Draco nodded. “Then, proceed.”

“I’ll set up the paperwork.”

“Thank you.”

He heard his mother’s voice inside his head, clear as day: ‘If you want something, always be polite, at least until you get what you need.’ Narcissa Malfoy’s wisdom had never failed him.

Malfoy had been inside Gringotts for quite a while. Hermione was getting anxious. She was starting to look suspicious, lurking around Gringotts. If he was retrieving something from his vault it might take longer still. Harry had told her how getting to the Potter Vault had taken almost ten minutes, and it wasn’t nearly as old as the Malfoy vault. She bought a pair of earrings from the stall she’d hidden behind, and had walked around the square twice. When she was about to leave, Malfoy came out of the white building. His whole demeanour had changed, he walked with a new spring in his step and looked relieved, almost pleased, though still weary. He looked around a couple of times on their way back to Flourish. Once inside he headed straight for the register, where there was a tall pile waiting for him, he paid for the books and ordered for them to be sent to Malfoy manor. Mrs Malfoy walked into the store not even a minute after.

“Mother, I—you didn’t find anything at Twilfitt?” Malfoy greeted her with a playful smile after taking a quick look at her empty hands.

“Wha—oh! No, nothing new. Maybe next time. What about you? Did you find anything of interest?” she asked, looking at the pile on the counter.

Curious.

“Nothing particularly special, mostly for school.  Perhaps next time they will have a better selection,” he answered nonchalantly. Not a single sign he intended to share with her what he’d done.

“You can always just take something from home.”

Mother and son walked out of the store arm in arm, their voices fading as they disappeared through the front door. It was so odd to see them behave like normal human beings. A chill ran down her spine, she couldn’t shake the suspicion Draco Malfoy was hiding something important.

Back home, Draco felt oddly relaxed. He had the new books for the coming school year, plus a few others that interested him, like ‘A new theory of numerology’.

And his mission had been a success.

Setting aside that money could help him and his mother should they feel the need to go into hiding. They could go away while the Dark Lord and Dumbledore’s fools waged a war. They could wait it out, and come back once things had settled. Draco was convinced she didn’t want to stay, only time would tell if she would dare leave. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. It wasn’t as if he wanted to use it. It was only a precaution.

Like a very, very expensive security blanket.

That was all. A security blanket. Like the one he’d had when he was four, and had never spoken to anyone about. Only in the most extreme of circumstances would he use said blanket.

The Dark Lord only stayed at the manor a couple of days at a time. All he and his mother had to do was stay out of his way while he was there, and they would be fine. Just stay out of the way and the money won’t be necessary. He would then siphon it back to his inheritance account and forget he ever did something so traitorous.

Yes. We’ll be fine, just stay out of the way and you won’t need it.

Dear Morgana, please don’t let us need it.

Chapter Text

The second time she awoke that morning, it was to the loud screams of Mrs Weasley coming from the top of the stairs, followed by those of Mrs Black’s portrait. She was too groggy to understand the reason for the commotion. She’d fallen asleep again and was now late. As fast as she could she put on the clothes she’d chosen the day before and rushed out the door.

“Is Ginny alright?” Harry asked, walking down from the second floor.

“I don’t know… wait. Did something happen to her?”

“Fred and George tried to levitate their trunks and accidentally hit her. I think she fell downstairs.”

Hermione refrained from comment, only shaking her head. All summer she’d had to endure the twins’ antics. Finally able to do magic outside of Hogwarts, and having passed their apparating exam, they had been abusing their newfound freedom, making themselves utterly insufferable.

She followed Harry downstairs, to the kitchen. As they approached, they heard voices carrying to the foyer.

“…should wait for Sturgis! otherwise we’d be one short!”

“If we wait, they’ll miss the train, Alastor!”

Hermione and Harry stopped next to Ron, who was listening intently to the loud conversation.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked him, leaning closer to the door as Ron was doing.

“Mad-Eye wants to wait until the guard is complete before we leave. Mum thinks we’ll miss the train.”

Harry leaned back, looked at the kitchen door, then back at Ron, “We have to go to King’s Cross with a guard?”

“You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly.

“Why?” he asked, this time in that annoyed tone he’d been using of late, “I thought Voldemort was supposed to be lying low, or are you telling me he’s going to jump out from behind a dustbin to try and do me in?”

She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, not knowing how to reply. Harry had been snapping at them often since he got there. Even though she understood his frustration, it was no reason to treat them like that, she felt he was being unfair; however, she didn’t know how to deal with it without angering him further.

“Whatever the reason, if we don’t leave soon, we’re definitely going to miss the train,” said Ron, ignoring Harry’s tone, as he’d been doing all month.

“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!” Molly yelled from the other side of the door.

The trio jumped and hurried into the kitchen.

“We’re here,” they said in unison.

“Good. Off we go.”

Hermione smiled at Mrs. Weasley, who returned the friendly gesture. She was feeling particularly thankful towards the older woman after the surprise party they threw in honour of Ron and her for being made prefects.

Though they were all at the entrance hall, it was a good ten minutes before they could agree on how they were to move to King’s Cross. Once they were finally ready to depart, Sirius walked down the stairs in his large black dog form, and sat by Harry’s side.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!” Molly said impatiently, staring into the dog’s eyes, who didn’t drop her gaze, “Oh honestly…” she sighed, defeated, “Well, on your own head be it!”

Sirius barked twice as he spun in his place, which made Ron and Ginny smile, and together they stepped out of the house.

Hermione watched as Harry, Mrs Weasley, and Sirius walked up the street. Even if she thought Sirius’s insistence on following them to King’s Cross was reckless, she couldn’t deny it was quite amusing to see him fool around in dog form. He wagged his tail, barked, and ran in circles around Harry. She couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for him to be trapped again.

With an anxious knot in her stomach, she turned around and followed Ron and Mr Weasley in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile at Wiltshire, a heavy atmosphere surrounded the Malfoys on their last family breakfast until Christmas break. Narcissa’s fingers tightened around her fork, the only outward sign of her struggle to keep calm.

“Lucius—”

“Enough!” Lucius yelled as he slammed his fork and knife on the table and glared at his wife, “I said we are not discussing this matter, Narcissa.”

Draco kept his eyes on his plate, as he had taken to do whenever his parents argued during meals. Narcissa wanted to continue the discussion on their latest plan. Lucius didn’t want their son involved.

What he didn’t know was Draco already knew all about it.

Throughout the summer Draco had used the elves passageway several times. On his last expedition, he’d overheard the conversation his father had with Mr Nott and Mr Crabbe about the giants who lived in the continent, and how Dumbledore’s pet oaf was trying to stop their plan to get them on their side.

“And you,” Lucius continued, turning to Draco, “You will keep your mouth shut about everything you’ve seen and heard here.”

“Yes father.”

“Not a word to anyone! Am I clear?!”

“Of course, father.”

It was rare for Lucius to lose his composure; indeed, keeping his temper in check was one of his most valued skills. However, when it came to his wife and son, it became difficult. He did not wish to be questioned on his decisions; at home he expected unquestioned obedience.

“Time to go Draco, you don’t want to be late,” Narcissa said once they had finished, rising from her seat, and keeping her icy glare away from her husband.

Lucius stayed seated, impassive, calmly sipping his tea, while mother and son left the table.

“Don’t forget what we spoke about for this year, Draco. Make yourself useful,” Lucius said, just before Draco and Narcissa left the room.

“Yes father.” Draco replied without looking back.

With their heads held high, the Malfoys stepped through the entrance to platform nine and three quarters at precisely half-past ten. It was a welcome change from the oppressive silence of the manor, to be surrounded by the buzz of the start of year crowd. The familiar smell of coal and oil that permeated the air welcomed him once more. They stood side by side for a few moments, staring at the red and black steam train.

“This year will be different, Draco,” Narcissa whispered, careful not to be overheard by anyone, “Be careful.” She then squeezed his arm and turned to face him.

Not one for public displays of affection, he was surprised when she hugged him tightly. Reluctantly they parted, Draco gave a slight bow and headed to the train, straight to the prefect’s carriage.

Ignoring Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil, who he supposed were the new Ravenclaw prefects, he sat by the window overlooking the platform. He found his mother quickly, the embodiment of elegance and poise. She stood where he’d left her, very still, staring at the train, unseeing. He wondered what was going through her head. Was she scared?

Ernie Macmillan made a rather raucous entrance, Draco glanced his way, rolled his eyes and looked out again. He didn’t even bother acknowledging Hanna Abbott’s greeting when she sat beside Ernie on the seat opposite him. He stared at his mother until, about five minutes before the train set off, she finally left.

Not even a minute later, Harry Potter hurried along the platform, followed by a plump redheaded woman and a large black dog.

Sirius Black.

Unsure whether he found it brave or massively stupid, Draco couldn’t deny he was impressed by the reckless audacity of Sirius Black. Being the only man to have escaped Azkaban unaided was no small feat; add to it he had managed to remain free ever since. A fugitive who pranced around crowded magically guarded areas and remained at large. That level of arrogance was admirable.

Draco looked around the platform looking for his mother, fearing she might’ve noticed him too. Thankfully, she was nowhere to be seen.

He sat back and tried to remember everything he’d heard about the last Black. Sirius had always gone against his family’s wishes, defied their expectations… and got disowned for it. Draco himself had only set aside some money for protection. That could easily be explained in a non-treasonous way.

Yeah? How?

A chill ran through him at the thought of losing everything. Because deep down he knew, what he had done the day before could very well be called at best ‘defying his family’s expectations’ and at worst outright treason.

Sirius Black was a reminder of how much calculation and guile it would take for him to stay safe and keep his status.

“DRACO!” came Pansy’s shrill voice, interrupting his musings.

Up until that very second, Draco had been pleased to have been named prefect. Now that he knew Pansy was his counterpart, he wasn’t so sure. And to think there had been a time when he’d thought she could make a good life companion. The more things changed, the more he changed and she remained the same, it was clear that would be disastrous. It was too bad she was oblivious to the obvious.

“Pansy,” he answered coldly. The girl, inexplicably taking his emotionless greeting as invitation, plopped herself beside him and began nattering about her summer in… Italy?

“What about yours?” she asked, elbowing him in a friendly manner, a good five minutes after she’d started talking.

“My what?”

“Your summer, Draco.”

“Oh… I stayed at the manor.”

She threw her head back and laughed that fake dainty laugh most girls of high society use when they want to look good. Didn’t matter if they found whatever they were laughing about funny or not. The point is to please.

He wasn’t pleased.

“Well, of course you did,” she said a tad too loudly, “You don’t need much else. Such a massive estate, I bet you weren’t bored for a second.”

“Right.”

As he said it, the door to the compartment burst open and in walked Hermione Granger, in all her self-righteous mudblooded glory. Fully expecting to see Potter follow her in, Draco was truly shocked to see Weasley walk in after her instead.

“Weasley? Fancy seeing you here. This is the prefect’s carriage you know?” Draco said in a mocking tone.

“He is a prefect,” Granger replied, calmly.

“Really? I’m sorry but I am a bit shocked… and I bet it’s not just me,” he said, looking around, “I’m sure everyone expected Potter to be named Gryffindor’s prefect! Being the favourite and all,” Draco leaned back and looked straight into Ronald Weasley’s eyes, “Dumbledore must truly be losing it. No one in their right mind would make you prefect.”

Weasley’s face turned a shade of red just shy of his hair colour. Granger frowned but, behind the well-practised look of indignation, he could see a faint blush creeping up her neck. Could it be she secretly agreed with him? Beside him, Pansy was chuckling so loud even people in the next carriage peered through the window.

“Shut up Malfoy,” Weasley seethed.

“I mean, at least we know Granger has a functioning brain, what do you bring to the team?”

“Oh please, have you seen who’s by your side?” Hermione quipped.

Touché.

Draco tried to but failed to remain impassive, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

“You better not be talking about me, filthy mudblood,” sniffed Pansy, that ugly sneer back on her face already.

Draco rolled his eyes and, before Granger could say anything to Pansy, turned to Weasley again, “The old fool must have some kind of special mission for Potter if being Prefect was deemed beneath him. Don’t you think?

“And, I mean, if someone’s going to get Potter’s leftovers…”

The newest Gryffindor prefect lunged at Malfoy, who had his wand out in an instant. Granger struggled to pull him back, then stood between them, facing the read-head.

“It’s not worth it, Ronald.”

She pulled him to a seat a few tables behind Draco who couldn’t stop smiling. A little weasel-baiting never failed to brighten his day.

After a mind-numbingly boring chat with the Head boy and girl at the prefect’s carriage, Hermione and Ron went looking for Harry. They found him in the last carriage, sitting with Ginny, Neville, and a blonde girl she couldn’t place.

Her annoyance after spending close to an hour in close proximity to Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy was only increased when her much needed rant was cut short by Harry. She hated noticing those little things. She worried about her friend but, for once, she wanted to be allowed to vent and for them to shut up and listen.

Instead, as usual, she had to be the one doing the soothing. She turned away and stared out the window, admiring the various shades of green that filled the English countryside, passing in a blur as the train rushed north. 

Why Harry wanted to know who the other prefects were, she didn’t know, but she’d expected the question. She knew he was feeling left out. In truth none of the prefects were surprising, except for Ron and Pansy. Malfoy, for all his faults and complete git-ness, was second in their year. Whether that was earned or the result of some interference by his father she could not say. Though she doubted the teachers—except perhaps Snape, but she somehow doubted it too—would lend themselves to bribery.

Hermione had been trying to tune out the conversation going on in the compartment when she vaguely heard the dreamy voice of the blonde mention the Yule Ball, piquing her interest.

“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” the blonde said to Harry. Not a question, a statement.

“Yeah,” Harry said, sounding equal parts confused and amused by the girl’s oddness, “I know I did.”

“She didn’t enjoy it very much. She doesn’t think you treated her very well.”

Understatement of the century.

Hermione struggled not to smile. No one beside the Patil sisters had dared confront Harry and Ron about their rude behaviour toward the girls at the ball and, Hermione feared, they still didn’t know what they’d done wrong. The Patil sisters were not the only girls mistreated by them that night. She felt somewhat thankful the blonde had mentioned it.   

“Because you wouldn’t dance with her,” she continued, then got a forlorn look on her face and, though she kept talking, it seemed she was now speaking to herself, “I don’t think I’d have minded; I don’t like dancing very much.”

The blonde—Miss Lovegood, according to the tag on her bag, disappeared behind the magazine she’d been reading. Hermione had a good look at it for the first time. Her opinion of the girl plummeted when she saw the title. The Quibbler. If one could call it journalism, it would be one of the worst examples of it.

“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so often—” Ron said, clearly uncomfortable with the awkward silence.

Hermione looked at her watch, it was still far too early.

“—and we can give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something—”

Here we go.

“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ronald!”

“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all.”

“So you’re going to descend to his level?”

“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron…” Grow up.

“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” he went on, then lowered his voice and, in an outrageous imitation of Goyle, mimed writing in mid-air, “I… must… not… look… like… a… baboon’s… backside,” he finished with a flourish.

Despite herself Hermione huffed a laugh.

Her own laughter died down quickly, drowned out by Lovegood’s boisterous one. Annoyed again, she looked out the window and stared at the cloudy sky and green fields they were passing.

Suddenly, a memory of camping in the summer with her parents flooded her senses. She could almost feel the heat of the bonfire and smell the burnt marshmallows. An almost unbearable sadness took over.

“Can I have a look at this?” Harry asked.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up the Quibbler. She rolled her eyes; Harry sure knew how to pick his sources of information. First with his skim read of only the front page of the Daily Prophet, and now this.

“Anything good in there?” asked Ron.

“Of course not,” burst Hermione without looking away from the scenery, “The Quibbler’s rubbish, everyone knows that.”

“Excuse me,” said the blonde, her voice no longer dreamy but severe, calling Hermione’s attention, “My father’s the editor.”

“I… oh…” Shit! “Well… it’s got some interesting…” Colours? No… “I mean, it’s quite…” Shit. Well done, Hermione.

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” Lovegood said before almost ripping it from Harry’s hands.

Almost immediately after, as if conjured by conflict, the compartment door opened, and Draco Malfoy walked in.

“What?” Harry barked.

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you a detention,” Malfoy replied, looking thoroughly amused, annoying Hermione even further. “You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”

“Yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

Hermione snickered and looked out again. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her. If looks could kill…

I would’ve been dead since first year.

“Tell me,” Malfoy said, his voice getting that edge it got whenever he was about to say something particularly nasty. Hermione likened it to how a snake rears back its head just before it strikes. “How does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped. Malfoy sure knew what buttons to push, and Harry had been on edge for weeks. She was in no mood for their stupid games.

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” he said, smirking, “Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.”

Hermione felt all the blood drain from her, she got up in an instant, “Get out!”

Malfoy looked at her for beat, turned to Harry, sniggered, and left. Hermione slammed the compartment door and returned to her seat. Her mind reeling from the encounter. It couldn’t have been a coincidence, Malfoy’s choice of words. He knew Sirius had been at the platform. If he knew Sirius was an animagus, it meant he had access to more information they gave him credit for. His trip to Gringotts now felt ominous. All her previous annoyance turned into worry making the rest of the journey feel endless.

Draco dropped himself next to Crabbe at the Slytherin table, only barely suppressing a groan. Despite the extra fun of his newfound power, dealing with Pansy while patrolling the train had been exhausting. He returned a few greetings from the students around him as he scanned the staff table, confirming the truth behind his father’s breakfast slip when the oaf was nowhere to be seen. The beginning of a smile tugged at his lips, at least with that half-breed gone they could finally get a decent ‘Care of magical creatures’ class.

He sat back, yawned, and rubbed his eyes as he half listened to Crabbe bragging about his summer to a group of fourth years sat on the other side of the table.

It wasn’t until he started talking about a time his father arrived with ‘unexpected guests’, that Draco was forced to interrupt.

“Are you sure you want to tell the rest of that story?” he asked with a bored drawl, feigning disinterest, even though all his focus was trained on the overly interested fourth years. They had been back for less than an hour and Crabbe was already babbling about the supposedly top-secret dealings of his father’s friends.

“I…No,” Crabbe stammered, “You’re right. Nothing happened afterwards,” Then continued with a grin. “Guests came, then left… undamaged.”

Crabbe laughed.

Draco wanted to hex the ginormous gormless wanker to all hell and back. He glanced at the fourth years expecting horror on their faces. Instead, he was equally pleased and disgusted to find they were laughing too. Draco rolled his eyes and waved dismissively, as if the conversation was of no importance and not one which put them both in grave danger.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to let Vincent Crabbe in on the secret of the Dark Lord’s return was an absolute idiot.

He scanned the staff table again, double checking the oaf wasn’t there. His eyes zeroed in on a small woman. She had dull brown hair, a round face and beady eyes which made her look remarkably like a toad. Dressed entirely in a hideous shade of pink, she looked around the room with a fake smile Draco supposed she thought came off as sweet. She seemed familiar. He wondered if she was the Ministry official his father was talking about.

Draco looked around again. His eyes scanning for another new addition to the staff.

Surely not…

Dumbledore wouldn’t be so idiotic as to allow the bloody Ministry to decide what was taught for Defence Against the Dark Arts, would he? Though a biased, crazy fool, Dumbledore was an amazingly competent wizard. Fudge was… not. The fact that his education might be in the hands of an idiot enraged him.

As he looked at the staff one more time, his silver eyes met the black one’s of his head of house. Snape held his gaze for a couple of seconds before turning to where the strange woman sat. That could not be a coincidence.

The buzz within the hall faded when McGonagall entered, carrying the hat and stool, as usual. Draco propped his elbow on the table, rested his chin on his hand and stared at the new teacher, wondering what helping her would entail. Who was she?

He drifted off when the hat started singing, telling the tale they all knew about the Hogwarts founders.

It wasn’t until the song turned into something else that Draco’s mind returned to the room.

“But this year I’ll go further,” the hat sang, perfectly on key,

“Listen closely to my song:

Though condemned I am to split you

Still, I worry that it’s wrong

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From external, deadly foes—

Draco stirred in his seat, feeling his limbs go numb and his heart speed up. Though he did his best to seem unperturbed, he wondered if anyone could see his unease.

—And we must unite inside her

Or we crumble from within

I have told you, I have warned you…

Let the sorting now begin.

Draco’s ears began ringing. Dread rising inside, threatening to drown him. He could distantly hear the students applauding, questions being fired all across the table. He looked around, unseeing, until his eyes meet a pair of brown ones. Shocked out of his state Draco schooled his expression and looked down at his empty plate. In an instant he plastered a mocking smile and laughed at a sixth year’s joke he hadn’t heard properly. Last thing he needed was Hermione Granger noticing his reaction to the hat’s warning.

Across the hall Hermione was confused. She was certain she’d seen Draco Malfoy going deathly pale as the hat finished its song. Though they only locked eyes for a split second, she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d seen fear in the Slytherin’s face. She couldn’t be completely sure, it was so far away, she might’ve imagined it. But if she was right… it didn’t bode well for anyone.

Dolores Umbridge. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The woman his father wanted him to help. Why he would ask such a thing, Draco had no clue. He supposed backing the Ministry’s rhetoric of everything being fine was advantageous for the Dark Lord. If what his father had said about this woman being sympathetic with their cause was true, the year would be trickier to sail than he’d thought.

He watched her carefully from the moment she interrupted Dumbledore. Her speech was over-rehearsed in his opinion. It rang fake no matter how hard she tried. Though he suspected she wasn’t trying very hard, and her aim wasn’t for them to believe her. It was all for show.

The disdain radiating from the Slytherin table was almost palpable. He imagined it would be the same from the other houses.

Look at them already listening to the rattled hat, being united in their dislike of the pink menace.

“That old cow is bonkers,” he heard Pansy whisper to Millicent, who couldn’t hold back a chuckle, earning a glare from Snape.

When she smiled that falsely sweet smile, with all those pointed teeth, Draco was reminded of the goblins at Gringotts.

“The ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community—” 

Draco couldn’t stop himself from looking over at Granger, who, in turn, was looking at him. He lifted a questioning brow. Though she frowned and looked away, he saw the pink tint that coloured her cheeks, even at a distance. Not to be mistaken with the sheepish blush of a girl caught staring at a boy she fancied. No, Hermione Granger’s blush was pure rage. No doubt she was also thinking of their discussion on house elves.

“—The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

Draco would bet his considerable fortune Snape had rolled his eyes at that. He knew McGonagall had done so when Umbridge bowed to them. The Gryffindor head wasn’t as masterful in hiding her emotions as Snape was.

Umbridge’s speech was starting to get embarrassing. No one was listening. Draco wished for nothing more than to zone out. However, due to the importance of this woman for his father’s plans, he forced himself to listen.

“—for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress sake must be discouraged—”

Interesting choice of words.

The ministry was interfering far more than he’d previously thought. If she was sympathetic, was that approach because she wanted to be noticed by the Dark Lord, or was she following Fudge’s orders?

“—Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

His verdict: Umbridge was a wolf in sheep’s skin. Yes… she was dangerous. Seemed bland, meek, even harmless at first notice, but one look into those dead eyes told a different tale. She was way too confident to be harmless. Draco knew in that moment, no matter his initial dislike of her, she was best kept as an ally. Even if in the end it was all a lie.

After all speeches were over, Draco called for the first years to follow him, but didn’t bother slowing his pace. He rushed to the dungeons, needing a quiet place to think, ignoring questions and complaints from the group of Slytherin first years which had to all but run behind him.

Later that night, once most younger students had gone to bed, Draco sat at the armchair closest to the lake, holding a cup of pumpkin juice with a splash of gin one of the seventh years had given them. The eerie green light that filtered through the glass illuminated the faces of those sat around him. They had been there for almost an hour, discussing their quidditch prospects, thoughts on Umbridge—most were offensive remarks on her appearance, which disappointed him. Little by little the group grew smaller. Once there were only fifth year students and up left, Millicent approached from the other side of the room and sat beside Pansy, only a few feet from him.

“Is it true Draco?” she asked in a whisper, “Is the Dark Lord really back?”

There was such fascination and hope in her eyes… Draco felt pity. She had no idea what it was like to be in the presence of that creature.

He saw out of the corner of his eye, Theo, who’d been sitting on a corner playing cards with Blaise, turn his head slightly at the question. Crabbe was listening intently as well, albeit in a more obvious manner. Draco, suddenly on the spot, twirled his wand on his hand and chuckled with no real humour behind it.

“Millie… haven’t you read the Daily Prophet?” he said, as if amused by her question, “Dumbledore and Potter are insane. A pair of attention seeking lunatics if you ask me.”

They all laughed, and he finally breathed. This was familiar territory.

“Can’t wait to hear what they come up with next. Perhaps they’ll say Salazar Slytherin himself has suddenly returned from the grave.”

Another laugh. The tense muscles in his back relaxed. He noticed Theo excuse himself and leave the room in a hurry. He wished he could do the same. Of all people in the room, Theo was the one most likely to have also met the Dark Lord. Draco kept the mocking smile on his face, even as the memory of meeting Lord Voldemort fleeted to the front of his mind.

“Oh, come on Draco. It’s us. You can tell us,” Pansy pressed, leaning closer, “He’s back, isn’t he?”

Keeping his face neutral he stared into her almost black eyes for a beat, then leaned back and sipped from his cup.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you Pansy. If he is, no one has bothered to tell me. And you know father always tells me everything.”

“I hope he is,” someone said from the other side of the room.

“Will you tell us? If he is back?” Millicent asked.

He sipped again, needing to feel the mild burn down his throat.

“Of course, you’ll be the first to know,” he said, forcing himself to smile, “It’s only fair. Who else would celebrate with me?” he finished, raising his cup then downing the remains.

They all laughed and cheered. Draco felt slightly nauseated by his immediate pleasure at the sound.

Who’s the attention seeking lunatic now huh?

Draco looked at his empty cup, then at the dark waters of the lake. Things were changing. There was no denying that. 

What else could he do but try to survive?

It was their first morning back at the castle and Hermione was already on edge. Her anxiety-induced sleep-deprivation and early morning argument with her roommates had put her in a terrible mood. Adding to that, she’d just seen the twin’s sign at the common room notice board, asking for guinea pigs among the first-year students. It was quite literally the last thing she needed that morning.

Then, instead of agreeing they had to deal with it, Ronald Weasley wanted to let it go. She wasn’t sure why she was surprised; it was just like him to avoid conflict with the twins, he’d do anything to avoid responsibility.

Typical.

Yet, she could not believe he was willing to let the twins run experiments on unsuspecting first-year students just so he wouldn’t have stand up to them.

Though she wanted to yell at Ronald, she took a deep breath instead and, trying to maintain peace, chose to focus on Harry, whose sour expression was starting to make her even more anxious.

“Anyway, what’s up, Harry? You look really angry about something.”

Harry remained silent, so Ron answered, “Seamus reckons Harry’s lying about You-Know-Who.”

Hermione sighed. She’d had to deal with her share of scepticism too. “Yes, Lavender thinks so too.”

“Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I’m a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?”

You have got to be kidding me. Hermione was tired of his attitude towards them, and in no mood to tiptoe around him anymore.

“No, I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. I know you’re not lying or seeking attention, but you, Harry James Potter, sure are being a prat! It would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats because, in case you haven’t noticed, Ron and I are on your side.”

Harry stared at her dumbfounded for a few seconds, “Sorry,” he said in a low voice, looking sheepish.

She wanted to say it was fine and move on. The last thing she wanted was make her friend feel worse. But it wasn’t fine, it hadn’t been fine for a while.  

“Apology accepted,” she said instead, “Don’t you remember what Dumbledore said at the last end-of-term feast?”

Harry and Ron stared at her blankly, which, on that particular morning, instead of endearing was supremely irritating.

“About You Know Who…” she said impatiently, “He said: ‘His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust—'”

“How do you remember stuff like that?” Ron asked looking at her with sheer admiration.

“I listen, Ron.”

“So do I, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what—”

“The point is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You Know Who has been back two months and we’ve already started fighting among ourselves. And the Sorting Hat’s warning was the same: Stand together, be united—”

“And Harry got it right last night,” Ron interrupted again, “If that means we’re supposed to get matey with the Slytherins—fat chance.”

“Well,” she said, angry. Though she agreed it was unlikely they would ever stand side by side with any Slytherin, she would not give Ron the satisfaction of knowing it, “I think it’s a pity we’re not trying for a bit of inter-house unity.”

“Want to get friendly with the Slytherins, now?”

“That’s not what I—”

She stopped talking when she almost bumped into Harry, who had stopped in his tracks. Hermione watched with increasing worry, how a group of Ravenclaws huddled together to stay as far away from Harry as possible. As if it was him who was the threat.

She watched Harry’s face fall; his shoulders slump a little lower. It would not do. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, walked past Ron and Harry, and pushed her way down the middle of those ridiculous Ravenclaws.

Bloody Ministry.

Chapter Text

Draco walked along the third-floor corridor, far too early for Defence Against the Dark Arts. That morning he’d had Charms, then double Potions followed by Astronomy. He enjoyed sharing Charms with the Ravenclaws, it always made for good competition. Potions with the Gryffindors was always a laugh and, as usual, Snape didn’t disappoint. As for the Hufflepuffs? Draco didn’t really care for them, but Astronomy was an interesting subject. Now, DADA with the Gryffindors…? well, at least he would finally get a measure on that Umbridge woman.

He pushed open the large wooden doors of classroom 3C and walked in, knowing full well he’d be alone with the new professor.

“Mr. Malfoy…” she said in that overly sweet voice, “What a wonderful surprise.”

She stood from her desk and approached him slowly, scrutinising him. Draco felt oddly exposed under her gaze.

“My lord…” she whispered, “You are the spitting image of your father—”

Great. Just… great.

“—It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Draco chuckled nervously and shook the hand she’d offered. “Professor Umbridge, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”

The woman giggled. Giggled! Then released his hand.

“Welcome to my class. I hope your parents are well?” she asked, turning around and heading back to her desk. The click of her heels the only sound in the room.

Draco stood where he was, not wanting to follow her to the front of the classroom.

“They are well, thank you for asking. They send their best.”

Well… my father does.

“Mr Malfoy, come now, don’t be shy. Please sit, the first rows are always best for learning.”

Cornered, Draco obeyed. She pointed to the aisle bench of the left side front row. The one directly in front of her desk.

“Such wonderful people, your parents. I’ll make sure to write them and assure them you—” she said, squeezing his cheek, “—are in wonderful hands.”

“I am certain my father would appreciate a note from you, Professor Umbridge.”

There was no mistaking that glint in her eye. She knew exactly what Draco was talking about. Dolores Umbridge might seem like a loyal government employee, but her ambitions lay elsewhere.

“That’s wonderful to hear, dear. I do hope we can… help each other during this year.”

Draco smiled, and thanked all the gods when the door opened again. Umbridge stood in front of her desk, her hands clasped in front of her, staring at the students as they quietly walked into her classroom unsure on what to expect from her.

“Well, good afternoon!” she said once they were all seated.

Draco managed to croak out a good afternoon. His was one of only a few mumbled greetings.

“Tut, tut, that won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply, ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they repeated after her.

“There, now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Draco froze, his hand halfway to his book. He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Wands away? In DADA? He fisted his hands on top of his desk and only relaxed when Umbridge looked his way, as if asking him to set the example. Without making eye contact, he fisted his hand around the smooth hawthorn and wondered for a second whether he could curse her and get away with it. Dismissing the idea, he placed his wand inside his robes and pulled the brand-new book from his school bag.

Umbridge began writing on the board: ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts: A return to Basic Principles’.

A return to… BASIC PRINCIPLES?! We’re in fifth year you daft cow! That’s an insult to intellect.

And just like that it was clear to him the class wasn’t worth his time. He breathed a few times and counted to five.

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” she said, then continued droning about unapproved curriculums and the new objectives of the course. It all seemed so unbearably dull he honestly began considering cursing himself just to get away.

“I should like you to turn to page five and read ‘Chapter One, Basics for Begginers’. There will be no need to talk.”

Draco clenched his jaw and opened the book in the page she requested. It took him five seconds to see the book was a joke. So, he stopped reading.  Instead, he made notes on the margins of ideas he’d gotten during charms for some of his experiments. After a few minutes, Goyle elbowed him to look up. Granger, who was not only not reading but hadn’t even bothered opening the book, was staring at Umbridge, her hand in the air.   

Little by little the class’ attention turned from the dull book to Granger. Staring, even if it was at Granger, was far more interesting than all the nonsense in the book.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?” Umbridge asked, finally acknowledging the student.

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, we’re reading just now, if you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims.”

Is it: why are they so shit? Because that’s also MY query.

“And your name is?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”

“Well,” Granger said, imitating Umbridge’s tone, (which, alarmingly, he found rather funny) “I don’t. There’s nothing up there about using defensive spells.”

“Using defensive spells?” Apparently shock made Umbridge forget to fake her kind tone because the question came out more hostile than falsely sweet. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?”

Should he attack Granger? Just to make a point? Fun as it may be, it would also be rather suicidal.

“We’re not going to use magic?” Weasel exclaimed loudly.

Obviously. That’s the point, you moron.

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr—?”

“Weasley.”

Potter and Granger had their hands up immediately.

He looked over his shoulder and saw most of his classmates trying to hide their smiles. When he noticed Crabbe fidgeting in his seat, glaring at Granger, Draco elbowed him and shook his head when he got his attention. It was best to stay out of it. Even if it was purely for the entertainment value.

“Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?”

“Yes, surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

Or offensive…

Whispers filled the room at once. Evidently, the rest of the students agreed with her. Draco himself agreed with her. Not that he would ever say so aloud.

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?”

Pff, are you?

“No, but—” 

“Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide what ‘the whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you—”

Older? Definitely. Cleverer? That’s debata—whatever.

“—have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—” 

Potter almost jumped out of his seat before bursting, “What use is that? If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a—”

“Hand, Mr Potter!”

Draco smiled. Old habits die hard and, as much as he agreed with the Gryffindors in this particular matter, he also felt immensely happy whenever any of the trio was in even the slightest bit of trouble. He looked behind him again and knew all his classmates had understood the message.

Keep quiet and enjoy the show.

Dean was patiently waiting with his hand up while Hermione struggled to keep calm. Though she had expected some changes would come from having a Ministry employee for a teacher, she didn’t expect it to be so bad.

“And your name is?” asked Umbridge, finally acknowledging Dean.

“Dean Thomas.”

“Well, Mr Thomas?”

Dean shifted in his seat, “Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it? If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk free.”

Umbridge sighed. “I repeat. Are you expecting to be attacked during my classes?”

“No, but—”

“I do not wish to criticise the way things have been run in this school, but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed, not to mention—” she looked around the classroom before setting her eyes back on Dean, that malicious smile she wanted to pass as friendly never wavering. “Extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

“If you mean Professor Lupin, he was the best we ever—”

“Hand, Mr Thomas!”

Hermione could see Umbridge’s patience was beginning to wear thin. Under normal circumstances she would advise to stand down and find a different way to get what they wanted, but there was something about Umbridge that just made her want to see her snap.

“As I was saying—” Umbridge continued, “You have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—”

Enough!

“No we haven’t, we just—”

“Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!”

Without breaking eye contact, Hermione slowly lifted her hand.

Umbridge ignored her and continued, “It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you.”

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he? Mind you, we still learned loads.” Dean chirped.

Nearly all Gryffindors, and even some Slytherins, chuckled.

“Your hand is not up, Mr Thomas!”

Dolores Umbridge cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and readjusted her pink cardigan. “Now, it is the view of the ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which after all, is what school is about—And your name is?”

“Parvati Patil, and isn’t there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren’t we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions.”

ARE. YOU. KIDDING?!

“Without ever practising them beforehand? Are you telling us that the first time we’ll get to do the spells will be during our exam?” Parvati asked, horrified.

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—”

“And what good’s theory going to be in the real world?” Harry demanded, slapping both his hands on his desk.

Umbridge’s gaze zeroed in on Harry. She got out from behind her desk and began stalking towards his bench, her dead eyes alight with an evil glint.

“This is school, Mr Potter, not the real world.”

Harry didn’t look away, instead the defiant look in his face became more evident. “So we are not supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting for us out there?!”

“There is nothing waiting out there, Mr Potter!”

“Oh yeah?!”

Oh no...

“Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?”

“Hmm, let’s think… Maybe Lord Voldemort!”

Damn it, Harry.

As expected, gasps rang across the Gryffindor side. On the other side of the classroom, the Slytherins just shook their heads and smiled.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter.” Umbridge said, calmly. “Now, let me make a few things quite plain,” she continued, walking along the aisle, scrutinising the rest of the student’s faces, “You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—”

“He wasn’t dead, but yeah, he has returned!”

“Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself!” She straightened her hideous cardigan again and started walking back to her desk. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie! I saw him, I fought him!”

“Detention, Mr Potter! Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend.” She took a deep breath and placing both her hands over her desk looked around the room once more. “And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’”

Umbridge sat down to the sound of pages turning. Harry was radiating anger. Still glaring in their new professor’s direction. Having known him for so long, she could see the moment he made up his mind to continue pushing.

Worried, Hermione tried to grasp his sleeve to stop him from standing, “Harry, no!” she begged. But he shook her off and got up anyway.

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?”

The collective intake of breath was followed by a couple of seconds of deafening silence. Hermione focused on her friend. It was obvious he was in pain; he had witnessed murder, had escaped it himself. The Harry who left to complete the third task was not the same who returned. He never would be. Though it had worried her, it didn’t surprise her when Harry shut down afterwards.

His bold question to Umbridge was the first time he’d mentioned Cedric since his death.

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident.”

“It was murder! Voldemort killed him and you know it!”

A slight flare of her nostrils was the only sign Umbridge wasn’t as calm as she wanted to appear.

“Come here, Mr Potter, dear,” she whispered, then pulled a roll of pink parchment and wrote a few lines before closing it and giving it to Harry. “Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear. Everyone else, be so kind as to continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’”

Harry stuffed the parchment inside his robes, picked up his bag and stormed out of the room.

He had to give it to him, Potter was quite the entertainer. Always trust the-one-who-didn’t-die to lose his cool and make a scene. With him gone, the class went on without any more incidents. Neither house could wait to get out of the room. The Gryffindors hurried towards their tower while the Slytherins walked to the dungeons.

Malfoy took his time, slowed his pace to fall behind the rest of his classmates. Only Crabbe and Goyle walked by his side, and they seemed too preoccupied discussing what had happened and theorising on Potter’s punishment to bother him.

When they reached the entrance to the common room, Goyle walked in, but Crabbe pushed him aside, fisting his robes and pulling him into the shadows. 

“What the—What do you think you’re doing?” Draco seethed, pulling his wand from his robes.

“Why won’t you tell them?” Crabbe asked with a frown.

“What are you—”

“Why won’t you tell them about the Dark—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Draco interrupted, looking around nervously.

“You’re right. We should celebrate, they should know.”

Draco stared into his friend’s eyes and sneered, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, they—”

“They’d run their mouths off, just like you almost did yesterday and today. They’ll ruin the Dark Lord’s plans. Is that what you want? Be my guest. Me? I will follow orders and Keep. My mouth. Shut.”

“They wouldn’t tell.”

Not the least bit surprised Vincent would be that naïve, Draco laughed. “Are you really that stupid?”

Crabbe took a step forward, his own wand clutched in his fist. Draco, one step ahead, pointed his straight at Crabbe’s face.

“Do. Not.”

Crabbe looked furious, but didn’t move, only stared at the tip of the hawthorn wand.

“We have orders, Crabbe. Do you want me to tell you what happens to those who don’t follow orders?”

Crabbe finally met Draco’s eyes, “My father said—”

Don’t…

“Your father?” Draco laughed “He’s clearly not much of a strategist, is he? Everyone knows he’s just the muscle… much like you.”

The two Slytherin students stared at each other for a few seconds, Crabbe with his fists clenched by his side and a frown in his flushed face. Draco remained in an offensive stance that didn’t falter for a millisecond.

At last, Crabbe turned and stomped into the common room. Draco took a couple of seconds to get his bearings. It was the first time Vincent had stood up to him. He usually followed orders without question.

Draco held his wand tightly. Though he knew he could destroy Crabbe in a duel, without a wand his chances were greatly diminished. And Crabbe had caught him unaware.

“So…” came a voice from the shadows, making Draco jump back into a defensive stance. “Why haven’t you told them?”

Draco looked anxiously around as Theodore Nott stepped into the light.

“I silenced the space, I’m not an idiot,” he said in what could almost pass as a bored voice.

Without lowering his wand, Draco stared into the green eyes of his former childhood friend.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even to his ears it sounded stupid. Unfazed, Theo continued to stare, his own wand clasped tightly in his hand.

“Don’t play stupid with me, Draco. Don’t forget I heard your little squabble with Crabbe just now. You know I know. Just like I know you’ve seen.”

Draco could feel himself pale at the implication. Had Theo been introduced to the creature as well? He hadn’t bothered to consider the possibility other Death Eaters would also offer their offspring as tribute. It would seem Lucius Malfoy wasn’t the only one willing to go to such extremes to gain favour.

Theo was eyeing him carefully. Just as he’d done when they were six years old. Always so observant. Preferring to analyse his surroundings rather than voice his thoughts. A trait Draco now understood came from living with someone like Thaddeus Nott.

“If you know, then you also know we’re not supposed to talk about it.” Draco warned, much like he had Crabbe.

Theo tensed; a look of disappointment crossed his face before falling back into a blank stare.

“Of course. My bad,” he apologised, and turned to leave. As he was walking past Draco, he leaned into him and whispered: “We must make sure the Dark Lord gets whatever he wants, mustn’t we?” then disappeared around the corner.

Unsure what to think of the encounter, and hell bent on having at least a few normal months in the castle, Draco turned towards the common room.

As soon as he walked in, he found himself surrounded by the rest of his classmates.

“Spill, Draco,” Pansy said, standing right in his path, arms crossed, a defying look on her face.

“Spill what?” he replied, walking around her, shouldering his way towards his favourite armchair.

“The truth!” she continued, following him close behind, almost screaming in his ear, “Potter sounds quite sure the Dark Lord has returned, what aren’t you telling us?” 

“So now we believe everything Potter says, eh?” he asked, looking around the room, before ordering a third year to move out of his chair and sitting at last.

“I’m just saying, maybe your father hasn’t told you—”

“Don’t be daft, Pansy, big news like that, do you think they’d be able to keep it quiet?”

This seemed to create some doubt among the crowd, who agreed in whispers. He hoped they couldn’t hear the slight tremble of his voice. Or see the beads of sweat forming along his hairline.

“You know what else Potter said?” Draco continued, leaning forward, his eyes never leaving Pansy. “You were there. You heard. Apparently, not only is the Dark Lord back, but Potter fought him.” The disbelief in Draco’s voice was genuine. “Potter! Pansy. Do you honestly think if that had happened Potter would still be alive?”

Some just nodded, others voiced their agreement. Almost all laughed.

“Well…no—”

“Then stop asking stupid questions. If I hear anything regarding the Dark Lord, I promise I’ll let you all know.”

Feeling anxious, and not in the mood to field any more questions, he got up and rushed out of the common room, ignoring Pansy’s screams about curfew and house points.

He needed to think.

He needed to be in peace.

It took him almost a week to gather the courage to ask Snape to resume their private lessons. The elation he felt at having procured decent DADA classes for himself was short lived. He still had to comply with his father’s requests, continue attending Umbridge’s lessons, keep up with the rest of his classes and their respective schoolwork, quidditch, and now also Snape’s extracurricular.

Well done, Malfoy.

The fact that the highlight of his week had been to heckle Weasley and the rest of the Gryffindors at their first Quidditch practice was depressing. His firebolt was still in its travelling case under his bed, begging to be used. They’d been back barely two weeks and Draco was already feeling exhausted. For the first time in his life, he’d fallen behind on his homework. Which was why he’d been up since dawn, working in the library. If he managed to get a little ahead, he could squeeze an hour of flying that evening.

As the first rays of sunlight hit the windows, Draco finished writing the last sentence of the Arithmancy essay he had to present later that day. He packed his things and headed for breakfast.

It was far too early for Crabbe and Goyle to be up yet. Draco sat alone on one end of the table. Taking advantage of the relative solitude, he took his time with his full English and downed two cups of tea before feeling alive again.

The Great Hall grew fuller as the minutes ticked by. At precisely 8 o’clock, the flock of post owls flew into the hall, dropping letters and packages along their way. 

An owl he did not recognise dropped a small black envelope in front of him. Draco picked it up, wondering who could’ve sent it. He instantly recognised the neat ornate handwriting.

It was a letter from his mother.

He looked at the owl who’d delivered it. It was definitely not one of theirs. Draco gave the small creature a piece of bacon before it flew away.

He traced the golden M at the front of the envelope with the tip of his finger before opening it and retrieving the letter inside. It was hastily written. The dread he’d so far managed to keep at bay started rising again as he read further down.

My darling Dragon,

I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to write. Please understand, the moment you stepped onto the train I started missing you, so I promised myself I would wait a little before contacting you, my darling, since I know how important this year is. This message will probably find you horribly busy with your schoolwork. This year… It’s serious, my darling. Your future depends on it. I’m afraid the OWLs define your prospects after school. I know you don’t need me to repeat it. You are a dedicated student, I trust you’ll do marvellously.

Love, being your mum has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ve watched you grow from a wonderfully curious little boy into a strong dedicated man with the utmost fascination, it has been the greatest joy of my life. I trust you know how much I love you. For no other reason than you being yourself. We’re one in the same, my darling Dragon.

Be safe, my love. Maybe hide this letter? I have a feeling it might be embarrassing if one of your friends reads it.

It’s time to go. I wish I could write more often, but sometimes things don’t go as we plan them.

Pay attention Draco, the first two months might seem like the toughest, but that is only true for the first term. It is the second half of the second term that’s most troublesome. Let us hope you find your rhythm quickly, so everything flows better, and you’ll understand everything you need to know.

I will always be here for you.   

All my love,

Mum.

P.S. Please feel free to write should you need anything. I know sometimes you wish there were more books in that library.

When he finished reading his mother’s words, Draco was confused. It was a most unusual letter for Narcissa to have written. So erratic. On the surface it seemed like an overly sappy letter from a mother missing her child. Which was what made it so suspicious. It wasn’t like Narcissa to write something like that. Deep down he wanted to believe that was all it was. However, he felt like he was missing something.

He read the last paragraph again. It was so odd and nonsensical. He was sure there was more to it.

Pay attention Draco… and you’ll understand…

Draco almost jumped out of his seat when Crabbe dropped his schoolbag and plonked down beside him. He hastily folded the letter and stuffed it inside his robes along with the envelope.

“Malfoy.” Crabbe said, reaching for a couple of slices of toast.

“Vincent.”

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at his robes with the sausage he had in his fork.

“Mother wrote me a note.”

Crabbe hummed and bit into his sausage. “Good news?”

Draco glanced at Vincent. He’d never been particularly interested in Draco’s correspondence with his parents. The questions seemed friendly enough, but something struck him as odd.

You’re being paranoid.

“No. Mostly warning me to keep up with schoolwork and shit. Asking if I need books. She doesn’t—she’s not involved.”

“Right,” he answered, digging his fork into the stack of fried eggs on his plate, “Of course.”

With Crabbe’s attention fully on his breakfast Draco relaxed somewhat. Why was he doubting his friends? Sure, he’d had that slight misunderstanding with Crabbe the other day, but they were friends.

“Hiya Draco, Vincent,” Goyle greeted them cheerfully as he pulled the large baked beans bowl closer to himself.

“Morning, Greg.” Draco answered.

Suddenly with nothing to do but watch his friends eat, Draco gathered his things and got up the table.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the library.”

“Woo arrk oo ard.” Crabbe mumbled; his mouth too full to utter fully formed words.

Draco—who was used to his friend speaking with a full mouth but was no less disgusted—understood perfectly. Crabbed seemed to think he worked too hard.

“Some of us strive for academic excellence.”

“Right… you know? Maybe this year you’ll finally catch up with the mudblood. Maybe fifth time’s the charm, eh?”

Crabbe and Goyle both chuckled. Draco wasn’t ready for that kind of insolence. He was used to the pair’s more compliant—almost deferential—disposition.

“Shut up,” he snapped, and left the Great Hall with a sour taste in his mouth.

He didn’t like Crabbe’s new attitude. He didn’t like his mother’s erratic letter. Something was wrong and it was making him uneasy. Draco Malfoy did not like feeling not in control.

Pay attention Draco… and you’ll understand…

Eager to take a closer look to his mother’s message, Draco rushed to the library. Straight to his favourite table, the one tucked behind the shelf of arithmancy books and forgotten ancient parchments at the far-right corner of the library. He pulled out the now wrinkled letter and placed it over the wooden surface.

He read the last paragraph again and again until an idea popped into his head. If he assumed she wasn’t talking about his fifth year—which was safe to say she wasn’t—then all references to it were of no importance.

The first two… only true for the first.

He scanned the first paragraph. The first two… letters?... No. Words? The first two words… of each sentence?

He read only the first two words of each sentence in the first paragraph, dread slowly flooding his senses. He then read the second paragraph following the same rule, but it didn’t make sense, so he went back to the clue.

The second half of the second…

The second half of the second term? What could that possibly mean? The second part of the paragraph? The second half of the sentence?

The second word…

His ears started ringing, he could feel his heart racing inside his chest as he reread the first paragraph, then slowly picked the second word of each sentence in the second.

I’m sorry. Please understand. This message. This year. It’s serious. Your future. I’m afraid. I know. You are… Being. Watched.

Draco felt his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. His fingers trembled as his eyes followed the text until they reached the next words.

Trust.

No.

One.

His breathing became uneasy. The light-headedness forced him to cling to the edge of the table. He stared at the parchment again, wearily expecting it to attack him. Why was someone observing him? What could they possibly gain from him? Surely his father didn’t doubt him. He couldn’t. He’d been so careful.

Were they watching in that moment?

Draco looked around, careful not to look overly suspicious. There was no one beside himself in that area of the library. He reread the letter again and again. Almost making himself sick with worry. Was the shape of that letter a sign? Did it mean his mother was in immediate danger? Had she purposefully made her y’s pointier to send him a message? Was it a cry for help?

You’re being ridiculous.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath. With only an hour before his first class of the day, he needed to use the time wisely instead of sitting there like a spooked idiot. Draco chuckled. Surely his mother was only being cautious. She’d always known how to make him fall in line. She was probably exaggerating the threat. After all, his father was in good standing with the Dark Lord. He was his right hand. As long as he remained in his good graces, they’d be fine.

The lies he repeated in an effort to convince himself were truths soon had his hands stop shaking and his breathing return to normal. Draco carefully folded his mother’s letter and tucked it at the bottom of his bag.

He’d destroy it later.

Fully intending to immerse himself in work, he pulled his half-finished DADA essay on various uses and functions of the hex-deflection spell. Snape’s latest request. He could swear the sourly professor was trying to get him to quit the class by overloading him with homework. They were already halfway through the year’s usual book—not the aberration Umbridge had them reading for two hours a week.

Ignore it and it will go away.

Much like he’d been doing for almost a year, Draco pushed all his worry and fear to the back of his mind where he hoped it would soon be forgotten for good.

Chapter Text

The day of the Hog’s Head meeting came sooner than Hermione expected. She’d been making inquiries amongst trusted classmates to see if Harry could count on more students than just Ron and her. It was a nice surprise to see how many people were willing to put in the extra work, though she suspected more than a few only wanted to see whether or not Harry really was insane.

Hermione walked towards the entrance and gave her permission slip to Filch, then waited for the boys just past the doorway. Ron and Harry came down not long after. To her horror—and disgust—as Harry was walking past Filch, the man leaned a bit forward and inhaled deeply. Harry remained nonplussed. He kept walking beside Ron as if nothing strange had happened.

“Er—why was Filch sniffing you?” Ron asked as soon as they were out of hearing range.

“I suppose he was checking for the smell of Dungbombs,” Harry answered with a laugh, “I forgot to tell you. The other day I was sending the letter for Snuffles, Filch came busting in moments after it’d gone. Demanded I show him the letter, said someone tipped him off I was trying to order dungbombs or something.”

Harry and Ron laughed. Hermione did not. How could Filch know when Harry was sending the letter? “He said he was tipped off you were ordering dungbombs? But who tipped him off?” she asked.

“I dunno,” Harry said with a shrug, “Maybe Malfoy, he’d think it was a laugh.”

“Malfoy?” she wondered aloud as they passed between the winged boars guarding Hogwarts’s entrance. “Well… maybe—”

A thought crossed her mind, and she stopped in her tracks. Harry and Ron kept walking, too engrossed by their Quidditch argument. What an idiot she’d been. So wrapped up in her own thoughts she’d completely forgotten to tell them about Malfoy being at Gringotts the last day of summer. Finally noticing she’d fallen behind, she hurried to catch up and pulled their sleeves to get them off the pathway just before they turned left into the village’s road, which was filled with students making their way to Hogsmeade.  

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron complained when he tripped on a rock and almost fell.

Ignoring his complaint, Hermione looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I forgot to tell you…” she whispered.

“What?” the boys asked in unison, both clearly irritated.

“The last day of summer, when I went to Diagon Alley, I saw Malfoy.”

“My condolences,” Ron quipped, a scowl still etched on his face.

“Relax, Ronald, I didn’t even pull you that hard. I saw Malfoy and—” she stopped and waited until a group of Ravenclaws walked past them, then pulled them closer and recounted what she’d seen at Flourish and Blotts and after.

“You followed him on your own? Are you mad?” Ron asked, his voice going up, bordering shrill.

“No one saw me, and I think he was far more preoccupied about being followed by someone else, otherwise he would’ve seen me. I was sure he had a couple of times, but he just kept going, so I suppose he didn’t.” She waved a hand dismissively at Harry and Ron’s horrified faces, “I knew what I was doing.”

“Reading Sherlock Holmes a few times does not automatically make you a detective Hermione! What if he was meeting one of them?” Harry scolded, his green eyes flashing with concern.

“Sher—who?” Ron asked.

“Never mind,” she said, ignoring Ron’s confused look, “I’m telling you. He was completely alone and really worried as he went into Gringotts. When he came out, he looked relieved. Something happened in there.”

Harry glared at Hermione for a few seconds then sighed in defeat. “Whatever he was doing in there must have something to do with his father.”

“Probably sent him on some sort of mission for You Know Who he didn’t want his wife knowing,” Ron added, shaking his head, “Why else would he hide it from his mum?”

“Why was he so paranoid about being followed though?” Hermione asked, remembering Malfoy’s twitchy movements and constant looking around.

“Dunno,” Ron shrugged, “Maybe thought his mum was onto him.” 

Now that she’d said it aloud, Hermione wasn’t so sure. Something didn’t fit. Though it was in line with everything they knew about Draco Malfoy, that theory didn’t sit well with her.

“I think we should be careful,” Harry whispered, “the Slytherins are the only contact Voldemort has with Hogwarts.”

“That we know of,” Ron said, “we had a Death Eater among us all year last year didn’t we? We all thought it was just Moody here all the time.”

“I doubt Dumbledore would let that happen again,” Hermione said. Neither seemed too reassured by her words.

Ron suddenly started laughing. “Doubt Crabbe or Goyle would be of much use though,” he managed to say, shaking his head towards the castle entrance where Crabbe was helping Goyle get up from the ground where he’d fallen seconds before, after tripping on a sticking tree root.

“We should go,” Hermione chuckled, tugging at their sleeves gently, “they will be here soon. I’m really not in the mood to bump into Malfoy.”

“Is anyone ever in the mood to bump into Malfoy?” Harry asked with a mocking smile.

The three laughed and continued joking as they made their way to the Hog’s Head, ready to convince some of their classmates to let Harry Potter teach them Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Later that day, Draco ran up the marble staircase two steps at a time. He rushed along the first-floor corridor and up the staircase to the second floor determined to share what he’d just seen with the school’s newest professor.

It wasn’t until he stood outside Umbridge’s office that he wavered. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen was relevant. Granted, no one ever went to that decrepit pub, so the sudden influx of students was suspicious. Why else would the stupid trio decide to gather there with all their feckless friends instead of the Three Broomsticks?

The note he’d received from his father the day before came to mind. A simple three-word message:

‘Make yourself useful’

If someone was truly watching him, it was best for them to see him follow his father’s orders. This could be a start. Something was going on in that place. Didn’t matter if he wasn’t sure what exactly. Though it was very little information, Umbridge could investigate herself if she wanted to know more.

He knocked twice and waited.

With Umbridge’s permission, he walked into her office. The first thing that hit him was the smell. He imagined if the colour pink had a specific smell, that’s what it would be. Like a blend of the most intense, foul potpourri mixed with a thousand decaying flowers that shouldn’t ever be smelled together. Perhaps he was instantly making a connection because a hideous shade of the colour now covered the walls and horrid—also pink—lace curtains hung by the windows. The most disturbing detail of the room was the wall covered floor to ceiling with decorative plates, each one with a different kitten on it.

Draco had been in that office once before, when he went to ask something from that idiot Lockhart. Then, he’d thought the office was horrible, covered with the wizard’s own merchandise. Somehow Umbridge managed to make it even worse.  

“Mr Malfoy,” Umbridge said putting down her quill, a genuine look of surprise on her face. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time, Professor?”

“Why, of course. Tell me, how can I help you?” she asked, pointing to the seat in front of her.

Draco sat in the gaudy dark pink chair and smiled. “Actually, professor, I think it is I who should be asking how I can help you.”

Umbridge leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “Is that so?”

Draco gave a slight nod. Umbridge scrutinised him for a few moments. Seemingly reaching a conclusion, her look of suspicion disappeared and she relaxed.

“Would you like some tea, dear?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay long, Professor, I have a previous commitment, but thank you. I just wanted to tell you about today’s Hogsmeade trip,” he said, pausing to assess her reaction. “You see, I happened to see a few students… sneaking around. The kind of students you don’t want plotting together, if you catch my drift.”

Though she’d barely moved, the change was undeniable. What had so far been a relatively friendly smile turned into something wicked.

“Thank you for coming straight to me, Mr Malfoy. You’re doing your school a great service.”

“Happy to help,” he lied. “I won’t keep you much longer I—”

“Mr Malfoy?”

Draco stopped, halfway out of the chair. “Yes?”

“If you happen to see anything else, do not hesitate to come to me. I will make sure all problems are properly dealt with.”

He wondered what that meant. Not that he cared what happened to the transgressors, he was just curious about her methods. So long as the woman was on his side, he had nothing to worry about.

“Of course, professor. It’s about time someone put this school in order.”

She laughed. A silly, shrill sound that made Draco’s skin crawl. He truly hated that woman.

“Yes… come to my office tomorrow first hour. I’ll have something you’ll need. Quid pro quo, Mr Malfoy. You’ll understand tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Thank you? For what?

Draco nodded and left before she could stall him longer. As he walked to the common room, he saw the first students coming back from the village. The sun would go down soon, and they were expected back for dinner. His appetite gone, he got his broom from his dormitory and headed to the Quidditch pitch.

He needed to fly.

BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

All student organisations, societies, teams, groups and clubs are henceforth disbanded.

An organisation, society, team, group or club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students…

Hermione crumpled the poster and huffed. It could not be a coincidence. Someone had seen them.

“Someone must have blabbed to her!” Ron seethed.

“They can’t have done,” she said matter-of-factly, thinking back to the meeting, trying to remember if she’d seen someone suspicious on their way there or back.

“You’re so naive, you think just because you’re all honourable and trustworthy—”

“No,” she interrupted Ron, rolling her eyes, “They can’t have done because I put a jinx on that piece of parchment we all signed.” She continued down the stairs into the common room. “Believe me, if anyone’s run off and told Umbridge, we’ll know exactly who they are and they will regret it.”

“What’ll happen to them?”

“Well, put it this way, it’ll make Eloise Midgeon’s acne look like a couple of cute freckles.”

Deep down—really, really deep—she knew she shouldn’t be so proud of her plan. She’d made her friends sign a jinxed parchment. The least she could’ve done was warn them. However, in light of the recent development she couldn’t bother with guilt. She was glad she had.

“Come on,” she turned to the boys, urging them towards the portrait, “Let’s get down to breakfast and see what the others think… I wonder whether this has been put up in all the houses?”

As they walked into the Great Hall, it became apparent the same poster had been placed in all Houses. She chanced a look at the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy—looking far too pleased with himself—was holding court, bragging about having the Slytherin Quidditch team reinstated. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed Harry and Ron to their table.

Once he’d made sure all the other Houses had heard the Slytherin Quidditch team was back on, Draco sat on his usual spot to have breakfast.

“So...” started Daphne as she sat down across from him. “The Slytherin team is a go then? Why did the old hag break up teams anyway?” she asked as she added a splash of milk to her tea.

“I suppose she’s trying to control who gets to congregate,” he answered, glancing towards the Gryffindor table.

“I hope she denies Gryffindor’s permit,” Pansy said, looking over her shoulder at the group of Gryffindor players arguing loudly about the state of their team.

“I hope she gives it to them,” Draco replied, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice, “Have you seen Weasley play? We’ll destroy them.”

“At least she’s allowed our team to practice,” she added, looking over Draco’s shoulder and waving. 

“Good timing also,” said Montague, their new Quidditch captain, as he sat next to Draco. “We need to train with our new beaters.”

“Found new beaters? Who?” Draco asked, confused. He hadn’t even known they’d had try-outs.

Montague gave him a confused look. Before he could say anything, someone coming from behind clapped Draco’s back.

“That’d be us, mate,” Goyle said with a smile.

“You?” scoffed Draco, turning to Montague, “You’re serious?”

The Slytherin captain shrugged. “They’re brutal.”

“Yeah mate, we can fly, and beater’s a fun position to play,” Goyle chirped.

“Can’t let you have all the fun, eh?” Crabbe added slapping his shoulder and almost making him spill his tea.

Draco glared at his friend. “Right…”

His mother’s words played in his mind, Pay attention Draco…

“Anyway. You still in Malfoy?” Montague asked before downing his coffee.

Was he in? Who was he kidding, he loved Quidditch. They could put Pansy in the fucking team, and he would still want to play.

“Of course.”

Montague swallowed the last of his toast and downed his juice. “Good. Training at five today. Do not be late.”

“Have I ever?”

Montague laughed, got out of his seat, and left.

“This year’s gonna be fun!” Crabbe said with his mouth half full, his eyes on Draco.

Keeping his face neutral, Draco sipped from his cup.

Maybe hide this letter?

If one of your friends reads it…

But, if he couldn’t trust his friends, who could he trust?

Trust. No. One.

Hermione was reeling from the twins’ recklessness. First, she couldn’t believe people would routinely choose to disregard their education, even going so far as to use such ridiculous tactics just to skive off lessons. Second, she was absolutely furious with Ronald for avoiding the responsibility that came with being a prefect every time he had a chance. If she had been a bit unsure he was worthy of the post before, she was now fully convinced he wasn’t.

That’s not fair, Hermione.

“Sirius!” Harry said, startling her out of her unkind thoughts.

She turned to the fire, where Sirius’s head was sitting again. Only this time he was grinning.

“Hi,” Sirius said, as the three young Gryffindors knelt by the hearth.

“Hi.” They answered in unison.

“How’re things?”

Harry sighed. “Not that good,” he said truthfully, running his hand through his perennially messy hair. “The ministry’s forced through another decree which means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams—”

“Or secret Defence Against the Dark Arts groups?”

The trio gasped.

“How did you know about that?” Harry whispered.

“You want to choose your meeting places more carefully,” Sirius said, his impossibly wide grin somehow widening more. “The Hog’s Head, I ask you.”

“Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!” Hermione said, a touch too defensively. “That’s always packed with people—”

“Which means you’d have been harder to overhear. You’ve got a lot to learn, Hermione.”

Hermione frowned. She didn’t think Sirius was right. What they’d been doing required secrecy. It was impossible to hide in a crowd when they’d already been one.

“Who overheard us?” Harry asked, leaning a bit closer to the fire.

“Mundungus, of course. He was the witch under the veil.”

Hermione tried to recall all the patrons inside the pub, she couldn’t remember seeing a witch under a veil. She hadn’t been paying enough attention.

So, you did make a mistake…

“That was Mundungus?” Harry asked, clearly stunned. “What was he doing in the Hog’s Head?”

Watching you, obviously.

“What do you think he was doing? Keeping an eye on you, of course,” Sirius said, confirming Hermione’s theory.

“I’m still being followed?”

Harry’s deep displeasure at the news was evident. He crossed his arms petulantly and looked away.

“Yeah, you are,” Sirius said, his tone a tad sterner, clearly picking on Harry’s sudden change in mood. “And just as well, isn’t it? If the first thing you’re going to do on your weekend off is organise an illegal defence group.”

Hermione shook her head. For a split second she thought Sirius would tell them off. They had done something incredibly irresponsible—though necessary. However, despite the tone of his voice, Sirius did not look angry. He looked immensely proud.

“Why was Dung hiding from us? We’d’ve liked to’ve seen him.”

Ron sounded disappointed. Hermione, on the other hand, felt glad Mundungus had remained hidden.  The last thing she needed was to have someone like Mundungus disrupting her carefully planned meeting.

“He was banned from the Hog’s Head twenty years ago, and that barman’s got a long memory,” Sirius answered with a chuckle. “We lost Moody’s spare invisibility cloak when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung’s been dressing as a witch a lot lately… anyway—”

“Sirius?” Hermione interrupted.

Suddenly realising she had the unique opportunity to ask something that had been bothering her for days, she decided to take a chance. Though it wasn’t what had been occupying most of her thoughts, it was still something that annoyed her. And right now, she couldn’t think of someone better to ask.

“Yeah?” He turned to her, as much as he could in his fire form. Suddenly serious, she could tell the older wizard was now giving her his full attention.

“I—I… uh… I wondered if you could tell us… ahm… what you think about Narcissa… Malfoy.”

Sirius stared at her for a few beats. She figured he was shocked. It was probably the last question he expected from her.

“Cissy?” he finally asked. “You want to know what I think about Narcissa? Why?”

“Well...” she hesitated, thinking if it was a good idea to tell Sirius the whole story. She had already asked her question so she figured she couldn’t backtrack now. “I…uh… when I went to Diagon over the summer, I saw Malfoy. He was acting a bit strange… more suspicious than usual.”

Sirius got a forlorn look. Just as quickly as he got it, it was gone. He turned again towards Hermione. “Suspicious how?”

Hermione recanted the Gringotts story one more time for Sirius, who listened attentively, his frown deepening by the second.

“I think he was hiding something from his mother,” she added, suddenly feeling a bit anxious. “We don’t know why that could be. I always assumed they were all in with You Know Who—”

“Oh, trust me, they are. Don’t doubt that. She fully agrees with their ideals.”

“Then why hide whatever he was doing from her? We figured he was working for his father—”

Sirius chuckled. “Listen, one thing you need to know about Narcissa is that you should never, ever, underestimate her.”

The trio shifted in their seats. None would say it aloud, but they had all dismissed Malfoy’s mother as just the submissive wife of the evil Death Eater.

Sirius scoffed. “She acts like the proper upper-class pureblood wife whose life revolves around planning parties and obeying her husband—” he lifted a hand to stop Hermione from arguing. “Not saying I agree with the stereotype. My point is, it’s all an act. Cissy’s as cunning and ruthless as her husband. Perhaps even more dangerous since people tend to underestimate her.” He finished giving them a knowing look.

“So, what? you’re saying Malfoy couldn’t possibly hide anything from her?” Hermione asked, her scepticism making her sound almost angry.

“No, I’m saying it’s far more likely—” Sirius broke off, looking around, alarmed.

“Sirius?” Harry asked, sounding fearful. When Sirius disappeared, Hermione had to pull him back to stop him from diving headlong into the flames.

“Why did he—?”

The trio jumped back and stifled a scream when a hand appeared from within the flames, narrowly missing Harry’s hair as it groped around. Like it was trying to catch hold of something.

They jumped to their feet and ran towards their dormitories. Hermione didn’t stop until she was safely under the covers of her four-poster bed, the curtains drawn. With the covers up to her eyes, she took several deep breaths until her heart returned to a normal rhythm. Once the initial shock began to fade, a clearer image of what had happened emerged. One thing became evident.

Umbridge had been reading Harry’s mail.

Hermione barely slept at all, she kept playing the moment Umbridge’s plump, bejewelled hand reached from into the fireplace and almost caught Sirius and Harry. How could she do that? It was an outrageous invasion of privacy. She knew something was going on when Harry had told them about Filch and the dungbombs. No way Malfoy would execute a prank he wouldn’t see the result of.

Malfoy.

She didn’t get an answer from Sirius about Narcissa Malfoy either. The whole thing was infuriating. Not that she blamed him. It had not been his fault. It was all that vicious, meddlesome hag’s fault. Hermione truly hated that woman. And she never used that word lightly.

After telling Harry about her theory during Charms, she stood in the hallway staring out the window, waiting for Harry and Ron to finish talking to Angelina about Quidditch. She tried, truly, but whenever the subject came up, she zoned out. She wondered how they planned to play in such foul and rainy weather. It was one of the things that she disliked about Quidditch—besides the obvious mortal danger. Looking at the dark ominous clouds she wondered why anyone would choose to go out, much less fly, on such a horrid day. As the thought crossed her mind, she thought she saw someone in the sky but… surely not? It was so early and cold, and it was raining and—

“Hermione!”

She jumped back, almost losing her footing. Thankfully Harry was there to hold her. “What?” she asked.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “You seem off.”

“Were you thinking about Sirius?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No—well… not exactly.” Not at all “I was just…” Thinking about how terrible Quidditch is… “Never mind.” She saw their protest at her dismissiveness before it even left their mouths. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing? You know… with DADA,” she said, lowering her voice.

Harry frowned, clenching his jaw. “Hermione… it was your idea.”

“I know! It’s just… I don’t know.” How eloquent Hermione. “Don’t mind me. I’m overthinking it.”

“Shocking.” Ron mumbled as he stuck the alarmingly short parchment he’d used for his Charms notes into his bag. She was horrified to notice it was the same he’d used on their last lesson.

Hermione was about to retort when she saw Harry wince in anticipation. She’d been arguing with Ron more than usual. And it was Harry who had to witness it all. She couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must be, so she swallowed the scathing comment already on the tip of her tongue, and followed them to their next class.

After their last lesson of the day, Harry and Ron were off to Quidditch practice and she was headed to the library.

Time on her own allowed her to process things. It was when she could discuss her ideas with herself. Admittedly, she would much rather do it with someone else and get a different point of view. Unfortunately, she only had herself since Harry and Ron preferred to just blindly agree with everything she said.

It was fun at first, and she was flattered, but as time went by, she really wanted someone to debate with. Someone to overthink with. It was easier to make mistakes if you didn’t see a problem from every angle.

You’re being ridiculous.

Hermione hurried along the second-floor corridor and reached the stairs that left her closer to the library seconds before they moved. As she reached the first floor, she saw a group of fifth year Slytherins come from the opposite side of the corridor, heading in the same direction as her. Led by Pansy Parkinson.

Not in the mood for confrontation, Hermione was about to turn and go to the common room when she saw a flash of white hair break from the group and hide behind an armour.

Malfoy?

She in turn hid behind a pillar, waiting to see what the blond would do. Malfoy watched the group go inside the library and then went back where they’d come from. Hermione decided to follow.

With a deep sense of déjà vu, she followed him at a distance. This time Malfoy didn’t seem on edge. He walked resolutely; not once did he look back to check if he was being followed. Either he was extremely confident or tremendously stupid. Somehow, she didn’t think it was the latter.

Malfoy started going up to the third floor, so Hermione waited, watching him from behind a statue beside the portrait of Basil Fronsac. The blond Slytherin only turned when he reached the 3^rd floor. After a quick scan of his surroundings, he continued. Hermione hurried up the stairs, afraid she might lose him.

Only until she reached the top of the stairs it hit her. It was the forbidden corridor from first year. A bit winded, she looked left and right and barely caught a glimpse of him entering one of the unused classrooms. The one next to the room where Fluffy had once resided.

Wearily, she approached the door. She didn’t think Draco Malfoy could possibly harm her inside Hogwarts—or anywhere else for that matter—but she needed to be careful if she wanted to figure out what he was doing.

The door was no different from the rest in the same corridor. She leaned closer but couldn’t hear anything. Pulling her wand from her robes, she pointed it at the lock.

“Alohomora,” she whispered, causing another feeling of déjà vu. Except, this time the door did not open. She tried again, unsuccessfully. If she couldn’t hear what was happening inside, and couldn’t get into the room, how could she know what he was doing? Or who he was with?

Who he’s with… the Marauder’s map!

Excitement overflowing her senses at that sudden burst of genius, Hermione rushed to Gryffindor tower and went straight to the boys’ dormitories. To her immense luck no one was around to question her entering the wrong dorm room.  

She knelt beside Harry’s trunk. Her hand hovering over it, hesitating. Harry would surely forgive her. At the bottom of the trunk, underneath the invisibility cloak, was the old, folded parchment that contained the most perfect map of Hogwarts possibly ever created.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Hermione whispered, and the familiar lines of the castle’s hallways and passageways appeared on the previously blank paper.

Not wasting any time, she located the third corridor and looked for two dots with Malfoy’s name under. Sure enough, there it was: D. Malfoy, in the same classroom she’d seen him enter only minutes before (Had it really only been minutes?). Hermione’s breath caught in her throat when she saw who was with him.

S. Snape.

It was just the two of them in the room. What could they possibly be doing? As Hogwarts professor, Snape had his own office. There was no need to summon Malfoy to an abandoned classroom unless… maybe he was being tutored? Impossible. Malfoy was second in their year. He didn’t need tutoring.

Maybe that’s how he’s second. Tutoring.

No. They were up to something. But… what?

She watched the two sets of footprints for a couple of minutes, a heavy weight settling in her stomach. Though she had spent most of the summer trying to convince Harry and Ron to stop being disrespectful and trust Snape was on their side, she wasn’t quite sure if she trusted him. The potions master was impossible to read. Plus—to her consternation—it quickly became evident to her she was the sort of petty person who let the bitter memory of all the humiliation suffered at his hand colour her judgement.

Her only comfort was she wasn’t alone in her mistrust. Bill Weasley had confided he didn’t trust him either, but refrained from saying anything to prevent animosity inside Grimmauld Place.

Hermione leaned on Harry’s bed as she watched Snape pacing along the classroom while Malfoy remained glued to his place. Whatever they were doing could not be anything good if it required for the room to be silenced and warded. She sat in silence until the light from outside was no longer enough to see the map properly without the help of her wand. Annoyed that she now had more questions than before, Hermione pointed her wand at the at the parchment again and whispered: “Mischief managed.”

After folding the parchment, she put it back where she’d found it, despite being disappointed at Harry’s carelessness with the security of such a valuable possession. Glimpsing at her watch, she sighed. She still hadn’t finished her tasks for the day, there was so much yet to do. She hadn’t knitted any hats in a week, needed to figure out their study plan for their DADA group and she also had homework to do.

Frustrated by her failed attempt to find out what Malfoy was plotting Hermione headed to the library.

“Mr. Malfoy.” Came the deep drawl of the head of Slytherin as he walked into the empty third floor classroom.

“Sir.” Draco greeted politely and handed him the nine-inch essay on Pixies he’d hastily written the night before.

He’d been careless with his time management and had almost forgotten to write it. Snape pocketed it then turned to the blackboard. With a flick of his wand, words began appearing on the dark surface. They would finally begin with spells.

Draco pulled the book Snape had requested and opened it on the correct page. He took notes as he listened to Professor Snape’s long explanation on the various types of protection spells and their theoretical application.

“I assume you read the material?” Snape asked, his face blank.

“Yes sir.”

“Go on.”

Snape listened intently as Draco recited his—sadly, insufficient—research. When he finished, the professor took a few seconds before addressing him.

“Is that all?”

“I—”

“Tell me what you learned on the hex-deflection spell,” he ordered, and began pacing the front of the room.

“Salvio Hexia… It can be used to deflect hexes—”

“You don’t say…” The sarcasm was impossible to ignore.

“—And to protect areas from harm.”

Snape stopped. “Can you think of any other such spells? This is, after all, Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Draco hesitated a few moments. The hex-deflection spell was the only one of its kind in Snape’s syllabus. He had read more about protective spells when he’d been imprisoned in his own bedroom over the summer. Even dark spells which could be used as protection.

“Well, there’s Protego Maxima… and uh… Fianto Duri.”

Snape watched intently. Draco fought against the need to squirm in his seat under the intensity of his gaze. The professor gave him a slight, encouraging nod and Draco continued.

“Also… Repello Inimicum. Those can be conjured together and become almost impregnable.”

“Anything else?”

Draco racked his brain, thinking of the book where he’d read about those spells.

“Protego horribilis…” he whispered as a memory surfaced.

Snape hummed in approval. “What if I wanted to be concealed?” he asked an instant later.

“Cave inmicum, or… well a disillusionment charm—”

“And if I wanted a conversation to remain private?”

“An imperturbable charm, or—”

“Are you capable of casting any of those spells successfully?”

Draco opened his mouth but no sound came out. The lie was on the tip of his tongue, but he thought better of it. If he lied, he’d only be fooling himself. Despite having read about them, he’d never actually tried to cast them. Even after he’d returned to Hogwarts and was allowed to use his wand, he’d just… forgotten.

“Theory, can only get you so far, Mr Malfoy.”

“I know sir.”

Snape examined him closely, his face betraying no emotion. Draco felt his stomach clench. He was sure Snape was about to put a stop to the extra DADA lessons.

“Why do you want our lessons to continue?” the professor asked instead.

Caught off guard, Draco struggled to come up with an answer. “I wanted to learn how to—”

Survive.

“I just… want to learn proper Defence Against the Dark Arts sir,” he said, which was partly true. “Professor Umbridge is not teaching anything we’re supposed to know if—if we want to have a good future.”

Or any future.

Severus continued watching the youngest Malfoy carefully. He wasn’t sure yet what Draco’s purpose was. Perhaps he truly only wanted to learn. Merlin knew Umbridge was teaching nothing that could remotely be called Defence Against the Dark Arts. However, the boy’s obvious distress when he’d asked why he wanted their lessons to continue was suspicious.

“In that case, our next lessons will take place someplace else. Perhaps at a later hour. I will let you know once I’ve made the arrangements.”

Draco nodded, then dipped his quill in ink as Snape continued his lecture as if it hadn’t been interrupted.

Hermione woke up with a start, her face numb where it’d been pressed against the book she had been reading. The library was now shrouded in darkness. One glimpse at her watch told her it was nearly midnight. She yawned and stretched, her neck cracking after being in such an uncomfortable position for so long.

The forgotten table behind the Arithmancy shelf at the back of the library was well hidden and rarely used. It’s where she studied whenever she wanted to avoid being seen. It appeared it worked perfectly as no one had disturbed her even though the library had been closed for hours.

Silencing her footsteps, Hermione creeped out of the library, praying neither Filch nor Mrs Norris were close. Next time she should ask Harry to borrow his invisibility cloak. Somehow—perhaps a sudden burst of pure luck—Hermione reached the tower without being seen.

She opened the portrait as quietly as she could, stopping when she heard voices in the common room, and the faint hoot of an owl.  

“…Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir,” said the unmistakable voice of Dobby the elf.

“Thanks Dobby!” answered a voice she would recognise anywhere. Harry. “Er… have you been taking all the clothes Hermione’s been leaving out?”

Hermione, who had been just about to join them in the common room, froze. When she noticed the hats she’d been knitting were disappearing constantly she’d felt so proud, she didn’t think…

“Oh, no, sir—”  

Thank god.

“—Dobby has been taking some for Winky, too, sir.” Dobby’s previously cheery voice turned sorrowful.

“Yeah, how is Winky?”

“Winky is still drinking lots, sir,” said Dobby, toying nervously with the hem of his pillowcase, “She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore—not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir—”

Dobby has been cleaning the entire tower by himself?

Hermione felt nauseous. Malfoy’s pompous voice, clear as day inside her head: ‘Am I to understand you spoke to one elf and suddenly you understand centuries of relationship between two magical races?’

She’d figured Winky was an exception. That her despair after being freed was an anomaly not a general rule, especially after seeing how happy Dobby was after being freed but… ‘D’you even know why they’re so loyal to one family? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed but they are extremely loyal’ Malfoy’s voice echoed inside her mind again.

“—but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!”

Hermione continued remembering their discussion, ‘The answer is Family magic, Granger. Blood magic.’ She had decided to dismiss Malfoy’s words since she’d found no information in the library about such magic. ‘Stuff Dumbledore considers far too close to the dark to be housed in this institution.’ She took a step back, knocking a stool someone had left by the door. Dobby squeaked and jumped backwards at the sound, hitting the table where she’d put her latest hats, knocking them to the ground. Reluctantly, Hermione stepped out of her hiding place.

“Hermione?” Harry asked, squinting in the low light.

“Yeah… sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” She could feel the little elf’s enormous green eyes gazing at her. “Hello, Dobby,” she greeted the elf with a wave, her guilt tripling when she met those kind eyes.

“Hello, miss.”

She smiled at Dobby, then turned to Harry, who still had a questioning look.

“I—uh… I fell asleep in the library,” she said, a sudden wave of embarrassment washing over her. “We now have a DADA study plan though.”

Harry sighed. “A study plan with no place to study.” His evident disappointment disappeared suddenly, replaced by barely contained excitement. Harry turned to Dobby, who was watching him intently with adoring eyes. “Dobby! We need your help.”

“Name it, Harry Potter, sir!”

“I need to find a place where twenty-eight people can practice Defence Against the Dark Arts without being discovered by any of the teachers. Especially Professor Umbridge.”

Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes, she doubted poor Dobby would be able to procure a place for them to study. It would only stress the poor elf… more than he already was. Only Harry could be so optimistic—

“Dobby knows the perfect place, sir!”

What?

“Where?!”

The next day they set out to inform everyone who had signed the parchment at the Hog’s Head of the time and place of their first meeting. When the time came to leave the tower, they first checked the map to see if Umbridge was close to the seventh floor. She was in her office, a safe distance from where they were headed. They sneaked out and rushed as quietly as possible to the corridor where the dancing trolls hung. It was blissfully deserted.

The trio looked at one another before following Dobby’s instructions to the letter. Hermione walked resolutely; her eyes closed in concentration as her own voice chanted inside her head: We need a place to learn. We need a place to learn.

She repeated it again and again as they walked past the tapestry a second and third time. When she opened her eyes, she gasped. A large wooden door began forming where once were only stones.

“Harry…” she whispered, calling his attention.

Harry approached the door wearily. He took the brass handle and pushed open the double door. Together, they walked in. The room was perfect.  

“Harry…” she whispered again, still awed, “I think we might just pull it off.”

The trio smiled and set out to work.

Chapter Text

The morning before the first Quidditch match of the season, as he had done every morning for the past two weeks, Draco walked towards the Quidditch pitch. With his firebolt over his right shoulder and the little black box containing his custom-made training snitch in his left hand, he was ready for his last solo-training before the big Slytherin versus Gryffindor match. Snape had booked the pitch for every morning, always an hour before breakfast so Draco would be less likely to be disturbed. Despite trying to appear indifferent to the game, Snape was fully invested in their victory.

They had also been practising as a team every day, after the last lessons of the day. He had been pleasantly surprised to see Crabbe and Goyle quickly adjust to the team dynamic.

However, though he loved the camaraderie of team practice, it was his early morning solo practice that he appreciated the most. It was the moment when he could let his mind go almost blank but for the single purpose of finding his beloved engraved snitch.

He stopped in the middle of the pitch, enjoying the quiet stillness of the empty stands. He set down his broom and opened the box, then watched as the golden snitch opened its wings and flew away from him in rapid seemingly erratic movements. The sight never failed to captivate him.

Casting a quick warming charm around himself, he donned his goggles and got on his broom. Before taking flight, he shrunk the little black box and stored it inside his uniform along with his wand.

At exactly seven o’clock, Draco kicked the ground, and set off.

As winter approached, the blue skies of summer gave way to angry gunmetal clouds, and the soft caress of the wind on his face as he gained speed was replaced by an icy sting.

He circled the pitch, slowly spiralling downwards. Squinting his eyes looking for that spark of gold.

It was good for him to focus on something other than who could be watching him. Though he’d wanted to rule out Crabbe and Goyle by default, he always found himself coming back to his initial theory: Crabbe was hiding something.

He picked up speed as he approached the ground, flying far too close for safety. He gave a sharp turn at the goal posts and went up in a perfect vertical.

Why would his friend betray him? Something must’ve happened during the summer. Could Mr Crabbe have something to do with it? Certainly. Though he’d tried to avoid the idea, Theo’s comment and Crabbe’s attitude made it impossible. They too had been thrown at the Dark Lord, expected to follow their parent’s steps. The question was, did Crabbe actually want to obey?

Theo would never. Draco was sure the rebellious young Nott would rather die than subject himself to his father’s whims. It had been that attribute of his that had caused them to drift apart. 

When he saw the glinting orb floating just over the middle hoop on the other side of the pitch, his worries faded. He flew straight to it, flattening himself against his broomstick, managing to go even faster. As soon as his fingers closed around the familiar metal sphere, his apprehension and doubts came crashing back.

He glimpsed at his watch. It had taken him twenty minutes to find it. He had time to try once more before heading for breakfast. After tracing his initials carved on the golden metal, he released the snitch and started all over.

Anything to rid his mind of despair.

The atmosphere inside the castle on the morning of the game was electric. Even those who were usually indifferent couldn’t escape the contagious excitement that permeated the halls.

Draco had been up early to have a light breakfast before the big match. He was quietly sipping his tea and reading that morning’s Daily Prophet, enjoying a moment of solitude before Crabbe and Goyle came bumbling into the room and disturbed his pre-game peace with their atrocious eating manners. His eyes only deviated from the paper to nod politely whenever he was addressed by well-wishers—who unsurprisingly were all Slytherin.

It was after one such interaction that he caught sight of Potter and Weasley walking into the Great Hall.

One look at the weasel was all it took to know the git was way out of his depth. His bright red hair contrasted sharply with the greyish green pallor of his face. The same shade it had been when the idiot had hexed himself to vomit slugs for hours.

His view was suddenly blocked by a group of second year Slytherins who stood in front of him and pointed to the brand-new badges on their robes, a huge smile in each of their faces.

Draco’s lips twitched. “You learned the song?”

The four students nodded. The shortest one took a hesitant step forward, “But we wrote the lyrics just in case,” he said, pulling a rolled parchment from his robes. 

“Well done. Remember to sing at the top of your lungs.”

The young students giggled as they moved away, leaving him alone again. Draco chanced another look at Gryffindor table. Potter was obviously trying to cheer Weasley up. Pathetic.

Having finished his tea, Draco left the hall. It was time to get ready. Minutes later he was on his way to the pitch, his broom in one hand and the bag with his uniform in the other.

For once he’d woken up with a clear head. All shadow of doubt pushed to the farthest recess of his mind. That morning he was fully focused on the game. He needed a win. Not for his ego or to humiliate Potter and the weasel—thought it would be an excellent bonus—but for his peace of mind.

Draco reached the locker room with plenty of time to spare. After slipping on his trousers and jersey, he went through his pre-game warm up and stretches. It wasn’t until he was carefully putting on his protective gear that he realised he’d seen almost every member of the team except Crabbe and Goyle. His worry turned into fury as the idea of losing the game by default crossed his mind.

It was almost time for the game. With a last inspection of his broom, Draco stepped out of the locker room and into the tunnel that led to the pitch. Thankfully, Crabbe and Goyle were there, clad in a similar uniform as his, listening intently to Warrington and Bletchley.

Montague did a quick headcount before whistling for silence.

“Alright, this is it team. We have seen the Gryffindorks practice. They are utter rubbish.” The captain smiled when they all snickered at his comment. “Now, that does not mean we get to be complacent. They are sneaky bastards, and they have the school on their side.”

Crabbe grunted something to Goyle that Draco could not hear.

“Crabbe, Goyle!” Montague yelled, approaching the new beaters. “Do not forget, you have one mission: Knock. That. Bastard. Potter. Off. His. Broom,” he ordered, punctuating each word with a poke on their chests.

The pair nodded.

Montague walked to the front of the group and addressed them once more. “It’s time!”

Draco made sure his new crown-shaped silver badge was properly attached to his uniform and took his place at the back of the line. He loved the badges. They were his second-best idea, after the Potter badges from the year before.

When they stepped onto the field, he could hear the singing coming from the stands.

Weasley is our king.

With a huge smile plastered on his face, he walked along with his teammates towards the centre of the pitch, where Madam Hooch waited. Moments later, the Gryffindor team came out of their respective tunnel. Draco caught Potter’s eye and smirked as he tapped his finger on his badge.

“Captains, shake hands!” Madam Hooch instructed, “Mount your brooms…”

With a whistle, all fourteen players shot up to the sky.

Draco saw Weasley make his way towards the goal posts, and not for the first time wondered what could’ve possibly made them use him as keeper.

That weasel can’t even fly smoothly when undisturbed…

Toning out the biased commentary from that idiotic Gryffindor who somehow was still allowed to narrate the matches, Draco settled on the spot he considered gave him the best view of the field.

Ignoring what was happening amongst the rest of the players, Draco flew in circles, his eyes scouring the field, looking for that glint of gold. Until the deafening chants of the Slytherin crowd called his attention.

“Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That’s why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our king.

“Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in

Weasley will make sure we win

Weasley is our king.”

On and on they sang, Weasley’s game deteriorating by the minute. Draco could see the redhead struggle to ignore the chants. His eyes darted towards the stands far too frequently, tearing his focus from the hoops he was supposed to be guarding.

Draco began his descent, flying slowly in a wide spiral. First chanting under his breath and then, when Potter was within hearing distance, singing to the top of his lungs.

“THAT’S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING: WEASLEY IS OUR KING!”

Potter shot him a menacing glare which made him laugh. It would seem Weasley wasn’t the only one affected. Hearing the disappointed voice of the commentator announcing the twenty-nil for Slytherin, Draco smirked at the Gryffindor seeker before flying away.

Though it wasn’t a big advantage, the Slytherin students were ecstatic. Draco dodged a few bludgers, and had to swerve sharply a couple of times to avoid collision but still there was no sign of the blasted snitch.

Soon enough, the score was forty-nil to Slytherin. Crabbe and Goyle had spent most of the game flying on either side of Harry Potter, trying to hit a bludger his way and get him out of the game. So far, they’d been unsuccessful. Not for lack of trying.

The plot hadn’t escaped Potter’s notice. Draco could see the seeker’s enraged eyes every time he had to avoid being hit.

Distracted by Goyle’s latest attempt to knock Potter out of his broom, Draco only narrowly escaped a bludger hit by one of the Weasley twins, reacting a split second before it hit him square in the chest. It was clearly in retaliation for the Slytherin beaters use of Potter as target practice.

Fair game.

Annoyed by his lapse in concentration, Draco chided himself and started circling the pitch at a higher speed. Though Potter had managed to escape Crabbe and Goyle for the time being, those two were nothing if not persistent. At least when it came to inflicting harm.

He was flying over the Slytherin hoops when he saw it. It was just at the bottom of the middle goalpost. Draco dived, followed by Potter only a split second later.

He knew he was at a slight disadvantage. Though Potter was slightly farther away, the Gryffindor was flying at an angle, Draco was going down vertically. If he wasn’t careful, he would hit the ground at top speed.

They were metres from the snitch when the cursed sphere flew away, towards the centre of the pitch. Draco gave a sharp turn, feeling the tips of his boots scrape the ground before he adjusted course. Potter did a similar manoeuvre, the pair flying neck and neck in pursuit of the coveted sphere.

Draco flattened himself against his broom as much as he could, gaining a little more speed. He was mere inches ahead of Potter now.

They were so close. One minimal error could cost him the game. He extended his arm, his fingertips grazing the metal wings. Frustration fuelled his resolve. He stretched as far as he could, it was almost his. He could feel it.

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw a bludger coming towards them. It was too late to swerve. If he did, he risked Potter winning the game. Draco braced himself, and just before the bludger hit, he closed his fingers around the golden snitch.  

Then Potter slammed against him after being hit by the bludger, throwing them both off their brooms. Draco felt his fisted hand hit the ground, a sharp pain radiating up his arm. Instinctively he folded himself into a fetal position, his uninjured hand trying to protect his head.

He rolled across the grass a few times until he stopped. A groan escaped him as he lay flat on the ground, making a mental survey of the damages he could feel on his body. So far, the only pain he felt was on the hand which held the snitch. He vaguely heard the Gryffindor commentator announce Slytherin as the winners of the game before the chants from the stands drowned everything else.

“Are you alright?” he heard the Gryffindor captain ask Potter, who’d landed barely two metres away from him.

“Yes,” Potter barked, “Damn it!”

Draco got up immediately, not wanting to seem like the most injured party. His back protested when he tried to right himself and felt a warm liquid flowing down his arm.

“Couldn’t save Weasley’s neck this time, could you?” he chuckled, wiping the blood he felt trickling down his brow with his uninjured hand, “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper… but then, he was born in a bin…”  

Potter’s nostrils flared, he could see Johnson was whispering something, no doubt trying to calm him down. That wouldn’t do. Madam Hooch was close by, not close enough to hear, but definitely close enough to see.

“Did you like my lyrics, Potter?” Draco asked with a smirk, relishing in seeing Potter’s barely contained rage, “We wanted to write another couple of verses! But we couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly. We wanted to sing about his mother, see—”

This is clearly a terrible idea. Shut up. NOW!

Johnson and Bell threw him scathing looks. They were not his target though. He could still hear the Slytherins chanting. No doubt the rest of the team were already celebrating with them. And yet here he was, trying to get a rise out of Potter.

Holding the snitch tightly by his side, Draco saw Potter clench and unclench his fists. Then, to his great surprise he turned away.

That wouldn’t do. Draco was out for blood.

“—we couldn’t fit in useless loser either—for his father, you know—”

He felt a sick pleasure when the Weasley twins realised what he was talking about. Yes, he was on to something.

“Leave it, Fred!” Johnson ordered.

STOP. Do you have no self-preservation skills? A part of him screamed, but a second darker one answered: It will be worth it. I just know it.

“—but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” Draco sneered, ignoring his internal warning, “Spend the holidays there and everything. Don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by muggles, even the Weasleys’ hovel smells OK—”

It was wonderful to see the rest of the Gryffindor team struggle to hold the twins back. He could see it wouldn’t take long to make Potter snap too.

“Or perhaps… you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—”

Though he managed to dodge the first blow, he wasn’t so lucky with the second. Or any of the subsequent ones. Especially after the Weasley twins joined Potter in his assault.

Worth it my arse.

Draco cackled as he was hit again and again. Every slightly sore spot he had after his fall became unbearable. He didn’t know how long had passed before he was on the ground again, his laughter at odds with the pain he was experiencing.

Either I am going insane, or I’m just an idiot.

He could hear screaming as more fists and kicks collided with him. The whistle that stopped the assault could’ve gotten there quicker in his opinion. He’d expected Madam Hooch’s intervention would come much sooner. It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d achieved his goal.

He laid immobile as he heard Madam Hooch raging: “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Though it had been his plan, he hadn’t expected it to hurt that much. He sat up, and wiped his bleeding nose with the back of his injured hand. Only succeeding in smearing more blood across his face.

“I’ve never seen behaviour like it—back up to the castle, all of you, and straight to your Head of House’s office! GO! NOW!”

The smile that began forming turned into a grimace when the pain of his jaw shot up across the right side of his face and to the back of his head.

You fucking idiot, Draco. I hope your stupid stunt was worth it.

Draco tried to push himself up, but felt a stab of pain on his right hand that forced him to drop back down. He stared at the dark red liquid still running down between his fingers holding the golden snitch.

Red and gold… how very Gryffindor.

When a pair of hands seized him by the shoulders he jerked away. “Do. Not. Touch me.” he hissed at whoever tried to pull him up.

Draco got up, unaided even though everything hurt.

“Well done, Draco,” Montague said with a huge smirk on his face, finally making an appearance, “Can’t wait to see what will happen to those arseholes for beating you up.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Madam Hooch said in a flat tone, “I will escort you to the Hospital Wing. Let’s go.”

Draco nodded. No longer feeling victorious, he followed without protest.

It was a sight to behold.

Hermione listened quietly from the corner of the common room as Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet took turns berating Fred, George and Harry, who were sat together on the sofa, heads down, taking the verbal lashing without complaint. She would’ve thought they weren’t paying attention if Fred hadn’t kept wincing each time Angelina gestured widely. Admittedly, it was quite funny.

“—and I cannot believe you three idiots fell for that obvious trap. He’d already won the fucking game! Why else would he taunt you if not to get you in trouble! —” yelled Angelina, barely pausing for breath.

“Don’t get me wrong, I also wanted to punch the obnoxious git, but you have to admit it was pretty obvious what he was doing. You three should be ashamed of yourselves,” Katie added. Hermione was sure it was Katie’s quiet anger which caused George to sink even lower in his seat.

“—or maybe you’ve taken too many bludgers to the fucking head or you’ve fallen one too many times off your bloody brooms if you thought even for a second beating goddamned Draco Malfoy in front of Umbridge was a good idea!” raged Alicia, pacing in front of the sofa.

“Oh, I don’t think they were thinking, I’m not even sure they’re capable of such a thing!!”

The three chasers continued their rant until their anger simmered down. One by one they stormed out until only Harry and her remained in the common room. He moved from the sofa and sat beside the fireplace, brooding.

“Harry?”

Harry didn’t move. Hermione felt powerless. She had no idea what she could do to cheer up her friend. Not only had they lost—and to Slytherin no less—but he had been banned. For life. For the first time since she’d known him, Harry looked defeated.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry sighed and shrugged. Carefully, she sat beside him and held his hand, giving it a light squeeze. Hope bloomed in her chest when he squeezed back.

“Harry…” Hermione asked in the gentlest way she could, knowing full well his temper could flare at any moment. “I know it’s probably not the best time… but it’s getting late and Ron’s not back yet…”

“I know,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“Have you seen him?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the dancing flames.  

“I think he’s avoiding us,” she whispered. Harry hummed.

“Where do you think he—?” 

The portrait creaked and they both turned to see the newcomer. Drenched from head to toe, Ron walked into the common room, his face looking as gloom as Harry’s.  

“Were have you been?” Hermione asked, rushing towards him.

“Walking.” Ron mumbled. His eyes shifting to Harry with a most apologetic look. His face blank, Harry turned to the flames again.

“You look frozen. Come and sit down!” Hermione ordered. Ron obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he followed Hermione closer to the fire, his eyes focused on Harry.

“What for?” Harry asked, in a clipped voice.

Ron winced. “For thinking I can play Quidditch,” he answered, his voice breaking a little at the end. Hermione couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

“I’m going to resign first thing tomorrow.”

Harry gave a non-committal shrug. Quidditch meant everything to Harry, and it had been stripped from him, along with some of his pride at having lost to his biggest rival.

“If you resign, there’ll only be three players left on the team.” Hermione whispered.

“What—Why?”

“I’ve been given a lifetime ban,” Harry answered, finally turning to his friend. His green eyes blazed with anger, but Hermione wasn’t sure it was directed at Ron. “So’ve Fred and George.”

Though she didn’t think it possible, Ron paled even further. There was no doubt he would now blame himself for that too. Even if the only culprit was Malfoy. Ron open and closed his mouth a couple of times but no sound came out.

Harry got up and turned his back on them. “I’m off to bed.”

Once Harry was gone Hermione turned her attention back to Ron, who was shivering in front of the fire. “What happened?” he asked, his voice so low Hermione barely heard him.

She explained as best she could what had happened right after Malfoy had caught the snitch. Ron shrunk into himself more and more as she spoke.

“This is all my fault,” he said once she’d finished.

“That’s ridiculous, Ron. You didn’t make them hit Malfoy.”

“—if I wasn’t so terrible at Quidditch—”

“It’s got nothing to do with that!”

Ron paused. Clenching his jaw, he turned to her with a frown. “Agree with me, do you?”

“I—what?” she stammered, stunned by the sudden change in his attitude.

“That I’m rubbish!”

“I—” What?

Ron got up in one jump. “It was that bloody song that wound me up!”

“Well—of course.”

“Don’t sound so condescending.”

She should’ve known Ron would eventually lash out. It was how he worked. “I’m agreeing—” 

“You don’t care anyway, you hate Quidditch! You’re probably happy they kicked Harry out so he can focus more on his studies!”

“That’s not—”

“You have no idea how I feel!”

Without noticing, Hermione had gotten to her feet. Except for the crackling of the fire, the room was completely silent. They stood for a few beats, glaring at each other. Until Hermione couldn’t take it any longer. She was done being the punching bag whenever Ron wanted to vent.

“Right,” she seethed, hating she could already feel the sting behind her eyes, “I have no idea how it feels to be ridiculed by a bunch of people! I have no idea how it feels to be the target of their hatred!”

“It’s not the same!”

“Grow up Ronald! If you weren’t so bloody delusional you wouldn’t’ve been in that position in the first place—” she covered her mouth with her hands, horrified by the words that had just come out of her. “Ron—”

“Don’t bother,” he said, his previously enraged expression back to the one he’d been wearing when he walked into the common room. Heartbroken. “You’re not wrong anyway.”

He left without saying goodbye, leaving Hermione alone. Too late she remembered the news she’d been so excited to tell her friends.

Hagrid was back.

Hermione tossed and turned all night, the guilt of snapping at Ron in such a vicious way gnawing at her. The next morning, before her roommates woke up, she sneaked out of the room. It wasn’t terribly early, but it was Sunday and the girls liked to sleep in. When she stepped onto the common room, the only sound she could hear was the gentle scratching of quill on parchment. She walked towards the sound and found a most unusual sight: Harry was sat on one of the tables, brow furrowed in concentration, a pile of what she assumed was his recently finished homework beside him.

Her heart sank when she noticed Ron was not with him.

“Harry?”

Her friend jolted, a huge blot of ink falling over his notes.

“Oh, for fucks—”

Hermione waved her wand before he could finish his complaint and the stain disappeared, leaving Harry’s words intact.

“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry about that. You startled me.”

“Don’t worry about it… How are you?”

“I’m fine.” He did not sound quite convinced. Then he looked at the parchment rolls carefully stacked beside him and sighed. “I can’t believe I let my homework accumulate this much…”

Hermione frowned. She was sure Harry was not fine, but she could sense her friend wanted to move past what happened the day before. Though she didn’t think it was the healthy way forward, she also knew him well enough to know he would refuse any other approach.

“I’m glad you’re finally doing your homework,” she said, a smile blooming when Harry groaned in despair. “Listen… you know I would never interrupt anyone while they study but there’s something you need to know. As much as it pains me to say this, you’ll have to finish your homework later because right now you’re coming with me.”

Harry turned to her, confusion—and the slightest bit of dread—written all over his face. “Where?”

Unable to keep her joy any longer, she beamed. “Hagrid’s back.”

“What?!”

In his haste to get out of his chair, Harry knocked all his parchment rolls to the ground, his inkpot spilling all over the wooden surface and staining his notes again.

Quickly, she helped him pick up the mess and fix his notes before tossing them into his bag.

“Harry… we need to tell Ron.”

Harry’s hands stilled on his bag. “I… I don’t know where he is.” His expression was far from angry, he looked… ashamed. “He was gone when I woke up.”

A new wave of guilt came crashing into her. “Harry… I screwed up…”

The pair stared into each other’s eyes, so much was said in one look. They understood without uttering a word that they both felt they could’ve handled the situation of the day before a little differently.

Just as they were getting up from the ground, a snowball hit the window, making them jump back in surprise. She was still shaking her head, annoyed at whoever was throwing snowballs at the castle windows so early, when a second snowball hit the window, closely followed by a third.

Harry and Hermione stepped closer and peered out, and found three redheaded figures in the middle of a snow fight.

“Look at that, we found him,” Harry said, amusement colouring his voice, “He’s outside.”

“We should go.”

They rushed out, ignoring the siren call of Sunday roast surely already being served at the Great Hall.  

“Ron!” Harry called when he spotted him.

Ron looked up. The moment he saw them, his face fell, but he still approached them. He stopped in front of them, both weary and standoffish.

“Listen, Ron—” 

“Look, mate—”  

The boys spoke at once, chuckling at their mutual interruption.

“Just listen,” Harry hurried to say, “What happened yesterday was nobody’s fault—actually scratch that, it was Malfoy’s fault. No one else. Understood?”

Not looking convinced, Ron nodded.

Hermione bit her lower lip, it was her time to apologise. “Ron, I—”

“It’s fine Hermione,” he interrupted, looking everywhere but at her.

“OK, good,” Harry said, almost vibrating in excitement. “Now everything’s settled. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Ron asked.

“Hagrid’s back.” They answered in unison. Hermione caught his bright blue-eyed gaze and smiled.

To her surprise, Ron returned the gesture.

They spent the first hour listening to Hagrid’s tale of Giants and dangerous adventures on the continent. Then, for the rest of their Sunday morning they tried to make Hagrid understand Umbridge was not to be underestimated.

Sadly, they didn’t succeed.

When they walked back to the castle, Hermione prayed whatever Hagrid had planned for their Thursday class didn’t end up in a complete mess and give Umbridge a reason to get rid of their beloved professor.

For the second time that year, Draco Malfoy was inordinately early for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Even if it was Monday, the busiest day of his week, he didn’t mind.

Still high off Saturday’s success, Draco strutted along the Hogwarts corridors, making his way towards the sixth floor.

In the end, his brilliant—albeit painful—stunt had paid off. Potter and the Weasley twins had been banned from playing, and he was sure if the weasel had even an ounce of shame he would resign soon. Thus, his mood was flying high, his mind going over what he’d read the night before on boggarts. The subject for the day’s lesson.

Professor Snape had summoned him to a different classroom this time, claiming they might need more space for their future lessons. That was great news. More space meant Snape surely wanted to move away from the purely theoretical and Draco felt ready. He hoped the move meant he would get to practice with a real boggart.

When the werewolf had brought one in third year, Draco had refused to stand in front of it, afraid it might turn into his father in front of all his classmates. This time, only Snape would see, and for some reason Draco didn’t mind. He knew exactly what he would turn his boggart father into. And he couldn’t wait.

The heavy wooden door creaked as he opened it. He stepped into the large dimly lit classroom. An eerie stillness reigned inside. It was empty but for the wrought iron chest sitting in the middle. Draco remembered the wardrobe from the werewolf’s class. Since what was inside turned into the shape of your deepest fears, the creepy chest was much more adequate to hold it.

He took a few careful steps towards it, straining his ears trying to catch even the slightest sound from inside. Unlike the wardrobe, the chest was completely still.

His hand itched to start practising. It was only a boggart; it wouldn’t hurt to try before Snape was there. He knew the theory by heart.

Convinced he could not fail, he pulled his wand and waved it at the chest.

The lid swung open and… nothing happened.

Draco frowned. That was not what he expected. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the open chest.

Just as he was about to step closer to look inside, long bony fingers slid over the edge and curled. The sharp cyanotic nails slid along the surface. The scraping sound made his hair stand on end.

The spell he’d studied so diligently died in his throat as his lungs struggled to get some air. Frozen in place Draco watched the slim figure clad entirely in black emerge from within, slowly unfurling until he stood to his full height. Draco’s hand trembled, almost letting go of his wand.

The Dark Lord tilted his head back, and took a deep breath.

It’s not him. It’s NOT HIM!

He pointed his wand at the creature and tried to yell: “Riddikulus” but his voice came out as a whisper.

Loud enough for Lord Voldemort to hear.

He turned towards Draco, who stumbled backwards and fell to the stone floor, scraping his recently healed hands.

“Ah, young Malfoy, what a surprise,” he hissed, a vile smirk crossing his face, exposing a row of sharp rotten teeth. “I’ve been expecting you.”

As the Dark Lord’s blood-red eyes stared into his, Draco was unable to look away.

“I’m so glad you’ve finally come to me,” he continued, stepping out of the confines of the chest, “You’ll be a great addition to my army.”

Draco wanted to be sick. The Dark Lord moved closer. He tried to crawl back, tried to clear his mind, but couldn’t focus. He was barely able to hear his own thoughts over the sound of his racing heart. It was impossible. He was supposed to be safe at Hogwarts.

IT’S NOT HIM! FOCUS!

Pointing his wand again, he said: “Riddikulus” his voice cracking in the middle.

The laugh that escaped the creature chilled him to the bone.

“Are you trying to betray me Draco?” he asked, his blood-curdling voice making it even harder for Draco to think. “Do you know what happens to those who dare?”

“N—No, I—I didn’t—”

The Dark Lord was now close, too close. Close enough to touch. As if reading his thoughts, the creature reached for him, the rubbery reptilian skin pulled taut at its joints. “Your life is mine…” 

Draco closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

“Riddikulus!”

Boomed the deep voice of Severus Snape. He was standing between Draco and the Dark Lord. The frightened Slytherin opened his eyes in time to see the blur of black cloth and grey skin fly across the room and slam into the chest. The lid closing with a loud bang instantly afterwards.

Draco gasped for breath, staring at the chest. Afraid it might open again.

“Mr Malfoy.” Snape called, not unkindly. The sound pulling him from his stupor.

His heart still beating dangerously fast, Draco jumped to his feet. He needed to be as far away from the room as possible. He rushed to the door and tried to get out, but it wouldn’t open.

“Mr Malfoy!”

Draco froze. The sharp voice didn’t help his rising panic. He turned slowly towards the professor.

Pulling a silver flask from his robes, Snape approached him and placed it in his hands. “Drink.”

Draco stared at the object, then looked back to the potions master.

“It’s hot chocolate.”

“Why—”

“Do as you’re told.”

Draco uncapped it and took one large gulp of the hot drink, letting its warmth calm his hysterical mind. Snape waved his wand and conjured a couple of chairs.

“Sit.”

Again, Draco obeyed without complaint.

“I assume you understand we cannot repeat this lesson.”

Those words made his breath catch in his throat, as the full extent of what had just happened became clear. Snape knew. He’d been careless and now Snape knew he’d met the Dark Lord. No doubt he would run straight to Dumbledore and…

“Stop!”

Draco’s mind became quiet at once. Refusing to meet the professor’s eye, he stared at the cracks on the stone floor beneath his feet.

“You need to have better control of your emotions, Draco.”

Draco nodded, dread rising within his chest once more. Surely the next thing Snape would do would be to take him to the headmaster’s office.

Severus Snape carefully watched the student in front of him. It hadn’t been difficult, reading Draco’s thoughts. He was in such a panicked state, he didn’t notice the slight brush of legilimency on his mind.

He was deeply shocked by what he’d found.

There was no trace of the cocky, spoiled brat he’d taught for years. It didn’t mean he was gone forever, it just wasn’t his main focus. It wasn’t everything the boy was anymore. Severus had seen the trip to Gringotts, the doubts that invaded Draco’s every thought, his worry, his fear.

A sick pleasure filled him knowing Lucius Malfoy had been so arrogant, so focused on his own goals, that he’d missed the obvious signs a seed of dissent had been planted and was festering inside his only son. Draco feared the future his own father had traced for him.

Severus couldn’t blame him.

“Don’t worry, Mr Malfoy,” he said, careful his voice was back to its usual neutral tone. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Draco didn’t give sign he had heard. No doubt his mind was racing, trying to understand what that meant. Making a rash decision, Severus continued. “Information is power, Draco, be very careful who you give it to.”

The boy’s eyes snapped to his. Trying to convey the severity of his seemingly off-hand comment, the potions master held the young Slytherin’s gaze.

“One’s own ideas, are even more precious. Choose wisely who you share them with.”

Draco was beyond confused. Snape wasn’t making any sense. What was he playing at?

Before he could ask, the professor stood and headed towards the door. But stopped with his hand on the latch.

“I suppose you know your father is trying to ascertain your usefulness. It would be beneficial for you to indulge him… carefully.”

He knows… how?

The memory of an overheard conversation during his fourth year returned, clear as if it had happened yesterday. Snape knew because he was one of them. Yet, he’d assured him his secret was safe.

Why?

“Do you understand, Draco?”

Draco swallowed; his throat suddenly bone-dry. “Yes, sir.”

With a court nod, Snape left the room, leaving him alone again.

On Tuesday afternoon, the trio walked down to Hagrid’s for Care of Magical Creatures. Hermione anxiously twisted her hands inside her robes, an overwhelming feeling of impending doom clouding her thoughts. Not only had they failed to make Hagrid understand he needed to be careful with Umbridge, but this class would be the one audited. The class they shared with Slytherin. She didn’t even want to think what those devious snakes would say about Hagrid to that dreadful woman.

Hagrid stood waiting for them on the edge of the forest, a dead cow slung over his shoulder, looking far too excited—despite his battered appearance—for Hermione’s peace of mind. Even though she couldn’t see the High Inquisitor with the group, she knew there was no way she would skip ‘evaluating’ the gamekeeper.

“We’re workin’ in here today!” Hagrid beamed, pointing his thumb to the forest behind him. “Bit more sheltered! Anyway, they prefer the dark.”

Oh, no… please let it be something cute and harmless, please…

The group started making its way deep into the forest, a look of apprehension on everyone’s faces. Hermione kept glancing towards Malfoy, waiting for one of his usual, inevitable, snide comments, but none came. Surprisingly, he looked… hollow. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked even paler than usual. For some reason, she didn’t think it had anything to do with their current situation.

Whatever his problem was, she was happy he seemed to be too distracted to be a threat to Hagrid.

They followed Hagrid for at least ten minutes, the forest becoming denser as they walked. Soon, the trees were so close together there was almost no snow on the ground, and barely any light filtered through the foliage.

The group stood in near absolute silence, perfectly still in a half circle in front of their professor. Only the gentle rustle of leaves over their heads could be heard.

Hagrid introduced the creatures they were supposed to be studying. Though she could hear the steps of something approaching. She couldn’t see anything.

“Excuse me,” Malfoy said, sounding somewhat annoyed. Though she could’ve sworn she mostly saw confusion—and dare she say curiosity—in his eyes. “But what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?”

Much as she heated to admit, Hermione had been about to ask the exact same thing. Albeit without the disrespectful tone.

Hagrid unceremoniously threw the cow’s carcass to the ground, and waited. A few seconds after, pieces started being torn from it before disappearing. Something was feeding from it. But why couldn’t she see? 

Thestrals…

The realisation made her curiosity spike. She stared, mesmerised by what she could not see.

“…who can tell me why some o’yeh can see’em an’ some can’t?” Hagrid asked, beaming.

Hermione raised her hand, “The only people who can see Thestrals, are people who have seen death.”

Hagrid’s smile grew impossibly larger.

“Hem, hem,”

Professor Umbridge had arrived. And it all went to hell.

In a rude, condescending, disdainful way, Umbridge undermined Hagrid at every turn. Hermione had never felt so angry. She wanted to yell at that pretentious, stupid, toad where she could stick her damned clipboard if she didn’t leave Hagrid alone. Harry squeezed her hand, grounding her. They couldn’t interfere. It would only make things worse.

The Slytherins were the only ones enjoying what was happening, taking great pleasure in telling Umbridge all their grievances against Hagrid. Even Malfoy seemed to be slowly returning to his usual self, joining in badmouthing the gamekeeper.

The atmosphere remained tense even after Umbridge left, and Hagrid never regained his previously cheerful mood. It was heart-breaking. Hermione knew how self-conscious her friend was about his past and where he came from.  

After the class ended, they made their way back to the castle, ploughing through the fresh snow. She was still nearly vibrating with anger.

“That evil hag...” she seethed, “That foul, lying, twisted old gargoyle! You see what she’s doing!”

“Yeah…” the boys agreed, a few steps behind her.

“Trying to make him some kind of dim-witted troll… it’s not fair!” she raged, gesturing widely, “Thestrals are fine—in fact, for Hagrid they’re really good!”

“Umbridge said they’re dangerous,” Ron grumbled.

“So, now we believe what the vicious toad says?” she demanded. Ron shook his head and looked down, suddenly finding his feet incredibly interesting.

“Thestrals are very interesting, aren’t they? —” she asked Harry, who, much like Ron, just nervously nodded and refused to make eye contact. “—The way some people can see them and some can’t?”

Hermione thought of the way the carcass had begun disappearing, and wondered how a marvellous creature could reveal themselves to only a select group of people.

“I wish I could,” she said longingly, more to herself than to her friends.

“Do you?” Harry his voice sounding terribly small.

Oh…

“Oh… no, Harry I—I’m so sorry—no, no of course I don’t—that was a stupid thing to say.”

Stupid, moronic thing to say. Bloody insensitive arsehole you are, Hermione.

“It’s OK. Don’t worry,” he said, still refusing to meet her eyes. No doubt reminded of the event which allowed him to see the Thestrals.

“I’m surprised so many people could see them,” Ron added in a pensive voice. “Three in class—”

 “Yeah, Weasley,” interrupted Draco Malfoy’s posh drawl from behind them. The rage she’d so far succeeded in pushing down flared back tenfold.

“We were just wondering,” he continued, a devious smirk on his face, “d’you think if you see someone snuff it, you’d be able to see the quaffle better?”

Hermione stopped in her tracks and turned around to face Malfoy. “You insensitive, bigoted, wart!” Harry jumped back to avoid colliding with her.

“How can you be such a vile, arrogant, heartless, gutter-maggot?!” she screeched, stomping towards Malfoy, her wand clutched tightly in her hand, “You and your dim-witted, gormless friends can stuff your idiotic opinions up your—”

“Hem, hem.”

Hermione froze. Too late did she realise Malfoy was standing unusually calm. Despite her rant, and unlike their similar encounter in third year, the smirk never left his face.

“Ms Granger,” said Umbridge in her usual falsely sweet voice, “I don’t know if you’re aware it is strictly forbidden to threaten other students.”

“I didn’t—”

“I felt threatened,” Malfoy interjected, putting on an exaggerated, affronted expression. 

Umbridge’s gaze slid from Malfoy back to her. The icy glare made her stomach twist.

“I’m afraid I have no other choice but to give you a detention, Ms Granger. Thursday, five o’clock, my office.” Without another word, she walked away. The pink bow sitting on top of her head flapping in the wind.

Before she could do anything else, Harry and Ron pulled her away from Malfoy. She didn’t listen to whatever else the Slytherin said, nor did she notice if either of the boy’s answered. It was only until they were back in the common room that she realised the implications of what had just happened.

Severus knew he was taking a huge risk. All he could do now was hope putting his trust in Draco Malfoy wouldn’t end up being a terrible idea. However, after what he’d seen inside the mind of the young student, he doubted that would be the case.

It was evident to him Draco Malfoy did not want to follow the path his father expected him to. One which would lead to the young boy joining the ranks of a monster and be part of a group that would only cause him misery. He’d given it much thought and had reached a startling conclusion. If it was within his power to help Draco escape that fate, he’d do so. He had to.

The way he wished someone had done for him.

He whispered the stupid password the headmaster had chosen and, after the gargoyle moved, Severus walked up the spiral staircase and knocked on the door despite knowing Dumbledore was expecting him.

The man answered almost immediately. Severus pushed the door open, and stepped in.

“Ah, Severus. Welcome.”

“Headmaster,” he greeted with a courteous nod.

Dumbledore gestured towards one of the chairs opposite his desk. Severus had never understood how Dumbledore could get anything done in a room that was never quiet. There was always some trinket or creature making noise, causing a perpetual background buzz.

He approached the desk and immediately felt the eyes of past Headmasters on him. With a wave of his wand, the portraits were obscured, the multiple complaints adding to the already annoying noise.

Looking over the top of his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore raised a questioning brow. “I believe you wanted to discuss something urgent?”

“Yes. It concerns one of my students.” Feeling the need to explain the secrecy, Severus added, “It’s a private matter.”

The Head of Slytherin watched as a look of concern took over the older wizard’s features. Dumbledore leaned back a little and rested his arms on his ornate chair.

“What is the problem, Severus?”

Severus still remembered the last time he’d stood before Dumbledore with a favour to ask. All those years ago. A decision that had changed the course of his life forever. He wondered what would happen this time.

“It’s about Draco Malfoy.”

Albus stared at him for a couple of seconds before gesturing for him to continue.

“I believe he is having doubts.”

“What about?”

“We both know the path his father wants him to follow. I believe he does not wish to do so.”

Dumbledore stood from his desk and walked towards his window, gazing at the night sky as if it could give him the answers he sought.  

“Headmaster… if he continues down that road, we both know how it will end—”

“Yes… there’s no need for you to remind me…” he drifted off, suddenly looking very tired. “However, there is not much we can do, Severus.”

“We can offer him a chance. He needs protection.”

“Do you believe his parents would agree to that?”

“It’s his parents that he needs protection from!”

The silence that fell between them was charged anger and resentment, the unspoken argument lingering in the air. Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes gradually filled with sorrow.

“He is too much like his father, Severus. There’s no way of knowing if in time he’d betray our trust.”

“Lucius will offer him up like tribute—”

“There’s too much in the balance! You know the boy, he’s unpredictable. We can’t risk our plan, our work needs to continue, Severus…” after a slight hesitation, Dumbledore added, “For the greater good.”

“He’s a child, Albus.”

“A child still in the care of his parents. They made their choice years ago.”

Much as he wanted to, Snape knew there was nothing else to be said. Dumbledore wouldn’t change his mind. Defeating Voldemort took precedence over everything else. The plan he’d set in motion was too important to introduce a variable that could jeopardise their chances of success. Yes, Severus knew he couldn’t help Draco Malfoy escape his situation.

But no one said he couldn’t teach him to survive.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger, Gryffindor prefect, top student of her year, had been standing in front of professor Umbridge’s office for almost twenty minutes. Despite her best efforts, her hands were clammy, and her heartrate refused to slow down. There were so many things she’d much rather be doing instead of facing whatever horror awaited her on the other side of that door.

The unopened letter from her parents she’d gotten earlier was the main one. Deep down she knew it had been the right decision to wait until after detention to read it. Her parent’s words always made her feel better, and she suspected after this she would very much need that.

Harry had done his best to assuage her fears over the past two days. He argued because Umbridge was a ministry official, she probably hated him most out of everyone in the castle—except for Dumbledore obviously—and thus had every reason to use her worst punishment on him. To Harry, that meant she would not be subjected to the same torture he had.

Ronald had gone a completely different route, trying his best to distract her with endless jokes and ridiculous—and thankfully harmless—pranks, which ended up annoying her more than amusing her. What she did appreciate was him covering for her prefect duties, supervising study hall that evening.

Hermione was grateful for her friend’s attempts to calm her nerves. Even if they were both unsuccessful.

The clock struck eight. Time had run out, she couldn’t stall any longer. So, she knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly and the witch Hermione wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d dreamed of hexing repeatedly stared at her from the threshold.

“Ms Granger, right on time. Come in,” she said, in her usual deceitfully gentle tone, stepping to the side to let her in.

“Good evening professor Umbridge.”

The room was as gaudy as Harry had described. All the shades of pink in the universe were present. Hermione was certain not even a Barbie obsessed three-year-old would want that much pink in one room.

“Sit,” Umbridge ordered, all pretence of sweetness gone from her voice, and gestured to a small desk at the corner of her office.

Over the desk was a long piece of parchment with a black quill sitting on top of it. Hermione stared at the items, a chill running down her spine. For the first time since she got the detention, her anger transformed into pure fear. Nevertheless, she obeyed.

Umbridge sauntered to the opposite corner, where a trolley holding a tea set was. For a few minutes all Hermione could do was watch the older witch make tea. Usually, she would’ve demanded to know the task she had to complete so she could start as soon as possible and finish earlier. This time, however, every delay was welcome.

“I keep wondering,” Umbridge spoke at last, as she dropped three sugar cubes in her cup “What could’ve possibly made you attack another student.”

“I didn’t—”

“Tut, tut, tut,” she cut her off, “I was there, remember?”

Hermione took a deep, calming breath, and assented. She couldn’t allow herself to lose her temper. “Yes, professor.”

“That’s better,” Umbridge said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then turned back to tend to her tea. “It was fortunate I was there to stop you, Ms Granger,” she continued, taking her cup and saucer to her desk. “I’m sure not even someone as honourable as Lucius Malfoy would be quite forgiving if someone were to hurt his only son…”

At least you agree I would beat Malfoy in a duel.

The grin on the professor’s face exposed her pointy teeth, reminding Hermione of the piranhas she’d seen at the London Aquarium once when she was little.

“That’s why today is so important. You see, we all ought to know our place in this world, Ms Granger, it is imperative for the correct function of our society. Do you understand?”

It was as if the air had been sucked from the room. Hermione struggled to keep her face blank. She didn’t want to give Umbridge the satisfaction of knowing just how much her words were affecting her. Not for the first time since she started at Hogwarts, Hermione wished to go home. To run up the stairs in her childhood home, hold her parents tight and never let go.

“I said: Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Today, you are going to do some lines for me, Ms Granger. And you will keep writing until I am satisfied you won’t forget the lesson I’m trying to teach you.”

The young Gryffindor felt a familiar sting behind her eyes, she looked from the monster in front of her to the blank parchment on the desk. The lack of an inkpot hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“I believe you’ve heard about my special quill?”

Without looking up, Hermione nodded.

“Wonderful,” said Umbridge cheerfully. “I want you to write, ‘I must not forget my place’.”

Hermione sat unmoving. Suddenly she wished she’d said something to McGonagall, she should’ve insisted Harry told Dumbledore. But no. Harry was right, Umbridge would then unleash her anger on the professors, and Hogwarts needed them.

“Now, Ms Granger.”

Her heart racing, she took the quill between her fingers and placed it on the parchment. With a trembling hand she wrote ‘I must not forget my place’.

The effect was immediate. A sharp sting on the back of her right hand made her breath hitch and her movements halt. She watched the shining crimson words as they formed on her skin. Deep, neat incisions, a gory mirror image of her own handwriting. They weren’t healing instantly, as Harry had said, hers remained open for a few moments before slowly beginning to mend.

Hermione heard the sound of Umbridge’s cup as she placed it on the saucer before she addressed her again, “I can’t hear you writing Ms Granger. The key to learning is repetition.”

And so, she did. Again and again, she wrote the words on the parchment. At first, her cuts managed to heal between lines but after a while, they stopped and started bleeding continuously. That hadn’t happened to Harry. Hermione stared at her hand in horror and looked up only to find Umbridge already staring at her. Had she changed the quill? Did it make it harder for her to heal?

“Keep going,” Umbridge said, her smile widening further when she saw Hermione’s bleeding hand.

Hermione expected the blood dripping down her hand to make a mess on the parchment, but it didn’t. As soon as the drops of blood fell on the paper, they disappeared. The only marks that remained where those she made with the quill.

The pain was excruciating. It was getting almost impossible to continue. Her words becoming illegible at times. A few times Hermione had to choke back a sob. She fisted her left hand in her robes and clenched her jaw trying to keep herself from screaming as she continued carving her own hand.

She didn’t notice when the sun went down, or how long she kept writing in the dark. The tears flowing freely down her cheeks mixing with the blood from her hand, disappearing the moment they touched the parchment, as if they’d never been there in the first place.

“Stop.”

Hermione’s cramped hand halted, but didn’t let go of the quill.

“Let’s see your hand.” Now standing in front of her, Umbridge waved her hand impatiently.

Hermione dropped the quill and extended her arm, the back of her hand on full display for the professor to see.

“Very good, Ms Granger,” she said as she examined Hermione’s hand, careful not to touch her. “I do believe you’ll now think twice before a repeat offence.”

Hermione left the room without saying a word. Walking as fast as she could until she reached the first open door. She went into the empty classroom and broke down.

She wasn’t sure how long she wept. When she finally felt a little under control, she took another look to her hand. It was still bleeding. She’d tried the only healing spell she knew without success. Since going to Madame Pomfrey was out of the question, all she could do was wrap her hand until she could get more pickled Murtlap tentacles. Exhausted, she took off her jumper and transfigured it into a bandage which she wrapped hastily over her hand before she headed to the tower.

Draco reread the note he’d received earlier. Snape’s distinctive small, pointed script informed him they were to meet again that very afternoon. An extra lesson on Thursday was odd. Perhaps he was trying to make up for Monday’s lesson that never was. Or maybe it was an ambush. Draco still wasn’t sure what to make of the professor. In the days since the boggart incident, he’d been expecting a call from the headmaster along with his expulsion from Hogwarts. The only way to know would be to go to the classroom at seven as he’d been instructed.

After dinner, Draco made excuses to his friends, telling them he needed to go to the library. With the amount of homework they’d had lately, that’s where he spent most of his time anyway. Truthfully, Draco hadn’t seen much of Crabbe or Goyle since the game. Not only because schoolwork kept him busy, but because he wasn’t sure he could trust them.

Ever since he got his mother’s letter, he’d been noticing things. Little changes. Especially on Crabbe. It was unsettling, considering how he’d always dismissed him as too much of a nitwit to ever pose a threat to anyone. It had been Lucius who had encouraged Draco to cut ties with Theo and hang out with them instead. So he could lead and be sure they would follow.

As he made his way to the sixth floor, he passed in front to Umbridge’s office. There was another person he could not trust. He’d known that since his father mentioned helping her. But what else could he do? Keeping his father pleased was imperative.

Eventually Draco reached his destination. He hesitated before entering the classroom, the ghost of a cold hand grasping his still lingering on his skin.

Not with little apprehension, he walked in. Snape was already waiting inside. A blackboard and a desk sat in one corner. The rest of the room was empty. No sign of the dreaded chest anywhere.

After a polite greeting, Snape led him towards the desk. Draco sat; his bag closed beside him. Before getting comfortable, he wanted to know what today was about.

“As you already know a duel is a formal combat between two wizards,” started Snape, pacing I front of the blackboard, “It can be as a sport in a competitive environment, or… not.”

The look the older wizard gave him was enough to convey his meaning. It still didn’t make sense for Snape to be talking to him about this. What was his plan? To train the enemy? Why?

“I’m afraid you’re more likely to encounter the kind of duel that’s not so friendly or regulated. Which is why we’re here.”

Draco looked up, fully aware he’d been unable to keep the surprise from his face.

“You have to learn how to duel, Draco. Properly.”

It hit him like a bludger to the chest. The sudden realisation of what has happening. A mix of relief, dread and excitement flooded his senses. Snape wanted to help him.

“Now, under normal circumstances two wizards agree on a time and place for the duel and go through all the formalities. However, do you think you can trust the other wizards to always adhere to this… tradition?”

That those other wizards he was talking about were ‘Death Eaters’ remained unsaid. Still, the gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on either of them.

“No, sir. I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Indeed. It would be foolish to assume others are honourable. An enemy will choose to attack when you least expect it. A cowardly enemy might even do so behind your back.”

Something about the way the professor explained that simple fact made Draco wonder who came to mind when he thought about a cowardly enemy. 

“What sort of spells would you use on a duel?” the professor asked.

“Hexes, jinxes—” Curses… “Protective spells…”

“Is that all?”

“Er...”

“Which are the conditions of a duel?”

“Only magic can be used.”

“Precisely. And there’s more to magic than just jinxes and hexes and the occasional shield charm. When you’re forced to duel, Draco, everything you see around you, your environment, it’s all part of your arsenal.”

Draco gawked. He’d never given much thought to it. He’d always considered a duel as an exciting way to resolve conflict, how one might show magical superiority. And he’d always thought it was more about quickest and with best reflexes wins.

“Can you tell me one characteristic about the killing curse that would be important to remember in a duel?”

“You can’t block a killing curse with a shield charm.”

Snape kept his back turned, staring out the window as if in deep thought. “Yes…” he whispered, “You can’t block a killing curse with a shield charm. But you can certainly stop it with a physical barrier.”

A few moments passed in silence, the potions masters still staring at the night sky. Draco felt like he was intruding in a private moment, so he kept his eyes on the parchment he’d pulled to write his notes.

“In a duel,” Snape continued, “You must never rely only on offensive and defensive spells. Use your entire knowledge. Think, Draco. It is what will give you an advantage. How good are you at transfiguration?”

Draco hesitated. Snape rolled his eyes.

“Now is not the time to attempt modesty, Draco.”

“I’m better than everyone in my year.” OK, maybe not everyone…

“Is that so?”

Piss off. You hate her too.  

“Fine, almost everyone.”

“That’s not enough. You must excel at a subject if you’re to use it confidently in a duel. It has to be second nature to you, so you can rely on it for split second decisions.”

“Yes sir.”

“I will not force you to continue these lessons, Draco. Since they will only add to your already heavy workload I must ask, are you up for it?”

“Yes sir,” he answered without hesitation. This was what he needed. A way to defend himself. Then everything would be fine. He wouldn’t be a helpless child at the mercy of idiotic Death Eaters. He’d be safe.

“Then let’s begin.”

For almost an hour, Snape went on a long winding explanation of what they would study. The basics of duelling, non-verbal magic, and why he should also be at least somewhat proficient in wandless magic in case the worst happened and he lost his wand. It could give him enough time to escape.

“You will never win a duel against an armed wizard with wandless magic, but you can buy yourself enough time to escape. Survival is more important than pride. Pride does not matter when you’re dead.”

They’d been in the classroom at least two hours covering the first subject. Draco was tired of listening about why it was important to keep a correct posture, and the way he should move his feet to prevent falling. Then, when he’d resigned himself to spend his first duelling lesson sat on a chair. Snape asked him to stand. He carefully placed his notes inside his bag and walked to the other end of the room.

“I will attack you. Only spells meant to immobilise. You must use an object to protect yourself.”

“An object? But what about—”

“What did I say at the beginning? I know you can cast a shield charm. I need to know you can use other spells just as quickly.”

The first four times the chair didn’t make it in time. The fifth time he couldn’t catch the summoned chair.

“Again!” Snape barked, his patience wearing thin.

Draco got up, the thick ropes disappearing as he did so. He was also becoming frustrated by his failure. But he liked the challenge. The next time, the summoned chair just managed to block the spell.

“That was mildly competent,” Snape commented as he strode towards Draco, who was still holding the chair in front of him. Looking at him dead in the eye, Snape thrust his hand into the various spaces left by the chair that would’ve resulted in Draco being hit.

“You must make it a shield. Again!”

By the time Snape let him go, Draco was drenched in sweat, while the potions master looked about the same as he did when he’d arrived, which annoyed Draco to no end. ‘You’re wasting energy, Draco’ Snape had yelled when he’d seen him winded, ‘You’re thinking like a bloody Quidditch player!’ ‘Careful with your feet!’

Taking a deep breath, he headed to the dungeons at last. He was walking down to the fourth floor when he heard another set of steps coming his way and a soft sniffle. As he turned left at the bottom of the stairs, a small body crashed against him. The person—a girl, he noticed—stumbled back a few paces, cursing under her breath but keeping her face down.

Her dreadful hair was unmistakable though.

Hermione Granger.

“What—Oh, it’s Thursday. I almost forgot,” he drawled, “Had any fun at detention, Granger?”

She adjusted the right sleeve of her robes and looked up. There were ashen tracks down her cheeks, and her eyes were red and puffy. His mocking grin faltered slightly.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Quickly recovering from his initial shock, he schooled his features into a bored expression and answered with a shrug, “That’s none of your business.”

Granger sighed. Saying nothing she walked around him and started climbing the stairs.

“You see, Granger, if you’d bothered to remember your place you wouldn’t have been in such a predicament.”

The Gryffindor princess stopped mid step. “What did you just say?” she asked, her voice low and threatening.

Draco hadn’t expected her to answer. She turned to him, looking murderous.

“My place?” she seethed, her hands fisting by her side. Only then did he notice her right hand was bandaged.

She stepped closer. He refused to budge. His hand tightened around his wand while he watched her approach.  

“I shouldn’t be surprised you think torture is an adequate punishment for telling you you’re a git.” The hoarse mirthless chuckle that escaped her was haunting. “But don’t worry, Malfoy, I won’t ever forget my place.” She spat the last words with so much venom, Draco almost recoiled.

With a wave of her wand, she vanished her bandage and held her hand up for him to see. The deep gashes on the back of her hand were still bleeding. It didn’t take him long to see the cuts were not random, they were letters. Just as he was finally making the words, she started lowering her hand. In an impulsive move, Draco grabbed her wrist, holding it so he could read what had been carved on her flesh. ‘I must not forget my place’.

Horrified, he dropped her hand as if he’d been burned. Her eyes were filled with loathing as they bore into him.

“You’re pathetic,” she sneered before stomping away.

He’d only walked a few paces when he felt the dampness in his hand. It was smeared with her blood. His instant reaction was to feel disgusted, only to give way to confusion as he examined it closer. It was the same deep crimson colour as his own. Curious, he rubbed his fingers together. The liquid was thick and only slightly sticky. It felt the same as his own. The metallic scent was also disturbingly familiar.

As far as he could see, Granger’s blood was indistinguishable from his.

It was too much. He already had enough to worry about, the last thing he needed was more confusion. With one quick cleaning spell, he erased all traces of her and continued his way to the dungeons.  

Two days later, Draco still couldn’t stop thinking about that incident. He’d gone over it a thousand times in his head. His reaction ranging from horror at Umbridge’s method of punishment and disgust at knowing his hand had been covered in her blood. He watched his hand carefully over the following days, sure he would have some kind of reaction to being exposed.

Nothing happened.

Then he started theorising. The only possibility was that Granger had done something to trick him. He needed to prove it. That would make everything go back to normal.

His first plan had been to follow her to Hogsmeade. Unfortunately for him, he had to give up that idea almost immediately. Ditching Crabbe and Goyle had been impossible. He’d assumed since they were so far behind on their homework they would probably need at least an extra month to catch up, it would be easy to convince them to stay in the castle. Alas, they refused to miss Hogsmeade weekend.

Then he tried to convince himself whatever he’d seen didn’t matter, and thus it made no sense to be wasting his time thinking about it. When that didn’t work, he figured he would need to catch her red-handed. He was certain eventually he’d find out what she’d done.

During the classes they shared he tried to watch her as inconspicuously as possible. In the library, where she was often alone, he found it increasingly difficult to keep himself from staring.

By the time Thursday rolled in he decided to confront her. It was the only sure way to get the answers he needed.

After DADA, he trailed behind her at a safe distance, knowing full well she was heading to the library. Though Weasley was walking with her, he wasn’t worried since they always parted ways at the door. He wouldn’t be surprised if the weasel was somehow allergic to books or something.

“Ron, stop!” she hissed and turned to the obnoxious redhead, who fell silent immediately. Draco hid behind a nearby armour to avoid being seen then cast a quick disillusionment for good measure.

Weasley ran his hand through his ghastly orange hair and then reached for Granger’s hand, who pulled back before he made contact. Draco had to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

“It’s been a week Hermione, it’s not healed yet, you have to tell—”

“Who?!” she demanded, “Honestly, Ronald. I’ve explained this to you as simply as I can. If you deigned to listen, you’d understand why it’s taking so long.”

Why is it taking so long?

“But—”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”

Weasley followed her like a kicked puppy. This time he didn’t leave at the door, he sat across from her, at the table she favoured. Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to ambush her, so he left early for Snape’s duelling lessons.

On Monday—after a most unproductive weekend of overthinking and despair—Draco sat on his desk, organising what he’d need to brew a befuddlement draught. He glanced to where Granger sat doing the same. It was then that the Gryffindor Patil approached her. He was surprised to hear Patil ask in a slightly-higher-than-necessary tone, “Are you OK, Hermione? You’ve had that bandage for a while now.”

In truth, he was also curious. Since Weasley mentioned it, he wondered why her injury hadn’t healed in over a week. 

“Oh… yes, I’m fine. It’s a precaution. I scratch my hand when I’m stressed. It’s best if I keep it bandaged.”

Liar.

Draco couldn’t hear whatever Patil had answered. With Snape’s arrival, all students scattered back to their desks. As usual, Weasley and Potter walked seconds after, getting an earful from Snape.

After almost two weeks watching her, he’d reached only one conclusion: Granger was a bloody saint. She was disgustingly kind to everyone. Impossibly tolerant with younger students. Even during Umbridge’s class, when he expected her to at least be a bit belligerent after the toad had tortured her, Granger obediently sat and started reading. All while her idiot friends were busy glaring at the professor. He doubted she was actually reading whatever Umbridge wanted them to, but at least she pretended to be following orders.

Only after Care for Magical Creatures did Draco feel like he’d reached his limit. The whole class had been a waste of his time. Not that he was surprised. Besides the Thestrals, the oaf they had for a teacher rarely taught anything worthwhile. Not for the first time Draco wondered why Umbridge was taking so long to get rid of the bumbling idiot.

He walked back to the castle alone, his thoughts running rampant inside his mind. Crabbe and Goyle had been summoned by Montague for practice. As seeker, Draco was only required to train with the rest of the team once a week. The rest of the time he was allowed to practice on his own.

Crabbe.

They’d had another disagreement. Which had brought back his mother’s words. Someone was watching him, or so she’d claimed. And that meant everything he did could make it back to his father. Or to him.

Draco crossed the entrance hall, grateful Peeves wasn’t around. The poltergeist wasn’t too happy with him after he’d stunned him so he could finish decorating the library in peace. Stupid prefect’s duties. Not only was he forced to watch disrespectful first year students in study hall, but he also had to do house elves’ work and decorate.

“Malfoy, a word?” came a voice from the shadows as soon as he reached the bottom of the stone steps.

Draco glanced to his right and saw Theo Nott, leaning on the wall, beside a statue of former headmaster Phineas Black.

“I’m busy,” he answered and kept walking.

“It’s important.”

“I don’t care.”

He managed to give two steps before Theo pushed him through a wooden door and into an empty classroom. Draco pulled his wand, and had it trained on Nott’s head by the time the door was locked.

“Are you insane?!”

“You need to stop.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Nott? Get out of my way.”

Theo didn’t move. He didn’t seem bothered to have the tip of a wand pointed between his eyes. His face blank, Theo lifted his hands in surrender.

“Whatever you’re planning, Malfoy, you need to stop. Or change tactics. Otherwise, someone will notice and then you’re fucked.”

Draco kept his offensive stance, his mind running wild. “I will not ask again,” he said, as calmly as he could, “what the bloody fuck are you talking about, Nott?!”

Theo sighed.

“Right. You want to play stupid? Be my guest.” Dropping his hands, he stood to his full height before continuing. “You’ve been staring at Granger a lot lately, haven’t you? What’s up with that?”

Draco felt the blood draining from his face. Whatever he thought Theo was going to say, it wasn’t that. He blinked a couple of times, trying—and failing—to get his ideas in order.

“I see you’re not denying it.”

“You’re insane.” Even to his ears he’d sounded fearful. Fuck. “Why would I—”

Theo’s head fell back, his right hand holding his stomach as he guffawed. “Spare me the lie, Malfoy. I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been staring at Granger because I’ve been watching you. If you’ve been told to attack a student—”

In a split-second Draco had Theo pinned to the wall holding him by the neck, his wand still pointed between his eyes. “You’ve been watching me?” he asked, low and dangerous, “Who ordered you to watch me?”

“Paranoid much? No one!” Theo said, sounding a bit strangled. “I caught you staring at Granger twice by accident. You are quite subtle, I have to admit. Still, I decided to test a theory so, yes, I watched you. Turns out I was right!”

Theo eyed him curiously a couple of seconds before pushing him back a few steps. “Why do you think—You know what? I don’t care. I do whatever the fuck I want. No one orders me to do anything. If you don’t believe me that’s your problem. What I want to know is: why are you watching Granger, Malfoy?”

Draco needed time to regroup. To rearrange his thoughts. Oddly enough, he believed Theo’s claim that no one had asked him to watch him. Even as kids Theo was never one to follow orders. Which meant he truly was only interested in the reason why he’d been watching Granger. But how could he explain without sounding treasonous? He went through all the excuses he’d foolishly prepared in case he was caught by Crabbe or Goyle. ‘She annoys me’. ‘She’s a mudblood and I think she’s planning something’. ‘Umbridge told me to keep an eye on her’… they all sounded ridiculous. Theo would see right through them. All that was left was the truth.

“—I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Theo said. Draco had no idea when he’d started talking again, “I’m not blaming you, she’s quite nice to look at. Especially after winter. But you might want to be little bit less conspicuous. Her friends are starting to notice—”

What? Potter and Weasley? Impossible.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Draco lowered his wand, pinched the bridge of his nose feeling the beginning of a headache. He was exhausted. Over the last couple of weeks, he’d barely slept. Between keeping an eye on Crabbe and Goyle, observing Granger every chance he got, and the million thoughts that invaded his mind at night it was a miracle he’d slept at all.  

“I wasn’t—It’s just…” He ran his hands through his hair. A part of him urged him to trust someone, the other was begging him to shut up. It all boiled down to one simple question, could he trust his former friend?

“It’s her blood,” he admitted, watching Theo’s every move, waiting for his reaction.

Theo scoffed.

“Do you expect me to believe this is all because she’s a mudblood? She’s always been a mudblood and you were never this obsessed with her—”

“I’m not—”

“Plus, she’s not the only mudblood here, you know? Is your brilliant plan getting rid of every mudblood in the castle? I’m sorry to tell you but, someone already tried on our 2^nd year.”

Mudblood… Mud. Blood. Her blood is mud.

Except… it isn’t, is it?

Draco shook his head, as if that would make all his confusing thoughts go away.

“No, I—she was injured and… I saw it. Her blood.”

Theo blinked a couple of times.

“Oh…” he whispered, understanding dawning on him. “That’s—wow… OK.”

The silence that followed was agonising. It’d been too long since they’d been close, Draco could no longer know what he was thinking just by looking at his stupid face.

“Took you long enough,” Theo said, a huge grin forming on his face.

Draco’s eyes snapped to his forest green ones. The relief he felt brought back the confusion and anger that had been plaguing him for two weeks.

“It means nothing. Her blood means nothing,” Draco seethed, closing himself, falling back to a more comfortable state of perpetual defensiveness.

“Sure it doesn’t… But, just for the sake of argument, why are you so wound up if it doesn’t mean anything?”

“Nott…”

“I’m just saying, if her blood—that you saw—is the same as ours, one has to wonder if maybe all mudbloods have the same blood as us.”

“They don’t!”

“You saw her blood, said so yourself. Did you see any difference to yours?”

No…

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t any.”

“Then what? They have less powerful magic than us? For fucks sake, you’ve seen Granger use a wand. Can you honestly say she’s less powerful than us? Do you think your friend Goyle could take her in a duel just because he’s a pureblood and she isn’t?”

Ha! Not a chance in—

“It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because… then everything is a lie…

Draco felt extremely uncomfortable under Theo’s gaze. Neither said a word for a while. Draco refused to look his former friend in the eye, sure he would be able to see the doubts, his confusion. The pain.

“We were lied to, Draco,” Theo finally said, almost in a whisper. “I’m glad you’re catching up.”

Before he could stop himself, Draco slammed him against the wall again, teeth bared, his right hand fisting Theo’s robes.

“Do not, ever, let anyone hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

With his head held high, Theo spoke in a calm voice, “What about you? You just heard me.”

Draco released him and took a step back. He’d heard the unspoken question, ‘Should I be worried?’

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This conversation never happened.”

Theo nodded. “As you wish.” Then he straightened his robes, and left the room without another word.

Feeling like he’d gained and lost an ally in the space of a few minutes, Draco paced the room until his breathing was back to normal and his heart had slowed down.

After his third duelling lesson, Draco could honestly say he was finally getting the hang of it. He’d finished less winded—though not as unruffled as Snape—had managed to block more spells than not. And had successfully transfigured the bloody chair in time to be useful.  

It was the reason for his unusually cheerful mood as he snuck down the marble staircase on his way back to the common room. Before he could make it to the door, he heard voices coming. With no time to rush without being heard, Draco stepped into the shadows beside the staircase, to wait for whoever was coming to leave.

The Hufflepuff students tiptoed out of the kitchen’s corridor, whispering as they went up the staircase.

When they passed close enough to where he was hiding, Draco could make up two words that made him forget about his plan for an early night.

Potter. Late.

Silencing his shoes, he stepped out of his hiding spot and followed. It wasn’t the most brilliant plan, especially when he realised they weren’t going anywhere close. As they went past the fourth floor, he briefly considered going back, but his curiosity won. What could Zacharias Smith and Susan Bones have to do with Potter?

By the time they reached the seventh floor, Draco’s frustration was becoming hard to control. Especially as he saw them pacing in front of a stone wall.

He was hiding behind a tapestry this time, his disillusionment spell not quite successful enough for him to get any closer. The pair walked past the wall twice, then again, and just as he was about to come out and confront them about what they were doing, a door materialised on the previously bare wall.

Too shocked to move, Draco watched as another student joined them.

Loony Lovegood.

Intrigued, he decided to wait.

About two minutes later, the Patil sisters, Cho Chang, and another Ravenclaw he didn’t know paced as the Hufflepuff’s had done and walked through the same door. All the Gryffindor chasers also appeared, Longbottom, then the Weasley twins with the weasel and Granger.

Mind buzzing with various ideas on how to use his newfound information, Draco waited to see if anyone else showed. He needed proof Potter was inside. Information like this was invaluable, if he told Umbridge she would…

What? Congratulate you?

Nothing Umbridge did could benefit him. Short of telling his father he was being helpful—which she most likely already had—there was nothing for him to gain from sharing this with her. Not at the moment anyway.

About ten minutes after he saw Granger disappear through, Draco came out of his spot. He paced along the corridor, in front of the bare wall. Three times, just as they all had.

Nothing happened.

The way those idiots acted meant this had been going on for a while. They were completely familiar with the process to make the door appear. It would seem it wasn’t only the physical act of pacing that opened it. Something else had to be done. Perhaps an incantation. And if so, which?

Draco went back to the tapestry. His imperfect disillusionment in place. He’d have to practice it if he wanted it to be useful, stealth was all well and good, but being invisible was a skill which could come in handy if he was to gather information. And to continue sneaking to his duelling and DADA lessons with Snape.

After what felt like hours, the door appeared again, and a lot more students than he’d thought started filing out in pairs or groups of three.

Not as inconspicuous as you think, idiots.

Dean came out with Longbottom. Weasley came out with Granger.

No Potter though.

Draco was pulling the tapestry back, ready to call it a night, when the door appeared one more time. Halfway between elation and shock, Draco had no idea what to make of Potter’s expression until Cho Chang came out immediately after. She looked like she’d been crying.

Were they together? Had Potter just broken up with her? Impossible. Something like that was impossible to hide.

Exhaustion was threatening to overcome him. He waited until the odd pair had disappeared before coming out and heading down to the dungeons. He came close to being discovered by Filch twice, one of those because of his stupid cat.

Back inside his dormitory, he laid on his four-poster bed and started thinking what he should do with what he knew.

Surrendering it to Umbridge right away would be useless. The old hag would only make up another inane rule they would find a way to circumvent.

No. This knowledge he would keep to himself. Should he need it later to barter with Umbridge.

Knowledge was power, after all, and he should be careful who he shared it with.

Viktor Krum had been a most pleasant surprise. He was kind, intelligent, generous, charming—

Handsome.

They had been writing to each other since the end of the Triwizard Tournament. His first letter arrived the week after the Durmstrang delegation had left. Another pleasant surprise. Truth be told, she didn’t believe he’d want to keep in touch. She’d heard of many accounts of summer love—although hers didn’t exactly apply since it was neither true love nor summer—and thought he’d forget about it as soon as he left.

He hadn’t.

She was so happy to hear he was doing well outside of school. He’d told her he was about to embark in a tour—though he called it differently—with his team to play at several stadiums. She was writing her reply to his latest letter while listening to Harry and Ron talk about the former’s encounter with Cho Chang after their last DA meeting.

“Are you that bad at kissing?” Ron asked, when Harry admitted Cho had been crying.

“Dunno, maybe I am.”

Boys.

“Of course you’re not,” she said, already exasperated even though she wasn’t even part of the discussion. How daft could they be?

“How do you know?” Ron asked.

“Because Cho spends half her time crying these days, she does it at mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place.” She said matter-of-factly.

“You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up.” Ron grumbled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ronald, you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice going up. “What sort of person cries while someone’s kissing them?”

“Yeah, who does?” Harry asked.

Her disappointment should’ve been palpable. And yet, they remained oblivious. Just like the Yule Ball. Why did she even bother? Hermione debated whether to tell them the obvious reason, idiots as they were they were bound to dismiss her words and continue to assume based on their null experience.

Ugh, boys.

“Someone who’s very sad, but also confused because she likes Harry, and then feels guilty about it. Maybe she also worries about what people might think. She also probably doesn’t even know exactly how she feels about Harry so—”

“One person can’t feel all that at once,” Ron interrupted, “they’d explode.”

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” she sniffed, crossing her arms. Realising she wouldn’t get anywhere, she waved her hands dismissively, an idea sparing inside her mind. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, then addressed her lovesick friend, “Harry, we need to discuss the syllabus for next year. I have some ideas but I’d like to go through them with you before we leave for holiday. Next week we’ll be swamped with homework, being the end of term and—”

“You know what? You don’t need me for this,” Ron said, jumping to his feet. After a painfully obvious fake yawn, he waved. “I’ll leave you to it. Night!” Then he ran up the stairs to their dormitory.

Harry groaned.

“Hermione…”

“Give me a second. I’m almost finished.” She quickly finished the paragraph she’d halted to insert herself in their previous discussion.

“Who’re you writing to?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.

 “Viktor.”

“You keep in touch with Krum?”

“Yes, I—” she caught his eye and the mischievous smile on his face. “Stop it. It’s not like that, Harry. Viktor is my friend.”

“Sure.”

“He is.”

Harry’s grin widened.  

“Anyway, we’re not discussing me,” she said, rolling the parchment and sitting next to Harry in front of the fireplace.

“Listen, Harry. If you really like Cho, and you’re serious about her, you need to be kind to her. And patient. She’s struggling with a lot of conflicting feelings. Cedric died not one year ago; it would be confusing to anyone to start having feelings for someone else after something like that. I know it’s not your strong suit but please be patient.”

Harry mulled over the information and nodded. He grabbed the fire iron and poked the fire, until the flames got new life.

“How are you, Harry? Really.”

“I’m fine Hermione.”

“Harry…”

He set the iron aside and turned to her. The firelight dancing on his emerald eyes.

“What’s the point in complaining?”

“I would argue there’s no point being burdened when sharing your troubles with a friend would lighten the load.”

Harry blinked a couple of times before turning back to the fire.  

“I thought you wanted to discuss the syllabus.”

“You’re changing the subject, but OK.” She summoned a parchment from her bag at the table and offered it to her friend. “I already have the syllabus. I just needed to talk to you about Cho without being interrupted every two seconds.”

Harry chuckled and unrolled the parchment. “Hermione, when do you sleep?”

“I just happen to know how to organise my time properly, that’s all.”

Harry laughed again. Then fell silent. She reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

A nod.

“I want to help. It’s not a sign of weakness to accept help from others…” she sighed and let go of his hand. “Just… don’t forget I’m always here for you.”

The silence that fell wasn’t awkward, or uncomfortable. It just was. That was what she liked about Harry. When she was with him, she could just… be. He never judged her—or if he did, he was very vocal about it—he was protective but not overbearing, he liked to joke but was never cruel. For a long time she’d felt that was what having a brother probably felt.

Her thoughts were interrupted when his hand squeezed hers. 

“I know.”

She wiped a traitorous tear with her thumb and cleared her throat. “Good. So… When are you asking Cho out?”

“Shut up,” he said, shoving her playfully.

They both laughed.

“I’m serious Harry, you should give it a chance. You deserve to be happy.”

“You should write to Krum more often.”

“Oh, shush.”

It was her time to push him, albeit maybe a bit more forcefully.

“Seriously, Hermione, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Krum’s not here. Isn’t there another bloke you fancy?”

She fought her blush. She wasn’t a ridiculous child. Was there someone she fancied? She didn’t think so.  

“Not one,” she answered, truthfully.

“That can’t be true.”

“It is. I’m far too busy to notice other people.”

“Actually… yeah, I can believe that.”

It was easy after that. They kept talking about everything and nothing. He asked about homework that was due soon, they shared some castle gossip, she told him in detail about her plans to go skiing with her parents for Christmas, he confessed his excitement about visiting the Burrow, and the guilt he felt about leaving Sirius alone for the holidays.

She could relate to that. She’d been feeling guilty about neglecting her parents over the summer.

They talked about the things they missed from the muggle world and what they thought would work in the Wizarding world. It wasn’t until Harry could no longer fight a yawn that Hermione realised how late it was.

“We should go to bed. It’s really late. I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I enjoyed our chat,” he said, a genuine smile curving his lips. He seemed lighter than he’d been in months. She couldn’t help but feel proud that she’d helped. Even if it was only a little.

“I enjoyed it too. We should do it more often… though perhaps not at such an ungodly hour.”

Harry laughed and said goodnight. She did the same and went to bed.

It was almost three in the morning when Hermione finally closed her eyes. Unbeknownst to her, Harry was also still awake, and would remain so for at least another hour.

So very terribly late.

Hundreds of miles away, deep underground, lying on the cold stone floor of the hallway that led to the Department of Mysteries, Arthur Weasley struggled to breathe as he slowly slipped from consciousness.

The last image that crossed his mind before darkness took over, was of his family. Nothing fancy or particularly special. Just a normal Sunday morning. His wife and kids around him, their home filled with love and laughter.

It was just like that, with his heart bursting with love, that Arthur Weasley breathed out for the last time.

Chapter Text

As soon as she woke, Hermione knew something was terribly wrong. Could feel it in her very soul.

Ignoring her unease, Hermione went through her morning routine as usual. It wasn’t until she found herself alone in the common room, with no Harry or Ron waiting for her, that she really started to worry.

“Morning, Hermione,” Dean greeted her as he climbed down the dormitories, eyes still half shut, slowly fixing his tie.

“Hi Dean, are Harry and Ron still sleeping?”

His confused look spiked her anxiety.

“No, they weren’t there when I woke. I thought maybe you’d know where they are. Sorry.”

“Oh… it’s OK. I… maybe they said something and I just… forgot.”

She didn’t see them on her way to the Great Hall. She even took longer to finish her breakfast to see if they made it. Ron would never skip breakfast.

Hermione was pushing around the food on her plate she couldn’t bring herself to eat when a first-year student handed her a note. It was from Professor McGonagall. She was being summoned. Appetite gone, she swung her bag over her shoulder and tried not to run to her Head of House’s office.

Looking off-kilter, Professor McGonagall asked her to sit as soon as Hermione stepped into the room. She could see the wave of emotions fleeting through the professor as she paced, her head held high even though an air of profound sorrow surrounded her.

“What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this office, Miss Granger, understood?”

Hermione nodded.

“Last night—oh dear...” Professor McGonagall took a slightly shaky breath and adjusted her glasses before continuing. “There’s no easy way to say this…”

Hermione couldn’t stop wringing her hands as she watched the powerful witch in front of her pull herself together before continuing. She could’ve never imagined the devastating news she was about to get.

“Last night, Arthur Weasley… was killed. While completing business for…”

The Order.

Arthur Weasley, devoted husband and father, Ron’s hero, Molly’s world, one of the kindest human beings she’d ever met, had been killed while on a mission for the Order.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a strangled sob. Only when she was enveloped in her professor’s arms did she realise it had been hers.

It was his scar that woke him. A sharp pain that threatened to split his head in half. Not that it would, unfortunately. He sometimes thought it would be easier. If it did, then everything would stop, and he would get some peace. But no.

Harry pressed his hands to his eyes, fighting the dark thoughts he’d been having from time to time. The pain was becoming unbearable. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone, and he could hear the whispers and shuffling in the bed next to his. Someone was speaking to Ron.

He reached for his glasses, almost knocking the glass of water on the bedside table. Ron came out of nowhere, his hair still sticking to his forehead, eyes glazed and unfocused, and grasped his arm, shaking him slightly.

“Harry, dad—”

“Mr Weasley, we need to go now,” whispered a figure from the doorway.

Ron was holding on so tightly he could feel his nails digging in his skin. Harry led Ron out of their dormitory and into the common room, where McGonagall was waiting along with the twins and Ginny. They were all in the same state of blind panic as Ron.    

It all happened so quickly. Almost like a dream. During most of it, Harry wasn’t sure it was even real. McGonagall rushed them out of the tower and straight to Dumbledore’s office. He couldn’t understand what the headmaster said. Only that it sounded a lot like comforting.

At their instruction, they all huddled around a little bag Dumbledore pulled from the top drawer of his desk. They touched it and Harry felt the familiar pull of the portkey. An instant later they landed inside Grimmauld Place.

If McGonagall’s unusual agitation hadn’t set off alarms inside his mind, Sirius’s sombre countenance did.

They sat around the kitchen table while Sirius relayed what he knew. Apparently, Arthur had been rushed to St. Mungo’s after being found unconscious outside the Department of Mysteries. He’d been injured but Sirius offered no details. Molly was at St. Mungo’s along with Bill, so Sirius had volunteered to keep them company while they waited for news.

It was the most dreadful hour of his life. At one point the twins became restless and threatened to barge into St. Mungo’s and demand information. While Sirius tried to reason with them, Ron was comforting Ginny, his eyes strangely vacant as he held his sister tightly while she cried. Harry felt like an intruder. Should he even be there?

At about 7:30 the kitchen door burst open, and Bill Weasley walked in. Harry didn’t need to hear what he was about to say. He looked haunted. Broken.

It became clear to him, this wasn’t a dream, or a nightmare. It was much worse than that.

Hermione roamed the castle for close to an hour. Though it was the last day of term, she still had classes to attend. However, she couldn’t bring herself to sit in a classroom and pretend everything was fine.

She couldn’t go to Grimmauld place to be with the Weasleys until the next day, once the term was officially over. McGonagall had explained Umbridge threw a fit when she found out they had snuck the Weasleys and Harry out of the castle in the middle of the night without informing her. There was no way in hell Hermione would be allowed to leave.

Before she knew it, she was on her way to the tower. She whispered the password and, for once, the Fat Lady opened without comment. Later she wouldn’t be able to remember how she made it to her dormitory. She closed the drapes of her four-poster bed and hid underneath the covers, the way she used to do when she was little and scared of the shadows.

Only then did she allowed herself to feel again. She couldn’t believe Arthur was dead. Such a kind-hearted man, who loved his family so fiercely. And now he was gone. A life extinguished in an instant, leaving so much behind. It was so unfair.

But then again, since when had life been fair?

The urgent need to see her parents became overwhelming. She needed the safety of their embrace. To know they were OK, that they were safe.

She cried for what felt like hours, until sleep pulled her under once more. Perhaps when she woke again it would all have been just a nightmare.

The next morning, Hermione left the tower with only her bag on her shoulder. She could feel the eyes of her classmates staring as she passed. She kept her head down, couldn’t bear to see the pity in their faces. It would bring the tears back and she couldn’t break. Not when she was alone.

She had been excused from prefect duties for on the ride back, so she walked along the corridor looking for an empty compartment she could lock and spend the entire ride back home alone. When she thought she’d found one, she was surprised to find Neville, huddled in a corner, making it look like no one was inside.

“Oh, sorry…” she began apologising, but Neville cut her off.

“Hermione, you can sit here. We don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”

There was so much kindness and understanding in his eyes she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. If she believed anyone could honour that promise, it would be Neville.

“Thank you, Nev.”

Hermione pulled down the blinds and locked the door. The last thing she needed was someone else barging in, she didn’t want to keep looking for a place to be alone.

She stared out the window, sniffing occasionally, but Neville didn’t say a thing. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he offer comforting words. And she was incredibly thankful for that. Hours later, when the train started slowing down, approaching King’s Cross, Hermione felt a pang of guilt.

“Nev…”

“Don’t mention it, Hermione,” he said, and again, the infinite kindness he was capable of astounded her. “Give my condolences to Ron, please.” He gave her a shy hug, then left.

Leaving King’s Cross to meet her parents felt different this time. None of her usual bittersweet excitement and happiness were present. Instead, she felt an overwhelming, frantic need to see them, to hold them close and never let go. It didn’t take long for her to find them. They were waiting where they always did, just outside the station.

One look at them and she broke down. The immense relief breaking any lingering resolve to stay strong.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” she heard her father ask as he wrapped his arms around her, wiping some of her tears with the pad of his thumb.

“Daddy…” she couldn’t say more, her voice broke.

Hermione wrapped her arms around her father and held on for dear life. It was all too much. Her mind had been running wild since she found out. It was impossible to focus. Her mother joined them. She could feel her soothing hand on her back, tracing wide circles and whispering that she loved her. Just as she did when she was a little girl.

They held her close while she cried. As time went by, she felt worse. What would she do If she lost them? She couldn’t even imagine the unbearable pain. And Ron was now going through that.

“Lovey, please, tell us what’s wrong.” Begged her mother.

“Mummy… it’s Ron’s dad… he—he died.”

She felt her father’s arms hold her just a little tighter at the confession, and the kiss that lingered a little longer than usual on her forehead.

“Oh… Oh my love, I’m so sorry.”

“Darling, we’re going home now, OK? Come with us.”

Her father gently ushered her to the car. Hermione climbed on the back seat. To her surprise, her mother followed her.

She leaned into her mother’s embrace, relishing the feel of her fingers brushing her hair, and the comforting smell of her perfume. She didn’t stop crying until they reached their home.

“Darling, what do you need?” her father asked once they were inside.

“I don’t know.”

Moments later she was on her bed. Held between her parents, as she hadn’t been since before she went to Hogwarts. Lulled by their loving comforting words, she grew tired, and eventually fell asleep once more.

“We should send an owl, Richard,” said the stern voice of Linda Jean Granger, “That professor McGonagall should know what to do. She told us to contact her if we had any doubts. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind telling us what’s the respectful thing to do.”

Her father’s response was muffled by either the walls or Hermione’s still sleep addled brain. She rubbed her eyes and got out of her childhood bedroom.

“Mum?”

Linda jumped back a little, a flash of guilt crossing her features before turning into one full of love.

“Oh lovey, you’re up. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s OK. What’s going on?”

“We’ve delayed our trip, love. We’ll postpone it if necessary,” answered her father, placing his hand on her shoulder and giving her a reassuring squeeze. “We want to ask about Mr. Weasley. Will there be a ceremony? I’m sorry, we don’t mean to overwhelm you is just—”

“It’s alright...” she said, sniffing a little. Though she felt like crying, her eyes were dry. She’d probably used all the tears she had.

“I know we only met him once, but he was such a kind man. So curious about our world… we understand if we can’t go with you if there’s a ceremony, but we’d still like to pay our respects.”

“Thank you…”  she leaned into her father again while lacing her fingers with her mother’s.

“Are you hungry, lovey?” Linda asked.

She nodded again, and followed her parents to the dining room.

Dinner was, as usual, delicious. Not because Linda or Richard Granger were phenomenal chefs, but because they knew all the best take-out places. And they never disappointed. Their conversation remained on safe subjects. She was immensely thankful for the normalcy. Her parents gave her a bit of neighbourhood gossip which managed to make her smile.

They were in the middle of Hermione’s favourite pudding when the doorbell interrupted what had been thus far a most peaceful evening. Richard didn’t bother hiding his annoyance, muttering complaints about rude visitors coming at disrespectful hours. His wife and daughter’s barely suppressed giggles only made his frown deepen.

Opening the front door, he found an odd woman standing outside. He was certain he’d never met her before. Dull, greyish, shoulder-length hair, deep dark circles under her eyes, and a certain blankness in her dark-brown eyes. The woman looked like she’d been to hell and back.

“Er… Hullo…?”

“Is Hermione Granger here?” she asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

Richard’s scowl returned with full force. “Who’s asking?”

“Tonks.”

She said it as if that explained everything. He supposed it must’ve, since he heard his daughter’s soft steps coming behind him.  

“Tonks?”

The woman’s face softened, the first sign of emotion. She didn’t look happy though. She looked sad.

“Hello Hermione.”

Hermione was shocked to see Tonks look so different. Gone was the bubble-gum pink hair, the mischievous eyes, and easy smiles. She looked exhausted. Suddenly back to reality, Hermione turned to her father, who still stood protectively blocking the entrance to their home.

“Dad, this is Tonks. Tonks this is my dad, Richard Granger. Please come in.”

“What’s—”

“Mum, this is Tonks.” Hermione interrupted her mother, who had joined them at the door, no doubt worried they were taking too long to return.

“Oh, pleased to meet you, I'm Linda Granger, would you like something to eat?” she asked Tonks kindly, “We were just having dinner.”

“I—that would be lovely, thanks.”

Linda served Tonks a bit of everything they’d ordered, while Richard offered her something to drink. Tonks accepted politely, not yet giving an explanation to her presence. They ate in silence for almost ten minutes before Tonks spoke.

“I suppose you’ve heard the news.”

Hermione nodded. There was nothing to say.

“Arthur—” Tonks took a deep breath before starting again, “Harry and Sirius asked if I could come get you. The Weasleys…”

Her sigh and slow shake of her head told Hermione everything she needed to know. No explanation was requested from either of the Grangers.

They were quiet once more. Hermione thought of the repercussions Arthur’s death would bring. Would the Weasleys ever recover? What did this mean for the Order? And most importantly for Hermione, would Ron ever be the same?

Of course not. He never would.

“Forgive me,” said her mum, looking straight at Tonks. “I’m terribly sorry for intruding, but we wanted to ask, and we didn’t know who. What… is done in these situations?”

Tonks seemed confused by the question, so her mother continued. “We don’t want to be disrespectful. It’s just… should we send flowers? Will there be a ceremony? We would really like to pay our respects.”

Tonks stared at her parents for a few beats. Hermione could see the tears forming in the eyes of the auror.

“There will be a ceremony. It will be at the Burrow, that is where the Weasleys live.” Tonks cleared her throat and discreetly wiped the corner of her eye before continuing. “Unfortunately, we won’t—that is… only family will attend.”

“We understand. We won’t impose, just… please give our condolences.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised. It made perfect sense. No one knew of Arthur’s involvement with the Order. Arthur had been attacked inside the Ministry and still no explanation had been given. His funeral surely would gather a lot of attention from the press. Which meant the Order would not be able to mourn one of their own as they laid him to rest. They wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.

“The Weasleys are still at Grimmauld. They will stay there while Molly and Bill arrange everything.”

St. Mungo’s. Arthur had died there. Hermione assumed it would be much like when her grandmother died in a muggle hospital. Loads of paperwork to sign, a whole procedure to follow before—

“I can take you to Grimmauld place if you wish.” Tonks said.

Hermione turned to her father. Unsure what she should do. She wanted to be there for the Weasleys. They had always been like a second family to her. At the same time, she wondered if she should even be there. Even if she sometimes felt like it, she wasn’t actually part of the family.   

“You should go darling; your friend will need all the support he can get.”

She knew her father was right. This wasn’t about her feeling like part of the family, or grieving in the same way as them. It was about supporting her friends in a time of need.

“I haven’t unpacked.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Tonks explained what would happen in the coming days. She sounded detached, almost cold. Hermione supposed it was a defence mechanism and found she couldn’t blame her for it.

Her parents assured everything would be fine, that she shouldn’t worry about the skiing trip. They could always go the next year. With a final wave, she took Tonks’s offered hand and they disapparated from her backyard.

While everyone else chose to apparate into the foyer. Tonks always did so in the kitchen. Despite the late hour, the kitchen was not empty. Sirius stared at them from the top of the table, a tumbler filled with an amber liquid in his hand.

“Cousin. Hermione.” he greeted with a terse nod.

“Where are—”

“They’re upstairs. Ronald hasn’t left his room. Harry is asleep in the study across the hall. Ginevra is with Molly. As is William and Charles. The twins are locked inside their room…”

“And Percy?”

His hand tightened around the glass, stopping midway to his mouth. Sirius sighed and shook his head. Tonks huffed.

“I have to leave,” Tonks said, and gave Sirius a slight nod, which he returned, “Hermione, let him know if you need anything. I’ll ask about your parents’ question and let you know.”

Then she disapparated again.

Hermione toyed with the hem of her hoodie. She couldn’t remember being alone with Sirius before. It was uncharted territory, conversation wise, and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to try. But she had questions.

“What’s going to happen now?”

Sirius swirled the remaining contents of the tumbler before emptying it in one gulp. He set the empty glass on the table with a little more force than necessary, then turned to her.

“There will be a ceremony. Arthur will be buried. The Order will move on.”

Cold. Detached. Coming from him, Hermione felt angry.

“Don’t look at me like that Hermione.”

For a moment he looked as tired as he did in their third year, just out of Azkaban. There were wounds not even time could heal.

“Arthur knew what he was getting into,” Sirius said, “What we are doing was important enough for him to willingly, and knowingly, risk his life. We’d be doing him a disservice if we stopped.”

“I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t, but I’ve been yelled at and looked at with the same loathing as you were just then by at least six of the eight occupants of this house.”

Whatever anger she’d felt rising instantly vanished. Much as she loathed to admit it, he was right, every member of the Order knew what was at stake. They’d lived it before.

“I’m sorry”

“Not your fault. Grief is…”

Sirius stared at his now empty glass for a long moment, no doubt lost in memory. If anyone knew what grief could do to a person was him. He’d spent twelve years in Azkaban because of it. Hermione waited for him to continue. When it became apparent he wouldn’t, she reached for his hand.

He was startled out of whatever place his mind had gone, he squeezed her hand once and leaned back on his chair.

“What did Tonks mean about your parents?”

“They want to pay their respects but don’t know how.”

Sirius hummed. They sat in silence for a few beats before he reached for a bottle of firewhisky and poured a couple of inches into his glass.

“Will they let you—”

“Doubtful,” he answered, his eyes on the table, “Arthur knew a lot of people. And a lot of people loved him. Not just Order members. Which means I can’t be seen there.”

He looked around the room, lost in thought again, “It’s like another prison really,” he mumbled, more to himself than her.

“One where you get to see your godson.”

His eyes snapped up to meet hers. There was something oddly familiar about his eyes. She couldn’t point out what, instead she focused on the openness and honesty he radiated as he said,

“It’s why I’m still here.”

As quietly as she could, afraid she might wake Mrs Black, Hermione climbed the stairs and made her way to the study. Harry was sitting on the chaise by the window, looking out, lost in thought. She knocked the door to call his attention.

Harry turned around, she could see he’d been crying, his eyes were red and puffy, and there were tear tracks down his cheeks. She approached almost cautiously.

“Harry… is Ron—?”

“Refuses to leave the room. He won’t talk to anyone.”

He sounded defeated. 

“We can try together,” she offered.

“I don’t—I just.” Harry pressed his hands on his eyes, then swiped them down his face. “What do we say?”

What could they say? For once words failed to adequately express what she wanted to say. Words couldn’t undo the damage done to the Weasleys.

“Nothing,” she answered, sitting down beside Harry, “I don’t think there’s anything we can say. But we can just… be there. Not to talk but to listen.”

“I suppose…”

He looked out the window again. His hand found hers and held it while they watched the lights that illuminated the street beyond.

“It’s getting late. We should probably sleep and try tomorrow.”

She curled on the sofa. He laid back on the chaise. It didn’t take long for them to drift off.

They woke up at sunrise. Having forgotten to close the drapes. Without a word they both crossed the hall and stared at Ron’s door.

They knocked. No answer.

“Maybe he’s asleep?”

She knocked again. Nothing. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t worried.

Hermione tried the door. It opened and by the look on Harry's face, she could tell he hadn’t thought to do that the day before. They tiptoed into the room in case he was asleep.

Ron was lying face up. Staring at the ceiling, the covers up to his neck.  

“Ron?”

He turned away from them, curling on his side, wrapping the duvet tighter around himself.

“Go away.”

“No.” They said in unison.

Slowly, Ron sat. The dark grey covers fell around him, and she could finally see him for the first time since before the dreadful news. His hair was unwashed and tangled, his face was blotchy, there were red circles around his eyes. His eyes… There was no anger behind them, only pain, and the pain reflected in them was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen.  

“He’s gone,” he said, his voice hoarse and a little shaky, “He’s dead. He’s never coming back.”

This time he couldn’t choke back a sob. She wanted to run to his side, but Harry discreetly held her back. Ron needed to vent. They were there to listen.

“Why was he there in the first place?! At night! At the Ministry! Why was he alone?! No one is telling us anything!”

He broke down, in the space of a couple of minutes he’d gone from sorrowful numbness to agonising anger to bawling in pain.

They approached the bed, where Ron shook uncontrollably, and sat on either side of their friend. She could see the tears forming in Harry’s eyes, felt her own threatening to fall. Hermione held Ron’s hand while Harry placed an arm around his shoulders, and they held him close.

Because there was nothing to be said.

In the days that followed, the news of Arthur’s death spread like fiendfyre. Despite the Ministry’s best efforts, it was impossible to cover the fact that Arthur Weasley had died inside their building. Officially, he had died of unknown causes, suddenly and painlessly. Some joked that after being so obsessed with muggles for so long, it was fitting for him to die a decidedly muggle death. Unknown cause. Sudden. Painless.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

The twins had eavesdropped on Moody and Tonks on a day they’d been a bit careless with the silencing charms. Its how they all found out at least part of the truth.

They already knew Arthur had died while on a mission for the Order. Now they knew he had died protecting something—perhaps a weapon—the dark lord didn’t have the last time. Something he wanted.

After succeeding in getting new information, Hermione knew the twins regretted it. Even if they did not say so. They retreated to their room and stayed there the rest of the day.

Arthur was the first casualty of the newly reformed group.

First.

Hermione could no longer shy away from the truth. She couldn’t pretend this conflict would be resolved with diplomacy. The danger was real. A war was coming. And even if she felt wholly unprepared for it, there was no way to avoid it. Not when her best friend was at the centre of it. Not when it was her very existence that was a part of the conflict.

She couldn’t voice her concerns to Harry, of course. He wanted to believe they would find a way. That Dumbledore would be able to protect them before it escalated. But it had already escalated.

Arthur was dead.

So, she kept her thoughts to herself. She sat with Ron and Harry, not really saying anything, as she still hadn’t found the right words to give Ron. It was Harry who found his voice first. He’d decided to distract Ron, even if only a minute, by talking about Quidditch.

Ron wasn’t the only one suffering. It had been four days since Arthur had died and the Ministry still wouldn’t let them lay him to rest amongst his ancestors. Instead, he was in a dungeon of St. Mungo’s, under a stasis charm, being examined by different officials. 

The time that passed took more and more from Molly Weasley. She rarely left her room, always with Ginny by her side. Bill and Charlie had taken the responsibility of claiming back their father’s body. Leaving early in the morning and coming back late in the evening. Tired, broken.

On the morning of the sixth day, the day before Christmas eve, Arthur’s body was released.

No one spoke while Bill and Charlie took turns explaining what needed to be done. They had been working hard to have everything ready so the moment they had their father they could give him a final goodbye. Within hours everything was set for them to go back home. Bill and Charlie apparated their siblings into the Burrow. It was then that Hermione noticed the twins hadn’t done so the entire time they’d been in Grimmauld Place.

“I’m sorry you have to stay.” Hermione overheard Harry say to Sirius.

“It’s the way it’s supposed to be. No one from the Order can be there. Especially not me.”

Though the Weasleys' home looked the same, it felt different. It was as if the building knew the loss the family had experienced. The kitchen was empty, none of the organised raucous usually happening when Molly was focused on a task. The living room was tidy and… still. She had grown used to many things always happening at once in that room. The lack of movement felt wrong.

There was one thing different. Sat on top of the console table was a huge flower arrangement. Purple hyacinths and white lilies filled the room with a sweet, earthy fragrance. The light from the garden window accentuating the contrast between their colours, giving them an otherworldly appearance.

“They’re from your parents,” Charlie whispered. Hermione looked up to find him staring at the flowers, a lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Thank you, Hermione. I hope to one day be able to thank them in person.”

Unable to speak, she nodded.

They walked in silence across the garden, to a clearing that was about fifty metres into the forest that surrounded the property. At the front of the group was Molly, flanked by Charlie and Ginny. The youngest Weasley hadn’t stopped crying since she heard the news. Holding her mother close as if afraid she may too disappear from her life. Charlie held Molly’s arm tightly, his back rigid, a blank expression on his face.

Close behind was Bill, holding Fleur Delacour’s hand.

Earlier that day Hermione had been surprised to see Fleur walk into the Burrow. Though she’d found the French witch insufferable during fourth year, it was all forgotten in the few minutes she’d witnessed between her and Bill. Neither acknowledged what was happening between them, Fleur was introduced as a friend and nothing more, but to Hermione it was obvious something wonderful was growing between the pair, and she couldn’t help but be thankful Bill had someone like that in his life in a moment like this.

Fred and George walked side by side, as they’d done all their lives. She was certain this was the first time she’d seen them without a smile on their faces. She hoped to never again have to witness them in such pain.

When they reached the clearing, she could see there were about fifty chairs in neat rows facing a simple but beautiful mausoleum. The ground was covered with bluebells and snowdrops, swaying delicately with the afternoon winter breeze.

Ron had barely said a word after that morning in his bedroom. Mostly he stared blankly into the distance, or he cried. It worried her that he always chose to do so alone. He would retreat to a far corner to let his emotions flow freely.

One by one the Weasleys sat on the front row. Ron joined his family, leaving Hermione and Harry behind. One chair remained empty.

Percy wasn’t there.

The Weasleys held each other close, heads held up as they greeted people who’d come to pay their respects. Before long, the chairs in the small clearing had been filled by people she didn’t know. Hermione and Harry sat on the back row, both unsure as to what their role was. Despite feeling like a part of the family most days, a moment like this made it painfully evident that was not the case. Neither of them resented it. At least, Hermione didn’t think Harry felt left behind. She certainly didn’t. They accepted their role as Ron’s friends. There to support him in his hour of greatest need.

McGonagall arrived last. At first, Hermione was surprised, then she remembered she’d been Arthur’s teacher. Minerva McGonagall had taught all of Arthur and Molly’s children. Her connection to the family went further back than even the first war.  

No one else from the Order was there.

There was no music but the gentle rustle of leaves and occasional birdsong. Bill and Charlie stood up on either side of the aisle and turned to the back. Instantly all heads turned in the same direction.

Floating from deep inside the forest came a figure wrapped in a thick white and gold fabric. It glided along the aisle, where it was met with quiet laments and whispered goodbyes, until it stopped just in front of the mausoleum doors.

Hermione could see Molly shaking at the front, and Ginny whispering in her ear. The twins’ heads were bowed, refusing to look up. Ron was completely still, his eyes never leaving the body of his father.

Bill approached Arthur, leaned forward, and whispered something before facing the group. She could see his hands shaking.

“Arthur Weasley—” he began, but his voice broke. He looked at Fleur then cleared his throat. “My father… was the bravest man I knew. My dad is my hero. He was kind, compassionate… endlessly curious. He always made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. I am proud to call Arthur Weasley my father.”

He looked down at his hands, gathering strength to continue. When he looked at the sky, Hermione wondered if he was asking Arthur for help.

“He loved unconditionally, and I hope—I hope we never gave him reason to doubt he was loved in return. My siblings and I… mum—” when Bill’s voice broke once more Hermione couldn’t hold her tears anymore.

Why didn’t they send someone else? She hated thinking that way but couldn’t help it. Arthur had a family, he had children and a wife. Why would they risk him of all people?

Bill took a couple of deep breaths, struggling to keep it together. Charlie approached him. Placing a hand on his older brother’s shoulder, he faced the group as well.

“Dad always had a big smile to share with everyone he met,” Charlie said, holding Bill close, “He was the best father I could’ve asked for. No matter what, I knew I could always ask him for help. And he would never judge, never complain. He would listen and lend a hand. He was my rock. The man who taught me to dream—” Charlie bowed his head and whispered something that made Bill chuckle, then took one shaky breath and looked up. “I can’t imagine how empty it will feel to spend time in the place where we were once so happy. But I trust we will find a way to keep going… together,” he said, looking at his siblings and Molly.

Bill turned to Charlie and whispered something. Charlie nodded, taking a small step back, his hand never leaving Bill.

“If dad was still with us,” Bill said, having regained his composure, “He wouldn’t want us to share grief and sorrow, he would want us to focus on the happy memories.”

Bill turned to the figure in front of the mausoleum. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand before he continued.

“Still… I can’t believe we have to say goodbye. I only hope I can live up to his memory. He was taken—he left too soon. And I will miss him for the rest of my life.”

Harry and Hermione cried quietly the back, borrowing strength from one another. The doors to the mausoleum burst open. Bill and Charlie pointed their wands at the figure that had once been their father.

The heart-breaking sobs from the front row filled the quiet atmosphere of the clearing as Arthur Weasley was welcomed by his ancestors. Finally at peace.  

Chapter Text

A fucking snake.

Weasley’s father was killed by a fucking snake. And not just any snake, it had been none other than the Dark Lord’s pet. That is, if what Lucius had just said was to be believed. Draco had no reason not to trust his father’s words, especially because Lucius had no idea he was there to hear it. There was no reason for his father to lie. Which meant Arthur Weasley—loser, lowly ministry employee—was killed by the Dark Lord’s snake. Inside said Ministry. Right outside the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

But, why? What reason could that man possibly have to be down there? Why would anyone want to kill him of all people? It was one of those mysteries Draco didn’t want to know the answer to. Unfortunately, he couldn’t turn off his brain and already had some theories, despite his reluctance to think much about it.

Because… wasn’t it obvious? There had to be something there that needed protecting. His father—which really meant the Dark Lord—wanted it. Dumbledore’s idiots didn’t want him to get it. So, Weasley’s father had died protecting it.

Killed by a fucking snake.

Whatever it was couldn’t be anything good. Not if the Dark Lord wanted it that much.

He leaned back to rest against the cold stone as he listened to Lucius and Thaddeus Nott discuss the events from earlier in the week. When his father said it had been rather poetic to have a Gryffindor killed by a snake, Draco thought, sadly, if he’d been in his presence, he would’ve been expected to laugh. Surprisingly, he wasn’t sure he would’ve managed.

It was admittedly funny. Had it been a hypothetical scenario—like a freak accident—he would’ve appreciated the irony.

Suddenly feeling ill, he decided to go back to his room, feeling an unwelcome wave of guilt at the thought of the Weasleys.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thought, as he scratched his hand with a loose rock on the ground. Gone from being in his father's confidence to crawling through secret passageways to eavesdrop on his conversations, feeling sorry for the Weasleys. Had it really been less than a year since he’d boasted to whoever would listen of how his father told him everything?

Pathetic.

Despite the amount of Christmas ornaments decorating the Manor, it still felt cold and unwelcoming. For the first time in his life Draco felt completely indifferent about Christmas. There were no gifts he was anxiously expecting, no events he was excited about, nothing he wanted from a holiday he once held so dear. In truth all he wanted was to be back at Hogwarts. Somewhere safe.

Instead, he stared at the constellation he was named after shining faintly on the ceiling over his four-poster bed. Safe was the last thing he felt.

The Dark Lord was coming to the manor.

‘Doing rounds’, his father had said over breakfast. The fact that it was an obvious move to keep his minions in check seemed to elude Lucius. The Dark Lord had been gone for months, doing something or other in the continent. Draco wished he would stay there. Then it would be their problem and not his.

But the Dark Lord was coming back, and in a little over a week he would be at Malfoy manor again.

On Christmas morning, instead of rushing to the parlour to open the pile of presents underneath the tree—as he’d done every Christmas morning since he could remember—he roamed the halls of the manor hoping to avoid any interaction for as long as possible.

He could feel it now. It was faint but unmistakable now that he knew to look for it.

It was no coincidence most noble houses had lived in their ancestral homes for generations, and continued to do so to this day. Much like how the founders chose where to build Hogwarts based on the magic of the land, the oldest pureblood families did the same when choosing where to set their homes. Drawn to places brimming with magic in its purest form. Free and unrestricted. Untamed.

Some families, like his, had managed to keep the place relatively unaffected. Feeding and caring for the magic that allowed them to thrive in the first place. What they did outside the boundaries of their estate was a different topic.

Others, like the Lestrange family, had disrespected the gift of the land, eventually running their estate to ruin. Its magic forever tainted.

But now he could feel it. His childhood home had been tarnished; its magic was corrupted. He hoped one day it could be fixed.  

Needing some fresh air Draco made his way outside, clutching his robes tightly warring against the inclement weather. The gardens were a reprieve from the unpleasantness inside. The darkness had yet to take hold of the estate grounds. So, he walked. Basking the feel of magic in the air.

The sweet smell of roses never failed to quiet his mind instantly. It was a smell he associated with free afternoons with his mother. He’d begun craving the quiet with increasing frequency since his home had been invaded by crazed fanatics.

The roses were kept inside an enchanted greenhouse. Inside the enormous glass structure lived hundreds of both magical and non-magical flowers which bloomed all year long. The vines creeping up the brick base, and the aged look of the black paint on the large fleur de lys accents that topped the steeped roofs gave it an eerie feeling, specially early in the morning, when the fog had yet to drop.

Inside, red, white, pink and yellow roses adorned his path. Further back he found green, orange, blue, and his favourite: periwinkle. Draco was so entranced by the beauty of it all that he didn’t hear the cautious steps approaching behind him.

“My dragon...” his mother called, making him pull back his hand, which had been about to touch one of the rarest blooms of the greenhouse. He should’ve known she’d find him in the rose garden. It was her kingdom after all.

“I got you a little present.”

“I thought presents were later... inside.” With father looming over us.

“I know my love, but this one is different. It’s special.”

Which meant his father didn’t know about it. What exactly was she playing at? Did she not know she was playing a dangerous game keeping things from Lucius?

Draco followed her silently back to the manor and into her study. The room wasn’t used often since Narcissa preferred to conduct her affairs in a more social way, inviting whoever she needed to deal with to tea or hosting whatever social event was necessary. She didn’t need to have meetings in a heavily warded room as his father did.

On her desk was a small black velvet box. For a second his heart stopped at the sight. Surely she hadn’t arranged a... union for him already? She would’ve told him if she was considering a betrothal contract for him.

As his thoughts spiralled into despair, he failed to notice Narcissa’s hesitation when she picked it up, opened it and offered it to him.

The first thing he noticed—to his great relief—was that, though there was a ring inside, it was not an engagement ring. It was a signet ring. One he’d never seen before. It wasn’t big and gaudy like some he’d seen inside the Malfoy vault. It was an elegant, aged silver, slim band with a smattering of dots on top, which he traced with the tip of his finger.

Upon closer inspection he realised what he thought were random dots was actually a constellation. His constellation.

Draco held the ring closer. On one side the Black family crest was expertly carved despite the small size; on the other, with equal precision was the Malfoy crest. It was an intricate work of art. A most wonderful and thoughtful gift.

“Mother…” he said, the lump in his throat preventing him from saying more.

“I know you will get the Malfoy signet ring when you’re of age—perhaps even the Black ring—but that’s still two years away. I want you to have this,” she said almost reverently, taking it from his hand, not letting go of his fingers. “It will protect you my darling dragon…” she whispered as she slid it on his left little finger, and mumbled a few words he couldn’t discern, “…should you ever need it—”

Narcissa was uncharacteristically startled by a sudden pop a few feet away. The slight jump, the tense shoulders; even if it lasted only a couple of seconds it was something he’d never seen his mother do. She was on edge. Like most who lived inside the manor.

Tippy stared at them. Her big blue eyes somewhat dulled, and she had a pinched look that worried him. She looked between them as she wrung her fingers on the hem of that dirty rag she’d been wearing since the Dark Lord returned. Gone were the flowy dresses and bright tutus she favoured. Now she looked like Dobby had when he’d been in his father’s service. It pained him to see the little elf like that. Exhausted. Jittery. Afraid.

Already worried about the danger to his mother, a grown witch, while under the same roof as the Death Eaters, he didn’t even want to think what was happening with the elves. It was one more problem he had no solution to. Everything was crumbling around him. The safety he had taken for granted for so long was no longer there and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Mistress… Master Lucius is expecting you and the young master in the dining room. Breakfast will be served a little earlier today.”

Narcissa sighed. Her hand tightening gently around Draco’s.

“Thank you, Tippy, please let him know we’re on our way.”

Tippy bowed. Lower than she usually did. Her nose almost touched the ground before she disapparated. His mother turned to him and gave him a strange look, somewhere between resigned and apologetic, before leading him out of her office.

As they walked to meet his father, Draco slid the ring off his finger and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his silk pyjamas. Lucius was sure to take the ring as an offence, and the last thing they needed was to make him angry.

After an uncomfortable breakfast where Lucius tried to pretend everything was the same as always—even going so far as to engage in inane gossip he would normally sneer at—the three Malfoys continued the charade of a normal Christmas morning and headed to open presents.

The parlour was one of the largest rooms in the manor, second only to the ball room. It was tastefully decorated in creams and sage, with delicate golden accents. Filled with natural light coming from the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the back garden.

In a corner opposite stood a carefully decorated three-metre-tall Christmas tree, surrounded by a mountain of beautifully wrapped presents.

His mother stood to pick up a gift first. It was a small box wrapped in forest green paper, topped with a silver bow. With a small smile she offered it to him. Draco hesitated. She’d already given him a gift. No doubt seeing the confusion in his face, she gave him a wider encouraging smile. Even though the gift was solely for show in front of Lucius, he’d never been one to patiently unwrap anything, so he tore through it. 

Inside, covered in soft silk was a pair of what looked like seriously expensive, custom-made seeker gloves. His initials were embroidered with silver thread inside the wrist. The butter soft black leather felt like a caress when he put them on. It was a perfect fit. The kind only magic could achieve.

Lucius cleared his throat and began tapping his index finger on the package beside him. Draco thanked his mother, took off the gloves, and put them back in the box.

Without a word he received the gift from his father, messily wrapped in nondescript brown paper, he immediately knew it was a book. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, he tore at the wrapping, if with a bit less enthusiasm than the previous gift.

His heart sank the moment his eyes read the title.

An ancient looking copy of ‘Magick Moste Evile’. He was sure he’d seen it before, inside the restricted section of Hogwarts. Heavily warded and most definitely out of bounds to any student. And now he had his own copy. He swallowed hard and looked up to find his father’s eyes on him.

“It’s time you expand your knowledge, son. You never know when it might come useful.”

Draco gave a sharp nod. Unsure how else to react. If there was any doubt before, it no longer existed. Lucius expected him to follow his footsteps and become a Death Eater.

Lucius Malfoy wanted his only son to pledge his life to servitude.

Lucius disappeared again not long after opening their presents. Itching to try his new gloves and the professional training snitch he’d ordered for himself, Draco ran to the quidditch pitch, fully intending to spend the rest of his holiday flying.

A couple of hours later Draco was zooming past his bedroom window, milliseconds after his new snitch. He had left the confines of the quidditch pitch an hour before, preferring to use the entire grounds as an obstacle course.

With the wind whipping his face, the sting of the cold air in his lungs and his heart racing, he felt some semblance of peace. Temporarily muting his traitorous thoughts. He tightened his grip on his broom and followed closely as the temperamental snitch swerved up; then kept going until it got lost in the clouds.

He scanned the sky and nearly missed it as it rushed down in an almost perfect vertical. It turned sharply when it reached the manor, forcing him to barrel between chimneys, and under an archway. The snitch flew close to the wall, over the edge of the roof and down the front of the house.

An instant away from crashing on the ground Draco closed his fingers around the little orb and levelled his broom to avoid impact. Even with the wind in his ears he heard the loud crack of a group apparition nearby. He flew around the corner and up the manor again, slowing down until he landed on the roof, where he had a clear view of the main entrance.

Five masked, robed figures walked along the gravel path, dragging three people behind them. Even though their faces were covered with a golden mask, it was impossible not to recognise the long white-blond hair of one of them.

“Please!” cried one of the prisoners, “Please, we don’t know anything!”

“Shut it, mudblood!”

Draco leaned closer to the edge, unable to look away from the scene. They were close enough for him to see their bruised arms and the dirt on their clothes.

“Please…” begged a distinctly feminine voice.

She dropped to her knees, shaking her head, refusing to walk further.

“Please…” she cried, “We’re innocent.”

The largest of the masked men approached her, his hands fisted by his sides. Kneeling in front of her, he forced her head up to meet her eyes and said something Draco couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was, it made the woman freeze. The Death Eater stared at her for a moment, got up, and struck her face. Blood sprayed to the ground. Blood as red as Granger’s.

Indistinguishable from his.

The other two hostages fought against the men restraining them, trying to reach her. The woman seemed even smaller, cowering on the floor, struggling to move away from her attacker, who laughed a maniacal laugh as he watched her try to crawl away. A hopeless desperate move.

Draco wanted to yell at her to stop fighting, to do what she was told. To give up and comply so she could save herself. Except, deep down he knew, no matter what she did, the result would be the same.

Her attacker stopped. When she was a few metres away, he pointed his wand at her. Her companion’s screams and cries echoed across the manor. Draco turned around but he wasn’t quick enough. He’d seen the flash of green.

Somehow the silence that followed was even more deafening.

Time seemed to slow down for Draco. He spent most of his days between his room and the library, giving free reign to his untameable curiosity. Working on his personal projects kept his mind off what he’d witnessed. He only spoke when spoken to and spent most of his time alone.

It didn’t take long for him to grow tired of the silence and found himself walking to the greenhouse. Unsurprisingly, his mother was already there. Kneeling beside one of her favourite plants, pruning shears in gloved hands expertly caring for the blooming rose.

Draco watched her work, unsure about interrupting but unable to walk away.

Having made up his mind, he was about to leave when she looked up, frowning when she saw him hesitating at the entrance. Narcissa dusted her hands, took off her gloves and stood.

“Walk with me,” she said, offering her hand.

They did so in silence for a while, content with their mutual company, without the need to fill the silence with conversation neither of them wanted. They toured the greenhouse and then went out into the garden.

“Though I love our garden in the spring,” she said, as they walked past a black poplar, “I must admit I love it just as much this time of year.”

“When everything is dead?”

“It’s not dead. It’s renewing. Growing. Getting ready for spring.” She went quiet again, gently tracing the petals of a rose she’d picked in the greenhouse.

“There’s something I need to ask of you, my darling,” she said softly.

For a moment he feared she would ask him to follow his father’s orders without question. To bow his head and obey. He knew if she did, he would.

“There’s been some… recruitment going on…” she whispered, her voice trailing off, as if unsure how to continue. She took a deep breath and put her arm through his, pulling him farther away from the manor.

“Did you know, some animals, when threatened by a predator, they freeze. Pretend to be dead. The predator sees no use for these animals and leaves. The potential prey remains unharmed.”  

Draco remained silent.

“Do you understand?”

He looked up. Perhaps hoping for an answer written in the clouds. She wanted him to appear useless to the Dark Lord so perhaps his services wouldn’t be required. But how? The Dark Lord already knew he was top of his class. Second of their year, only just behind the mud—behind Granger. Besides, she must know his father would never let him pretend to be inept.

He was about to tell her so, but the pleading look in her eyes made the words die before leaving his lips. Instead, Draco stayed silent. He waited until they were walking under the only rhododendron in the estate, once they had circled back and were behind the rose garden, to take her hand in his and pointedly look up to the tree.

Narcissa stared at him with an unreadable expression before looking away.

“Mother, perhaps we should—”

“We can't Draco,” she interrupted, her face hardened, “Our place is here.”

“It was just an idea…”

His mother smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t believe him. Draco struggled to keep his face neutral. They both sighed, disappointed for different reasons. Suddenly, she stepped forward and hugged him tightly.

“Even if we could, we’re Malfoys, we wouldn’t be trusted,” she whispered in his ear, “We would be used, and have both sides against us.”

She took a step back and placed a hand on his cheek, “No one is that forgiving. No one is that good.”

“Mistress?” Tippy asked, startling Narcissa once more. “Where would yous like lunch to be served?”

Draco didn’t hear what his mother said. He couldn’t stop staring stupidly at Tippy. She looked so much like Dobby…  

His mother was wrong. There was one person possibly forgiving enough to maybe give them a chance. Someone who could be that obnoxiously good.

The question was, if necessary, would he dare ask for her help?

The day before New Year’s there was an odd shift in the atmosphere. He couldn’t explain what it was, but he knew he wasn’t the only one who could feel it.

Tolby, one of the kitchen elves—the one who always used to sneak him sweets when he was a child—apparated into his room to call him for breakfast. Trembling from head to toe, the elf kept glancing to the door, as if terrified something could burst in any second.

He followed the elf down the stairs and into the dining room where he found his father pacing along the room.

Lucius stopped the moment he heard him approach. Slightly dishevelled and paler than usual, his father motioned for him to sit before doing the same.

Draco stayed silent, waiting for his father to speak first. The grandfather clock ticked from the corner as both men stared anywhere but at each other. His mother hadn’t arrived. They never ate breakfast without her.

By the time food was served, Narcissa was still absent, and silence still reigned.

A familiar feeling of dread engulfed Draco. He lightly tapped his fingers on the table before reaching for the strainer and teapot. After pouring, he added a splash of milk and a sugar cube, then spent longer than usual swirling his tea, waiting.

“The Dark Lord is coming today,” Lucius said, as if commenting on the weather.

Draco closed his hand so his father couldn’t see his fingers trembling, and focused on his breathing.

“I expect you to be ready to meet him in the drawing room at noon.”

Fuck.

At five minutes to twelve, Draco stood motionlessly in front of the drawing room double doors. He’d never paid particular attention to how intricately the doors were carved.

A minute ticked by.

Draco looked himself over and began fidgeting with his robes. Déjà vu. He stopped when his hands started trembling. Why was he forced to wear those stupid robes when the Dark Lord didn’t even bother wearing shoes?

For fucks sake, why are you focusing on that?

Feeling sufficiently grounded, he pushed open the doors and walked in.

The drawing room was again shrouded in darkness. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stood in the middle, looking as regal as ever under the dim light of the few candles scattered around the room. Only the dark circles under his father’s eyes betrayed his true exhaustion.

“The Dark Lord will be here any moment and—” Lucius’s warning was cut short by a crack of apparition.

The Dark Lord had arrived.

Before he could reign his conflicted thoughts, a single question filtered to the front of his mind: when had his father given complete access to their home to the Dark Lord?

“Welcome, my Lord,” Lucius greeted.

“Welcome to our home, my Lord,” Narcissa said, then bowed slightly and linked her arm through Draco’s, pulling him close. Draco mirrored her action.

“It is our greatest honour. I do hope you find it to your liking,” she continued in her best pureblood-hostess voice, “If you’ll excuse us—”

“I do not.”

Mother and son froze. They had barely turned an inch before the Dark Lord’s words stopped them. One glance at his father was enough to know his mother had acted of her own accord. Though perfectly still, he could see the clench of his jaw and the vein in his forehead.

“Forgive them, my Lord, I didn’t have a chance to explain the reason of your visit. They were simply trying to give us some privacy.”

Draco could feel the pair of blood-red eyes boring into him followed by the familiar sensation of having something foreign inside his mind.

“Narcissa…” whispered their frightening guest, his voice sending a chill down Draco’s spine, “I’m afraid today’s visit requires your presence, and young Draco’s as well. After all, there are things young Draco must learn. He can’t do so if he’s not here.”

Narcissa seemed to hesitate only for a fraction of a second before bowing.

“Of course,” she said, dropping his hand. “My apologies.”

With a flick of his wand, the high back chair his father favoured moved until it was just under the place where Abraxas’s portrait once was. The Dark Lord slowly made his way to it and sat. From that point he could see the whole room.

A throne room of sorts, isn’t it?

Draco felt a slight wave of nausea engulf him. The three Malfoys stood side by side in front of Lord Voldemort. Like condemned men awaiting sentence.

The Dark Lord looked each of them over, then made a sound he’d heard once before. Like the hissing of a snake…

Parseltongue.

A soft undulating scratching could be heard from deep in the shadows. Approaching.

His heart began to race inside his chest. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from that place engulfed in darkness where the sound grew ever closer.

An enormous dark green snake slithered out of the shadows, its tongue flicking in the air. It stared at each Malfoy, swaying its head as if passing judgement, then made its way to the Dark Lord, coiling at his feet.

“As you know, I’ve been quite busy these past few months,” he said, petting the snake’s head, now in his lap. “Following a lead on something of great importance to our plans.”

A pause.

Draco felt the intrusion in his mind again. Even if he knew how, he wasn’t sure he could’ve stopped him from finding all the questions he now had.

“Now that I’ve returned, I decided to pay a visit to some of my most promising followers. My Death Eaters.”

A low throaty sound escaped him. It took Draco a second to recognise it as the mirthless chuckle it was.

“Thaddeus introduced me to young Theodore… Rebellious young man but, with the appropriate encouragement, I’m sure he’ll be a most useful asset.

“Aldous introduced me to young Vincent. Eager to learn. Raw. He’ll be easily shaped.”

Though his breathing had quickened, Draco still felt like he wasn’t getting enough air.

“Edward assured me Gregory has an outstanding ability to follow orders,” The Dark Lord continued, running his fingers along his yew wand, “I will be disappointed if it’s not true. Such a skill will be most useful to us.”

He hissed something else to the snake, and the massive beast glided across the floor, passed between his parents, and left the room.

Lord Voldemort stood from the chair and slowly walked towards them.

“And of course, our young Draco…” he said, stopping right in front of him. “I always save the best for last…

“I have to say, I am most pleased with what I’ve found. A new generation of people dedicated to our cause.”

He chuckled again. Draco struggled to stay still. All his senses were begging him to recoil. To flee.

“Tell me Draco, how’s school going for our friend Mr Potter?”

Draco was sure he must’ve asked the same to the other three. Theo might be reckless enough to try and downplay what had been happening. And he was certain Crabbe and Goyle would exaggerate it. His only option was to tell the truth, without embellishments.

“He—He’s been alienated from most of the school. Most students believe what the Ministry has been saying. That you—that… m—my Lord, can’t possibly have returned.”

“Alienated?”

“Yes, my Lord. People think both him and Dumbledore are insane attention seekers, so they try their best to avoid them.”

A dark, chilling sound escaped him. The harsh, mirthless laugh of someone unaccustomed to joy.

“I have to admit, Mr Potter surviving last year was… an unexpected misstep,” he said, and began pacing in front of the Malfoys, “Now I find myself wondering if perhaps the boy’s escape was actually a blessing in disguise. We may still find some use for him.”

He trailed off as he said those last few words. Then continued pacing, his hands behind his back. After what seemed like forever, he stopped in front of his mother, but facing Lucius.

“Apart from having a good look at young Draco, I wanted to ask you, Lucius… why is it taking so long to complete the Ministry job?”

“My Lord,” Lucius started, his tone slightly frantic, “It’s been… a most difficult task. As you know, there are rules. Only a few are allowed—”

“Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“No,” Lucius hastened to answer. His voice now more controlled, “I just—I need more time to convince the right people—”

“Mrs Malfoy? Please come closer.”

Draco’s stomach churned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father pale as he watched his wife step forward, head held high, with all the elegance that characterised her, and stand at arm’s length from the most dangerous wizard in the world.

In one swift movement the Dark Lord had his wand pointed straight between his mother’s eyes. Without batting an eye, she bowed, and kept her head down. Draco watched her carefully, and noticed the slight—almost imperceptible—tremble of her hand. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her and pull her away, but knew that wouldn’t bode well for either of them.

“How much longer must I wait, Lucius?”

Lucius Malfoy looked from his wife to the Dark Lord and back again before answering.

“I have a new plan; I believe it will be successful. There’s no need for punishment, my lord, I assure you it will be dealt with soon enough.”

Without taking his eyes off Lucius, he lifted Narcissa’s chin with his wand, pressing slightly underneath her jaw.

Draco held his breath as he waited for the Dark Lord’s next move.

“I hope you’re right, Lucius,” he said at last, lowering his wand. “Mrs Malfoy, you may step back. My sincerest apologies for the inconvenience.”

Narcissa took her place between Draco and Lucius, not a hair out of place, her face impassive.

“Draco, please step forward.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened in fear for a split second. Without looking at either of his parents, Draco obeyed.

“Don’t be afraid, Draco. I know you’re faithful. As long as you continue that path you have nothing to fear.”

The Dark Lord came so close, Draco thought he was going to hug him. Instead, the wizard forced him to turn around, facing his father. 

Suddenly pushed to his knees, Draco had to use both hands to stabilise himself. A sharp pain radiated down his legs. His watering eyes were hidden behind the hair that fell over his face.

“Please…” he heard his mother whisper.

Lord Voldemort laughed again.

Draco didn’t dare to move. He didn’t dare to breathe. He flinched when the tip of a wand swiped his hair off his face, travelled down his cheek, then forced his head up.

“And what about Azkaban?” Voldemort asked, before pressing the wand to his neck.

Draco closed his eyes. Could one ever be ready for torture? He doubted it. For death?

“We have made advancements on that front. We have a plan that I’m confident will succeed.”

“You have one more chance Lucius. I do not like to be kept waiting. If not…”

The wand pressed harder into his neck, making it difficult to breathe.

“I will be forced to give you some encouragement.”

“I understand, my lord.”

The pressure eased. Draco gasped for breath.  

“Stand, Draco. You may go now.”

Narcissa helped him to his feet and pulled him towards the door. They were both trembling. He barely registered they were moving, his mind still trapped in a state of fear.

“Get inside and stay there,” she ordered.

Draco walked through the door his mother ordered. He was in his bedroom. He looked around the familiar place, then collapsed.

Kneeling on the floor he began frantically running his hands through his hair. His heart pounded inside his chest. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He tried to breathe but struggled for air. He could swear he could still feel the wand digging into his neck. Was this to be his life from then on?

Warm tears rolled down his cheeks. Despair filled his senses. Hopeless, he sobbed until, exhaustion won and he fell asleep.

Draco woke up a few hours later lying on the floor, with a crick in his neck. He jumped up. Restless. And began pacing.  

What to do?

Never, in all his fifteen years of existence had he felt more conflicted than he did just then, crying all over his bedroom floor. He couldn’t remember a single instance in which his father had gone somewhere he did not want to follow.

Now though…

It was supposed to be a point of pride. A sort of elite status, being a Death Eater. That’s what he’d heard all his life. A select group of people. Exceptional. Pure. The ones chosen by the Dark Lord.

He couldn’t see what was so special about the people who strutted inside the manor as if they owned the place. Revered members of ancient houses, his father had said.

He needed to escape.

Surely the idea meant he was now certifiably insane. It was madness. He would get caught and there was no way to know what his father would do.

Kill you probably. If not, at the very least you’ll be tortured until you wish you were dead.

Images of a screaming contorting Pettigrew flashed in his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to stay calm.

His father would never do that to him. If not because he was his son, at least because he was his heir. Lucius Malfoy would never jeopardise his heir.

Are you sure about that?

He felt nauseous again. Hurrying across the room, he burst through the balcony’s doors and took a deep breath.

Draco stared at the Manor’s gardens for a long time his mind racing. As the sun was setting, he reached a conclusion. He needed help.

He was arrogant, for sure, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try to escape by himself. He needed someone to help him devise a perfect plan. To help them disappear.

Someone brilliant who could see past him and his mother being Malfoys. 

Someone obnoxiously good.

Merlin help him, he needed to talk to Granger.

Chapter Text

Draco released a shuddering breath as he leaned back on his seat at compartment H of the Hogwarts Express. Still troubled despite having been a week since his encounter with the Dark Lord, he was about to lock the door when Crabbe burst in, closely followed by Goyle.

“Crabbe. Goyle.”

“Hello, Draco. Good holiday?” asked Crabbe before sitting, a goofy smile crossing his face. 

“No better than yours, I suppose.”

Though he tried to sound at least mildly excited, it came out flat. Goyle leaned back on his seat and put up his feet on the one opposite. Crabbe stared at Draco intently.

“What?” Draco finally asked, annoyed by the unwanted attention.

“Well?” Crabbe asked pointedly, “What should we do?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play stupid. You know about what. What should we do to show our allegiance?”

Draco looked into the eyes of the boy who’d been his friend since they were eleven years old. Gone was the gullible child who’d obeyed his every order, replaced by a power-hungry teen, eager to prove his worth to someone who did not care if they lived or died.

He needed to tread carefully around them. Anything he said or did could make it back to their respective parents, and in turn, to the Dark Lord. If he showed even the slightest disloyalty… he didn’t want to find out what would happen.

“I don’t know about you, but I already made it perfectly clear where my loyalty lies,” he finally said, earning himself a glare from the other two. “Now if you excuse me,” he continued, getting out of his seat and heading to the door, “I must go to the prefect’s compartment. At least to make an appearance.”

“Prefects,” Crabbe scoffed, “Don’t know why you bother. Soon we’ll be part of something much greater.”

Draco stopped, his hand on the door. “Yes...” he said, his voice low. Then cast a quick imperturbable charm and turned.

Goyle shrank back into his seat and looked everywhere but at him, Crabbe jumped out of his seat. Back straight, head held high, and faced him defiantly.

“Soon, we will, but not yet. In the meantime, though, I need to keep appearances, wouldn’t you say?”

It was probably the condescending tone that made Crabbe go beet red. Not that he cared if he’d offended him. He never had.

“You’d do well to remember that until he says otherwise, nothing is happening, and we don’t know anything. So, kindly avoid running your gob, Crabbe.”

Without another word, Draco left.

He passed two carriages before he was pulled into another compartment. Draco struggled to release his arm from the hand clutching him and reached for his wand. When he looked up, the frightened eyes of Theo Nott bored into his own.

“Nott,” he grumbled, straightening his robes.

“You too?”

“What about me?”

“Please, don’t,” Theo begged. “Just tell me.”

“Why? You already know the answer.”

Theo shifted in place, scratched the back of his neck, then pulled the ends of his hair. “And? What are you going to do?”

Wasn’t that the million-galleon question? What was he going to do? Truth was, he had no idea. Even if he did, he wouldn’t share it with anyone. He knew they both had the exact same problem, and that their options were quite limited.

Still, if he by any chance managed to come up with a plan, the odds would not be in his favour. And he wouldn’t reduce them further by discussing it with Theo.

If one of them was to escape, he would make sure it was himself.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Theo,” he said with a warning look. “I’m going to the prefect’s carriage, where I will sit down, wait for the trolley witch, and then enjoy the ride to Hogwarts eating my weight in chocolate frogs.” He put his hand up to silence Theo’s objections. “I suggest you find an empty compartment and do the same.”

Draco looked pointedly to the door, then back at Theo and shook his head. Storm grey met forest green for a beat longer than either of them felt comfortable with.

It was Theo who gave up first. He stepped back. His face crumpled, defeated. Draco rushed out without looking back, angrier by the second. He had no sympathy to spare for his former friend. It was a matter of survival now, and they were already making it difficult for him.

He wasn’t even in Hogwarts yet and he was already having to deal with idiocy. First, Crabbe wanting to shout to the four winds that the Dark Lord had returned and planned to make them his little servants. Then Theo recklessly starting a conversation about committing what amounted to treason by defying said Dark Lord’s wishes.

They really needed to learn to be inconspicuous. If they kept it up, he would be either imprisoned or dead before the year was over.

Their first week back at the castle was not what Hermione expected. She had no idea what she hoped would happen, but she never imagined it would be like this.

Gryffindor had been divided before the Christmas break, due to Harry’s insistence on Voldemort’s return, and the reluctance of some to believe him. Granted, they had no actual proof it was true, and the Ministry was hell bent on painting both Harry and Dumbledore as insane attention seekers. But still.

After the untimely death of Arthur Weasley, Hermione had truly expected Gryffindor to come together. To support a grieving family in their moment of need.

She’d been sorely mistaken.

Despite the Ministry’s attempt to play down the tragedy that happened inside their premises, making it look like an accident, something mundane, details of Arthur's death managed to make their way to the public. Such as the fact that the body was found just outside the Department of Mysteries.

It didn’t take long for the first theories to appear. Spreading among the population like a highly contagious virus. Even if some didn’t fully believe, it still created doubt.

Had Dumbledore asked Mr Weasley to steal something from the Department of Mysteries and the theft gone terribly wrong?  Had Mr Weasley, desperate to get out of poverty and looking for a way to restore his family’s wealth, decided to steal the secrets of the DoM to sell on the black market? Had he gotten lost and died unexpectedly, like the Ministry was saying? Did Harry Potter had something to do with it?

All these theories had time to take hold of witches and wizards across Britain, for them to make up their minds on what they believed the truth was.

Hogwarts students weren’t immune.

Which lead to the Weasley’s youngest children being ostracised by those who they’d once considered akin to family. To those who believed Harry had had something to do with it, he became a villain. Making his life in the castle even more unbearable.

Another week went by, and Hermione began noticing a pattern in the siblings’ behaviour. The twins, with the help of Lee Jordan, had doubled their efforts with their business, making up for the loss of test subjects by testing on themselves, missing even more classes. Ginny spent most of her free time alone in the quidditch pitch. When she was in the castle, she talked to no one. The only other non-school activity she did—besides tending to basic needs—was writing a daily letter to her mother. And Ron… she didn’t know. He had retreated into himself. Harry and her had barely seen him. She knew he’d taken to wandering the castle’s hallways after hours, alone, because Harry had told her he’d been keeping an eye on him on the Marauder’s map when he saw he wasn’t in his bed at night. 

Harry was also distant. It weighed on him, the death of Mr Weasley. Even though he had nothing to do with it. He felt guilty. And the hatred directed at him only made it worse.

Not even during the first couple of months on her first year at Hogwarts had Hermione felt so alone.

And the worst part was that she didn’t know how to fix it.

It happened one grey, wintry morning, two weeks into the second term. He received his copy of the Daily Prophet, just as he did every day. He didn’t even need to open it for his blood to turn to ice.

The front page, in big, bold, capital letters, read: MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN.

His father had done it. At last they’d managed to break some of Voldemort’s most loyal followers out of Azkaban.

Pictures of the escapees covered the rest of the page, each with a brief caption detailing what they’d been imprisoned for.

Augustus Rockwood, an unspeakable who spied for Voldemort. Manfred Mulciber forced people to do horrific things under the imperius curse. Antonin Dolohov, participated in the murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett. Duncan Travers helped murder Marlene McKinnon and her family.

But the next picture… the long, black hair. Wild. Unkempt. And the smile... he recognised that arrogant smile. How could he not? He’d seen it plenty of times staring back at him in the mirror.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

The resemblance was there. Her eyes, the same eyes of his own mother, though hers had never seen him with such contemptuousness. She was no longer beautiful, though it was evident she’d once been. Beautiful, like his mother.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Convicted for the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

His ears started ringing, drowning the raucous in the Great Hall. He schooled his face back into a blank expression, carefully folded the paper and set it aside.

He looked over to the Gryffindor table, scanning the student’s faces, looking for the boy whose family his aunt had destroyed. He found him close to the end of the table, his eyes were fixed on the paper, his fists clutching the parchment, shaking with rage.

Draco had to look away. For the first time, he felt shame. Shame that his own flesh and blood had done something so abhorrent.

And now she was free to do the same to others. His own father had helped her escape. Even his mother had given her input to the plan. He didn’t need to wonder where they’d gone like the others. There was one place where they could find asylum. One place where the ministry would not dare look. Somewhere they’d be allowed to do as they pleased.

His home.

The next morning would be February already.

Draco knew he was putting off the inevitable. The first month had passed in a daze. Time was ticking by and all he had accomplished was to read some of the books he’d smuggled from the Manor in his—illegally—extended messenger bag.

It was amazing the kind of information he could find inside the Manor’s library.

He’d stumbled upon it by accident. He’d been reading about Thestrals when he found an unauthorised biography of Newt Scamander. His father had said it was far more accurate, since the Ministry had not edited out the more unsavoury—read: illegal—things Scamander did for the greater good. All in all, the extended briefcase was the least of Scamander’s transgressions.

Undetectable extension charms were regulated by the ministry, and with good reason. Not that he cared. He had a problem and found a solution. That was all that mattered. Now the messenger bag resided at the bottom of his trunk, holding a small library of books Dumbledore would ban in an instant.

Books he thought would help him find a solution to his two most urgent problems: His desire to escape a life of servitude, and how vulnerable his mind was to intrusion. Not just from the Dark Lord, but from his deranged aunt who he was sure would be at the Manor the next time he set foot in it.

Though he’d finished the two books on occlumency he had, he’d concluded he would need a teacher. Which meant he needed to talk to Snape. This shouldn’t be too complicated since they’d resumed their extracurricular lessons, and he’d been making some good progress. Draco was confident he could convince the potions master to teach him the obscure branch of magic.

He’d also tried to come up with a plan to save his life and his mother’s by himself but, much to his displeasure, he’d gotten nowhere. It quickly became apparent—and painfully undeniable—he would need help.

Changing tactics, he would now focus on a plan to approach Granger.

Draco Malfoy was many things but stupid, he was not. Neither was he delusional. He knew Hermione Granger would never agree to speak to him without her idiotic friends by her side. Ergo, plan.

It was a most uncomfortable position to be in, having his life depend on her willingness to help him.

He needed someone who could look past the fact that his last name was Malfoy, who wouldn’t sell him to the Dark Lord, and was skilled enough to help him succeed in his escape. He couldn’t think of anyone else that fit the bill.

What if she refused?

As soon as the clock struck midnight Hermione snuck out of the girls’ dormitories and into the deserted common room.

“Harry?” she whispered, looking around the dimly lit space. Harry had asked her to meet him there, said he needed to speak to her. Late. Probably to avoid being overheard.

She was worried. Harry had looked exhausted when he approached her. The dark circles under his eyes had intensified and she suspected he was losing weight. Whatever was troubling him had no doubt to do with Voldemort.

“I’m here,” he whispered from the corner farthest from the fireplace. Where the light didn’t reach.

Hermione sat on the chair across from him, barely able to see him in the dark.

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“I need to tell you something.”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what to do, I just—I can’t share this with just anyone.”

“I’m not—”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

Harry leaned forward, his face catching some of the light coming from a nearby window. If possible, he looked even worse than that morning. “You can’t tell anyone about this Hermione, promise me.”

“Harry…”

“Please…” he begged.

“You’re scaring me.”

“If people find out…”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

He nodded.

“I… I think I’m being possessed.”

It took a few seconds for Hermione to process what her friend had said. Even then she struggled. “What?”

“Possessed, Hermione,” he repeated, urgency seeping in his voice. Then he looked up, his emerald eyes shining in the dim light. “By him.”

Voldemort…

“How—why do you think that?”

“I can see him. What he’s doing. I can feel—” Harry rubbed his face with both hands and let out a shuddering breath.

“Harry, it could be—”

“It’s not a dream, Hermione. Or a nightmare,” he interrupted, correctly guessing what she was about to say, “It’s… real. I can feel it. Something is happening to me.”

“Harry… we need to tell someone about this.”

“No!”

With reflexes she didn’t know she had, she placed her palm over his mouth and waited to hear if someone had heard them. If anyone happened to be out of bed and overheard their conversation…

“Harry, think about it,” she continued, dropping her hand once she was sure they were still alone. “I’m sure you’re not being possessed. Not exactly. Not ‘The exorcist’ possessed.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “God, can you imagine?”

“I’d rather not.”

She leaned back and examined her friend. It was so unfair, all his suffering. Would he ever be free of it?

“Look, I’m not saying nothing is happening but maybe—”

“It feels so real, Hermione, I can feel what he’s feeling when—fuck.”

His sombre expression stopped any question she could’ve thought to ask. She reached for his hand and squeezed gently.  

“Whatever it is, there has to be a way to protect you against it.”

“Then help me find it, please.”

“You know you can always count on me, Harry, but it will take time before we find a solution on our own. We need to tell Dumbled—”

“No.”

“Harry…”

“He won’t care! He’s been avoiding me the entire—”

“Harry… come on. He’s the headmaster of the school. And the head of the Order. I’m sure he’s just busy.”

He didn’t seem convinced.

“If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell him.”

“He won’t listen.”

“Then I’ll demand that he speak to me. I can be quite annoying when I want to.”

Harry chuckled. A momentary reprieve from his almost constant state of crippling worry. Seeming lost in thought, Hermione decided to wait for him to continue the conversation. Eventually, he did.

“What if he takes over me?”

The mere idea of losing her friend had her tearing up. She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and waited until she was sure her voice wouldn’t tremble.

“I don’t think that’s possible without an imperious. And you can fight that, remember? Whatever is happening, you’ll be able to fight it as well.”

Harry sighed. “I’m tired.”

“All the more reason to ask for help.”

The enormous stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office felt even more imposing the next evening as Hermione stood staring at it. She’d been confident enough the night before, telling Harry she would demand to speak to Dumbledore if necessary. Easier said than done.

Though the headmaster had never been anything but kind to her, she was more than a little intimidated by such a legendary man.  

Come on, Hermione, this is important.

She shook herself a little before saying: “Fizzing whizbees” with much more confidence than she felt.

The gargoyle began turning and revealed a spiral staircase that led to Dumbledore’s office. Jumping on the third step, she allowed herself to be lifted to the top, then, before she lost her courage, she knocked on the ancient looking wooden door.

Almost immediately after, Dumbledore answered from inside. Hermione pushed open the door and walked in.

Albus Dumbledore stood in front of a glass cabinet that had rows and row of phials filled with a strange silver substance. The old wizard closed the mirrored doors and turned to face her.

“Ah, Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to speak to you about something urgent, headmaster.”

Dumbledore sat on his desk and gestured for her to do the same. “How can I be of service Ms Granger?”

“It’s about Harry.”

She could tell his entire attention was focused on her. His piercing blue eyes watching her carefully.

“He needs your help,” she continued, “He’s convinced he’s being possessed by You Know Who. His nightmares have become more vivid and recurrent…”

After a few moments, he laced his fingers on his desk and said, “I see.”

No, you clearly don’t. Why aren’t you more worried?

“Please, Headmaster… he’s scared.” And so am I… “There has to be a way for him to—”

Dumbledore stood suddenly, silencing her mid-sentence. “Leave it to me, Ms Granger. I’ll look into it.”

She was about to object, to plead for her friend to receive the help he so desperately needed, but was cut short by the headmaster.  

“Now, I believe dinner will be served shortly.”

Knowing full well she was being dismissed, Hermione clenched her jaw to stop herself from saying more. If Dumbledore didn’t want to help, she would have to do it herself. Even if it took some time. In the meantime, perhaps they could ask Madam Pomfrey for some dreamless potion.

She walked into the Great Hall and instantly felt Harry’s eyes on her. She looked at him, trying to hide some of the dejection she felt, but failed.

For two days Harry was in the most terrible mood. Snapping at everyone who dared ask what was wrong, whilst mostly wallowing in self-pity. Not that he hadn’t earned the right to do so.

Then, on the third day, Snape asked him to stay behind after potions. Hermione whispered she would wait for him in the common room. Ron went straight to bed, didn’t even ask what Snape wanted. She wanted to try and talk to him, but Harry could come any moment and…

They hadn’t told him about Harry’s nightmares. She knew if Ron found out they’d left him out he would feel betrayed. Harry was afraid Ron might blame him instead, for not using that connection to see his father’s attack in time. For not saving him.

After what seemed like hours, Harry climbed through the portrait hole.

“Well?” Hermione asked the moment she saw him.

Harry looked around and pulled her to a corner. He seemed confused.

“They want me to learn Occlumency.”

“Mr Malfoy!”

Draco jumped in his seat, startled out of his trance. His eyes instantly found the cold dark ones of Severus Snape.

“Am I boring you, Mr Malfoy?”

“No sir.” Was his immediate answer.

It was his tenth lesson since he’d come back from Christmas break, and he had made no progress on his survival plans. Because that’s what I would be, wouldn’t it? A survival plan.

“Do you find my lessons to be useless? Because, believe me, I can find much better uses for my time.”

“No sir! It’s just… I wondered if you could recommend any good books on Occlumency?”

Keep going!

“You see, I’ve read: ‘A practical guide to counter Legillimency’ and ‘Guide to advanced Occlumency’ but—”

“And why the sudden interest in Occlumency, Mr Malfoy?” Snape asked, staring—if possible—even more intensely than before. “Not that I am surprised, your family has a known affinity to its practice… on your mother’s side.”

Draco thought of an acceptable answer for a moment, his face expressionless. He had put his trust in Snape before, and was about to do it again but, how much could he disclose?

He had to be careful. One wrong move could cost him everything.

“My thoughts… are my most treasured possession. I would like them to remain my own.”

Severus didn’t need to read the boy’s mind to know that behind the calm gaze was a storm of uncertainty and fear. And he knew, the Dark Lord had been inside Draco’s mind. Perhaps not as brutally and mercilessly as he knew him capable of, but enough to scare the boy.

How was he still alive? How could the Dark Lord not see the doubts in the youngest Malfoy’s mind? It wouldn’t be as loud if he screamed them.

Could he help him? Was it worth it? He scolded himself. ‘Of course it’s worth it’, he could almost hear her say.

He was already keeping so many secrets. One more wouldn’t make a difference. And who knew? Perhaps Malfoy wouldn’t be as useless a student as Potter. He’d already shown a natural ability, and was much more willing to learn. It was possible he could keep his mind protected long enough to come up with a plan to avoid the certain future that awaited him if he followed his father’s plan.

Yes, Draco Malfoy might just be worth the trouble.

“Just Occlumency?” he asked his student.

Draco stared. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to read other people’s mind? Probably. Did he have time to learn? No. Occlumency was the skill he needed, the one that would allow him to survive. If he succeeded, he’d have a life to learn Legilimency.

“Just Occlumency, sir.”

“You are aware, of course, that in order to learn properly, you’ll need someone to teach you. You can’t just read how to protect your mind. You need to practice. Not everything can be learned from a book.”

Despite his best efforts, Draco couldn’t help the disappointment showing on his face. There was no other way he could think to protect his ideas and plans from the Dark Lord should he meet him again.

“Lucky for you, Mr Malfoy,” Snape continued, sounding terribly bored, “Occlumency is one subject of great interest to me. If you’re interested to learn…”

Draco held his breath, hope blooming inside him. After a brief pause, the potions master said:

“I can teach you.”

For once Draco didn’t even bother hiding his smile.

With one part of his plan taken care of, and feeling lucky after his conversation with Snape, Draco set out to put the other part of his plan in motion.

For three whole days he watched Hermione Granger. Sometimes disillusioned, and at great risk of being discovered, other times from the shadows the ancient castle provided.

Though he’d already had an idea of her routine, he needed to be sure he’d find her alone.

Meanwhile, Hermione was oblivious to the Slytherin following her. As were her two best friends, who hadn’t been spending as much time with her lately. She walked the halls of Hogwarts, deep in thought, her mind racing, going in circles trying to cope with everything.

Harry had wanted to continue the meetings of Dumbledore’s Army, and she agreed the students needed to learn to defend themselves. They counted on Harry’s teachings. Not that he was doing a lot of planning ahead of their lessons, but he did the practical stuff, so she was grateful. Tired, overworked, and occasionally overwhelmed, but grateful.

And Ronald… well Ron was slipping away. She still had no idea how to reach him. During the first week after Arthur’s death it had been easy to hold his hand as he cried but afterwards… she didn’t know what to do, and neither did Harry. Every time they tried it felt like it wasn’t enough. Ron closed off more and more each time, he was paying even less attention in classes—when he bothered to show up. She thought about asking Harry for help, but he barely bothered to do his own schoolwork, he wouldn’t be much help with Ron’s. And she wanted to help, she couldn’t let him fail school on top of everything he was going through. So, on what little spare time she had, she did her best to imitate his handwriting, and copied her own work. She also tried—though not always succeeded—to include some misspelt words and little mistakes to make it more believable.

Then there was Harry’s mood swings. He had approached Ron a few days before. According to Harry, they spoke for a few moments of unimportant things before Ron asked for some time.

Hermione knew they were intricately linked, Harry and the Order, at least in Ron’s mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to reach Ron. With each rejection Harry plunged further into his state of perpetual misery. All she could do was try her best to keep them afloat.

But it was exhausting.

She closed the Transfiguration book she’d been using to write the essay for McGonagall due next week and rolled her parchment. She would make a copy for Ron another day. It was late, almost curfew, the prefect’s rounds would begin soon.

Harry knew she would be in the library until it closed. She had hoped he would meet her there so they could work together, but he had to meet Snape for their occlumency lessons which, according to Harry, were not going well at all. She wasn’t sure if it was due to Snape’s dislike of Harry or because of Harry’s reluctance to trust Snape.

Hermione swung her bag over her shoulder, returned the books she’d used to the trolley and left the library. Not for the first time she was the last to leave. It was a path she could’ve followed with her eyes closed. From the library to Gryffindor tower. Her mind often wandered as she walked, unable to waste the precious last minutes it had before sleep took over.

Absentmindedly fiddling with the necklace her father had given her for Christmas one year, Hermione turned on the third floor, as she’d done countless times before.

Unlike before, this time it wasn’t deserted. But she didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Oscausi.”

She heard a whisper from the shadows. Instinctively her hand flew to her mouth. To her horror, where her lips should’ve been there was only skin now. She reached for her wand but before she could use it the voice said, “Expelliarmus” and it flew from her hand into the shadows. 

It had all happened so fast, before she could even begin to panic, another spell hit her.

“Incarcerous.”

Her arms flew to her sides, and thick ropes wrapped around her tightly. She felt herself tilting backwards. She was going to fall. She braced herself for the hit, but it didn’t come. Instead, she was floating.

Hermione opened her eyes and saw the last person she expected stepping out of the shadows.

Malfoy! You bastard—

Malfoy waved his hand and a door opened, then pointed his wand at her once more. She couldn’t help flinching and hated herself for it.

He sat her on a chair in the middle of the room and, waving his hand once more, the door closed behind him. The soft click of a lock resounded in the empty room.

“Muffliato,” he said, waving his wand in a curious manner. She had never heard that spell before. Wasn’t sure what it did.

That scared her.

She looked around. Expecting to see the result of the unknown spell. Something. Anything. But the room remained just as it was. Hermione could feel her heart beating in her throat, and her breathing quicken. Her lack of a mouth was causing her panic to rise even faster. She fought against the ropes binding her, but they were too tight. 

“Relax Granger,” Malfoy said, pulling a chair and sitting in front of her, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sure you don’t. You think I’m stupid? You racist prat!

She kept fighting against her binds. If she was to go down, she wouldn’t do so without a fight.

“Granger, stop moving,” he said, and even though she wasn’t looking at him she could hear the roll of his eyes, “You’re going to hurt yourself, you idiot.”

A tear she couldn’t stop escaped her eye. Panic was slowly taking over. Still, she kept her face determined.

“Do not make me petrify you, Granger.”

She stopped. Not because of the threat, but because of his voice. She looked into his eyes wanting to find deceit, hatred, evil. But all she saw was exhaustion. And annoyance.

“Think about it,” he said, holding her gaze, “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it already, don’t you think?”

Is that supposed to be reassuring? You sick, sick arsehole!

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a big, sturdy-looking chair. She closed her eyes and focused with all her might, wanting to cast a wandless, non-verbal accio. Something she had never, ever done before.

The chair flew from the other side of the room and almost hit Malfoy, who reacted far quicker than she thought him capable of and destroyed it with a quick reducto.

“Nice try, Granger,” he sneered, brushing splinters from his robes, “I didn’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice. If you won’t behave…”

He pointed his wand at her. “Petrificus totalus.”

She couldn’t remember ever being hit with that spell. She’d been petrified, of course, but that was under very different circumstances.

Hermione could hear and see everything he did, but was unable to move a muscle. She tried again for another wandless, non-verbal accio but couldn’t do it.

“Like I said, I won’t hurt you,”  Malfoy whispered, running his hand through his hair, and putting his wand inside his robes.

He stared at her for a few seconds, took a deep breath, got up, and began pacing. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was nervous.

“I know this isn’t…” he trailed off, waving his hand in her direction. “Ideal,” he continued with a chuckle. “Which is probably an understatement. But I needed to talk to you, and I knew you would never agree to listen so…”

Of course I wouldn’t listen to you, you self-centred, bigoted, waste of space!

He groaned, ran a hand through his hair again, and sat on his chair.

“I agree it’s not the most honourable approach but… well, to be honest, I just don’t care,” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grey eyes focused on hers. “You’re listening now.”

Her eyes widened in fear. He sighed, then leaned back, scratching his chin.

“You see… I… ahm… shit.” He rubbed his temples, his knee bouncing almost as fast as the beat of her heart.

Get on with it you prat!

“Well, Granger, I’ll go straight to the point.”

Finally.

He cleared his throat and straightened his back.

“I need your help.”

You—what?! You have got to be kidding me.

She searched his face for deceit again. Found none.

What the—

FUCK!

This had been the single most stupidly dangerous idea Draco had ever had, ever. He had just put his life in the hands of the person who hated him most in the entire world. Well, perhaps second. Something told him Weasley hated him even more.

“I’ll let you speak now, Granger,” he said as calmly as he could, “Don’t bother screaming, no one will hear you. Understand?”

He let the information sink in for a moment, then released her from the body bind. Before terminating the oscausi, he hesitated. The murderous look she was giving him would’ve made anyone reconsider giving her back the ability to speak. Or move.

“Finite.”

She didn’t speak immediately. Her whisky brown eyes bore into his for a few beats before she said, “My friends will find me, and they will end you.”

I’d like to see them try.

“I’m sure you believe that. Rest assured they will find you unharmed. Like I said before, I do not intend to hurt you.”

“Release me and give me back my wand then.”

He laughed. It wasn’t particularly funny, the way she seemed to think him an idiot. He laughed all the same.

“I said I don’t intend to hurt you. But I’m not an idiot, I know you will try to hurt me.”

“You will regret this.”

Draco repressed a sigh, already feeling the beginning of a head-splitting headache. “I already am,” he mumbled.

She fought her restraints a bit more before screaming, “I will make you pay!”

That made him smile.

“Think you can take me in a duel?”

“You have no idea,” she hissed, her tone threatening. The grin that crossed her face was slightly maniacal.

The knowledge of their little meetings on the seventh floor was on the tip of his tongue. It would wipe that stupid, self-assured smile off her face. He held back. She took it as a victory, her smile widening annoyingly.

“Right, well. Back to the point of this meeting, Granger. I need your help.”

“What?”

“I.” he said pointing at himself, “Need. Your.” He continued, pointing at her. “Help.”

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. It was eerily reminiscent of McGonagall.

“What could have possibly made you think I would ever agree to help you?”

“Well, you can’t help yourself, can you? You hear of a problem, and you must find a solution.”

“If it’s your problem I can certainly ignore the impulse. Now, release me.”

“No.”

She huffed, then said in a mocking tone, “Afraid of what I’d do to you?”

Right. That’s it. Fuck it.

“While I’m sure Potter is a wonderful teacher—”

He relished the sight of her widening eyes and her face losing all colour.

“—I don’t think he is even remotely as good as Snape.”

Hermione waited until the ringing in her ears subsided. Her brain raced to find a decent alternative explanation. Before she could stop herself, she said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, then grimaced.

My god, could you possibly sound more unconvincing?

Malfoy’s left brow rose, a small smile curving his lips. “So, you, potty and the weasel don’t hold meetings with a bunch of students of other houses on the seventh floor?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Before she could try again, he interrupted.

“Please… don’t bother denying it. You’re not as inconspicuous as you think.”

Damn it!

“What? Did you really think your little meetings had remained a secret?”

A wave of nausea hit her. She couldn’t read the expression on Malfoy’s face and that was making her nervous. 

“Of course I know about your little meetings, Granger. Been going on for a while, haven’t they? At least since before Christmas.”

She felt the blood drain from her face again. Was he going to tattle on them? Why hadn’t he done so before? As if he’d read her thoughts, Malfoy continued,

“Aw, don’t panic Granger, I won’t tell her royal toadness—”

Her royal—?

“—All I want from you is to help me bounce some ideas for five minutes.”

“You’re insane if you think I’d ever agree to help you.”

Great plan, Hermione, let’s antagonise the man who has you tied to a chair.

“And why would that be?”

Far from angry, he sounded genuinely curious. It was driving her mad to be unable to predict how he would react.

“Do you want a list of reasons in alphabetical or chronological order?”

Malfoy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.  “Just give me the top one.”

“You’re the enemy.”

He didn’t expect that from her. Disdain had dripped from her every word. It irritated him to no end, but it would do him no favours to antagonise her further.

Was he the enemy? Maybe in a schoolyard kind of way but, should a war begin, would he be the enemy?

No. He didn’t want to be anyone’s enemy. He just wanted to live. Let them tear each other to pieces for all he cared.

It was time. The biggest gamble. He would have to come clean with regards of his intentions if he expected Granger to help him. The big question was, would her bleeding heart keep this information to herself, or would she sell him out and get him killed?

Then again, who would believe her if she were to say that him, Draco Malfoy, asked for help from her, the mudblood.

Someone might. All it takes is one person to believe it.

The truth was, he was a dead man anyway if he did nothing.

Sod it.

“The enemy? Granger... I thought your enemy was the Dark Lord.”

He leaned back once more, saw her eyes widen for an instant, then her brows furrowed, confusion settling on her delicate features.

“Your father is a Death Eater,” she seethed.

Well done, Lucius. 

He tsked. “Granger, the key part of that sentence is: My father is a Death Eater. Not me.”

“If you think I’ll fall for your trap—”

“Think! Granger. It’s your only good quality.” His patience was slipping, they’d been there for way too long and she still refused to cooperate. “I have nothing to gain by telling you this. You are now in possession of a memory of this moment. An incriminating memory that could have me killed.”

He pressed his palms to his eyes. This was not going according to plan.

“Why me?” she asked in a whisper.

Because I don’t want to die and I’m kind of desperate.

“Because, Granger, much to my displeasure, you happen to be quite… intelligent.”

It felt odd, paying her a compliment. He watched her carefully, looking for even the smallest indication of elation at the small praise. Nothing. If anything, she looked angrier. He huffed and turned away from her before continuing.

“If my plan is to succeed, I need to discuss the details with someone who meets that criterion. I loathe to admit it but you’re the only person as smart as me that I can possibly talk to about this… predicament.”

Realising the childishness of speaking to a wall, he looked into her eyes once more.

“Plus, you’re too honourable to have me killed out of pettiness.”

Thus, I find myself in the pitiful position of needing your help.

Hermione stayed silent. Not for dramatic effect. Nor because she was trying to get her jumbled thoughts in order. Quite the opposite in fact. She was stunned.

Malfoy rolled his eyes impatiently, “But, if you’re too busy with your little group—”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Gods no, I just want you to know that I know. Since you now know that I need help that you can give…”

“What problem could you possibly ha—”

“I want out!” he yelled, jumping out of his chair. His next words came out defeated, “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, shook his head, his hair a mess from him running his hands though it so much, and began pacing again. 

“Not a permanent out, mind you. More like… hiding. Sort of.”

Draco groaned. Now that he was saying it aloud it became painfully evident how little he’d thought it through. What was he going to do?

“And I need to take my mother with me,” he added, before rubbing his face with both hands. “She won’t cooperate though.”

Feeling defeated, he sat across Granger again. “See? It’s quite a complicated situation. So, what say you? Will you help?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Why would I ever agree to help you?”

Why indeed. Even he had to admit, so far, he’d given her no reason to help him. If it was the other way around, he would’ve never, ever, in a million years…

“Because… I imagine you want to keep your little study group a secret.”

“So you are blackmailing me.”

Seems like it.

“We do what we have to do to survive, Granger.”

And to think she had almost started feeling sorry for him. That she’d almost—No, she did believe him. The how or why was a mystery even to her. Seeing as she was still tied to a chair in an apparently silenced room (And how was it silenced?).

“I’ve been here too long,” she said, calmly.

“Give me answer.”

“Let me go and I’ll think about it.” I’m being generous, you humongous git.

“No. Give me an answer now.”

Hermione watched Malfoy try—and fail—to look calm. She was too close not to notice the slight twitch in his eye, or how he kept rubbing his index finger and thumb. Still, if he really wanted her help, he would need to learn to at least be tolerable.

“Let me go or I’ll tell anyone who will listen that you’re planning to escape Voldemort.”

Malfoy froze, going deathly pale, he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times without uttering a sound.

“If you do,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice. “I’ll be dead before the week is over. Could you live with that?”

No.

“I’ll manage.”

Her severe expression and cold delivery left no doubt as to the truthfulness of her statement. Idiotically, he had bet on Granger’s seemingly unending goodness to help him. Now he knew Hermione Granger wouldn’t hesitate to condemn him. Or, if her eyes were any indication, that she would murder him herself. On the bright side, she would probably make it painless, unlike a certain snake-man.

It took him a couple of seconds to regroup. He knew she’d noticed his fear. That momentary weakness he’d shown. That wouldn’t do.

Draco cleared his throat, turned to her and, staring deep into her whiskey eyes he tried to match the harshness of her previous words.

“That’s a big threat for someone bound to a chair. Helpless.”

Far from cowering at his words, she straightened as best as she could and lifted her chin. “You said it yourself, if you wanted to hurt me you would’ve done it already.”

“That was when you were potentially useful to me.”

No fear was evident on her face, but he saw her heartbeat quicken on her neck. Perhaps he could still persuade her to help him. If not out of kindness, at least out of fear.

“Fine, get rid of me. How long before they figure out what happened? Then what? You’d have both sides against you. Is that what you want?”

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, Draco looked out the window. Wondered how long until it was the last time he’d be allowed to gaze at the stars. His trembling fingers tightened around the fine hawthorn wood. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the ropes binding Granger dropped to the stone floor.

Wasting no time, she took her wand from the desk beside him and rushed to the door.

“If you tell anyone, Granger, anyone at all, I’m a dead man.”

He turned just in time to watch the door close behind her.

Destroying all hope.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since he’d ambushed Granger and somehow, he was still alive. That could only mean the little muggleborn had kept her mouth shut.

He put on his emerald wool jersey and leaned back on the bench, his head resting on the cold stone wall behind him.

Why had she stayed silent?

Over the last week he’d been mulling over what had happened in that third-floor classroom. The longer he remained alive and unharmed the angrier he got. Why didn’t Granger agree to help him if she wasn’t going to expose his plans? What kind of game was she playing?

He secured his shin guards around his legs, tying them with a double knot.

It was torture. The uncertainty. Not knowing whether he was going to be ambushed the next time he stepped into his common room had him in a constant state of paranoia. Twice he’d almost given in and asked her directly whether she’d babbled.

Draco closed the wrist strap of his leather gloves, then wrapped his arm guards snugly, lacing them carefully.

The Quidditch match would be his moment to unwind. No one would dare attack him during the game. Not out some honourable unwritten law forbidding attacks during sporting events, but because no Slytherin would dare risk their team’s chance at the Quidditch cup. And if he was to be attacked, it would be by a Slytherin.

Taking one last look at his broom, Draco cast a warming charm on himself, left the locker room and headed to the pitch.

Games during the winter always proved difficult. He didn’t envy the Puffs and Ravenclaws, playing in early January. At least today it wasn’t actively snowing.

They stood in a circle around Madam Hooch. When she whistled, he lowered his goggles, kicked the ground and soared.

Ten minutes into the game they were down by 20 points. Fucking Bletchley. Letting goals in faster than Weasley.

Twenty minutes later, things weren’t looking much better. If it wasn’t because of Montague and Warrington, they’d be truly fucked. They were down by forty, even with Warrington’s two goals.

Even worse, the snitch was nowhere to be seen. The damned glare from the melting snow made it almost impossible to see. At least Ravenclaw’s seeker wasn’t doing any better. She was visibly shivering.

When they were down by 70 points, he saw it.

Floating near the stands. That infuriating golden orb. He dived in a spiral, too fast to see if his Ravenclaw counterpart had also seen it.

It was far too close to the stands. To avoid colliding with the spectators, he held on tightly to his broom with his right hand, launched himself forward, then barrel rolled, using his broom as an anchor.

He didn’t need to see it in his hand to know he got the snitch. Before he looked down to his hand, his eyes met the whiskey one’s of the one who was causing him so much stress. An unnatural cold seeped into him instantly. Reality crashing down at once.

They stared at each other for a beat. Remembering himself, he sneered at her, turned around and joined the cheers of his team. He needed a few more minutes of peace. The pity party could wait a little longer.

“He’s not very nice, is he?” asked Luna, as they watched Malfoy fly away towards the rest of the Slytherin team.

“No. He is not,” she said, the resignation in her own voice surprising her. “It’s best to ignore him, really.”

Hermione started collecting her things. Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered showing up to the game. Harry wasn’t playing. But she had been looking for him all over the castle without luck. The Quidditch pitch during a Ravenclaw game was the one place she would surely find him.

“He seems sad though,” Luna commented, sounding a bit concerned.

Sad?

“Honestly, Luna, only you could be worried about Malfoy being sad.”

Luna hummed, still staring at Malfoy, now flying at least two hundred metres up. Alone.

“No one deserves to be sad.”

I respectfully disagree.

Even if she felt Malfoy deserved all the stress he was under. Hermione wasn’t convinced he deserved the sentence betraying Voldemort would carry. ‘If you tell anyone, Granger, anyone at all, I’m a dead man’. Malfoy’s words kept replaying inside her head. Could he be exaggerating? Probably not. Voldemort had killed a teenager before. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill another.

That was why she’d kept his secret.

It hadn’t been easy. More than once she’d wanted to tell someone, to discuss the problem so she could know what to do. She couldn’t trust him, of that she was certain, but there had to be some way for him to avoid his fate and for her to not betray the trust of the Order.

Ron was still distant, and even if he wasn’t, he would be incapable of looking beyond the fact that it was Malfoy who was asking for help. Harry probably wouldn’t be much better, but at least she believed he would listen to reason. Maybe. They both saw the world only in black and white. There was so much more to it than that.

Even only one less follower on Voldemort’s side was still a win. Not only that, but she believed saving a life, no matter whose, was always the right thing to do.

Sadly, Harry wasn’t speaking to her at the moment. She’d made the mistake of insisting he should be practising Occlumency, making more of an effort. Harry didn’t like that at all.

“I think he’s leaving,” Luna said, looking over at the next stands, where they’d seen Ron and Harry watching the game.

Hermione and Luna dashed down the wooden stairs, bumping into quite a few long-faced Ravenclaws. It wasn’t particularly difficult to find them in the crowd. She’d know them anywhere. The tall, slender boy with fiery red hair walking next to a slightly shorter, equally slender one with the messiest jet-black mane covering his head.

Ron waved at Harry and headed towards the castle. Harry continued his path, heading towards the locker rooms, looking for Cho.

After their successful date on Valentine’s at Hogsmeade, they’d been seeing each other frequently. Hermione was so happy for him. Harry desperately needed something good in his life. Cho made him smile even when she wasn’t around. That alone was enough for Hermione.   

“Harry!” she said when they were close enough, “Wait a moment!”

Harry turned and waited for Hermione and Luna to catch up.

“Do you think we can talk for a bit?” she asked, still catching her breath.

“Sure…” Harry eyed the blonde Ravenclaw, who seemed lost in thought, standing next to Hermione. “Hi, Luna.”

“Oh, hello, Harry,” Luna answered dreamily, then looked away.

“Harry, I know you’re angry with me—”

“Hermione—”

“No, listen,” she cut in; she didn’t want an apology. Not a rushed one, at least. “I have an idea that I think would be good for us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, us,” she hissed, lowering her voice, “The Ord—Dumbledore’s Army,” she corrected herself when she noticed Luna had stopped singing ‘Weasley is our king’ under her breath.

Harry frowned. He looked between Hermione and Luna a couple of times before setting his eyes back on his friend.

“I think the people need to know your side of the story.”

Harry looked nervously towards Luna. “My side?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I convinced a journalist to write it, and Luna’s father is quite happy to publish it.”

Luna nodded absentmindedly, while playing with a rock on the ground with her feet, humming that song Ron hated so much.

“You convinced a journalist to write my side of the story? Who?”

Hermione bit her lip. Perhaps ‘convinced’ wasn’t the right word. She should probably tell him ‘blackmailed’ was a far more accurate description.

“Well… Rita Skeeter, of course.”

Later that day, after spending hours in the library organising the syllabus for the DA's meetings and her homework, she stepped into the common room. Harry and Ron sat by the fireplace talking animatedly. She hesitated to join them, uncertain if he was speaking to her again. He’d only just agreed to do the interview after all.

Harry raised his head, frowning again. Hermione felt her annoyance flaring. She’d only been trying to help! Before she stomped to the dormitories, Harry saw her, forced a smile and waved her over.

“Hello…”

“I hate occlumency,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists and leaning back on the sofa.

She remained quiet.

“I’m not sure it’s even working!” he groaned, then turned to her, “And before you say anything. I am trying.”

“I wasn’t—”

“But now, my scar hurts all the time,” he continued, not paying her any attention, “It didn’t use to hurt.”

Then, almost as an afterthought he mumbled, “Snape said it would help close my mind.”

“Maybe he lied,” Ron said, not even bothering to disguise the venom from his words.

“What do you mean?” she asked, worried about the tone he’d taken. It didn’t sound like Ron.

“I mean,” he whispered, leaning way too close to her, “He was a Death Eater wasn’t he?”

The chosen name of Voldemort’s followers came out like curse from Ron’s mouth. Hatred dripping from every syllable.

“We’ve never seen proof he actually swapped sides.”

“Dumbledore trusts him,” she pointed out, leaning back a little, “And if we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

Ron huffed, rolled his eyes, got up, and walked away. Hermione buried her face in her hands. Groaning in despair.

“Yeah… It’s hard to know what to say nowadays,” Harry said, “He seems angry all the time.”

Hermione looked towards the place where Ron had disappeared. “Can you blame him?”

“No. I can’t.”

Harry fidgeted in his seat. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was heavy with understanding. They had both been witness of Ron’s mood, and felt an overwhelming helplessness at not knowing how to help their friend.

“I tried telling him I understood how he was feeling… it did not go well.” Harry chuckled. It was a short, mirthless sound, filled with sorrow. “He said—” 

His voice broke. She feared what he was about to reveal Ronald had said in anger. Knew how hurtful he could be. Harry cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“He pointed out that that wasn’t possible. After all, I never actually met my father. And he lived fifteen years with his.”

“Harry…”

She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“It’s OK Hermione. He’s right. I don’t know how he’s feeling. I’m actually glad I don’t know. I suppose having something and then losing it is much worse than never having it at all.”

“I don’t think that applies here.”

Harry looked sombre. “At least he’s speaking again. Ginny’s not talking to anyone. All she does is practice quidditch and study in the library. And the twins…”

Yes. The tragedy that had struck the Weasley family had changed all the siblings.

Ginny Weasley, strong, confident, larger than life Ginny, had drawn back. She attended every quidditch team practice without fail, and flew on her own some afternoons when the pitch was free. Hermione had asked her once, why quidditch? She’d answered with a simple: ‘It was dad who taught me how to fly’.  

When Ginny wasn’t flying, she was in the library studying. She wrote to Molly every week, sometimes twice. Despite Umbridge checking all the mail, the Weasley women kept communicating. Hermione doubted they cared.  

It was infuriating to think Umbridge dared intrude in something so personal.

The twins, though outwardly seemed still as rambunctious and rebellious as always, were now being noticeably careless with their plans. Not jeopardising the safety of the students they were still using as guinea pigs despite Hermione’s warnings, they were careless with their anonymity. It was only a matter of time before they were caught.

If they continued like that, they’d be expelled sooner rather than later.

As for Ron… she had no idea what was going through his mind.  

“Something’s off though,” she said to Harry, hoping for some more insight from her friend.

“Obviously. I don’t think things will ever be the same. How could they?”

He was right, of course. Things would never be the same again. Not for Ron, or Ginny, or the twins, or any of the Weasleys. And certainly not for Harry, who despite it all, still felt responsible.

They stayed silent for a while. Watching as the flames slowly consumed the logs in the fireplace.

“How are things with Cho?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

The change in her friend was instantaneous. His face lit up with a bright smile, before going bright red. He threw a cushion at her before saying: “Shut up” with a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” she insisted, unable to stop her own smile, “Fine, tell me about the game last Saturday then.”

Harry went very serious. It was always a gamble to joke with Harry about quidditch. She knew they’d lost horribly. She’d—perhaps naively—thought now he wasn’t on the team it wouldn’t have such a hold on him. If anything, he seemed even more invested now. Muttering under his breath during games all the ways in which he would’ve done things differently.

The only reason their latest game wasn’t such an embarrassing loss was because Ginny was the one who caught the snitch.

“So, about Cho...” he began with a laugh.

She leaned back and listened to her friend tell her about his girlfriend. It was nice to pretend they were normal teenagers for once.

Potter’s interview from that dreadful excuse for a magazine hit the school one fine Sunday morning. He’d been looking forward to spending the morning flying. Then devoting the rest of the day to the mountain of homework he had to complete. Not one minute after the post arrived, he knew something was wrong.

Several students turned to the Slytherin table. Watching them suspiciously. Their mistrustful eyes landed on Crabbe, Goyle and himself. Surprisingly, they also stared at Theo, who was doing his best to keep his eyes on his plate.

Later that day, he read it. He’d seen the magazine before a couple of times. Always in the hands of that weird blonde Ravenclaw with the eccentric fashion sense.

Potter’s account of what happened during the third task of the Triwizard tournament was unnerving. It didn’t go into much detail when the ritual to bring the Dark Lord to life was mentioned. He reserved the specifics for when he was asked about witnesses. Potter mentioned Lucius Malfoy, Aldous Crabbe, Edward Goyle, Thaddeus Nott, and a couple of others who, like his father, had always denied voluntarily joining Voldemort’s ranks.

On Monday, Umbridge had—rather stupidly—banned the magazine from the school. There was no better way to ensure everyone would want to read that blasted article than for that insufferable toad to forbid it.

With the school now fully on Potter’s side, Draco found himself fielding questions from his fellow Slytherins, dealing with Crabbe’s increasingly sour mood, and keeping his own anxiety at bay. Crabbe and Goyle had begun following him everywhere, like old times. Far from being elated, Draco was worried.

They sat at the library. Draco was trying to concentrate on an Arithmancy essay while Crabbe glared at Potter and his friends on the other side of the room.

“What are we going to do?” asked Crabbe in a whisper.

“What do you mean?” Malfoy replied calmly, pretending not to know what Crabbe was talking about.

“About Potter,” he sneered, “That bloody git said—he said—”

“I know what he said, Crabbe,” Draco interrupted, finally looking up from his notes, “And we are doing nothing. As far as I’m concerned, the Quibbler is a third-rate, embarrassing excuse for journalism, and Rita Skeeter is nothing but a disgraced reporter trying to get back in the spotlight.”

“But what he said—”

“Is bollocks,” Theo interrupted.

He had been standing nearby browsing the Magical Creatures bookshelf. After finding whatever book he’d been looking for, he approached their table.

“Don’t tell me you believe everything he said, Crabbe?”

Crabbe looked from Theo to Draco, then leaned forward and, barely above a whisper, said: “There’s no point in denying it now, is it?” 

No, I guess not.

“They all believe him anyways.”

“Be my guest, Crabbe. Go on and tell everyone. Like I’ve told you before, I was asked to stay silent, and that’s what I’m going to do. Until he says otherwise.”

Crabbe cursed under his breath, carelessly threw his things inside his bag and stomped out with Goyle close behind. Draco could feel the eyes of quite a few students on him. Including hers.

“You know Draco,” Theo said, sitting on the other side of the table, “time seems to be running out for the likes of us. Do you have a plan?”

“Not here, Theo.” Draco shot him a warning look.

Theo didn’t object. They worked in silence for a couple of hours. Around dinnertime, Theo suddenly got up.

“Do you fancy flying for a bit?”

Theo didn’t particularly enjoy flying. Only did so whenever his father insisted. And even then, it took a couple of well-placed slaps to get him on the broom. Curious, Draco agreed.

They left the library, again followed by the eyes of their fellow students, and walked towards the quidditch pitch.

“You hate flying,” Draco said when the silence started becoming too much.

“I wouldn’t say I hate it. I don’t like doing it competitively. I’m not opposed to floating in the clouds.”

They walked down the marble staircase and out the oak doors. It wasn’t freezing anymore, but it was still cold enough to wear something warm. They both threw on their respective jumpers and continued their path.

Instead of turning towards the pitch, Theo walked down to the boathouse.

“You shouldn’t trust them, you know?”

“I should trust you instead?” asked Draco, surprised by Theo’s words.

“No.”

Draco stopped cold.

“Relax,” Theo said, a few steps ahead, “I only mean you shouldn’t trust anyone.”

It was sage advice in their situation. Even his own mother had told him so.

“Father asked me to watch you and report to him,” Theo continued, “said the others would be doing the same.”

He stopped again. The route their conversation was taking was worrying. Theo turned, facing Draco.

“Difference between me and your goons is I never listen to my father. He only thinks I do.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Theo glanced at the small boats surrounding them, then laughed bitterly, “We’re on the same sinking boat, aren’t we?”

We are.

Draco looked around. “What are we doing here, Theo?

“Do you have a plan?”

Did he? He thought of the Granger fiasco, the uncertainty under which he’d been living, and how miserable he’d been. He couldn’t share that with Theo. It didn’t matter if he seemed to want the same as himself.

“No. I don’t.”

Theo hummed, took a deep breath before sitting on the edge of the pier. “Pity.”

“Do you?” Draco asked, now curious.

“Not exactly… I don’t think ‘not becoming a Death Eater’ counts as much of a plan.”

Draco chuckled despite himself. Not because it was particularly funny, but because he understood perfectly what Theo meant. ‘Not becoming a slave’ wasn’t exactly a detailed plan.

“Why are we here, Theo?” he asked again, sitting beside his childhood friend.

“My father has hinted something is happening during Easter, and has requested my presence at the manor.”

“I thought no one was allowed to leave. What with exams just around the corner and all that.”

“You’ll find the High Inquisitor is capable of making some exceptions for a select few.”

He could imagine how eager Umbridge would be to grant a request from his own father. There was no reason she wouldn’t do the same for Mr Nott. Especially if she was an ‘ally to their cause’ as Lucius had described her.

“Do you think—”

“No.” Theo cut in.

Even asking the question would be too much. Draco himself didn’t even want to think of the possibility.

“It’s too soon, isn’t it? He doesn’t need us,” Theo whispered, perhaps trying to convince himself.

“We’re the only ones allowed inside the castle.”

It was something he’d been thinking about a lot lately. The only reason he could think of that could make the Dark Lord force them to take the mark now would be for them to do something for him inside Hogwarts.

“Right…”

Theo removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and swung his feet over the edge. “I’m sorry, but I honestly thought you’d be first.”

“So did I.”

It was the truth. Of all the Dark Lord’s followers who had offered their offspring for service, Draco thought Lucius was the one most eager for his son to be accepted.

After a few minutes staring at the water, it was Theo who broke the silence.

“I’m not coming back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m leaving the castle. But I’m not going home.”

“So you do have a plan.”

Theo chuckled. “Perhaps. But someone once told me not to trust anyone.”

“Why did you ask me if I had one then? A test?”

Theo shrugged.

“You should come with me,” he said, an earnestness in his eyes he’d never seen before, “We could disappear. Make a big comeback when all this is over. I figure we’d have a better chance if we team up.”

There it was. The opportunity he’d been waiting for. A way out. Theo was offering him a chance to survive. And yet, he immediately knew he couldn’t take it.

“I can’t leave my mother.”

Theo looked away. Swallowed hard. “I understand… if she—”

His voice broke off. Draco knew what he was thinking. Aurelia Nott, Theo’s mother, had died under suspicious circumstances when Theo had been nine years old. More than a few times Draco had heard Theo’s parents loudly arguing downstairs while they played in the game room. Their problems were well known to everyone in their circle. Then one day…

“I’d do the same,” Theo said. “If she was still here.”

“I know.”

Theo got up, put on his shoes with his feet still wet and headed out. Draco didn’t move.

“I suppose this is goodbye then. It would be suspicious if we’re seen talking much.”

“I suppose it is.”

Theo pressed his lips together, stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to leave. 

“Good luck, Theo,” Draco whispered.

Theo stopped, but didn’t turn around, “Make sure you get her out, Draco,” he said, then walked away.

And Draco was alone again.

The long brass pendulum of the Clock Tower swung slowly from side to side, marking each second that trickled by. It was a waste of time, sitting in the courtyard staring at the ancient mechanism. Yet he couldn’t stop.

It was such a good metaphor for how his life had felt for the past few weeks. Like every step he took, every thought that crossed his mind, every word he spoke, marked the time that slipped by and brought him closer to his fate.

The bell rang one, two, three, six times. He was late for his occlumency lesson. Twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday, at six o’clock in the morning, he met Professor Snape in his office for his occlumency lessons. On Monday and Friday, he had DADA lessons with Snape at eight o’clock in the evening. With quidditch practice three days a week, mountains of homework and revision for his O.W.L.s, his free time was reduced to a few scarce hours where he was too tired to do anything. More than once he’d skipped a meal in favour of the library or the quidditch pitch.

He knew sooner or later he was bound to make a mistake. He couldn’t keep that schedule up for much longer without arising suspicion.

Still, it was all worth it. His occlumency had improved steadily since he’d begun his lessons. In little over a month he managed to withstand mild attacks from Professor Snape. And he’d been able to use transfiguration in a duel successfully for the first time the week before.

He needed to continue.

March was well underway. If his mother’s warning during Christmas was true, the Dark Lord’s numbers were steadily rising. More followers meant each one was more disposable. It was only a matter of time before he was next.

“You’re late,” Snape grumbled the instant Draco walked into his office.

He apologised before sitting in his usual chair.

“Have you been practising?”

He had. Ever since the first lesson, Draco had taken to meditating at least twenty minutes before bed. It wasn’t easy. When all the noise of his daily activities was silenced, and he was left alone with his innermost thoughts. Few things were more frightening than facing his own mind.

“Minds are complex things, Draco,” Professor Snape had told him during that first lesson, “they have many layers. They’re difficult to access and decipher, but not impossible.”

The most basic form occlumency he’d unwittingly learned from his mother. To rid his mind of all thought and emotion. The only reason it had helped was because the Dark Lord had barely skimmed his mind.

“Some who master the art of Legilimency can do it with such ease, anyone without occlumency training has no chance against them,” Snape had warned him. “Your aunt is one of those people.”

He’d known, of course, that he wasn’t ready for an attack as brutal as what the Dark Lord or his aunt were capable of. Hearing it from his teacher somehow made it worse.

“I suppose you know what she was imprisoned for,” Snape had continued, perhaps oblivious to Draco’s distress or maybe, much more likely, he didn’t care, “The Longbottoms, for all their faults, were very skilled wizards. But they weren’t occlumens.”

He’d read it in the Daily Prophet. His aunt’s crimes. Shortly after the fall of the Dark Lord, she’d tortured Longbottom’s parents to insanity. Had she used Legilimency to drive them mad? Was that why they’d gone insane? “I thought she’d used the Cruciatus,” he’d said, stupidly.

“Your aunt uses everything in her arsenal to achieve her goals.”

Now, with the Easter holidays getting closer, and despite having not yet been summoned to the manor, Draco was increasingly worried by the very real possibility of being subjected to Legilimency by either his insane aunt or the Dark Lord himself.

Draco took a deep, calming breath, clearing his mind of his current worries.

“Simply clearing your mind may be enough for a friendly intrusion, but blank minds are suspicious. No one keeps a clear mind all the time. Trying to lie is also complicated. An extremely skilled legilimens will almost always know when you’re lying. It is therefore necessary to suppress all thoughts or feelings that could give away the lie. So you can lie without being detected.”

Then he focused on the mental barriers surrounding his innermost memories, to expand and strengthen them. The way Snape had instructed him to.

“Even though the mind cannot be read like one would a book, memories and the emotions attached to them are stored inside it. Anyone skilled enough will know where to look, will find their way in and will correctly interpret them. Your goal should then be to also protect whatever memories go against what you want the legilimens to believe.”

First, it felt like someone was using a sharp knife to cut his mind open. The pressure increased, his thoughts threatening to spill. He felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face.

Suddenly, all he felt was fear.

Draco gasped for breath as Snape pulled out of his mind.

“If you dwell on feelings, you’ll give yourself away and all this will be for nothing.”

“Is there any right way to do it?”

Professor Snape considered his question for a moment.

“Different methods work for different people. What matters is that you let go of all current emotion. Anything that contradicts what you want them to believe.”

Draco wiped his palms on his trousers. His heart was racing, and he was still a bit dizzy.

“You can also use a past memory,” Snape continued, “or rather how you felt then, to make it seem like you feel like that now. If you can remember and replicate the sensations accurately enough, you may be able to fool the person trying to get into your mind.”

“It can’t be as easy as it sounds.”

“It isn’t.”

His breathing was almost back to normal when, without a warning, Snape pointed his wand at Draco and said: “Legilimens.”

He’d felt the assault instantly. Just as countless times before. He struggled to keep himself inside the void. To think of nothing. He breathed in. Swallowed. The knife slashed and stabbed. Nothing was coming forward.

Snape pressed even harder. Draco felt tears escaping his eyes and was angry.

Images of his conversation with Theo flashed in quick succession. Snape had accessed some of his memories. Frightened of whatever else Snape might find, Draco scrambled to get him out.

Instants before he managed to push the professor out, a pair of whiskey brown eyes flashed in his mind.

Snape stumbled backwards with the force of the protego Draco had instinctively cast.

Laying on the floor, he opened his eyes. He was drenched in sweat. With his arms and legs trembling, Draco got up.

Snape looked at him curiously. “I believe that’s enough for today, Mr Malfoy.”

He wanted to ask what he’d seen. Needed to know what exactly he’d inadvertently revealed to the professor. But doing so would be suspicious.   

“You have improved, but your mental barriers need more work. Perhaps if you paid as much effort to occlumency as you do your duelling skills…”

“Yes sir.”

“I want you to continue your meditation, and while you’re doing that, work on protecting your memories. If you do so, you should be fine.”

Draco felt numb. Snape knew something. He wouldn’t tell him about Bellatrix for fun. The warning was clear.

He knows.

Chapter Text

Hidden in the Room of Requirement, under Harry Potter’s watchful gaze, Dumbledore’s army eagerly practised the patronus charm, filling the room with an ethereal glow.

As April rolled in, and seeing the wonderful progress of the group, Harry decided they were ready to try something a bit different.

That resulted in the few bright, translucent animals prancing around the mist of silver that illuminated the room. Harry walked around, giving advice to those who hadn’t yet cast a corporeal patronus and congratulating those who had.

His smile grew impossibly wide when he saw the gorgeous silvery swan emerge from the tip of Cho’s wand. Hermione didn’t understand why they still pretended nothing was happening. The little hand touches they thought no one noticed but were so obvious sometimes it was even embarrassing to witness as they both went bright red. It was quite possibly the worst kept secret in the castle.

She turned to her own patronus. The beautiful otter seemed to be swimming around her, leaving a trail of light in its wake. It was wonderful. The group basked in the joyous glow of their patronuses, happy memories eliciting smiles all around.

Until the door opened. 

Everyone froze. No one had come in. They looked around, all equally worried.

Seeing Dobby standing next to Harry was an instant relief, but only for about two seconds because the poor elf started trying to hit himself.

It was horrifying.

“Is she coming?” Harry asked.

Hermione felt her heart sink. There was only one person he could be referring to. The one who had forced them to seek acceptable education from a peer instead of a teacher. 

“Yes, Harry Potter, yes!” Dobby cried.

The room went completely silent. All students rooted in place. Harry looked at them, shocked. He recovered in an instant and yelled,

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! RUN!”

Everyone dashed to the door. Stumbling with each other but not stopping. The room emptied in under a minute.

“Harry, come on!” Hermione yelled. Her friend remained in place, still talking to the little elf.

Harry scooped Dobby up and ran out. After ordering him to go to the kitchens and lie if asked if he’d warned them, he looked into her eyes and ran to the opposite direction.

He was right, of course. They had a better chance if they separated.

The only thing that mattered was that they escaped the vindictive claws of Dolores Umbridge.

About an hour before, Draco was studying in the library, as he had been for most of the evening. He was interrupted by someone who stood between him and the light from the window.

“What?” he asked brusquely, not bothering to look up.

“Ehem…” someone cleared their throat, in an irritatingly accurate imitation of Umbridge.

Draco looked up from his parchment to find Pansy Parkinson staring down at him.

“You’re blocking my light Pansy. What do you want?”

“Umbridge wants us in her office, now.”

Us?

“Slytherins.” She clarified.

I’m busy.

He rolled his eyes. No matter how much he wanted to ignore the command, he couldn’t. So he carefully put his things in his bag, hoping later he could easily pick back up the train of thought Pansy had so rudely interrupted. He only had to wait until the next free moment he had. Something told him it would not be today.

They found Crabbe, Goyle, Theo, Warrington and a few other seventh years already in Umbridge’s office.

“It has come to my attention that an illegal group has been meeting in secret somewhere in the castle,” Umbridge said.

It was unlike her to go straight to the point like that. Draco remained calm on the outside while inside he wanted to die. Granger would surely think it was him who gave them away.

“Silence, girl! You did the right thing.”

Only then did Draco notice the girl sitting the corner. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. At Umbridge’s words, she looked up.

Pansy gasped. Goyle drew a sharp intake of breath. Some took an instinctive step back. All this only made the girl’s cries intensify.

Written across her face, in angry, reddish-purple pimples, was the word: ‘SNEAK’.

Whoever had done it—and he had a pretty good idea who it had been—had been quite malicious with the jinx. It was impressively ruthless.

“I want you to hunt down these students and bring them to me.”

The Slytherins scattered across the castle. Searching for the illegal group Umbridge wanted to destroy.

Somewhat reluctantly, because he couldn’t deny it would give him great pleasure to see Potter humiliated, he headed to the seventh floor, careful he wasn’t being followed.

Draco stood in front of the place where the door was supposed to be and looked around. There was a boy’s bathroom down the hall. Someone would surely try to hide there.

Already bored, and not in the mood to run around like an idiotic git, he set up a trip jinx and waited. All he had to do was catch one of them and bring them to Umbridge. No harm no foul…

Imagine his surprise when none other than Harry Potter fell into his trap.

Umbridge was coming up the stairs just as Potter was trashing around trying to break free.

“Hey, Professor—PROFESSOR! I’ve got one!” Draco said triumphantly.

At least he could enjoy this for a while. In case Granger blabbered, he had proof he was helping Umbridge. Like the good and obedient son that he was supposed to be.

“It’s him!” Umbridge screeched. She sounded far too happy, as if she’d caught one of the escaped prisoners from Azkaban and not a fifth-year student inside the castle.

“Excellent, Draco, excellent, oh, very good—fifty points to Slytherin! I’ll take it from here… stand up Potter!”

Potter looked incensed. And with good reason. Not that the cared though.

“You hop along and see if you can round up any more of them, Draco, tell the others to look in the library—anybody out of breath—check the bathrooms, Miss Parkinson can do the girl’s ones—off you go—and you,” she said to her prisoner, “you can move with me to the headmaster’s office, Potter.”

But Draco didn’t intend to follow her orders. He had something far more important to do.

He headed to the owlery.

The library was too obvious a choice. If anyone caught Granger, he was done for. He needed to find her before she opened her mouth to anyone. Now that he knew just how vindictive she was, he recognised the danger.

Meanwhile, Hermione was pacing. Seething. She had half a mind to send a quick anonymous letter to the Daily Prophet telling them all about Malfoy’s escape wishes. If she mentioned Voldemort it would definitely be dismissed, but if she made it sound like gossip about a prominent family it would surely be printed. Right?

She stopped.

She could never condemn anyone to death. Even if she was expelled. Death was never the answer. And she knew nothing short of death awaited the Malfoys if anyone found out Draco wanted to escape. 

With a wave of her wand, she cleaned the only bench inside the owlery of droppings, then sat, still needing to catch her breath.

Moments later, she heard steps coming up the staircase. Up in an instant, she tried to disarm the intruder before they walked in. The blond haired Slytherin swiftly blocked her attack and stepped inside.

“Hello, Granger,” he said, sounding calm, at odds with his defensive stance. Far too calmly for one who just delivered his fellow students to a monster.

“I won’t go down without a fight.”

The traitorous bastard smirked. “I’m sure. Which is why I’m not here to take you in,” he said, lowering his wand. “You think it was me who told Umbridge.”

She rolled her eyes, her left eyebrow raising on its own accord.

Who else?

“Hmm, I thought you would. Which is why I came looking for you.” Looking around, he transfigured a piece of wood from a broken cage into a bar stool. “Have you told anyone what we discussed?”

No, obviously.

She detected a hint of fear in his voice.

“Not yet.”

“Well, before you do, perhaps you should have a little chat with that Ravenclaw girl I saw in Umbridge’s office—by the way, I’m impressed, Granger. Quite the vicious little punishment. Did you jinx them all? You must’ve jinxed them without them knowing. No one would dare subject themselves to that. How did you do it?”

He sounded impressed. What did it say about her that Draco Malfoy was impressed by her methods?

“What Ravenclaw girl?”

She tried to remember their previous lesson. There had been so many of them. She couldn’t remember if anyone was missing. Perhaps she should’ve taken attendance.

“Potter’s girlfriend’s friend. The Ravenclaw seeker?”

“Cho?”

“Her friend.”

Marietta.

Hermione tried to remember if she’d seen her today. She remembered Cho. Hard not to when all she and Harry did was make googly eyes at each other.

“Or did you see her at your secret meeting today?”

No.

“No?” he asked with feigned surprise, “Now you know why.”

He was gloating. The git.

“She was too busy telling Umbridge everything. Although, as I understood it, she was way too horrified by that fantastic jinx to tell the whole tale—seriously how did you trick them into it?”

Might as well tell him.

“I made them sign their name in a parchment.”

Malfoy laughed. Not the cruel, mocking sound he usually directed at her. A real joyful laugh. It was terrifying.

“Brilliant! I had an inkling you were the right person to ask for help, but I never imagined you could also be so mean. I’m impressed. How lucky I am that you have a second quality.”

She was about to go on a rant about how she would never help him when he raised an important question.

“Did you leave anything inside that room that could be traced to you?”

The shock of horror in her face must’ve been evident. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What’s in there that’s incriminating?”

“The parchment.”

He groaned again, got up and mumbled: “Idiotic Gryffindors,” before turning to her again.

“Why didn’t you keep that shit somewhere safe?! Let me guess, you had it displayed proudly somewhere everyone could see it, so they all knew you all belong in the same stupid group. Am I wrong?”

She winced. He wasn’t wrong. How could they have been so stupid? Their only hope was that no one would be able to enter the Room of Requirement. Then she remembered the name of the group. The words they’d written in capital letters on top of that same parchment.

Dumbledore’s Army.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Malfoy said, interrupting her self-loathing. “I’ll try to get the parchment back. Surely someone searched inside the Room of Requirement, it’d be stupid not to. In exchange you’ll help me with my predicament.”

Try? TRY?

“You’ll try?!”

“Be reasonable, Granger. I can’t promise anything. Maybe the thing is already with Umbridge.”

“Then I’ll try to help you.”

“Look—”

They heard steps coming up the stairs again. Draco pointed his wand at Hermione. Before she could react, she felt a cold trickling sensation pouring down her. Like water running down from the top of her head all the way to her toes.

“Draco?!”

“Don’t move,” Malfoy whispered.

Then the door opened.

“Pansy,” Draco greeted the other Slytherin prefect a tad too cheerfully, which made him curse himself inside.

“There you are. Where have you been?”

“Caught Potter, then thought I might be lucky and find someone here.”

Pansy looked around at the sleeping owls and empty cages. “There’s no one here.”

“Good observation. That’s why I was on my way back.”

“There’s no need to look for them anymore,” Pansy said, a wicked smile curving her lips. “I got into their little room and found a parchment with all their names on it. They’re so stupid. I gave it to professor Umbridge. She was ecstatic.”

Damn it!

“Right…” He was at a loss for words. Less than one minute. His only hope to make Granger help him lasted less than one damned minute. “Well, it’s been quite an eventful day. I’ll write a note to my parents to let them know of the new developments in the school. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled with the news.”

He needed to be alone. Mostly so he could wallow in self-pity.

“Won’t you walk me back to the castle? Surely, the note can wait,” she said in a faux-sweet voice.

He’d come to associate that manipulation method with Umbridge, which meant it now made his skin crawl. “The note can’t wait. Father likes to be informed immediately—”

He was about to send Pansy her way when he saw the ripple in the air that was Granger moving behind Pansy, and out of the owlery.

“Fine,” Pansy huffed, then made to leave.

“Was it just their names?” he asked, trying to keep her there a little longer. He couldn’t risk her bumping into Granger. She would know he was the one to hide her. “In the parchment? Did they only write their names?”

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “No,” she said, disgust dripping from that one syllable. “They named their little group 'Dumbledore’s Army'. It was written all over it.”

Stupid idiots.

“Dumbledore’s Army?” he chuckled, though he did not find it funny. “What a stupid name.”

“I know. Can you believe the old cod would dare arrange something like that under Professor Umbridge’s nose?”

No. Obviously.

“Unbelievable…”

The uncomfortable silence that followed was made worse by the fact her playful grin grew each second.

“Right. I guess I’ll see you at the common room then, Pansy. I better get to writing that letter. Off you go.” He said, his hands making an unnecessary and awfully rude shooing motion.

Her smile vanished instantly. She huffed, turned her nose up and left. Hopefully Granger was already in Gryffindor Tower by then, or at least very close, because he refused to stall any longer.

Still a little out of breath after running out of the owlery, Hermione hid behind a suit of armour to rest. She could’ve done it herself, obviously, however, Malfoy’s disillusionment was mighty good charm work—not that she would ever tell him—if she stood perfectly still, she was completely invisible. What better proof than the fact Pansy had missed her twice. Once in the owlery, and the second when she’d stormed past where Hermione was resting. Malfoy must’ve been quite rude to make the Slytherin girl so angry. How unsurprising.

What actually was surprising was that he’d helped her escape. Not only had he prevented Pansy from seeing her, but she was also certain he’d kept Pansy from leaving quickly to give her a head start.

Did this mean he’d changed? No. But it meant he was willing to help her so she would help him. How far his help would go was still to be determined but it was a start. She could overthink it later, now she had much more important things to do.

Instead of going straight to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione took advantage of her newfound invisibility and headed to the headmaster’s office.

She sat on the floor, on the other side of the hall in front of the stone gargoyle, silent and unmoving, waiting for something to happen. Because something was bound to happen.

Dolores Umbridge would not let the information on that parchment go unaddressed.

Hermione suspected she would confront Dumbledore himself. How could she not? It was a group of students knowingly going against one of her beloved decrees. A group called: 'Dumbledore’s Army'.

For a Minister who believed Dumbledore was trying to steal his job, that parchment would be irrefutable proof his—paranoid—suspicions were correct.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed when the gargoyle moved and a wizard wearing auror robes rushed down. His eyes looked slightly manic, his close-cropped grey hair glistened slightly with beads of sweat. He looked like the kind of no-nonsense policeman you wouldn’t want to meet having a bad day.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Umbridge followed moments later. The latter looked incensed.

“This is the end of Dumbledore!” she screeched.

Dumbledore escaped?

“Yes, madame Umbridge. That seems to be the case,” Kingsley agreed politely.

Hermione could swear she saw Kingsley roll his eyes behind the DADA professor.

“When we get our hands on him, he’s going to ROT IN AZKABAN!”

So, they were chasing Dumbledore? Hermione found that strange since the headmaster hadn’t left the office and he was supposedly in there with them. He couldn’t have disapparated, it was impossible to do so in Hogwarts grounds except…

Dumbledore is the one who put the spell.

Although it was perhaps a little unfair, she couldn’t deny if she was headmistress, she would’ve done the same.

The gargoyle moved once more, interrupting her daydream of ruling over Hogwarts. Harry came down the stairs, looking extremely guilty. Marietta walked next to him, her robes pulled up as far as they’d go in an unsuccessful effort to cover her face. Surprising herself, Hermione couldn’t find it in her to feel guilty.

Marietta Edgecombe looked terrible. Her whole face looked slightly swollen. The big, bright-red letters that covered most of her face actually made Hermione feel a little bit proud. It was a well performed jinx. It worked exactly as intended. It made it plain to the world what Marietta’s sin had been.

SNEAK.

The pimples would go away in time. They would make her think twice before joining groups she didn’t intend to respect.

Professor McGonagall ushered Harry and Marietta away, towards the towers. The three of them were covered in dust. Whatever Dumbledore had done to escape must’ve included a bit of destruction of property.

Satisfied Malfoy hadn’t been the one to give them away, Hermione made her way to Gryffindor Tower. Needing a well-deserved rest.

The new headmistress, appointed by none other than the Minister for Magic himself, brought some interesting changes to the school.

The first one, and a rather amusing one, was that the Headmaster’s office was no longer in the Headmaster’s tower. Hogwarts had deemed Umbridge unworthy. It left her with no other choice than to continue using the pink monstrosity that was her lair.

The second change was that, probably taking inspiration from Potter’s ill-advised name for their secret group, Umbridge now wanted her own army.

After Dumbledore’s escape, and the temper tantrum that followed, Umbridge had rounded up the Slytherins that helped her catch Potter’s group and asked them to join her ‘Inquisitorial Squad’. With no other choice than to say yes, Draco accepted. The very next day he got a letter from his father congratulating him for the initiative. He had called it: ‘a marvellous opportunity to help our government organise the school, Draco’.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being able to dock points off prefects and other students alike, it was more that he resented having to follow orders from that incompetent, puffed-up toad.

Not even 24 hours into the job and Dolores Umbridge’s school was in utter chaos.

Shortly before the end of the first lesson of the day, a loud explosion shook the castle. McGonagall shook her head, clearly irritated, but did nothing about it. Instead, she calmly dismissed the class, letting the students rush out of the room looking for the source.

It didn’t take them long to find it.

On the second floor someone had decided to light up an entire crate of what looked like enchanted fireworks. Huge green dragons—that oddly resembled the plan for one of his projects—floated between the moving stairs, large bright-pink wheels chased some students down the halls, whistling sparkles flew erratically across the ceiling.

A seventh year Ravenclaw, who had just left the classroom to his left, sighed in exasperation, pointed her wand at one of the dragons and yelled “Evanesco”. To her surprise, instead of vanishing, nine other dragons burst from it. Horrified, she ran back into the room she’d just left and barricaded herself.

“WE MUST DO SOMETHING!” he heard Pansy yell to their classmates from the floor below. Draco took a step back so she couldn’t see him and decided to enjoy the show for a bit.

Fireworks wreaked havoc all over the castle for the rest of the day.

Despite him having to feign indignation at the other teacher’s unwillingness to deal with the fireworks themselves, he found it quite amusing. All day long their brand-new headmistress ran from classroom to classroom, from one side of the castle to the other, from the dungeons to the top of the Astronomy tower, quite literally putting out fires.

It was hard not to smile when McGonagall flat out refused to help Umbridge.

Charms was his last class of the day. Flitwick was in the middle of their revision of the Incendio when an escaped firework burst into the classroom.

“Oh dear,” the professor exclaimed, barely glancing in the direction of the orange wheel, “Miss Turpin, would you be so kind as to fetch our headmistress? Please inform her there’s a lost firework in our classroom.”

Lisa Turpin left the classroom. Flitwick waved his wand almost imperceptibly, then resumed his explanation.

It took her a good ten minutes to arrive. Ten minutes in which, strangely, the firework remained contained to a corner. Then, the moment Umbridge arrived, it was suddenly able to run rampant inside the room. Curiously, it wasn’t actually damaging anything.

No one was paying attention to the lesson anymore. They were all focused on the woman with the ash-stained clothes trying to restrain the errant firework. When she eventually succeeded, unaided, she slicked back her soot-covered hair, straightened her clothes and, with as much dignity as she could muster, she left the classroom.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” Professor Flitwick chirped behind her, “I could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t sure whether or not I had the authority.”

Flitwick closed the door on her face, before Umbridge could reply.

“Right!” he said to the class, clapping his hands together, “Where were we?”

Later that day, inside Gryffindor tower, the twins were received as heroes. Students clapped them in the back, and congratulated them for that impressive display of magic.

Hermione watched them smile and nod, sometimes cracking a joke and joining in the resulting laughs. But their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. And they didn’t linger for long with the crowd. She looked around for Harry, worried about the twins and unsure whether she should do something.

As the rest of Gryffindor celebrated, the twins quietly left the room. Together, but alone.

She found them quickly, not far from the tower, talking quietly inside an empty classroom.

“That was an impressive display of magic,” she said from the door, making her presence known.

“Quite the compliment coming from Hermione Granger,” George said, quickly putting that smile she’d seen in the common room back on.

“They were wonderful fireworks.”

“Thanks.” They said in unison, a bit sheepishly.

“Are you guys OK?”

They both looked up, surprised and confused. George looked away. Fred blinked a few times and swallowed before answering.

“We will be.”

“I know we’re not particularly close but… I’m a good listener.”

“You’re also a prefect.”

Hermione winced. George had a point. She’d tried to stop their schemes several times before. But she wasn’t talking about their mischievous plans. Something else was going on. She wouldn’t push.

Fred sighed. The twins exchanged a look before turning to Hermione.

“We’ve decided we don’t care about getting into trouble anymore.”

“Have you ever?”

They chuckled. “Course we have,” said George. “Never been expelled, have we?”

“We’ve always known where to draw the line…” whispered Fred.

Despite the light and slightly teasing tone, they both sounded tired. And terribly sad.

“You know Umbridge would love a reason to expel you. Is that what you both want?”

The twins grew serious. It was a rare sight.

“Well, you see,” George said, shifting in his seat, “The thing is, mum and—”

His voice broke. Fred placed a hand on his shoulder and turned to Hermione to finish his twin’s thought.

“Mum and dad always insisted we finished our education,”  he looked down and frowned. “But, if I’m honest…”

“It’s not quite your thing,” she said, finally understanding what he meant. 

“Exactly.”

Though she couldn’t quite comprehend what could make anyone abandon their education, she’d noticed the twins weren’t particularly enthusiastic about it. Yet they still managed to produce some spectacular feats of magic, as they’d proven that day. Perhaps some people weren’t meant to be confined to a strict learning environment. Some people were just meant to fly…

“We do intend to leave our mark, though,” George said, fully back into his teasing self.

“Plus, Dumbledore deserves a little revenge.”

Curious, and more than a little worried, she asked, “What are you planning?”

The twins shook their heads and laughed.

“You’ll see,” said George with a wink.

Fred smiled at her, “Be sure to trot along Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor tomorrow around five o’clock.”

They got up and walked to the door.

As he was walking past her, Fred turned. “We’ll be fine Hermione. Quit worrying.”

She tried to smile, but wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. “I know.”

“Now, if you ever want to put that big brain of yours to some fun use, we’d love to collaborate.”

She laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

The twins nodded, walking away.

“Wouldn’t that be something, George?”

“It sure would, Fred.”

Their voices disappeared through the door. Sure, they were a bit rebellious and loved to cause mayhem. But they were also very talented. She felt much better knowing they were going to be OK. 

Why couldn’t she approach Ron like that? Why couldn’t she find the words to make sure he was also going to be OK?

It was common knowledge amongst the students that the Weasley twins had been the ones responsible for the fireworks. Not satisfied with the trouble caused, they tried something new the very next day.

There was no explosion this time. Draco was about to walk into the library when he heard the commotion coming from the floor above. Warrington bumped into him as he was running out.

“Umbridge wants the Inquisitorial Squad to find the Weasley twins!” he said in a rush, before setting off again.

Draco rolled his eyes. It was her job to keep those two in line.

He set off to at least be seen as if he was helping. On the second floor, the Weasley twins were cornered by Crabbe, Pansy, Adrien Pucey, Millicent Bulstrode and Miles Bletchely. Umbridge stood a few steps above, almost trembling with rage.

“So, you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?”

A swamp? Where?

The twins looked at each other, their heads bobbing up and down, then turned to Umbridge without the slightest sign of fear.

“Pretty amusing, yeah!” One of them said.

Panting, Filch ran towards the headmistress, waving a few parchments above his head.

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress, I’ve got the form and I’ve got the whips waiting… oh, let me do it now…”

The enthusiasm with which the old caretaker begged made Draco cringe.

“Very good Argus,” Umbridge said, her beady eyes never leaving the twins. “You two, are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school,”

Her school?

“You know what?” said the twin on the left in a mocking tone, “I don’t think we are.”

Then he looked over Umbridge’s shoulder. Draco could’ve sworn he was looking at Granger, who stared at the twins wide eyed. The twins looked around at their audience and smiled.

“George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

“I think you’re right Fred, I’ve been feeling that way myself.”

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?”

“Definitely!”

“Accio brooms!” they yelled in unison.

Brooms?

The brooms Umbridge had locked in her office when she’d banned them from quidditch. There was a huge crashing sound, followed by that of rattling chains, scraping the stone floor. The two brooms, one with a heavy chain still attached, flew toward their extended hands. They mounted them in one swift movement and rose to be on Umbridge’s eye level.

“We won’t be seeing you,” Fred said,

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” George chuckled.

They turned to the crowd, and taking turns they said,

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp,”

“As demonstrated upstairs.”

“Come to number ninety-three Diagon Alley.”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

“Our new premises!” they yelled as if they were one.

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat!”

Draco had to bite his lips to keep himself from laughing. He wondered where they got the money for such a thing. Not from their family surely. Whoever had done it was a genius. Those two were bound to make a fortune. It was a great investment. If only he could—No. It was no use thinking of things he could not do.

“STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge, but it didn’t matter, there was nothing anyone could’ve done to stop them.

“Give her hell from us, Peeves.”

And perhaps in the most impressive display yet, the poltergeist actually saluted the twins before they flew through the open doors, out of the castle.

Towards freedom.

All week Hermione had been watching Malfoy. He tried to keep his aura of arrogance and disdain, but she had seen him slightly fidgety and nervous at times. Had noticed how tired he looked, even a bit gaunt. She suspected he wasn’t eating. Something was clearly wrong and, despite all the terrible things he’d done, she felt a little sorry. No one deserved to feel unsafe, especially not at their own home.

Sometimes—especially when he opened his annoying mouth—she wondered why she couldn’t be one of those people who didn’t care.

All week she made plans, undisturbed. Harry and Ron were, unsurprisingly, angry at her for ‘abandoning’ them during Easter. Ron and Ginny were forbidden from going home after Fred and George’s escape. Harry would sooner be allowed to reform Dumbledore’s Army than to leave the castle for the holidays.

The only reason she was being allowed to leave was that McGonagall had argued on her behalf. And the only reason she’d done that was because Hermione had lied to her.

And it was killing her.

She had told the head of Gryffindor that her family was celebrating a muggle tradition for the first time in a while, and she didn’t want to miss it since she hadn’t seen some of her relatives in a very long time. She’d said it was of the utmost importance for her to attend this event.

She’d even thrown a tear or two, choked on her words a few times for dramatic effect. It felt wrong but it was necessary.

She needed to speak to Sirius.

Her guilt vanished somewhat when, on the last morning before break, she saw Malfoy during breakfast.

He was sitting at the Slytherin table as usual. Reading a book while eating his breakfast in that elegant, obviously trained way he always did. When the post arrived, a black envelope fell in front of him. He lowered his book and stared at it for a few seconds before opening it.

She saw him go deathly pale as his eyes scanned the contents. Then he glanced at Theo Nott—who was already looking at him—before gathering his things and leaving in a hurry.

For the first time in her life, she worried about Draco Malfoy.

Draco crumpled the parchment in his hand as he rushed down the stairs to the dungeons. Time was running out.

Draco,

Your presence is required in the Manor for the Easter holidays. Permission has been sorted out with the headmistress. You’ll travel by floo from her office after breakfast.

Don’t be late.

L.M.

Chapter Text

Darkness welcomed Draco as soon as he stepped off the fireplace and into the floo room at Malfoy Manor, the faint green glow of the flames far too brief for him to see anything. All the curtains were drawn. His mother hated the curtains drawn. Said it made the house far too gloomy.

And she’s not wrong…

“Father?” he called, cautious, nervous.

Draco took a couple of uncertain steps. It was only logical to be wary of the dark. You never knew what was lurking in the shadows.

Two small fire balls burst from the farthest corner and into the fireplace on his right, instantly igniting the logs inside and filling the room with a soft warm light.

“Welcome home, Draco.”

Lucius Malfoy got up from his high-back leather wing chair and approached him. Draco wanted to scoff at his father’s penchant for dramatics.

Hitching up the strap of his messenger bag, he straightened his back and cleared his throat.

“Where’s mother?”

“Busy.”

An erratic clicking of heels, as if skipping almost joyfully on the marble floors, came from the hall to his left, growing increasingly louder until it was in the room.

“Look. At. You.” she said from the threshold, a hint of genuine wonder in her voice. “You’re all grown up.” 

His heart was beating wildly inside his chest. Her approaching steps felt predatory.

“You were just a baby last time I saw you.”

She stopped right next to him. Felt her eyes on him but was too afraid to look. The crackle of the fire was all that could be heard, as if nothing existed beyond those four walls.

He recoiled when the sharpened nail ran along the left side of his face.

“Don’t you remember me Drakey?”

In one swift movement she grabbed his chin and forced his head to the side, facing her.

“I’m your auntie.”

Even in the dim light he could see the years had not been kind to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Deep cracks on her leathery skin lined her face. Her thin lips were still so dry not even the lipstick she’d inexpertly applied could hide it. The wild hair, once silky smooth and black as night, was now dull and streaked with silver.

And that smile.

Her rotten teeth, though perfectly aligned, betrayed the years of neglect. The years she’d spent in the deepest, darkest place inside of Azkaban.

He met her dark eyes and instantly felt her grazing his mind. Not the gentle probing he’d become accustomed to during his first sessions with Snape, the one the professor had said could be used to breach a mind unnoticed.

No. Hers felt like claws trying to scratch their way in.

He’d been ready, in his own way. Had assumed appearing focused on his studies and the imminent O.W.L.’s would appear normal for someone his age.

A crazed cackle escaped her. Her hand left his face as she started circling him.

“You take school far too seriously, my dear nephew. You won’t need all that rubbish. We could teach you so much more than they ever could.”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t try to dissuade my son from academic excellence Bella.”

With her head held high, perfectly poised, her long blonde hair trailed behind her as his mother walked into the room. Bellatrix looked from Draco to Narcissa and back. Her smile grew wider.

“Oh… we’re going to have so much fun! Just wait and see.”

Escorted by a pair of aurors, an irate Hermione Granger stepped out of the floo in Kings Cross station.

She thought the whole situation was utterly ridiculous. The fact Umbridge had insisted that she, an unarmed fifth-year student, had to be escorted by aurors to make sure she was actually going to her parents’ home only spoke of the paranoid delusions that had taken hold of the ministry official. And likely of the Minister for Magic himself.

Two aurors walked two steps behind her, from the fireplace to the wall that led to the muggle world. Just as she was about to cross, the witch behind her grabbed her arm tightly. Hermione fought the urge to yank her arm away.

Once on the other side she noticed they had transfigured their clothes to something more appropriate. She was thankful, the last thing she wanted was to be subjected to odd looks from muggles going about their day.

She found them almost immediately.

Linda and Richard Granger stood by a column, right underneath the 10^th platform sign, holding hands, an indignant expression on their faces. They also looked slightly nervous, which made Hermione’s heart rate skyrocket. One misstep and her whole plan could collapse.

Her parents spotted them and waved, looking at the aurors beside her through narrowed eyes.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been able to give her parents a heads up, or tell them anything about her plan. Much less the reasons why she was coming home during Easter in the first place. She’d only sent a hastily written letter, babbling about the tale she’d fed to McGonagall. Lies they’d recognise instantly and would be suspicious about.

After she sent it, she had spent days in agony, waiting for the moment her parents sent a confused and incriminating reply that Umbridge would read and would cause a second detention, or something worse.

No incriminating letter ever arrived. Instead, her father had sent a reply that solidified her lie. He wrote extensively about family they didn’t have who were supposedly coming from all over the world for this very important made-up muggle celebration. She’d never been so happy her parents understood her so well.

“Dad! Mum!” Hermione said, running towards them and throwing herself into their arms.

“You have some explaining to do,” Richard whispered, careful not to be heard by her escorts.

Hermione nodded almost imperceptibly, then kissed their cheeks and took a step back. A bright smile firmly on her face.

“Mr and Mrs Granger?”

“Yes, that’s us.” Her father sounded angry. Which he probably was.

“Be sure to bring Ms Granger back here on Sunday afternoon at five o’clock.” Then the auror turned to Hermione, “Ms Granger. You are to remain in the muggle world during the entirety of your holiday, is that understood? We’ll know if you step foot anywhere near—”

“Now, listen here, if she wants to—”

“I understand,” she said, interrupting her father’s objection, “I’ll be staying with my family during the holiday’s as I told professor Umbridge.”

Richard Granger clenched his jaw but said nothing else. The Grangers stared at the two wizards as they surreptitiously walked back towards the platform nine column and disappeared through the brick wall.

“Hermione—”

“Not here,” she said through her teeth, pulling their sleeves towards the exit, “I’ll tell you everything at home. Just keep walking.”

Bellatrix eyed her sister’s stony expression for a couple of seconds before bursting into laughter.

“Why the frown, Cissy? He’s home from Hogwarts! Aren’t you happy?”

Narcissa blinked twice, cleared her throat, and forced a smile. Draco hated that smile.

“Of course I am happy,” she hissed, then turned to Draco and continued in a genuinely sweet tone, “I’m so glad you’re home, darling.”

Draco worried. Up close, he could see she how exhausted she was. Healthy, but exhausted.

“Yes. I was told my presence was required.”

Bellatrix’s strident cackle was both mocking and unbelieving.

“Arrogant just like his father,” she said, now circling Lucius, who remained impassive, “Some things are unavoidable I suppose.”

“Draco, why don’t you go into your room and get settled. I’ll send for you when dinner is—”

“Nonsense Cissy!” Bellatrix interrupted, stepping between his mother and him. “Little Draco is one of us! Isn’t he Lucius?”

Her slightly crazed eyes focused on him again. He felt the prodding. Searching. He was ready just in time to prevent her from going deeper. Bellatrix looked at him curiously.

“He is.” Lucius answered.

“My son will get settled and we’ll see him for dinner, Bellatrix. And that is the end of it,” his mother said in the harsh tone she used when she demanded not to be questioned.

Bellatrix scoffed.

“Bossy as always. Oh, how I’ve missed you Cissy,” she said pinching Narcissa’s cheek. Then left the same way she’d come.

Lucius sneered at her retreating form, then turned to his son and said: “Be ready for dinner” before stepping into the fireplace and disappearing amongst green flames.

Draco stood beside his mother, unmoving. The lingering presence of the two Death Eaters causing an uncomfortable silence between them.

“Your father shouldn’t have called you here,” his mother whispered, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

“And yet, he did.”

Narcissa shook her head. “Go to your room. And stay there.”

Draco eyed the fireplace wondering if perhaps he could still go back to Hogwarts. In the end he knew even if he could, he could never do it. Not without a plan. For the time being he had to obey every order from his father.

“WHAT?!”

Richard Granger was out of his seat in an instant. Face reddened, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Hermione had just finished telling them the—heavily redacted—story of how Umbridge had gotten to be headmistress. She’d omitted any mention of blood supremacist evil wizards lurking in the shadows, of course, instead making the story sound more like a politically motivated power play accidentally enabled by a group of naive students who thought they could hide from someone like her.

“You formed an illegal group within the school?”

Perhaps she’d miscalculated what he would be most upset about. She should’ve known, she was his daughter after all.

“Didn’t you hear the whole story daddy? We were learning nothing! It was nothing more than a study group and we—”

“An illegal study group, Hermione. You should’ve gone through the appropriate channels to get your group approved.”

“Umbridge is the useless teacher, dad, she never would’ve—”

“Hermione,” he said, sounding very much like his patience was about to run out, “I know how important your education is to you. It is to me to, but I don’t understand why you went and got involved in something so complicated. You know how politicians are, they can’t be that much different from our own. You know how dangerous corrupt politicians can turn when threatened.”

She didn’t think of that. She’d assumed they were safe inside the castle. Never thought they’d get caught. And if they did the worst that could’ve happened was that they’d be…

Tortured? Expelled?

“And this Dumbledore,” her mother said, calmly, a contrast to her father’s reaction, “He just took all the blame without hesitation? Just vanished and left you under the care of an unstable, obviously power-hungry government employee?”

“I… suppose so, yes.”

Her father huffed. “I have half a mind to bring you back to our world.”

“You wouldn’t…”

Her voice had come out so small, so frightened, her father had instantly deflated.

“Is that why you lied in your letter?” he asked.

“I needed to get away from the school. It was the only way. They don’t bother understanding muggle customs and traditions, I knew they’d believe anything I said.”

Her father groaned. He clapped his hands on his legs and sighed.

“I need a drink,” he said, then got up, “Do you want anything Linda?”

Her mother shook her head and his father headed to the kitchen. Linda watched him as he walked away, waited until he was out of earshot before turning back to Hermione.

“You had a reason for leaving the school. You didn’t just want to ‘get away’.”

It wasn’t a question. Linda’s eyes were scrutinising her daughter, searching for confirmation of something she knew to be true. Hermione knew it would be useless to deny it.

“Yes.”

“Is it to do with this political nonsense?”

“No.”

Linda narrowed her eyes. It was the exact same expression her father used. She didn’t know who learnt it from who. Perhaps it didn’t matter. It made her squirm in her seat all the same.

“I swear. It’s to help a…” Ugh, “friend.”

An ungrateful, bigoted, assholeish “friend”.

“Harry or Ron?”

“I have more friends mum!”

Liar.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry.”

“My—uh… friend,” she started explaining, and realised just then the big problem she hadn’t considered: she’d have to get used to referring to Malfoy as her friend in front of her parents if she wanted their cooperation. “This friend has some… problems. At home. He wants me to reach out to a family member.”

“Is he at the school now?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Oh, poor child.”

Easy, mum, we’re talking about Malfoy here.

“Do you know where this family member lives?”

“Yes.”

Her mother leaned back on the sofa, deep in thought. They could hear her father opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen, grumbling.

“We could go shopping on Wednesday,” Linda said at last, “I have the afternoon free.”

She stared at Hermione for a couple of seconds more then looked to the kitchen which had fallen silent. “Do not mention it to your father, he won’t like it.”

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered as she heard her father’s steps approaching.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still want us to discuss this further.”

Dinner on Saturday had been a nightmare. Bellatrix spent the entire time poking and prodding, trying to break into his mind. He kept his thoughts firmly on quidditch, homework, prefect duties… but it was like his boring thoughts only spurred her on. She suspected him and that was dangerous.

His only saving grace was that she didn’t dare press deeper, not in front of his parents. Which was why, since then, he’d only left his room when his mother was with him.

Four days passed in relative peace. His father watched him carefully whenever they were near. Draco was convinced Crabbe or Goyle must’ve said something. It was the only explanation. He’d been so careful.

He refused to think about his escape plan inside the mansion. It was too risky. He had to keep himself occupied some other way. Being fifteen, he couldn’t use his wand outside of Hogwarts yet. His wandless magic, though improving, was nowhere near as good. Which forced him to continue his projects in a purely theoretical way.

On Wednesday morning, his mother had to go to London on an errand. She refused to tell him what it was. Ordered him to stay inside his room. Probably because his father was going to be at the ministry all day, leaving him alone with her. Obediently, he stayed inside. Reading and making notes.

Until she came knocking.

“Dra-co.” She singsonged from the other side of the door. “Come out here, Drakey. Your auntie has missed you so very much.”

His quill stopped moving. Ink dripping over the parchment, making a huge stain.

“I’m busy,” he replied a few moments later.

“It’s the holidays Draco. Come out to play. You can’t stay couped up inside all the time.”

Watch me.

The silence stretched for long enough he’d begun to think she’d gone and he was safe. Draco fixed his notes and opened his book on the page he’d been reading before the interruption.

“Come out, NOW!” Bellatrix yelled, pounding on the door.

Gone was the playful tone she’d been using all week. This wasn’t a request, it was an order. And it wasn’t his aunt making it.

It was the Death Eater.

Draco weighed his options. He could stay inside, refuse to come out until his mother returned. That would make Bellatrix even more suspicious. Or he could face her and see what she wanted. To go out, ready for an attack.

He opened the door hesitatingly, his defences ready.

“Took you long enough.”

Bellatrix was sitting on the bench on the other side of the hall, leaning against the wall. Wearing robes he recognised as his mother’s. Pulling a thread from the skirt, she looked up, her dark brown eyes searching for his. When they found them, he felt her instantly, clawing at his mind.

“You’re awfully focused on school these days, aren’t you?”

“My O.W.L.s are close. They’re kind of important, in case you’ve forgotten.”

It felt like an invisible hand pulled him towards her, forcing him to his knees.

“Arrogance I can tolerate. Insolence, not so much,” she hissed, watching him carefully, scrutinising his every reaction. “I wonder…” She ran her index finger along his face, lifting his chin.

“What’s really inside that big brain of yours—Legilimens!”

Though he’d been prepared, he didn’t expect such a violent attack. He thought of his last quidditch game, focused on what he’d had for dinner the day before, his study plans, ideas for the next game, the brooms that were coming out and he’d been fantasising about flying, quidditch manoeuvres he wanted to try. All sorts of inane thoughts. Nothing stopped her.  

She was looking for something. And he couldn’t hold on much longer. If she saw Granger, if she knew what he’d asked of her, he’d be dead. It was information he couldn’t give. He had nothing else to offer. There was nothing he knew that could put a stop to the attack.

Except…

Forgive me Theo.

He showed her the moment Theo told him he wasn’t going home. Careful not to think of their entire conversation. Trying something he’d never done before, he focused on feelings. Specifically, disgust. Deep disapproval. Tried to make it seem like it was his conversation with Theo, that traitorous confession, that sparked such a reaction.

He hoped she would be too focused on Theo’s treason to notice that the feelings didn’t belong to that memory. That it would stop her from digging deeper and realising he was planning the same as Theodore Nott.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ANYONE?!”

All wind was knocked out of him when he hit the wall beside his bedroom door. He slid down and fell on his hands and knees, gasping for air.

The bastard did it.

She pulled him up from his collar, shaking him furiously. “IF YOU KNEW ABOUT IT, WHY DIDN’T YOU RAISE THE ALARM?!”

He got away.

“You treasonous little—WHERE IS HE?!”

Theo is free.

“I don’t know,” Draco heaved, truthfully. “He wouldn’t tell me where he was going.”

Bellatrix threw him on the ground, anger and disgust written all over her face.

“I assumed he wouldn’t be able to do it.” Draco tried to get up, but was still struggling to breathe. “I didn’t think it was too important, I had a lot of things to deal with from professor Umbridge, it slipped my mind.”

“It slipped your mind? IT SLIPPED YOUR MIND?!” She laughed; a short sardonic sound that made him shiver. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Draco crawled towards his bedroom door. Though it made no sense, he felt he would be safe there.

“Tell me, Draco, did it make you curious?” she yanked him up by his hair, the sting on his scalp bringing tears to his eyes, “Did you want to go with him?”

Her face was now so close to his he felt her breath on his skin, “Is that why you didn’t say anything? Were you planning to do the same?”

“You’re insane,” he seethed. The rage in his voice was real, it was there to hide the fear.

Her eyes held his for a couple of seconds. A slow, malicious grin curving her lips, “Only a little—Crucio!”

A flash of lighting exploded behind his eyes. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The whole of his body shook violently, every single muscle in his body spasmed. It was like a million sizzling needles slowly pierced his skin while he burned from the inside out. He couldn’t think of anything but the pain, and how afraid he was of dying.

Then it stopped. And he could see. Could taste the blood in his mouth. Could hear his aunt’s steps coming closer, the rustling of fabric as she knelt beside him.

“Tell me, Draco,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “Where is your friend Theo?”

“I don’t know,” he croaked, his throat sore from screaming with all his might.

“Crucio!”

He didn’t know how long he remained conscious, how long he’d writhed in pain mere feet away from his childhood bedroom. All he knew was that, when darkness started pulling him under, he welcomed it gladly.

Hermione scooped a spoonful of fried mushrooms next to her poached eggs. She was having breakfast slightly earlier than usual, to eat with both her parents before her father had to go to work.

“Oxford street?” he asked, sounding a tad suspicious, “You hate shopping.”

“No, you hate shopping,” her mother interrupted, coming from the kitchen with a plate of fried bacon, “We love you, so we pretend to dislike it as well.”

Hermione giggled, then took a sip of her orange juice.

“I suppose I’m not invited then,” Richard said before biting his toast.

“You have to work, dad.”

“Yes, someone has to work around here.”

Her father laughed when her mum playfully slapped him on his arm.

“How dare you,” she said, feigning indignance, “It’s my first day off this year. Ladies’ day.”

She winked at Hermione, who couldn’t stop smiling. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed them. Watching them interact. She vowed to make more of an effort to spend time with them.

“Fine. Will you bring fish and chips for dinner?”

“No, we’re having fry-up for breakfast. We’ll eat something healthy for dinner.”

Richard grumbled something unintelligible, before downing his second cup of tea. They ate and they talked. Conversation bouncing from topic to topic until they all finished breakfast and each headed on their own way.

Linda was already waiting by the door when Hermione came downstairs, and asked her to join her in the living room before they left.

“Hermione, I need to know what’s happening. I won’t let you run around asking questions to people you don’t know if they could be dangerous.”

Hermione had come up with a vague, somewhat truthful story she could tell her mum. It wasn’t as if she’d decided to help Malfoy yet, she needed to know if it could be done first. All she knew was she couldn’t do it alone. Sirius was the only one she could think of who might be open minded enough to help.

“My friend’s father is not a very good man.” Which is an understatement.

“Does this friend have a name?”

Since she’d complained about Malfoy to her parents before, Hermione decided to lie.

“Theo. He—well, his mother doesn’t realise his father is… well, terrible. She keeps making excuses. Theo want’s my help to get both of them away from him. She has a cousin in the city who might help.”

“Might?”

Slim chance. Sirius is quite unpredictable.

“They’re not on good terms. She uhm… she comes from a very conservative family and… well her cousin is a bit of a rebel.” Which is another understatement. “He was cut off from the family a while ago, I don’t think she’s contacted him since.”

“What about the rest of her family?”

“They are the only two left, as far as we know. Which is why my… Theo needs help.”

Hermione knew she had her mother on her side the moment that heartbroken sigh escaped her.

“That poor woman… It’s often hard for abuse victims to seek help, Hermione, it doesn’t make them weak or undeserving of our sympathy, it just means it’s a little harder to help them because they can’t see they are in a terrible situation and need help. Do you understand, lovey?”

She felt a little guilty for manipulating her mother’s feelings. Problem was, if she told them exactly what was going on, she was sure they’d take her as far away as possible to keep her safe. And she couldn’t leave her real friends behind.

“We will help as much as we can. I promise you that.”

“Do we have to tell dad?”

“Sweetie…”

Hermione pleaded with her eyes. Her father wouldn’t agree to help with so little information. He’d demand details Hermione wouldn’t be able to provide. The resigned huff allowed Hermione to relax.

“I suppose we can wait until he’s not so angry about the whole illegal study group thing.”

“Those three words should never go together,” Hermione grumbled.

“Illegal study group? Yeah, I completely agree.”

“HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY SON!” Narcissa bellowed, wand raised, chest heaving.

She’d heard Draco’s screams from the floo room, had followed them as fast as she could. She’d never been so scared in her life. Not even when Lucius had been going out every night during the war.

Bellatrix got to her feet, cackling, straightened her robes and turned to her sister. 

“Why, hello Cissy. I was just asking young Drakey something.”

Narcissa thrust her wand in Bellatrix’s neck. She had hurt her son.

“You don’t want to do that Narcissa,” Bellatrix said, calmly. A dangerous edge to her voice.

“If you even so much as look at Draco the wrong way I will kill you.”

“Do you really think you can take me, Cissy?”

In Narcissa’s eyes, that was her sister’s greatest weakness. She continuously underestimated others. She couldn’t love, so she couldn’t understand the lengths one would go to protect those that mattered the most.

“Do not test me, Bellatrix. Don’t forget you’re in my house.”

“Your house?” she laughed, “I thought this was Malfoy Manor.” Bellatrix took a step forward, forcing the wand deeper into her skin, almost piercing it, “Who do you think gave me permission to ask little Draco the whereabouts of Theodore Nott?”

Narcissa lowered her wand so Bellatrix couldn’t see her hand quiver. She couldn’t believe what her sister had said. Lucius wouldn’t.

“Did he said you could torture our son?”

Bellatrix hesitated. “He didn’t give specifics.”

“I’m warning you. Stay away from Draco. What do you think he will do when he finds out what you did to his only heir?”

Bella’s playful demeanour switched in an instant. That mocking, teasing stance went rigid and threatening.

Narcissa lowered her wand, rushed to her son and knelt beside him. He was still twitching slightly. She’d seen it before on Lucius, aftershocks of the cruciatus.

With a trembling hand she levitated him to his bed. She had fortified the wards of the room, hoped he would listen and stay inside. Safe. She’d known she couldn’t trust her sister.

Enough was enough. Lucius would hear her. Their son had to be their priority.

Hermione and her mother went window shopping at Harrods, strolled across Hyde Park and walked down Oxford St. And they had an amazing time. They visited their favourite shops, went for tea, and after spending the whole morning doing exactly what they told her father they’d do, they headed to Grimmauld Place. It was raining by the time they got off at King’s Cross tube station.

“He lives a bit further down,” Hermione said, pointing down Pentonville Road.

“Perhaps I should come with you?”

“It’s a magical home mum. The cousin is a bit… paranoid about security. I don’t know how safe it would be for—”

“It’s okay honey, I understand. As long as it’s safe for you.”

“It is. The cousin is a good man. I’ve… read about him. I wouldn’t go if it was dangerous, I promise.”

“Then I’ll walk with you down the road and wait nearby.” She opened her umbrella and followed Hermione. “Let’s hope he’s willing to help.”

Let’s hope he is.

Linda waited at the corner. Hermione walked to number 12 Grimmauld Place, looking around to see if anyone was following. Felt a bit paranoid and was reminded of Malfoy walking to Gringotts. Once she was certain no one could see her, she quickly stepped on the doorstep to disappear from view and knocked on the door.

Not long after she heard Sirius scuffling on the other side, opening the peephole.

“Hermione?” he asked, before opening the door, “Is Harry OK?”

“Yes. Don’t worry.”

Sirius looked behind her before stepping aside. “What’s going on then?”

“Is anyone here?” she asked before following him into the house.

Sirius stopped and turned suddenly. He stared at her, clearly suspicious. “It’s just me. What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you about something… It’s very important.”

“Is it to do with Harry?”

There was no use lying to Sirius. She knew that when she decided to talk to him. However, she found it difficult to tell the truth right away. Perhaps because she was finding the truth difficult to believe herself.

“It’s not about Harry.”

“Hermione, I’m sure the Order—”

“I can’t ask the Order.”

“Why?”

“Sirius… please… I need you to trust me... Please…?” she begged.

His expression went from suspicious, to reluctant, to resigned in the space of a minute. He looked down, ran his hand through his hair, then shook his head in the direction of the staircase. Hermione followed him silently up the stairs and into the drawing room. They sat across each other, her on the forest green chaise lounge and him on the dark brown leather wing chair.

“You’re in luck. Kreacher's not home today. Little bugger’s a terrible gossip.”

She refrained from chastising him for his treatment of the poor elf. No matter what she said, Sirius didn’t even try to be kind to Kreacher.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. While she gathered the courage to ask what she needed. It wasn’t just that they might not trust her anymore. There was a life at stake. She kept playing the memory of Malfoy telling her he would be killed if she talked.

“Hypothetically,” she finally said, “If someone wanted to… escape… Voldemort—”

“Hypothetically?” he asked, left eyebrow raised.

She nodded.

“Hmm… a prisoner?”

“A Death Eater.”

His eyes went wide for a millisecond before he scoffed. “That’s suicide.”

Suicide?

“What if it’s… not a Death Eater. Not exactly.”

“It’s a kid.”

Not a question. The realisation seemed to sober him up a little. She nodded again.

“A Death Eater’s kid?”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down.

“Who?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. The moment of truth. She was about to break Malfoy’s—unsolicited, wholly unearned and completely unwanted—trust. She shouldn’t have felt this guilty, but she did.

“You have to swear you won’t tell anyone, Sirius.”

“Hermione—”

“You must swear it, Sirius. No one but you and I can ever know. You said it yourself, it’s suicide. We can’t tell anyone. The more people know—”

“The easier it is for there to be a leak.” He scratched his beard without dropping her gaze. “I swear it. It stays between you and me… Do you want to do an oath or… something?”

“No. I trust your word.”

He smiled before asking: “Who is it, Hermione?”

Hermione turned to the Black family tree tapestry, followed the branches until she found it. Malfoy’s picture was near the bottom, at the end of a slim branch that grew from underneath Narcissa Black’s name.

“It’s Draco Malfoy.”

Sirius remained silent for two seconds before he burst out laughing. He only stopped when he saw she was completely serious.

“What—Malfoy’s kid? Seriously? The son of Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater extraordinaire, doesn’t want to follow in his father’s steps?”

Sirius got out of his seat, still chuckling, and walked to the tapestry.

“What, torture makes him queasy?”

“Sirius!”

Sirius shrugged before turning to examine the tapestry detailing his family. Hermione saw him tracing the branches with his index finger, how he stopped when he reached his name, his hesitation when he moved to his brother’s.

“I figured you of all people would understand what is like to want someone to escape that life.”

The silence that followed was sombre and painful.

“That was low,” Sirius whispered, dropping his hand.

“Sorry.”

He returned to his seat in silence, already deep in thought. Hermione rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans while she awaited Sirius’s verdict.

“Does that mean that you, Hermione Granger, want the Draco Malfoy to escape his Death Eater destiny?” he asked, his surprise and disbelief evident, “Why?”

“I don’t want anyone to be forced into Voldemort’s ranks,” she answered, and was surprised to find it was completely true. “Ideally I would prefer it if no one ever joined him but… he’s scared, Sirius, Malfoy is… his father will force him to—”

“I know.”

Both shocking and unsurprising information. Something she expected of someone like Lucius Malfoy yet still managed to be unbelievable.

“He wants his mother to leave too.”

Sirius snorted and shook his head. “Narcissa will leave Lucius’s side when pigs learn to fly and galleons start raining down from the sky.”

“Draco knows.” The name slipped out easily. Much more so than calling him ‘friend’.

Sirius groaned, throwing his head back. “This is big, Hermione.”

“I… suppose?”

“First: if Draco succeeds, his father will be punished,” he explained, rubbing his face with both palms. “Second: The only way to get Narcissa out of that house will be by force, which I doubt she’ll be happy with.”

“You don’t think she can be persuaded?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t. Narcissa Malfoy is a stubborn cu—uh… she can’t be persuaded,” he amended when he saw her frown.

“He must know both his parents will hate him,” he said with a sigh.

“Oh, come on. They’re his parents, surely, they’ll realise—”

“They’ll hate him, Hermione. Perhaps not forever, at least not Narcissa, but they will for a while. They will. It’s not easy to deal with something like that.”

His grey eyes shone with a certainty that broke Hermione’s heart.

“Does he have a plan?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He asked for my help to come up with a plan, but I haven’t—I still haven’t told him if I’ll help.”

“Poor kid must be shitting himself.”

To Hermione’s confused expression, Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Well, you three hate him. And he knows that. Yet still, for some unknown reason, he asked for help from someone who could only be described as his enemy. An enemy who did not give him an answer and now knows of his traitorous plans. Which means this enemy, you, now has the power to destroy, not only him, but his entire family.”

“Oh…” well, he deserves to suffer a bit. “He did say he would be dead if I told anyone.”

“You told me.”

“I trust you. I know you won’t talk, and we could use your help.” We? Ugh!

“Whatever plan you two come up with must include some meticulous, extra secure plan for hiding.”

“I figured.”

“They won’t be able to leave the country. Voldemort must have moles in the Ministry, they’d be found immediately. Also, Lucius has access to all of their properties, so they can’t hide in any of those.” He groaned again, rubbed his eyes. He sounded exhausted. “Plus, like I said, Narcissa won’t cooperate, so you’ll need to take that into account…”

Sirius trailed off, his face going blank. She would’ve tried to get his attention if she hadn’t seen Harry do that exact same thing lately whenever he had an idea he needed to ruminate before sharing.

“You should speak to Andromeda.”

“Who?”

“Narcissa’s sister.” Sirius jumped out of the chair and rushed to the tapestry. He pointed to the scorched picture between Narcissa and Bellatrix.

“She was disowned?”

“Yes. She was.” Sirius lovingly traced his cousin’s name before sitting beside Hermione in the chaise lounge. “She was disowned because she fell in love. She defied her parents’ wishes that she marry a pureblood wizard, and married a muggleborn instead. A wizard named Ted Tonks—”

“Tonks is your cousin?!”

“First cousin once removed, yes.”

“You think she’ll help? Andromeda? Something tells me Malfoy’s mother wouldn’t have kept in touch with her.”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to try… and if she takes too long, I think I have an idea for temporary housing.”

First was the noise. The clatter of fine-bone china. Then was the smell. Freshly baked scones and fried eggs. Before he could even open his eyes, he felt the pain. Nothing even close to what Bellatrix had inflicted, but it was unpleasant nonetheless.

Draco opened his eyes. Tried to sit up but had to stop because it made the pain increase. When he groaned his throat hurt.

“You’re awake!” he heard his mother say.

She rushed to his side, waving her wand over him in odd shapes he’d never seen before.

“My head hurts” he said, and was shocked by the sound of his own voice. It didn’t sound like him at all. It was slightly deeper and hoarse. And it hurt.

“Which part of your head hurts?”

“The part above my shoulders.”

His stomach growled loudly. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was. 

“I need to go down for dinner, I’ll ask the elves to bring you something.”

“Dinner? I was out all day?”

Narcissa caressed his forehead, her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

“It’s Thursday, Draco.”

There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was slightly dishevelled, she was wearing the same robes she wore when she left for Diagon Alley on Wednesday morning.

“Don’t worry, I told your father what happened, and he took care of it.”

“Is she gone?”

“Yes. She’s at Lestrange House now.”

“Why wasn’t she there from the start? I mean, it is her home.”

She hesitated a few seconds before answering: “She wanted to meet you.”

Draco leaned onto his bed, flung an arm over his eyes.

“Draco… about your friend Theo.”

What about Theo?

“He’s not my friend.”

Please don’t ask anything else.

“Do you know where he is?”

It was a different kind of pain, the sting of betrayal. It left no outer marks, no physical aftershocks, but when it hit, it hit with as much force as any other kind of pain, and it hurt just as much. Especially coming from the one person you trust the most.

“No idea,” Draco said, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. “As I told your sister, I didn’t think he’d dare to leave, so I didn’t ask. I thought he was being dramatic or something.”

He turned to his side, giving his back to Narcissa. “You can leave now, mother. I’m tired.”

“Draco—”

“Now, mother.”

Once he was alone, he couldn’t find the strength to leave his bed. He lay there looking at the stars he’d stared at countless times before. Begging the universe that Theo had found a place to hide where he could have a quiet life and never be found. Not out of friendship or kindness. For revenge. Because he didn’t want them to get what they wanted.

But mostly, because he didn’t think he could live with the guilt if Theo was killed because of him.

Chapter Text

Draco spent his last two days at the manor locked inside his room. The moment the clock struck five on Sunday afternoon, he slung his messenger bag—filled with all his new notes and more books from the Malfoy library—over his shoulder and almost sprinted to the floo room. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to his mother. 

He hastily grabbed a fistful of floo powder and stepped into the fireplace. Just as he called for ‘Dolores Umbridge’s office’, his mother appeared at the threshold. They locked eyes for a millisecond as the green flames engulfed him.

There was chaos inside Umbridge’s office when he arrived.

“Ms Granger, open your bag. Now!” ordered the new Headmistress.

“This is an outrageous invasion of privacy!” Granger yelled back, clutching her bag to her chest, glaring defiantly at Umbridge.

Draco brushed off the ash from his robes and tried to leave the room unnoticed. The last thing he needed was for Umbridge to want to use him as an example of compliance and find the—illegally—extended bag with the unsanctioned books inside.

“You agreed to be searched upon your return. It was one of the conditions for you to be allowed to leave—oh Mr Malfoy, you’re early!”

Draco stopped in the middle of the room, cursing under his breath. He slowly turned to the women arguing on the other side, an indifferent expression firmly on his face.

“I was told I could come anytime, after five…”

“Aren’t you going to search Malfoy?”

Shut the fuck up, Granger! He screamed inside his head as he just barely stopped himself from glaring. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. If Umbridge decided to open his bag, he would be in deep trouble. Schooling his features into a polite smile, he turned to Umbridge, but before he could try and object as unsuspiciously as possible, Umbridge faced Granger once more.

“Mr Malfoy was not subjected to the same restrictions when he was authorised to leave for Easter break.”

Draco bowed slightly to Umbridge, sneered at Granger, then hurried to the dungeons. He felt in dire need to be surrounded by the familiar atmosphere of the Slytherin dorm room.

Ignoring the greetings from fellow Slytherins, he headed straight to his room. It was blessedly empty. He put away his toiletries and stashed his bag into his trunk before laying on his four-poster bed.

As soon as his body started relaxing, his mind started racing. He rubbed the tips of his fingers absentmindedly. A little tingling still lingered after his exposure to the cruciatus. He hoped it wasn’t due to permanent damage.

Hope.

Hope that Crabbe and Goyle realised they were trusting empty promises. Hope that he never had to see Bellatrix again. Hope that Theo got out of the country and was safe somewhere he would never be found. Hope that he managed to come up with a plan in time to avoid the mark. Hope that his mother would agree to follow him.

Hope.

A useless waste of time.

No good ever came from hoping for anything. It made the disappointment that much worse when things didn’t turn out the way he expected. There was no chance Crabbe and Goyle would ever turn their backs on the Dark Lord. Bellatrix was sure to be back on his father’s good graces by the time summer arrived. Theo, reckless as he was, was bound to be found. And, though he might be able to come up with a plan to escape, he would never be able to carry it out on his own. But the worst of all was the certainty that his mother would never agree to leave his father’s side.

He was trapped.

The door to his room burst open. Draco rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and sat up. Crabbe walked in, followed by a happy-looking Goyle. Before either of them said anything, Draco said: “Did you hear about Nott? That traitorous git”, trying to sound furious.

Which he was. He’d been tortured for information on his whereabouts. And he suspected one of the two boys standing in front of him had hinted he might know something about it.

Crabbe frowned, confused. “I heard,” he said, “Do you know where he is?”

Subtle.

“If I did, don’t you think I would’ve told my father?”

“I don’t know, you two seemed quite close—”

It had been Crabbe, then. A sudden urge for vengeance threatened to overwhelm him. It would be stupid to act on it just then. He needed to wait. Play the part. Buy some time.

“Nott asked me if I knew what the ceremony entailed,” Draco said, calmly getting up from his bed and walking up to Crabbe, “You know the one, we’ve been counting the days until we’re allowed to join. I told him I didn’t know anything and that was it. I didn’t think he was planning to flee.”

The lie slipped out of his lips with shocking ease. Crabbe remained impassive. Goyle sat on the sofa, looking expectantly between the two of them.

“I was told we might be inducted this summer,” Goyle said casually.

Instantly, Draco shut the door with a wave of his wand. “Will you please, shut up!”

“Everybody knows he’s back!” Crabbe argued.

“Without proof. Just Potter’s word. Our orders remain the same. Deny everything.”

Crabbe took a step forward, crowding Draco. “I don’t follow orders from you,” he threatened.

“I never said the orders came from me.”

Even standing to his full height, Draco was still a couple of inches shorter than Crabbe. And several pounds lighter.

In an obvious attempt to diffuse tension, Goyle cleared his throat and said: “I think it’s a great opportunity to learn.”

Crabbe nodded vigorously, “Yeah, who needs all this rubbish when we can learn so much more from a different source.”

Goyle smiled. “I think I’m going to volunteer.”

Volunteer?! Do you honestly think we have a choice?!

“Wouldn’t have expected any less from you Goyle,” Draco whispered, then trying to sound positive he continued, “I suppose it will be a great summer for the three of us huh?”

“And even better if they find that coward Nott,” Crabbe seethed, “I bet they might let us teach him a lesson if we ask.”

Draco’s hand spasmed, the tingling on his fingers intensified. He needed to get out of there. The mere thought of having to witness Theo being tortured made him feel ill, he didn’t want to imagine what he’d do if he was asked to deliver the torture himself.

“Well, you may not care much, but I’m still expected to do well in my O.W.L.s.” he said as casually as possible, “I’ll be in the library. See you at dinner.”

Before he moved further, Crabbe blocked his path.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing Crabbe?”

“I don’t think you’re telling us the whole truth about Nott, Malfoy.”

He didn’t like being caged. He may be powerless to escape the Dark Lord, but Crabbe was no threat to him. He wouldn’t even pose a challenge.

Draco smiled. That arrogant smile that was second nature to him. The one he’d seen on Bellatrix’s face.

“And why do you think that?”

“You two seemed awfully close. You talked a lot.”

“That’s because Nott, unlike you, is actually able to maintain an intelligent conversation,” he saw the slight frown, the flare of nostrils, the fisted hands and tightened lips. With his hand closed tightly around his wand, it was now Draco who crowded Crabbe.

“Don’t worry, Crabbe, Bellatrix already asked me about Theodore Nott. And I told her everything I know.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Perhaps next time I’ll make sure she asks you.”

The threat wasn’t lost on Crabbe. Draco shouldered past him and left the room. The dungeons suddenly felt suffocating. He rushed up the stairs and into the common room. He was halfway to the exit when a familiar, shrill voice called from behind.

“Draco, you’re back!”

“I am,” he answered without stopping.

“Where are you going?”

“Library.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s Sunday!” she yelled, pulling his robes gently, slowing him down, “Why do you study so much anyway, you’re already rich, you don’t need to work for a living. O.W.L.s are so… mundane.”

He turned suddenly. Not expecting the change of pace, Pansy crashed with him.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, “I am rich, and I would like to remain that way. I don’t get to just trap the richest husband I can find and live unhappily ever after without a care in the world.”

Draco didn’t give her time to reply, just left her standing in the middle of the Slytherin common room, shocked. It would seem Pansy had an unnatural ability to choose the most inconvenient times to approach him. He really needed to improve his tolerance of Pansy Parkinson.

It was late when Hermione stormed into the Gryffindor common room. When she returned from her Easter break, she’d had to watch Umbridge go through all her things. Twice. Casting revealing spell after revealing spell, growing increasingly frustrated when she found nothing. The aurors had already done the same before escorting her back, which had enraged her parents to no end.

Then Malfoy came strutting into the castle like he owned the place and she almost lost it.

After being searched, Hermione had been subjected to what Umbridge called ‘a chat’, but which was really an unofficial interrogation. Weary of the veritaserum she knew her capable of using on students, Hermione refused the tea Umbridge offered, angering her further and extending the interrogation.

By the time she finally made it upstairs, she was exhausted.

There were many people in the common room, as was usual on a Sunday night. Harry and Ron where nowhere to be seen. Feeling a bit dejected, she made her way to the girls’ dormitories and began meticulously putting away her things.

They had gone through everything. Pulled up every item of clothing for inspection, examined every bottle in her toiletry bag, checked all her school supplies for incriminating evidence. Nothing she carried had remained untouched.

Hermione smiled as she leafed through her stack of parchments, and took the last one, sniffed it, then folded it carefully and placed it inside her pocket.

She’d just reached the landing when she heard her name called from the door to the boys’ dormitories. Harry looked at her from the top of the stairs. She waved hello but her smile dropped the moment she took in his sombre expression and hesitant attitude. It immediately sent alarms blaring in her brain. He’d been miserable since he broke up with Cho after their massive fight about Marietta. But he’d never looked quite as broken as then.

He gestured for her to go up. Unlike the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, the boys’ weren’t charmed to keep girls out.

Harry’s dorm was a mess. There were rumpled clothes on every bed. Not one trunk was closed, and half of them had things spilling out. Several parchment rolls were on the floor. A broom was sticking out from under Ron’s bed.

Where he was sitting quietly. Staring at them.

She smiled and said a quick hello before Harry pulled her down to sit between his bed and Ron’s. The three of them sat in a circle, like they had done so many times before. She hadn’t realised how much she missed that closeness.

“What happened?” she asked.

Harry looked to Ron for support. Ron gave an almost imperceptible nod, then Harry began his story.

He told her he’d continued his Occlumency lessons, just like Sirius had advised. They had become increasingly aggressive and distressing, invariably leaving him feeling ill, with head-splitting headaches and violent almost uncontrollable nausea.

“I found him on the bathroom floor,” Ron admitted, the worry in his bright blue eyes sparking hope their friendship may one day be as it once was.

Hermione regretted not being there for her friend. She’d advised him to continue his lessons with Snape, as Sirius and Lupin had done. It was in his best interest to learn how to protect his mind from Voldemort. She didn’t think it would get so bad he would pass out in the boy’s bathroom floor.

“I wish Dumbledore had found someone else to teach you,” she whispered.

“I bet he could. He just doesn’t want to,” said Ron, with more than a touch of bitterness.

Harry shook his head and leaned back. “Forget it. It’s no use complaining. I’m not doing it anymore. I don’t care what Sirius says, or Lupin, or you, Hermione, I just can’t.”

Ron grumbled something under his breath, keeping his head down. Hermione tried to meet Harry’s eyes. She wasn’t sure if he’d explained the nature of his nightmares to Ronald and didn’t want to make a mistake.

“Tell you what, let’s talk about something else instead. Like, how did it go at your—what did you call your made-up holiday?” Harry asked her with a laugh.

“St. Austen’s day.”

“Of course you did. You do realise anyone could’ve looked it up and realise it was utter bollocks, right?”

“Then why did no one bother to do that?”

Harry shrugged, but couldn’t hide his smile. During the past weeks she’d realised something dark awaited them. They had to embrace all the happy moments they could before they became scarce.

“What, you got so sick of the castle you went and made up a muggle holiday so you could abandon us with that psycho?”

“Oh…no that’s not—I’m sorry I left.”

“Don’t apologise,” Harry said, glaring at Ron. “Come on, Ron, she wanted to see her parents, you—”

“Right,” Ron said, drawing out the single syllable, “and since neither you nor I can do that anymore…”

“Ronald, your mum—”

“Save it,” he interrupted, before getting up and leaving the room.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. Harry patted her back while confessing talking to Ron felt like walking in a minefield lately. Far from angry, Harry sounded worried. They both wanted to reach their friend but had no clue how.

It was one more problem she had to think about. One that would have to wait until later. There was something she needed to do first.

“Harry, I have a letter for you, from… snuffles.”

Harry perked up instantly. Then threw her a confused look. “You went to see him? Why?”

Hermione bit her lip. More than anything, she wanted to tell Harry the truth. But she couldn’t. Not out of loyalty to Malfoy. No. She didn’t owe him anything. She couldn’t tell Harry because she understood the dire situation Malfoy was in, and would do nothing that could put him in danger.

It was out of loyalty to herself that she kept quiet. There was no way she could carry the guilt if Malfoy’s plan was discovered, and he was punished. “If you tell anyone, Granger, anyone at all, I’m a dead man.” Ever since he’d said it, his words kept going on a loop inside her mind.

Damn you, Malfoy.

“I figured you’d want to hear from him,” she said, offering the folded parchment she’d pulled earlier from her things.

“You are the best!” He hastily unfolded the parchment. After one look his head snapped up, a deep frown over his green eyes, “Hermione, this is blank.”

Hermione conjured a candle, then took the parchment from Harry’s hands and carefully exposed it to the heat of the flame.

“What the fuck...” Harry whispered when he saw the words begin to appear in the paper.

“Umbridge searched my things for anything magically concealed,” she explained with a smug smile on her face, “this is just chemistry.”

“You’re fucking brilliant.”

Once the whole letter was revealed she gave it to Harry, who immediately began reading. The bright smile darkened the further he read. By the time he finished, his frown was so deep his eyebrows almost met, and he was clenching his jaw so hard she feared he might damage his teeth.

“What is it Harry?”

“He’s leaving me.”

Harry didn’t mean to say it like that. Sirius wasn’t leaving him. His decision had nothing to do with him. Yet it felt like he was being abandoned.

Sirius had decided to go against Dumbledore’s wishes that he stay inside Grimmauld place and was leaving with Charlie Weasley to Romania. He’d explained how useless he felt doing nothing inside his childhood home and expressed his deep desire to help their cause by recruiting people on the continent. He didn’t say how he planned to leave without being caught by the aurors who still thought him a dangerous criminal, nor did he say how he intended to hide once he was no longer in England.

All he did was explain why he was leaving, and try to reassure Harry that he would return.

Hanging from his broom by one arm, about a hundred metres in the air, Draco finally admitted to himself that perhaps he’d made more than a few mistakes in his life. 

In the week leading to their last game of the season, Draco’s desperation began taking over every waking thought. And more than a few nightmares as well. He spent more time in the library than on the pitch, only training when absolutely required by Bletchley, their substitute captain. 

Since Montague still wasn’t completely recovered from whatever had happened to him inside that cabinet he’d been stuck into, Bletchley had asked some random seventh year to fill in. Someone who, though he could fly, wasn’t nearly as good as Montague.

And then there was the letter he’d received that morning. At first, he’d thought to leave it unopened until after the game. Hoping he could somehow forget his current dire circumstances and give his all on the pitch. Alas, his resolve lasted all of five minutes. He tore open the envelope and read his father’s words.

Hidden in between words of praise for the government—clearly put there for Umbridge to read—and a few half-hearted encouraging phrases about O.W.L.s, his father had ordered him to ‘be helpful’, to ‘keep close to those who could be useful’, and to ‘get ready for summer’.

Ready for summer. It was unlikely his parents had planned for them to go on holiday while the Dark Lord prepared to take over the Ministry or whatever his plans were. It could only mean they did intend to mark him as a Death Eater when school ended. Perhaps he should resign himself to be a puppet. To become cannon fodder for a psychopathic maniac.

After that, he was wholly unable to focus on Quidditch, or anything other than the bleakness of the future that awaited him.

Which had led to his current predicament.

He’d been so distracted, so immersed in his own thoughts, he hadn’t seen the bludger which had almost thrown him off his broom. After what felt like an eternity holding for dear life, Draco swung himself side to side until he could hook his leg on his firebolt, and get back on it.

Unfortunately, while he did that, Sommerby, the Hufflepuff seeker, caught sight of the snitch.

It didn’t matter how fast the firebolt was. Sommerby had seen it first and was way closer. Draco had no chance of beating him to the snitch. Not ten seconds later, the crowd exploded in cheers.

Slytherin had lost the Quidditch cup to Hufflepuff.

Ignoring the taunting screams from the stands and the complaints of his teammates, Draco flew down, jumped off his broom and headed for the locker room.

He was angry.

Angry at the team for not playing their best. At Montague for allowing to be pushed into a vanishing cabinet no one knew where it led. At his father for ruining the good life they had to be some deranged un-dead man’s lapdog. At Granger for refusing to help him when he so desperately needed it.

But most of all he was angry at himself.

For failing to find a solution to his problems on his own. For being unable to keep his mother safe. He was steps away from the door to the showers when he was slammed into the wall. Losing the grip on his broom, it clattered on the floor while he struggled to keep his balance.

“What the fuck was that Malfoy?!” screamed Crabbe before pushing him against the wall again. “Always bragging you’re the best flyer on the team and you couldn’t even stay on your fucking broom?! What was that?!”

Before being slammed again, Draco pushed back and pulled his wand. “Step back, Crabbe,” he warned.

“That cup was ours,” Crabbe growled, taking a step back, “Perhaps if you spent less time in the library staring at that mudblood—”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Draco chuckled. More out of nerves than truly wanting to mock Crabbe’s statement. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I suggest you keep your voice down.”

FUCK!!

“Or what? You’ve always had a weird obsession with her. It was only a matter of time before you—”

In one swift movement, Draco had Crabbe pinned against the opposite wall, pushing him with his left arm while holding his wand the taller boy’s neck with his right. “Be very careful what you say next, Crabbe. I will not allow unfounded accusations, not even from a friend.”

The word tasted bitter.

Behind the defiant stare of Vincent Crabbe, Draco could see more than a little fear. Fear that made him feel powerful. They could hear the steps of their teammates coming from the other end of the corridor. Draco let Crabbe go, but kept his wand at the ready.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Umbridge asked me to keep an eye on them. She believes they’re up to something. And if they are, who do you think is the brain behind it?”

Calling his broom to his hand without keeping his eyes from Crabbe, Draco continued, “It’s not like I could say no to a direct order from a ministry employee, especially since it was my father who ordered me to help her. So, before you come up with your idiotic theories, perhaps you should wonder why it is that no one shares any plans with you.”

The loud, angry voices of the rest of the Slytherin team were coming around the corner.

“And while we’re sharing our grievances, how about you use that bat of yours to stop the other team from scoring and not only to hit the players you dislike?”

Draco turned to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crabbe raising his wand. He cast a protego strong enough to throw Crabbe against the wall, just in time to block the jelly-legs jinx he’d managed to cast. Unfortunately, the whole team saw it.

He spent the next forty-five minutes being berated by Bletchley and the rest of the team.

The next morning, Hermione and Harry went down to have breakfast. Harry told her he hadn’t seen Ron since the game the previous day. He’d heard him sneaking into their dormitory way after curfew and was gone before he woke up.

“Well, we can’t force him to talk to us,” she said while spreading butter on her toast.

“Perhaps we should,” he answered, then poured two cups of tea and placed one in front of her.

Harry, she had to admit, had a point. Though they probably shouldn’t force Ronald to talk to them, they certainly could. It wasn’t like Ronald was leaving them much of a choice.

Great. More to think about.

She glanced at the Slytherin table. Crabbe and Goyle were inhaling their respective breakfasts. Pansy was lecturing some second-year students about something or other while her evil entourage giggled behind her. She recognised a few members of their quidditch team arguing at the end of the table. Everything seemed so normal.

Except that a certain pale-headed annoyance was missing.

She refused to feel guilty. He had tied her to a chair and tried to blackmail her. He deserved at the very least a few days of uncertainty.

Which, as Sirius had pointed out, he’d already suffered.

“I’m, a little behind on my studies. I’ll go to the library after breakfast,” she said to Harry.

“Shocking.”

“I think you should come with me.” Knowing he was about to object, she continued arguing her case, “Harry, O.W.L.s are very close. You need good grades if you want to be an auror.”

Though he rolled his eyes, she knew she’d won the argument. When they finished eating, he reluctantly followed her upstairs.

It was quiet inside. Most of the students were in either seventh or fifth year. Not surprising since both N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s were of great importance to their futures. They walked past the main floor, going deeper into the library, until they reached her favourite table. Sadly, it was occupied. Malfoy was there.

“I’m surprised Malfoy is here,” Harry whispered, before pulling her to a table on the other side of the room.

She refrained from telling him that Malfoy was in the library more often than him and Ron combined. They studied for half an hour without interruption. Then she watched the lonely Slytherin. The first thing she noticed was how jumpy he was. Twice she saw him tense and look around when the students two tables from him dropped a book. The second thing she noticed was how he kept rubbing his left hand. As if it hurt.

She sighed. The decision was made. She’d left him hanging long enough.

Damn you, Malfoy.

Hermione got up. Harry looked up and asked where she was going. Hopeful their time in the library was coming to an end.

“I need a book Malfoy has.”

“There’s probably another copy somewhere.”

“I know for a fact it’s the only copy.”

Harry didn’t question her. She wasn’t sure the fact he thought she’d somehow memorised the entire catalogue of the library was either flattering or slightly unnerving.

“I’m coming with you.” 

“I can deal with Malfoy on my own.”

“I know.”

They stood in front of Malfoy waiting to be acknowledged. The blond Slytherin looked up slowly from the Ancient Runes book he was reading, somehow managing to look bored and annoyed by their presence at the same time.

“Well… what do we have here? If it isn’t the-one-who-wouldn’t-die and his faithful sidekick.”

She pinched Harry’s arm before he said anything. The last thing she needed was for them to get into one of their stupid arguments in the middle of the library.

“You truly are wholly incapable of being pleasant, aren’t you?” she said.

“I believe in being selectively pleasant. What do you want? I’m busy.”

Biting her tongue, she wondered for the thousandth time why she was compelled to help such an obnoxious human being.

Being a git does not warrant a death sentence.

“You have the only copy of the book on Applied Numerology. I need it.”

He looked at her curiously. “You take Arithmancy?”

“Since, third year. Now, will you let me use the book or not?”

“Get your own copy.”

“You know that’s the only copy.”

He looked at Harry, then at her with narrowed his eyes. She was about to leave when he pushed it towards her.

“Don’t bother returning it. I’ll procure another one you haven’t touched.”

Harry’s hand flew to his wand. Hermione clutched his arm in time to stop him from attacking Malfoy. She could’ve sworn she’d seen the Slytherin’s lips twitch upwards as he said it. And she could be mistaken, but the insult almost felt… half-hearted? It certainly lacked the usual bite.

Or perhaps she was imagining things. She did have a tendency to want to see the best in people. She doubted there was anything that could be considered remotely good in Draco Malfoy.

Still…

“If you change your mind, I’ll put it back where it belongs,” she sneered before pulling Harry back to their table.

Draco couldn’t go back to the library all day. Crabbe had been acting—with various degrees of success—as if everything was like before. Along with Goyle, they’d been following him everywhere since they caught him leaving the library. After that short interaction with Granger, he’d left, in case anyone had seen them speaking.  

It was almost midnight when he finally felt sure they were both fast asleep. It was a blessing they slept like the dead. He pulled his slippers from under his bed, cast a cushioning charm on them, then put them on before disillusioning himself.

It wasn’t the first time he’d sneaked out of the dungeons at night. However, it was the first time he’d done so to go to the library.

Under the cover of darkness, he creeped up the marble staircase, careful not to make even the slightest sound. Peeves could hear and alert the entire castle before he could sneak back into the dungeons. Or that bloody cat could bring Filch running, who would tell Umbridge, who would in turn tell his father.

Yet there he was. After curfew. Sneaking into the library to possibly get a message from none other than Hermione Granger.

It was possible nothing stranger had ever happened.

Before opening the door, he silenced the hinges. Then walked into the library and went straight to the Arithmancy section. The book was there, as she’d said. Bottom shelf on the left bookcase.

Slowly, he pulled the book. A torn piece of parchment fell from it.

With clean yet hesitant strokes, numbers were written on it. Only numbers. ‘18 04  5 503  23 30’

That didn’t mean anything to him. The parchment was crumpled. Perhaps she’d almost changed her mind about helping. Or maybe it wasn’t from her and he was looking at someone else’s failed notes.

‘18 04  5 503  23 30’

It meant nothing. He was about to burn it, annoyed he’d felt even slightly hopeful, when he saw the little initials on the edge. Neat. Clear. ‘H.G.’ was written at the bottom right corner.

It was from Hermione Granger then. What did it mean?

Bloody Granger. Couldn’t she write real instructions? Like hey, I’ve decided not to let you die, see you tomorrow in classroom C on the third—Fucking hell.

18^th of April, fifth floor, classroom 503, 23:30.

She saw him sneaking off after dinner.

As he’d taken to do on the past few weeks, Ronald got up from the Gryffindor table and left without saying goodbye or where he was off to. Not that he had to tell them.

Harry had been slowly rebuilding his relationship with their friend. Patiently waiting for Ron to be ready to discuss what was going through his head, choosing instead to speak of inconsequential subjects. Problem was, she had no inconsequential subjects in common to speak about with Ron. She knew nothing about brooms or quidditch, didn’t care much for exploding snaps or wizards’ chess. And Ron knew nothing about the muggle world. All she could perhaps discuss were their shared classes, something Ron had no desire to talk about.

It left her with no other choice but to force him to speak to her. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do, but she refused to let their friendship slip through her fingers without trying.

Earlier that day she’d asked Harry for his invisibility cloak. She left her half-finished plate and followed Ronald out the Great Hall. She followed at a distance, across the Entrance Hall, down the fields, all the way to the Great Lake.

It broke her heart to see him wandering aimlessly. Looking up at the sky occasionally. Begging the universe for something no one could give him. Ron sat on a rock, close to the edge of the water, and stared at the darkness.

A kind of hesitation she had never felt when approaching Ron almost convinced her to go back to the castle and not disturb such a personal moment.

She called his name softly. It startled him anyway.

Ron turned, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk.”

He turned away from her. Not one to be deterred, Hermione climbed the rock and sat next to him.

“I’ve given you space. As I figured you needed it. But you can’t keep us at arm’s length forever, Ronald. We’re your friends. We care. We’re worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Ron looked down. She reached for his hands, laced their fingers together and squeezed gently.

“That’s not how it works. Please, Ron. Talk to me.”

He looked up. Stared at her strangely for a few seconds before nodding and looking back to the lake. Then he did just that.

“Everything’s changing,” he whispered, before sharing with her what she already knew from Sirius’s letter to Harry.

Charlie Weasley was going back to Romania. Everyone expected that to happen. He’d been living there for years. He was passionate about his job and had no plans to return to England. However, after Arthur died, and his elder brothers returned home, Ron had expected his family to stick together.

Charlie going back felt like he was abandoning them.

“You’ve seen how Bill is with Fleur,” Ron said in that bitter tone he’d been using more and more lately, “It’s only a matter of time before she takes him away to France.”

Yes, she had seen Bill with Fleur. She didn’t know they now were officially a couple. It was obvious they were in love, but Bill had introduced her as a friend, and Fleur had kept a respectful distance. She had been by Bill’s side the same way Hermione and Harry had been by Ron’s.

“Fred and George are gone too.”

“I thought they were staying in Diagon Alley.”

“They are.”

She waited for him to elaborate. Eventually Ron explained. Fred and George hadn’t been in contact since they left. Not with him, or Ginny, or his mother. They had locked themselves in their new flat above their new store and no longer had time for their family. To him, it felt like they were trying to forget about them.

“My family is breaking apart…” he said, his voice breaking at the end.

Hermione squeezed his hand again. A cold breeze blew across the lake, making her shiver. She leaned closer to him.

“Everything will be alright, Ron. You’ll see. You all love each other; nothing can break that bond.”

She turned to him. She needed him to see she believed her own words. She hadn’t realised how close they were. Ron looked into her eyes, then down at her mouth for a split second before leaning forward.

Shocked, she jumped back, almost slipping from the rock.

“Ron, I didn’t—”

“I thought—Never mind.” Even under the pale moonlight she could see the bright flush on his face.

Ron got up, faster than she’d ever seen him move. And climbed down.

“Wait!” she yelled, forgetting they were not supposed to be out this late.

“It’s late, Hermione, I don’t want to talk anymore,” he rushed to say before sprinting away, back to the castle.

Hermione sat for a long time, staring at the place where her friend had disappeared into the night, replaying the conversation they’d just had. All she’d done was hold his hand. It was a gesture she’d learned from her own mum. It never failed to make her feel better. She did it with Harry often. And she had done that with Ron because she wanted him to feel safe.

She never thought Ron could feel that way about her.

A lone tear rolled down her cheek. Slowly, she made her way back to the castle. Only when she was safe in her bed did she let her emotions flow. It had happened. The thing she feared most when she thought of forcing him to open up.

She had irreparably damaged her friendship with Ron.

Chapter Text

Days went by, and Ron still refused to talk to her. He wasn’t rude, and he didn’t go out of his way to avoid her, but whenever she was nearby, he immediately became incredibly awkward and looked for any excuse to leave.

She hadn’t forgotten the message she’d left for Malfoy in the Arithmancy book. With no way to know if he’d received it, or if he intended to meet her there, she wasn’t sure if she should take the risk of sneaking out of Gryffindor tower so late at night.

It was all too much.

Though Harry had not mentioned any more nightmares, something was still bothering him. All their progress with Ron had dissolved overnight. He’d stopped talking to Harry as well, even though Harry didn’t even know what had happened by the lake. And Malfoy… well, he always looked like the devil himself was about to pop out of nowhere and drag him to hell. Which was probably an accurate metaphor of his current situation.

Something told her that, when her mother said she could always talk to her about boy trouble, this wasn’t exactly what she meant.

Meanwhile, down in the dungeons, Malfoy sat cross-legged, hidden behind the curtains of his four-poster bed, listening closely to the deep breaths of Crabbe and Goyle. He had slipped a few drops of diluted slow acting sleeping draught into their pumpkin juice at dinner, so he’d be free to sneak out of the dungeons to meet Granger on the fifth floor.

It had been easier than he’d thought. Those two didn’t question why he’d poured juice for them when he’d never done so before. They just sat, saw the glasses, and downed them in one go.

At ten past eleven, he felt sure the pair would not wake up, and prepared to leave. The cushioned slippers and practised disillusionment allowed him to walk past an obviously exhausted Pansy arguing with Adrien Pucey, unnoticed.

He made it to the classroom without incident, with five minutes to spare. Granger wasn’t there yet. Draco moved a chair and sat by the door without removing his disillusionment. Then waited for the Gryffindor princess to arrive.

Hermione stood staring at the door of room 503 at precisely half past eleven. She didn’t have time to convince herself to turn around. Without Harry’s cloak she’d had to resort to a haphazard disillusionment. Which only stressed her more, reminding her of just how behind she was on her revisions.

She burst in. Wand ablaze. Yet only managed to get half her disarming charm out before her wand flew from her hand. Then heard him tsking from a chair in the corner.

“Very unsportsmanlike, Granger,” he said, twirling her wand in one hand as he removed his disillusionment.

“How did you—”

“I told you, you’re not the only one unhappy with our new Defence curriculum. Difference is, I happen to have a much better teacher.”

Snape. Of course the pretentious git could get the potions master to give him extra lessons.

“Harry is—”

“A fifth-year student with good intentions and a whole lot of luck.”

She’d been there less than five minutes and she was already regretting offering her help to such an obnoxious individual.

“If you’re going to insult my friends—”

“I haven’t insulted anyone. Just stated a fact. Besides, you’re the one who mentioned Potter.”

“Give me back my wand.”

Draco watched Granger’s extended hand for a beat. Unsure whether it was in his best interest to comply with her request. Knowing what she was capable of, no one could blame him for being cautious around her.

As a sign of good faith, he gave it back.

“Thank you. Incarcerous!”

Though she slammed him against the wall, tightly tied up. Draco couldn’t help but laugh. He supposed it was fair retribution to have the tables turned this time around.

He waited until he met her eyes to say, “Didn’t know you liked this kind of thing, Granger. It shines a whole new light on Potter.”

“Silencio,” she hissed, and when he laughed again, no sound came out.

“You’re disgusting.”

He shrugged. Perhaps she was right. He watched her carefully. The deep angry blush that spread across her face was immensely amusing.

With an annoyed huff, Granger turned away, and began pacing. Draco waited patiently. Not that he had a choice. He was, after all, tied and held against a wall. 

“I want to make one thing clear, Malfoy,” she said calmly, stopping in front of him. “So you better listen carefully because I won’t repeat it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Sure she was about to recite a million demands before she even considered helping him and his mother.

“I will help you.”

Draco’s eyes snapped to hers. Shocked.

“I will help as best I can, I will help you and your mother escape your current… situation.”

Granger stood to her full height, which wasn’t particularly impressive, straightened her back, and took a step forward.

“However,” she said, the low threatening tone she’d used with him once before bringing his full focus to her every word, “I want you to know, and to never forget that I do not owe you anything. From now on, if anyone agrees to help you, they you will do so out of the kindness of their hearts, not because they owe it to you. I will help you because it’s the right thing to do. Never forget that you do not deserve anything from me. Do you understand?”

I—Yes.

Draco Malfoy stared at her, wide eyed, for longer than he’d ever done before. Blinked rapidly. Nodded. Satisfied, she removed the silencio and released him. He stumbled a little when he hit the floor.

“Go on. I’m listening,” she said, a tad impatiently.

Malfoy straightened his robes, ran a hand through his hair, cleared his throat.

“Well…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “all my ideas revolve around going abroad, but… even if I somehow manage to get mother away, I know she’ll insist on coming back. Plus, I… kind of want to finish my education, preferably not somewhere else—”

“So you have nothing.”

He clenched his jaw. “I’ve discarded several options. I would not say that’s nothing.”

“You still have nothing even resembling a plan! You can’t go abroad, Voldemort must have people in the ministry, you’ll be found.”

“Fine! Let’s say we stay and hide. Then, all my ideas for how to keep her away from everything include kidnapping. I would like to not have to keep my mother imprisoned. Which is why I asked the help of someone whose ideas are not immediately what you would call evil.”

Oh…

“Actually…” she felt terribly guilty, having to destroy his hopes like that, but she’d thought about it herself and had reached the same conclusions he had. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea. It might be your only option.”

“What?!”

Draco stared at her in disbelief. Holier-than-thou Hermione Granger really believed he should kidnap his own mother.

You saw that Ravenclaw girl’s face. Granger is no saint.

“You said she will never cooperate!” Granger said, as if that made it OK to suggest kidnapping his mother.

“You have to be joking.”

Hermione bit her lip before speaking.

“You don’t have to keep her locked in a room, you can lock her in a big house! She doesn’t have to be alone in a—” cell “—room.”

Malfoy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “So now you want me to kidnap two people?”

“Of course not. Won’t you be with her?”

“I’m coming to school.”

“How exactly will you be doing that without it being suspicious?”

“I don’t know!”

It was her time to scoff. She’d had her doubts, but now she was certain Malfoy was delusional. Not that she blamed him for wanting to continue his education. She didn’t envy his situation at all.

Draco plumped down onto the nearest chair. Rested his forehead on the wooden desk. Whatever he’d imagined Granger helping would be like, this wasn’t it. Instead of answers, he now had even more questions.

“You need someone trustworthy,” she said determinedly, as if that would be the answer to all his problems.

“Because that kind of people are so easy to come by—”

“What about her sister?”

He chuckled. Of all the people in the world... “Are you insane? Bellatrix would kill her herself—”

“Her other sister. Andromeda.”

Oh…

Andromeda. He’d never heard that name before. He knew his mother had two sisters. Knew one of them had been disowned. Had found out by accident when he found an old photograph while playing in the attic. His mother had never mentioned her before, and when he asked, she didn’t say her name, only referred to her as ‘her sister’ who had been disowned. After that she never mentioned her again.

“I don’t know her,” he confessed.

“Well maybe you should.”

“Right, I’ll just walk up to her house and say: Hello aunty I know we’ve never met, because our family decided they didn’t want to have anything to do with you, but guess what? your sister is in danger, and I would really appreciate it if you’d risk your life to protect her, even though she’s pretended you don’t exist for years!”

When he finished his rant, Granger was glaring at him.

“What am I even doing here Malfoy?! You ask for my opinion and just shut down every idea I have!”

“Because they’re shitty ideas that won’t work!”

“Asking your aunt might work! Not everyone is as much of a selfish arsehole as you!”

“And not everyone is a sanctimonious stuck-up priss like you!”

Shit.

Granger’s fingers were wrapped around her wand so tightly her knuckles had gone white. When their eyes met, he could see something dangerous lurking behind.

“How dare you...” she growled.

“How dare I? How fucking dare I?! You prance around the castle acting all high and mighty but when someone with an actual problem comes for help to protect an innocent—”

“INNOCENT?!”

“YES! My mother has nothing to do with what’s happening. I came to you—who fucking hates my guts and whom I fucking hate in turn—because I thought you were the best chance we had. Because I, unlike you, actually fucking care what happens to my mother—”

“What is that supposed to—?”

“—and I’m trying to get her away from harm, so don’t you dare call me a selfish arsehole.”

“Just because your days are numbered doesn’t mean everyone else’s are.”

Draco swallowed hard. Numbered days. How he hated that she was right.

“Really?” he sneered, took a step forward, crowding her, “Tell me, Granger, did it ever occur to you that the people on the other side; those who, you know, hate muggles, might choose to target—oh, I don’t know, the parents of Harry Potter’s muggleborn best friend?!”

He knew he’d struck a nerve when her eyes went wide, and she paled suddenly.

“How long until they come for them, Granger? Have you done anything to protect them? Have you asked anyone to do something? Have they offered?”

No. They haven’t.

She wasn’t about to admit that in front of Malfoy. That not one of the members of the Order had offered to so much as put a protective spell on her parents’ house. She couldn’t admit to him that she hadn’t even thought about it herself.

“I know Voldemort is in your house, isn’t he?” she said, her voice trembling, “I could tell the aurors—”

“The aurors?” Malfoy asked with a mocking laugh, “The ministry won’t even accept the Dark Lord has returned! How are you going to convince them to raid the ancestral home of one of the oldest pureblood families in Britain? One, might I add, whose Head spends most of his bloody time IN the FUCKING Ministry!

“Wake up, Granger! This isn’t a game or a far-off problem. This is happening now whether you like it or not. I’m running out of time just as much as you are.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?!”

“It’s a fact.”

White hot anger coursed through him. Draco turned away from her. He needed to think. This whole thing had gone so off rail, so massively wrong, he needed to regroup and think.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered, so low he almost didn’t hear her. “From the moment we met, and you heard I was muggleborn, you’ve treated me like some sort of—worthless… scum. You’ve mocked me, ridiculed me, you’ve been downright cruel consistently through the years.”

When her voice broke, some of his anger died down. 

“And now… now you come here and demand my help. Want me to act like you’ve never hurt me, like you haven’t done all you can to make me feel like I don’t belong in this world and never will.”

She stared at him through glazed eyes. “Tell me again why I should help you, you entitled wanker!”

“You know nothing about me either, Granger,” he said, and even as he said it, he knew he didn’t have an argument, but he wasn’t one to back down. “Don’t act like you ever intended to help me. You decided I wasn’t worth your time way before you asked me to come here. Because, even if you deny it, when it comes down to it, you’re just as much of a judgemental bitch!”

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t be capable of being kind even to literally save your miserable life! I hope Voldemort learns of your plans and gives you what you deserve, you racist prick!”

Granger stormed out of the room, leaving him alone and without hope for the second time.

A week after his meeting with Granger, Draco was still furious. The fact that, as part of the Inquisitorial Squad, he was required to patrol the halls at different times of the day did nothing to improve his mood. Especially considering, after the Weasley twins had left the castle, Hogwarts students had decided someone needed to fill the void. And every day they outdid themselves to see who would get the honour.

Chaos reigned in the castle. The Inquisitorial Squad had been called to try and keep the peace, which made them the targets of multiple pranks every day. Draco had only been attacked a couple of times, and only with mostly benign jinxes. Not like Pansy or Warrington who had even spent a few nights in the hospital wing.

But what angered him above all else was the fact that, as much as he wished to deny it, he had to admit he had, once again, made a mistake in his approach to Granger. He was the one who had everything to lose. And, as she so eloquently put it, it would appear he was incapable of being kind to her, not even to literally save his miserable life.

He would have to do something he hadn’t done in years. Apologise.

Time didn’t slow down. The longer he waited to apologise to Granger, the more were his chances of escape reduced.

Under normal circumstances, Draco Malfoy was not an impulsive man. These, however, were not normal circumstances. He was heading to greenhouse four to gather some ingredients he needed for a potion he intended to brew when he saw Granger heading down to the lake. Alone.

He waited a few seconds to see if her idiotic friends were close behind, but no one followed her. Forgetting about his plans for a late-night brewing session, Draco hurried after her.

She sat underneath a beech tree, a few metres from the edge of the lake, hidden behind some bushes. ‘The standard book of spells, Grade 5’ was open across her lap, and she was moving her hand—sans wand—as she read. Practising the movements.

“If you’re trying to cast it wandless, you’re doing it wrong.”

Her hand froze mid-air. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

Draco cleared his throat. Perhaps he should’ve practised an apology in advance.

“I would like to offer my most sincere apologies.”

Granger snorted, then slowly turned to see him. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I would like to apologise.”

“Why?”

Does it matter? I’m apologising, isn’t that what you wanted?

“I’ve realised my approach was mistaken.”

“Your approach? You’re apologising for your approach?”

“I—Yes.” No?

She huffed. Turned back to her book. “I suppose I couldn’t expect more from you,” she said, sounding, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little disappointed.

“How do you know my aunt?”

She closed her book and looked up at him.

“I… don’t. Not exactly. I know her daughter, and I know she’s nice.”

Draco scoffed. Shook his head and leaned on the tree. It was easier to speak to Granger if he wasn’t looking at her. “She was disowned. My aunt.”

“I know. For falling in love.”

What?

No matter how curious he was about the story, he didn’t have time. “You think she might help?”

“Yes. Maybe? Yes.”

“How reassuring.”

If he was honest, he probably would be reluctant to help his family as well if they’d disowned him. “Mother won’t like it. At least not at first. She will fight back.”

He heard a rustle of leaves before she put the book inside her bag.

“We could take her wand.”

“We?”

“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

Confusion gave way to disbelief, and finally mistrust settled in his soul. He’d only asked her to help him come up with a plan. Why would she offer to help him carry it out?

“You want to help me?”

“No. I don’t.”

Then why—

“But as I told you before, it’s the right thing to do… there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Surely your father would protect—”

“I don’t particularly wish to be anyone’s slave.” Draco said, looking away, to the calm waters of the Great Lake, “Malfoys bow to no one. Father seems to have forgotten, but I haven’t. I have to protect my family.”

“And your father is…”

“The Malfoy family. Above any individual. I have seen what he does to his followers,” his fingers trembled slightly as he said it, he closed his fingers to stop it. “I refuse to be next.”

Draco felt her keen stare on the side of his face, but refused to meet her eye.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said after a few seconds. “I’ll be in touch.”

Thank you, Granger. Really.

He didn’t say a word, only listened to her steps fading as she walked away.

Hermione crumpled Malfoy’s latest message and threw it in the fire.

For the past couple of weeks, they’d been going back and forth, exchanging ideas to solve his predicament. It all started when a book she had no recollection of taking from the library appeared inside her bag. Inside was a piece of parchment with only one word written on it: ‘America’.

She didn’t have to wonder who it came from. Only knew one person who was pretentious enough to have such neat, elegant handwriting. Pretending she was taking notes, she crossed the word and wrote: ‘No. Abroad.’ Then made a point to catch his eye when she next saw him in the library, ensured he saw the book she was carrying, then went and put it back in its place.

They continued like that. Sometimes leaving the book directly in the other’s bag, or mentioning a title when they passed each other in the corridors. Always with a note inside.

‘Fly away. Unviable.’ ‘Remote Island. Stupid.’ ‘Fidelius. Can you cast it?’

Except for establishing they might need potions to get Narcissa out, neither of them had come up with anything useful.

But they were trying.

It was the last weekend of May. Summer was around the corner. O.W.L.s would begin and neither of them would have much time for planning.

She leaned back on the sofa, waiting for Harry to come downstairs. The common room was empty. All Gryffindor students were already on the pitch, ready to cheer for their team in the last game of the year. Though she would’ve preferred to stay in the library, Ron was playing. She wanted to show her support. As she’d always done.

Ronald had stopped acting awkward around her. But he was still trying his best to avoid being alone with her. If Harry had noticed, he hadn’t mentioned it. And she didn’t intend to say a word about the incident either.

“I thought Hufflepuff had already won the cup,” she said ten minutes later, as they walked across the grounds to the pitch.

“They have. Beat Slytherin for it,” he said with a smile on his face. “To be honest I’m not sure why they’re playing either. Mostly for honour I suppose. No one wants to be the fourth team out of four.”

Much like with most quidditch related things, she hadn’t thought of it much. It explained why Ron had been in an awful mood. From what she’d gathered, he hadn’t improved much since joining the team. Quite the opposite.

“Cho will be playing, won’t she?”

Harry merely grunted. After the DA had been caught thanks to Marietta Edgecombe’s betrayal, Harry had confronted Cho and they’d had a massive row. They broke up and since then they’d both been pining annoyingly.

“I think you should apologise,” she said for the thousandth time. “It wasn’t her fault, Harry.”

“Drop it Hermione.”

Knowing how stubborn her friend could be, she didn’t push. They sat on the second topmost row of the stands, with a clear view of the goalposts Ronald was supposed to be guarding.

The sky was clear. The sun was shining. The only thing against Gryffindor were the Slytherins that were slowly gathering at the stands on other side of the pitch. Close enough for Ronald to hear them sing that horrid song. ‘Weasley is our King’. She'd thought perhaps after their defeat at the hands of Hufflepuff in April they would choose to keep quiet.

The whistle blew. Players soared. The ball went back and forth for a few minutes and then, it started. Hermione groaned with the rest of the Gryffindors when the Slytherins sang in unison:

“Weasley cannot save a thing

He cannot block a single ring…”

A commotion on the end of the row they were sitting made her turn. Hagrid was pushing his way, as gently as someone his size could, along the stands. Heading in their direction. She elbowed Harry, who protested before noticing she wasn’t watching the game.

“Harry, Hermione…” Hagrid whispered, crouching as much as possible, in a futile attempt to go unnoticed. “Listen, can yeh come with me? Now? While ev’ryone’s watchin’ the match?”

Harry frowned. “Er… can’t it wait, Hagrid? ‘Till the match is over?”

It was important for Ron—or at least she supposed it was—that they were there cheering for their team.

“No,” Hagrid said, sounding slightly desperate. “No, Harry, it’s gotta be now… while ev’ryone’s lookin’ the other way… please?”

Until then, Hagrid had been keeping the left side of his face turned away. It became apparent why when he turned a little and they say his nose was dripping blood.

“Of course.” They said in unison, and followed him away from the crowd.  

Hagrid looked around nervously as they walked across the castle grounds. Rubbing his hands together, watching over his shoulder as they went. It reminded her a little of Malfoy when she followed him to Gringotts.

They walked straight past Hagrid’s his cabin, towards the forest. A few metres from the forest edge, Hagrid stopped for a second to picked up a large, powerful looking crossbow and slung it across his shoulder. When Harry asked about it, Hagrid claimed it was just a precaution. Hermione pointed out he hadn’t carried it when they went into the forest to see the thestrals. Hagrid explained the centaurs were angry at him, after he interfered with their attack on Firenze.

Centaurs took it as treason that Firenze accepted the teaching post from Dumbledore. Being the most intelligent creatures inhabiting the Forest, Hagrid said they had a lot of influence over what happened in it.

Hagrid’s unusual cryptic behaviour was making her increasingly nervous. They followed silently for at least half an hour. Only stopping to unhook their robes from thorns, or to help each other climb up fallen trees. All was mostly not so terrible, until Hagrid turned away from what could barely be considered a path, and led them into the darkest parts of the Forest.

Harry asked again where they were going, his distress was becoming evident. The last time they’d been so deep into the forest was the first time Harry had been in the presence of Voldemort. Needless to say, it hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

Hagrid just said it was a little bit further and kept walking. It was so dark, even though it was the middle of the day, it seemed like it was midnight. Their robes kept catching on the thorns of dangerous looking plants. She ripped hers a couple of times trying desperately to free herself quickly so she wouldn’t lose them in the darkness. They had to be careful of swinging branches and sticky cobwebs along the way.

“Hagrid… could we light our wands?” she asked, berating herself for not thinking of it sooner.

Hermione walked right into Hagrid, having not seen him stop suddenly, and fell backwards. Thankfully Harry caught her before she hit the forest floor. She lit up her wand, had to blink a couple of times until her eyes adjusted to the light. Harry did the same.

The trees were so densely packed, and the foliage so thick, there was barely any space for them to stand together without some plant getting in the way.

“Righ’, well…see…the thing is…well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be getting’ the sack any day now.”

Oh, no…

“Why now though?” asked Harry.

“Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ Niffler in her office.”

“Was it?” Harry asked. She elbowed him hard.

“No, it ruddy well wasn’!” Hagrid protested, indignantly, before going on a long explanation of why Umbridge assumed anything to do with magical creatures was somehow his fault. How she’d been looking for a reason to get rid of him. In truth, Hermione had wondered why Umbridge had kept him so long. She’d assumed the first thing she’d do as headmistress would be to fire the gamekeeper.

Then, in a faltering voice, Hagrid asked they didn’t worry about him, said away from Hogwarts he could be useful to the Order. They both knew what that meant. Last time he was useful to the Order he’d ended up looking like he’d been used as a punching bag.

A clearly emotional Hagrid led them deeper into the forest for at least another fifteen minutes. Hermione was about to ask if it was much further when Hagrid threw out his arm, signalling them to stop.

They tiptoed forward, approaching what looked like a clearing with a mound in the middle. When she was able to see it properly, she noticed it wasn’t a naturally occurring clearing. Trees had been ripped at the roots all around, leaving that a small patch of ground empty. The trunks of the trees had been stacked all around, forming a kind of fence. A fence they were now behind.

“Sleepin’,” Hagrid whispered.

Sleeping?

Only then did she see. That mound in the middle wasn’t earth. It was moving. It was alive.

A giant.

“Hagrid,” she whispered, worried anything louder might wake the creature, “who is he?”

Harry stared at her like she’d grown a second head. She shook her head towards the sleeping giant, trying to make her friend understand.

“Hagrid, you told us—you told us none of them wanted to come!”

After his ill-fated mission for Dumbledore, Hagrid had claimed none of the giants he’d visited had agreed to come back to stand beside them in case of a war against Voldemort. She did not want to believe they had another Norbert situation in their hands.

Of all the dangerous creatures to bring to the castle…

“Well—no—he didn’ want ter come,” he said, sounding terribly desperate, “but I had ter bring him, Hermione, I had ter!”

HAD TOO?!

Harry jumped back. Having just realised what exactly they were seeing. She was thankful he understood the danger they were in.

“But why?” she asked, wanting nothing but to grasp Harry, run back to the castle, and never, ever step foot inside the Forest ever again. “Why Hagrid?!”

“I knew if I jus’got him back, an’—an’ taught him a few manners—I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show ev’ryone he’s harmless!”

HARMLESS?!!

“Harmless?!” she screeched, the sound grating even to her own ears, “He’s the one who’s been hurting you, isn’t he? That’s how you’ve been getting all these injuries!”

“He don’ know his own strength!”

Of course he doesn’t!! HE’S A GIANT!!

“An’ he’s getting’ better, he’s not fightin’ so much anymore—”

“Not fighting so much?! Hagrid you’re bleeding right now!”

“I promise, Hermione, he’s getting’ better. I couldn’t leave him…”

“Why?” asked Harry, having found his voice again, his eyes fixed on the moving mound, as if expecting it to attack any second.

“He’s my brother!”

Oh shit.

Her mouth dropped. So did Harry’s. She loved Hagrid. She really did. He was kind and generous. But this was just another level.

“When you say ‘brother’” Harry said, still in shock, “Do you mean…?”

“Half-brother.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands as Hagrid explained. Grawp—his half-brother’s name—was supposedly too small for a giant and was thus bullied by the rest of his clan. Hagrid, being the soft, tender-hearted, unaware-of-how-dangerous-creatures-truly-are, man that he was, decided to bring Grawp with him.

“Oh, yes, tiny! Absolutely minuscule!” she said, feeling a bit hysterical. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, she feared Hagrid was about to saddle them with the responsibility of an incredibly dangerous magical creature.

“What do you think you’re going to do with a violent giant who doesn’t even want to be here?”

“Well, now—‘violent’—tha’s a bit harsh,” he argued, unconvincingly, “I’ll admit he mighta taken a couple o’swings at me when he’s been in a bad mood—”

Imagine what would happen if he took “a couple of swings” at US!!!

“—but he’s gettin’ better, loads better, settlin’ down well.”

“What are those ropes for, then?” asked Harry.

“You have to keep him tied up…” she said, feeling like she was going to be sick. Hermione rocked herself back and forth, clutching her sides. Of all the ways to die, beaten to death by a giant was something she had never considered possible to happen to her. “What exactly is it you want Harry and Ron and me to do?” she asked, though she could guess the answer.

“Look after him, after I’m gone.”

Oh shit.

“What—what does that involve, exactly?”

“Not food or anythin’! He can get his own food, no problem. It’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit… teachin’ him, yeh know.”

I’m going to die beaten to death by a giant. Wonderful.

“You want us to teach him…” Harry said in disbelief.

“Yeah—even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit, cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he’ll understand more that we all like’im really, an’ want ‘im to stay.”

Dear GOD, Hagrid. How?

“Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn’t it?” Harry whispered.

She chuckled nervously. The baby dragon had been a breeze to deal with compared to what Hagrid was now asking them to do.

Before she could object, Harry agreed. Hagrid wanted them to make the trip once a week. To give English lessons to a violent imprisoned giant.

“I’ll wake ‘im up, then introduce yeh—”

“Wha—no! Hagrid don’t!”

But it was too late. Hagrid was already halfway into the clearing. Grabbing a large stick, Hagrid poked the sleeping creature. The giant woke up with a loud roar, rubbing his eyes with his fists, not unlike a small child would do if woken from a nap.

Hagrid greeted his half-brother with the kind of cheery voice she’d only heard adults use with babies and very small children. When Grawp moved, Hermione instinctively jumped behind Harry. Clutching his arm tightly.

They walked back together, until they were stopped when their backs hit a tree. They stared, horrified, at Hagrid’s enormous brother.

Grawp began playing with a tree, completely uninterested in whatever Hagrid was saying. He pulled the top of the poor tree down as far as it went, before releasing it, chuckling when it sprung back and forth. Hagrid scolded him. Apparently, that’s how he’d pulled out all the other trees.

They both tensed when Hagrid mentioned their names.

“Please don’t, Hagrid,” she whispered, holding Harry’s hand tightly.  

“This,” Hagrid said, pointing at Harry, “is Harry, Grawp! Harry Potter. He migh’ be comin’ ter visit yeh if I have ter go away, understand?”

The eyes of the young giant finally settled on them. Hermione wished he’d kept ignoring Hagrid, playing with the tree instead. Grawp stared at them, with the intensity of someone who’d never seen anything like that before.

“An this,” Hagrid continued, pointing at her, “This is Hermione, see? Her—would yeh mind if he called yeh Hermy, Hemione? It’s a difficult name fer him ter remember.”

“N—no, not at all,” she squeaked.

“This is Hermy, Grawp! An’ she’s gonna be comin’ an’ all! Is’n’ tha’ nice? Eh? Two friends fer yeh ter—GRAWPY, NO!”

Before she knew what was happening, Harry pushed her behind the tree. Grawp’s fist scraped the trunk, trying to reach them. She closed her eyes, and made herself as little as she could. They heard Hagrid arguing with Grawp, heard the blow he must’ve received.

They peered from behind their hiding place, to make sure their friend was alright. Hagrid’s bleeding had restarted. Thick drops of blood fell from his nose onto his shirt.

Recognising his attempt at an introduction had been unsuccessful, Hagrid declared they’d been there long enough and they began the walk back.

Why had they promised to help? It was an absolutely pointless effort, to try and civilise a giant. Yet Hagrid was so convinced he could succeed—

He also thought he could keep a DRAGON as a pet!

“I thought we told you, Hagrid, that you are no longer welcome here?”

Came a deep, angry voice from the shadows.

It all happened so quickly. One moment they were walking back to safety and the next they were surrounded by centaurs, their lives in danger again less than ten minutes after the giant. Hermione closed her eyes and clutched Harry’s arm with all her might.

No, she wouldn’t die beaten to death by a giant, she would die trampled to death by centaurs. Fantastic.

She remained silent, unmoving, until Hagrid committed the very Malfoy-esque mistake of insulting the centaurs. She started begging him to leave. Anyone with half a working neuron knew insulting a centaur to their face was a death sentence. Hagrid must’ve been furious with them to forget that important fact.

Harry and Hermione pushed the gamekeeper with all their might, away from conflict. Surprisingly, the centaurs let them to leave. Not without warning.

Later Hagrid dismissed her worries about being allowed into the forest anymore, after the centaurs threatened them, adamant humans were no longer welcome there. Insisted they wouldn’t hurt them, on account of them being children and all.

“Was that another goal?” Hagrid asked, once they were back on Hogwarts grounds, “Or d’yeh reckon the match is over?”

I don’t care.

“I don’t know,” she said, examining her ripped robes and scratched arms for the first time.

“I reckon it’s over, yeh know! Look—there’s people comin’ out already—if yeh hurry yeh’ll be able ter blend in with the crowd an’no one’ll know yeh weren’t there!”

Yeah, because everyone also got their clothes torn, scratches everywhere and their hair full of leaves and twigs during the game.

“Good idea,” Harry said dragging her towards the pitch. “We’ll see you later, then, Hagrid.”

Hermione waited until she was sure Hagrid couldn’t hear to vent.

“I don’t believe him. I do not believe him.”

Angry didn’t even begin to describe what she felt then. Her heart was still racing, and she was still trembling all over.

“I really do not believe him!”

“Calm down.”

“Calm down?!” she raged, so loud Harry looked around nervously, “A giant! A giant in the Forest! And he wants us to give him English lessons! Assuming, of course, we can get past the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and out! I. DO NOT. BELIEVE. HIM!”

“We haven’t got to do anything yet,” he hissed, pulling her towards the crowd. “He’s not asking us to do anything unless he gets chucked out, and that might not even happen.”

“Oh, come off it, Harry! Of course he’s going to be chucked out! And, to be perfectly honest, after what we’ve just seen, who can blame Umbridge?”

Harry paused. Turned to glare at her. “You didn’t mean that.”

I do.

Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears. “Harry, I love Hagrid, I do. But he brought an extremely dangerous creature into the forest. Please, don’t get angry at me. If it had been any other teacher, you would agree with me. You know you would.”

Harry shook his head and walked away. She followed him, refusing to let him leave without letting her explain.

“And now he’s asked us to go deep into the forest, alone, with an extremely hostile herd of centaurs threatening us, to, what? teach a giant English?”

“He’s our friend, Hermione.”

“I know! That is why I agreed. But you have to admit, this time he’s asked too much. It’s too dangerous Harry.”

Harry sighed. Defeated. It didn’t mean he agreed with her. Harry could be loyal to a fault, either refusing or being incapable to see the faults and errors the people he loved most made.

“Let’s get inside.”

She followed him silently. Wishing they’d been allowed to watch the game undisturbed. That Hagrid hadn’t approached them with such a request.

“He did what?!”

Ron looked from Harry to Hermione, disbelief all over his face. After they arrived at the common room, Harry had gone up to the dormitories and—forced—asked Ron to sit with both of them, telling him they had something important to tell him. Reluctantly, he complied.

They’d shared the events of the day. When they confessed they hadn’t seen the game, Harry didn’t allow him to leave.

“Hagrid hid a giant in the forest.” Harry repeated.

“You’re taking the piss.”

“No, Ron. Hagrid brought a Giant. About sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine trees, and knows me, as Hermy.”

Ron snorted. She smiled. It had been so long since she’d heard even the slightest hint of joy from him.

“Did he really hide a giant in the forest? A giant?”

They both nodded.

“Fuck… And he wants, us, to teach him… English?”

They nodded again.

“Hagrid’s lost his mind,” Ron breathed.

“I agree.”

“We promised though.”

“I didn’t. I’m not going anywhere near that giant,” Ron said, in a tone that didn’t leave much room for discussion.

“Ron—”

“You’re right,” Hermione said, interrupting Harry. She wasn’t going to guilt her friend into doing something so stupidly dangerous. She knew Ronald. He wasn’t disagreeing out of fear or because he didn’t care for Hagrid enough. He was doing it for Molly.

Ron hummed, got up, and left.

“Let him go,” she whispered to Harry when he made to stop him.

They had to let Ron decide if he wanted to help. 

His birthday had gone by almost unnoticed. Unlike previous years, the only thing he received was a letter from his mother congratulating him and wishing him luck in his exams, and a short note from his father, reminding him of his duties as his son and heir.

Summer was approaching quickly and he still had no idea how he would manage to keep his mother and himself safe. The little trust he’d set on Granger was evaporating the longer it took for them to come up with a plan.

His lessons with Snape were over. The potions master had deemed him ready for his Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., and told him they could resume their occlumency lessons on the coming year.

What he didn’t know was, Draco still wasn’t sure he’d be back for sixth year.

He distracted himself revising for his exams. He set a brutal schedule to make sure he’d be ready. Over the past week he had spent most of the day inside the library, arriving when it opened and only leaving when Madame Pince forced him to.  

All fifth and seventh years were in a permanent state of stress over the life defining exams that were coming. Even Crabbe and Goyle had joined him in the library a few times. Apparently, Aldous had informed Crabbe the Dark Lord didn’t appreciate idiocy.

As if that wasn’t a defining characteristic of the elder Crabbe.

On the first week of examinations, he had Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. As he’d expected, he excelled in every one of them. On Friday, he had Ancient Runes. It was his only chance to speak to Granger about his aunt, since neither Crabbe, Goyle nor her dim-witted friends took the class.

Students were asked to wait outside the Great Hall until the examiner let them in. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, behind a pillar on the farthest corner of the Entrance Hall. She couldn’t have chosen a better place if he’d asked. 

Draco casually leaned on the other side of the pillar, hidden from prying eyes. Then cast a muffliato around them before speaking.

“Heard of my aunt?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I know the concept may seem strange to you,” she said, her eyes still on the page of the book she had open across her lap, “but these exams are incredibly important for our future, you should be revising just like everyone else.”

“Why would I ever want to think of myself as ‘just like everyone else’?”

“Arrogant prat.”

“I think of it as having some self-esteem.”

He waited a few seconds before asking again. It didn’t bode well that she avoided the question.

“So, have you?”

She snapped the book close and looked up. “I can’t very well write to her, can I?” she hissed, “not with Umbridge reading everyone’s mail.”

“I am going to die thanks to that meddling cow. Fantastic.”

The corner of her lips twitched up. “You’re being dramatic. I told you I’d help you. Now leave me alone.”

Before he could object, the high, slightly nasal voice of their examiner called them into the Great Hall. Their Ancient Runes exam was about to begin.

“Well Granger, see you on the other side. I’d say wish me luck but… we both know I don’t need it,” he winked, and followed the rest of their classmates.

Other than that one mistake in her Ancient Runes translation (for which she blamed Malfoy and his need to make everything about himself), Hermione was doing much better than she’d expected.

The second week of examinations began with Potions, then Care of Magical Creatures. On Wednesday, they had Astronomy. The written exam had been surprisingly easy.

They had the rest of the afternoon off since the practical exam would take place at night. Harry and Ron—who had taken to spending more time with them, albeit in silence—were revising for Divination while she went over her Arithmancy notes one more time.

Overall, things were going great. But trouble has a way to appear when they least expected it.

That night, they all stood behind their telescopes, filling in the map they’d been given. About halfway through their allotted time, furious barking and a loud argument coming from the grounds interrupted them.

Umbridge had decided it was time to evict Hagrid. Along with about ten aurors, they marched to the gamekeeper’s hut. They tried to stun him, fought as best as they could. When she looked down, she saw Fang lying motionless on the floor, while Hagrid shook his fists in the air, refusing comply with Umbridge’s request.

“How dare you!” McGonagall’s voice echoed in the night, “How dare you! Leave him alone! Alone, I say!” she ordered, brandishing her wand, “On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant such—”

But she wouldn’t finish he sentence. At least four stunners hit her on the chest at once, sending her flying backwards. McGonagall crumpled on the ground like a rag-doll. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She forgot all about her exam, worried about the Transfiguration professor, who wasn’t moving at all.

Enraged after seeing McGonagall fall, Hagrid knocked out four of his attackers with his bare hands, before running away, disappearing into the night.

The examiner was livid, kept muttering under his breath about cowardly aurors and the meddling Ministry.

He reminded the students they only had five minutes left. Hermione hastily finished her chart, and walked back to the common room with Harry and Ron.

The Gryffindors stayed up until four in the morning, discussing the events of the night. Colin Creevy let them know McGonagall had been taken to the hospital wing, although he did say she didn’t look very well.

Relieved to know her beloved professor was in the capable hands of Madam Pomfrey, Hermione went to her dormitory and fell asleep instantly.

Thursday saw her sit her Arithmancy test while Harry and Ron did Divination. History of Magic was their last exam of the week. Sitting on the Great Hall, she was fully focused on the test, her quill scratching the parchment rhythmically as she poured all her ideas into her answers.

Harry’s scream followed by the loud bang of him falling off his chair, startled her and all the other fifth years taking the exam. She was about to leave her desk when Professor Tofty, their examiner, ordered them to continue while he escorted a visibly flustered Harry to the hospital wing.

She couldn’t regain the same focus after that, her mind kept drifting, worried, wondering what had happened to her friend.

“Harry!” she yelled when she saw him after the exam was over. He looked terrible. “What happened? Are you alright? Are you ill?”

“Where have you been?” Ron asked.

Even if he didn’t say it, she knew he’d been worried sick as well. She’d noticed the look of relief on his face when they’d spotted Harry.

“Come with me,” he said, pulling them aside, “come on, I’ve got to tell you something.”

Harry’s slightly frantic attitude made her anxiety spike. She felt Ron’s eyes on her occasionally as they followed Harry upstairs. He didn’t make excuses, or tried to leave. He followed.

Harry led them into a classroom and closed the door behind them. Slightly out of breath, he stared at them, alarmed.

“Voldemort’s got Sirius.”

Chapter Text

“Harry, what do you mean Voldemort’s got Sirius?” Hermione asked, “That’s impossible.”

Harry stepped away from the door shaking his head. “I saw it. Just now. When I fell asleep in the exam.”

“I thought Sirius was in Romania with Charlie,” said Ron, frowning.

“I thought so too but I just saw him, in the Department of Mysteries!”

Ron paled at the mention of the Ministry department, “What about Charlie?”, he asked, his voice urgent.

“I didn’t see Charlie.”

“Perhaps you weren’t looking!”

Harry held his hands up in a placating manner. “Please, Ron, if Charlie was there, they would’ve been together. I swear it was only Sirius. We must get there now!”

Hermione shook her head. It didn’t make any sense. “Harry, that’s impossible, it’s five in the afternoon, that place must be full of—”

“It doesn’t matter how! The Department of Mysteries has always been empty whenever I’ve been—”

“You’ve never been there!” Hermione insisted, “you’ve dreamt of the place, that’s all!”

“They’re not normal dreams, Hermione! We have to get there! Sirius is being tortured right now!”

“Harry, be reasonable. Think! There’s no way Voldemort would be able to get into the Ministry, in the middle of the day, with Sirius hostage, without someone noticing!”

She turned to where Ron was standing quite still, listening quietly. “Tell him, Ron!”

Ron didn’t say a word. Just kept staring at Harry become increasingly desperate and furious.

“If you don’t want to help—!”

“That’s not it!” Hermione interrupted, “You don’t have proof he’s really there! That’s why they’ve been trying to teach you occlumency, so no one could get into your head. We could be walking into a trap!”

“What if it’s not a trap?” Ron asked, calm, collected.

“Yeah! Sirius could die, and why? Because I lacked evidence?!”

She knew that look. He wouldn’t be swayed. She also knew the look on Ron’s face, he was already making plans to help Harry. She needed to make them see. They couldn’t act rashly, it was dangerous.   

“Harry, come on! Voldemort knows you! He took Ginny into the Chamber of Secrets to lure you there. He knows you’re the kind of person who would rush to Sirius’s aid! What if he’s just trying to get you into the Department of Myst—”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” Harry exploded, “McGonagall’s not here. There’s no one we can tell. We’re the only ones who can save him!”

Harry pulled at the ends of his hair, radiating anguish and frustration. He looked up, stared straight into her eyes. “If you don’t want to do it, fine, but I’m going, understand?”

It was a reflex, her stepping on his path, blocking the door. Her whole arm trembled lightly as she held her wand up, pointing at Harry.

“Hermione, don’t make me attack you,” he threatened.

Ron looked between Harry and her, his own wand firmly in his hand.

“I won’t stop you, Harry. I won’t. And I will help you. But we need to make sure Sirius is there. I won’t let you go charging into London to get yourself killed over what could possibly just be a bad dream.”

“Hermione—”

“If you want to go now, you’ll have to attack me.”

“Sirius is being tortured, NOW!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!”

“She’s right Harry.”

Harry opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but said nothing. Clenching his jaw, he turned to her again.

“And how will we make sure he’s been kidnapped, huh?”

For months Harry had suffered, wishing to communicate with his godfather but being unable to. Because Sirius was in hiding. And all their mail was being read. It was impossible to talk to him.

Except for that one time…

“Well, we’ll have to use Umbridge’s fire again, and ask Kreacher, of course,” she said, much more confidently than she felt. The idea was insane. “Kreacher can reach Sirius wherever he is. If he can’t, then we’ll know he’s in danger.”

Harry looked unconvinced, but ultimately agreed. “Fine,” he grumbled, then turned to Ron questioningly.

“Don’t be a git. Of course I’m coming with you.”

They agreed on a plan. Harry had the knife that Sirius gave him, which could open any door. Ron told them Fred and George had left one of their portable swamp prototypes with him before they left. Hermione was a bit hesitant to use it, especially since it was a prototype. Unfortunately, they didn’t have much time to come up with a different plan, so Hermione, Harry and Ron rushed to Gryffindor tower to get what they needed.

Hermione waited outside the portrait hole. Pacing nervously along the corridor. When they finally came down, Ginny was with them.

Harry looked furious. “We bumped into her—”

“I want to help,” she said, letting the old Ginny shine through, strong-willed and defiant.

Hermione smiled. Agreeing it would be far too dangerous to use the portable swamp, they decided Ginny would keep students away from the third-floor corridor. Ron would tell Umbridge Peeves was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration room, to lure her to the other side of the castle. Harry and Hermione would break into the headmistress’ office.

Piece of cake.

Draco was walking up the marble staircase, sometime after the History of Magic exam. As usual, he was heading to the library. With his O.W.L.s almost over, and Granger’s continued uselessness, he needed to come up with a plan by himself. He chose to ignore the fact he’d already been trying for months and had failed.

With all the ideas he’d had, when he’d thought of how they would play out, they were invariably found by Lucius.

Hurried steps came behind him, “Come with me Mr Malfoy,” said Umbridge, walking past him in a blur of pink, “Someone has broken into my office.”

Draco rolled his eyes. However, aware of the headmistress’ vengeful tendencies, he couldn’t deny he was curious to know what she would do to whoever was stupid enough to break into her office a third time.

In the middle of the day.

From the second floor, they saw the female Weasley and the crazy Ravenclaw girl stopping everyone who tried to go up to the third floor.

“This way Mr Malfoy, someone else will take care of those two.”

Draco no longer had to guess who was inside Umbridge’s office. They went the long way around, met Millicent Bulstrode along the way. Together they climbed up a hidden staircase Filch must’ve shown Umbridge. Once outside her office, she opened the door slowly. “What do you mean you can’t reach him?!”, they heard Potter demand desperately from whoever was in there with him. “Master will not come back, Kreacher and his mistress are alone again!”, a second voice answered.

Kreacher? A house elf?

He stepped in, quietly. Granger was standing near Potter, her back to the door. Umbridge met his eyes, then pointed at Granger.

Fuck it. He had to be quick, or else she could slip away and make it worse. In one swift movement, Draco hooked one arm around her arms and waist, covered her mouth with his other hand, and pulled her back until his back almost hit the wall, as far from Umbridge as possible. “Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear, hoping she would know it was him and wouldn’t put up much of a fight.

“You must bring him back! Kreacher, I order you to—”

Umbridge reached into the fire, closed her stubby hand on Potter’s head and dragged him out.

With Umbridge’s whole attention on Potter, and Millicent’s on the Headmistress, Draco dropped the hand covering Granger’s mouth. “Stay quiet and think of something quickly, you don’t have much time,” he whispered, as low as possible and as close as he could without looking suspicious. Then reached into his robes for his wand and pressed its tip to her neck gently.

“Do you think,” Umbridge raged, bending Potter’s head back as far as it would go, “that after two Nifflers, I was going to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter my office without my knowledge?”

Granger kept squirming, trying to get away. He tightened his hold around her. “Stay still,” he growled. Shockingly, she obeyed.

“I had stealth sensoring spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy! Take his wand!” she ordered Bulstrode.

Millicent stepped forward and rummaged in Potter’s robes until she pulled out the wand.

“Hers, too!” Umbridge said, looking at him and Granger.

Draco put his wand in his pocket, and reached into Granger’s robes. Only then did he realise he’d have to pat her down to find it. “Where is it?” he asked, low, so only she could hear. She turned in his arm, slightly to the right. He felt it at once. It was on the inside pocket, on the left side of her robes.

“I have it,” he said, pulling it out and waving it for Umbridge to see.

With her attention back on Potter, Umbridge pulled his hair again, almost lifting him from the floor. “I want to know why you are in my office.”

Millicent was twirling Potter’s wand in her hand, distracted. Umbridge’s sole focus was Potter. Carefully, Draco loosened his hold on Granger and slowly slipped her wand into one of her sleeves. She jumped, startled. “Stay still,” he hissed. Once again, Granger did as she was told.

“Liar. Your Firebolt is under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With whom have you been communicating?!”

“No one—” Potter yelled.

“Liar!”

Draco leaned forward, his nose almost brushing her ear. “Just tell her.”

Granger shook her head almost imperceptibly. Draco rolled his eyes.

Gryffindors.

The door burst open. Warrington walked in, holding Weasley’s hands behind his back and with his wand pressed to the Gryffindor’s neck. Crabbe followed suit, dragging Longbottom in a stranglehold. Goyle and Pansy pushed the female Weasley and the crazy Ravenclaw into the room.

“Got ‘em all,” Warrington said, smugly. “That one,” he continued, pointing at Longbottom, “tried to stop me taking her,” he said, now pointing at the female Weasley, “so I brought him along too.”

“Good, good,” Umbridge praised, “Well it looks as though Hogwarts will shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”

He chuckled. As did the rest of the Slytherins. Granger squirmed, elbowing him softly. He tightened his hold again.

“So, Potter, you stationed lookouts around my office and you sent this buffoon—” she said pointing at the weasel.

Draco laughed again, until Granger stomped on his foot. “Aw—shit! I’ll fucking hex you Granger, don’t test me,” he growled into her hair.

“—to tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department when I knew perfectly well he was busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all school telescopes—Mr Filch having just informed me so. Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody—”

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” Potter snarled.

Potter you stupid idiot.

“Think of something quickly, Granger,” he whispered again, only to be answered with another slight shake of her head.

Fucking Gryffindors.

“Very well, Mr Potter… I offered you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have no alternative but to force you. Miss Bulstrode, fetch professor Snape.”

Weasley kept thrashing against Warrington. Longbottom struggled for air, Crabbe’s arm tight around his neck. Female Weasley was stock still, Pansy’s wand pointed at the back of her neck. Lovegood was looking around the room, as if unaware she had been captured. Granger was also very still. Her eyes fixed on Potter. 

A few minutes after Bulstrode left, she came back with Snape. “You wanted to see me, Headmistress?” he asked coolly.

“Ah Professor Snape, yes, I would like another bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can please.”

“You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter. Surely you did not use it all? I told you that three drops would be sufficient.”

“You can make some more, can’t you?”

In a month, you stupid bint. Wasting veritaserum, an absolute disgrace.

“Certainly,” Snape said politely, “it takes a full moon-cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for you in around a month.”

Told you.

“A month?!” Umbridge screeched.

“Yes, you ignorant cow,” Granger mumbled. He disguised his snort with a cough.

“A month?! But I need it this evening, Snape! I have just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a person or persons unknown!”

“Really?” Snape asked, sounding impossibly bored. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me. Potter has never shown much inclination to follow school rules.”

“I wish to interrogate him! I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!”

Then you probably shouldn’t have wasted perfectly good veritaserum.

“I have already told you that I have no further stocks of veritaserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter—and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy with you if you did—I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling.”

Umbridge looked like she was about to explode. The hand that wasn’t holding Potter was trembling with fury. “You are on probation! You are being deliberately unhelpful! I expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you! Now get out of my office!”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. He had assumed his father was in contact with the headmistress. Now he had confirmation. All the more reason to stay on her good side.

“He’s got padfoot!” Potter yelled just before Snape stepped out of the office, “He’s got Padfoot at the place where it’s hidden!”

Padfoot?

“Padfoot? What is padfoot?” Umbridge asked, turning menacingly to Snape.

“I have no idea,” Snape drawled, “Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me I shall give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little. If Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork and I am afraid I shall have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job.”

The ornamental plates that covered the opposite wall shook when Snape closed the door. Umbridge began pacing her office. Kept talking without addressing anyone. As if she was trying to convince herself to do something to extract information from Potter. But what? There were no other potions beside veritaserum, and no spells to force someone to tell the truth. Except for Legilimency, but Umbridge was far too mediocre a witch to have mastered such a skill, she was out of options. Snape was right, venoms would not help, so, unless she wanted to use an unforgivable on a student—

“—I am sure the minister will understand that I had no choice,” Umbridge mumbled.

“Granger…” he whispered, pinching her hand. “You’re out of time.”

“The cruciatus curse ought to loosen your tongue,” Umbridge declared, an evil glint in her dark beady eyes.

“No!” Granger yelled, “You can’t do that, it’s illegal!”

Did you not hear her little monologue? She doesn’t care.

“The minister wouldn’t want you to break the law—”

He pinched her again. Only Granger would try to convince someone as deranged as Umbridge with that idiotic argument.

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He never knew I ordered Dementors to go after Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given the chance to expel him, all the same.”

“It was you?!”

“Yes,” she hissed in Potter’s ear but loud enough for all to hear, “Somebody had to act,” she said, pulling Potter’s head back again, exposing his neck as if she intended to slit his throat.

For a second there he thought she might.

“They were all bleating about silencing you somehow—discrediting you—but I was the one who actually did something about it…only you wriggled out of that one, didn’t you, Potter? Not today though, not now.”

Fuck.

She pushed him forward. Potter lost his balance and fell to the ground. Umbridge quickly pointed her wand at his face.

“Cruc—”

“NO! Harry, we must tell her!” Granger begged.

What?

“No way!” Potter protested.

“We’ll have to, Harry, she’ll force it out of you anyway, what’s…what’s the point?”

Granger started sobbing. Her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Finally, a rational response from a Gryffindor. Thought I’d never see the day…

The look of shock and disappointment on the faces of the other Gryffindors was surprising. Did they want Potter to be tortured for information? Umbridge would get it anyway. Did they think it was honourable to endure torture just so he could say he didn’t give it willingly?

“Well, well, well. Little miss Question-all is going to give us some answers! Come on then girl, come on!” Umbridge walked towards them. A look of triumph on her toadish face.

“I’m—I’m sorry everyone,” Granger apologised, keeping her head down.

Why are you apologising? Potter should be thanking you. Believe me.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stand it—”

Good for you, self-preservation is a good—huh.

Draco took a close look at her. He could hear her sniffling. Could see her shoulders shaking softly. He’d figured she had buried her face in her hands to hide her tears. Not the opposite.

You cunning little minx.

There was not a single tear coming down her face.

You’re lying.

“That’s right,” Umbridge said, pulling her away from Malfoy, “That’s right girl!”

Startled, Hermione clutched her wand before it fell down her sleeve. Umbridge dragged her to the centre of the room, threw her onto a chair with enough force Hermione almost fell.

“With whom was Potter communicating just now?”

“Well, uh… well, he was trying to speak to Professor Dumbledore.”

Hermione kept her head down. Though it was possible Umbridge was excited enough about the possibility of finding Dumbledore to miss the fact she wasn’t crying, she wasn’t willing to risk it.

“Dumbledore? You know where Dumbledore is then?”

Shit. “Well… no. We were trying to locate him just now, but—uhm… you interrupted us.”

She sniffled some more. Pretended to dry her tears with her sleeve. Then quickly looked at her friends. Neville’s shock could be read as him reacting to her betrayal, but Ron and Ginny’s confused faces could not. She only hoped the Slytherins and Umbridge were too focused on her to notice.

“Why did you suddenly need to locate him, did he ask you to contact him?” Umbridge asked, her beady eyes wide, unblinking, shining with malicious excitement.

“We…we wanted to tell him its r—ready.”

“What’s ready?”

Yeah, what’s ready, Hermione?

Hermione looked around the room. Trying to look reluctant. Malfoy was leaning on the wall, arms crossed. She met his eyes for an instant, his left eyebrow rose questioningly for a fraction of a second.

He noticed.

“Tell me what’s ready!” Umbridge insisted.

“The… the weapon.”

“Weapon? You’ve been developing some kind of weapon for Dumbledore?”

I wish.

“Y—yes.”

It came out more like a question. Thankfully, Umbridge was far too busy ranting about Dumbledore’s evident desire to overthrow the Ministry to notice.

“Lead me to it!” she ordered.

Shit. Shit. SHIT!

“I’m not showing them!” Hermione screamed, pointing at the Slytherins. Hopefully they’d argue long enough to give her time to think.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

The smug look on the Slytherins face made her blood boil. “Fine. Let them come! I hope they use it against you then. I’d love to see that happening.”

Umbridge stopped at that. The eager looks on the Slytherins’ faces convinced her Hermione was right.

“Very well,” she said, straightening her pink cardigan, “It’ll be just you and me then,” then pulled Hermione up from the chair by the collar of her robes and dragged her to the exit.  

“We’ll take Potter too, shall we?”

She pulled Harry up too, then pushed them both forwards so they walked ahead of her.

“One false move, and I won’t hesitate to curse you,” she hissed. “Lead on.”

They walked briskly. Encouraged by the occasional sharp poke in the back. Harry was half a step behind her. Brilliant move. It’d be suspicious if he didn’t know where they were going.

They walked out through the oak front doors, across the fields and down the stone steps. Hermione held her sleeve tight around her wrist. She couldn’t let Umbridge see the wand. Not unless she could make sure she the old hag wouldn’t talk. It could put Malfoy in a precarious situation. And she couldn’t attack Umbridge either, not there, where anyone could see.

“Where is it?” the headmistress asked when they walked past Hagrid’s hut.

Hermione pointed at the forbidden forest and said: “In there”, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“In there?” Umbridge squeaked.

“Where else? It had to be well hidden so no one could find it by accident.”

“Of course,” she said, beginning to sound apprehensive. “Of course… very well, then… you two stay ahead of me.”

“Can we have your wand, then, if we’re going first?” Harry asked, some of the worry she sensed was genuine though masked by a rather insolent delivery.   

“I don’t think so Mr Potter, the Ministry places a rather higher value on my life than yours, I’m afraid.”

Hermione couldn’t make what Harry was grumbling but by the look on his face it probably wasn’t very nice.

All they could hear was the crunch of leaves as they walked. Once they were deep enough, Hermione considered disarming Umbridge, perhaps petrifying her and leaving her tied to a tree. But she had Harry right in front of her, her wand pressing at his back. Hermione heard him complain a couple of times when Umbridge pulled him back because he got too far ahead or when she poked him too hard.

She wasn’t sure she could disarm the high inquisitor quick enough. If she failed, they would be in great danger.

“Is it very far in?” Umbridge asked a few minutes later.

“Yes,” Hermione said, trying to sound confident despite not knowing where they were heading, “It’s well hidden.”

Hermione’s patience was coming to an end. She was starting to regret coming into the forest. They didn’t have Hagrid protecting them this time. It was too much. Trying to focus on any suspicious sound while thinking of a way to get rid of Umbridge. She would have led her to Grawp. Problem was, she couldn’t remember the way.

Umbridge asked if it was much further again.

“I just told you, it’s not far now—!”

An arrow hit the tree to her left, inches from her head. Hermione threw herself to the ground, her arms over her head. Umbridge screamed and pushed Harry in front of her like a shield.

Hermione heard hooves coming closer. Surrounding them.

“Who are you?” asked a deep voice.

Hermione looked up. A chestnut-coloured centaur was staring at them intently. At least a dozen centaurs had their bows pointed at them.

“How dare you,” Umbridge screamed, “put your weapons down!”

“Who are you?” the centaur asked again. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

“I am Dolores Umbridge! Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, and Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts! And I’m ordering you to stand down.”

“You’re from the Ministry of Magic?”

The antipathy with which he asked surprisingly went unnoticed by Umbridge. Either that or she was arrogant enough to ignore it.

“That’s right, so be very careful. By law, any attack by half-breeds such as yourselves—”

“What did you call us?”

The centaurs closed in on them, pulling the strings of their bows as far back as possible. Ready to attack.

“Don’t call them that!” Hermione begged. Umbridge was still using Harry as a shield. She was going to get him killed if she kept talking to them like that.

“The law states that any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence—”

“Near human intelligence?”

They could hear the wood of the bows complain as they bent father than usual, a result of the centaurs’ anger. Hermione wanted to burst into tears. This was not what she intended.

“What are you doing in our forest?” asked a grey-coloured centaur standing to her left.

“Your forest?!” Umbridge screeched, “I would remind you that you live here only because the Ministry of Magic permits you—”

An arrow flew so close to Umbridge’s head, her hair came out of her ponytail. Harry paled, but remained still. Umbridge screamed and threw her hands over her head. The centaurs cheered and laughed.

“Whose forest is it now, human?”

“Filthy half-breeds! Beasts! Uncontrolled animals!”

“Shut up!” Hermione yelled.

Umbridge stepped out from behind Harry, pointed her wand at the chestnut-coloured centaur, and yelled, “Incarcerous!”

Thick ropes emerged from her wand and wrapped around the enraged magical being. No sooner had he hit the ground than the rest of the group charged on her.

Harry tackled Hermione to the ground. She clung to him with all her strength, shut her eyes tightly. They stayed as still as they could as hooves jumped over them, mere inches away. They heard Umbridge scream.

“Unhand me, you animals! Nooooo!” Her voice faded away. They must’ve been dragging her.

Suddenly, they were both pulled up from the ground by their robes.

“What about these?” asked the grey centaur holding Harry.

SAY SOMETHING!

“They’re young. We do not attack foals,” said another nearby.

“They brought her here, Ronan—”

“Please,” Hermione cried, “We’re sorry! We don’t think like her, she forced us! We know it’s your forest, but she forced us to come, threatened us even! We’re unarmed! Please!”

Please don’t search us. Please don’t search us.

Ronan approached her slowly, watching her carefully, “Are you lying, little human?”

“No! I swear,” she said, while struggling to keep her wand in her sleeve, “please don’t hurt us, we didn’t have a choice—”

She would never know if the centaurs believed her. The tree behind them was pulled from its roots like it was just weed in a garden. The centaurs dropped them and pulled their bows again. Falling instantly on what looked like a defensive formation.

Hermione looked up to where the tree had disappeared. Grawp waved it in the air, a crooked smile on his face. Broken ropes hung from his body. He must’ve escaped in Hagrid’s absence. Finally noticing he wasn’t alone, Grawp looked down, squinting at the creatures on the ground. He opened his mouth again, the large yellow teeth that would’ve made her parents cry in full display.

“Hagger,” he said.

What?

“Get away from here, giant! You’re not welcome among us!” screamed one of the centaurs.

“Hagger!” Grawp insisted, looking beseechingly at the centaurs who’d surrounded him.

“Harry! I think he’s looking for Hagrid!” she said, a bit too loudly.

Grawp turned. Fixed his eyes on the pair of students. His eyes went wide, then he smiled once more and pointing at her said “Hermy.”

Oh, dear…

“Goodness, he—he remembered!”

“HERMY! WHERE HAGGER?”

Hermione was at a loss for words. Harry elbowed her. “I—I don’t know! I’m sorry Grawp I don’t know!”

Grawp’s enormous hand reached down for her. She screamed and jumped backwards, her right foot caught on a root and she fell. Ignoring the pain in her hands she crawled back to hide behind a tree before Grawp tried again. The next time he reached, he hit a snow-white centaur.

Arrows rained on him instantly, several of them hit his face. Grawp roared in pain and anger. He rubbed his face trying to be rid of them but only pushing them in deeper. Drops of blood fell on Hermione and Harry. Soaking them through their robes.

Harry pulled her up, dragged her away from the fight.

“Leave him alone!” she screamed, her heart breaking at the sight of an injured Grawp trying to shield his face from attack.

“Hermione let’s go!”

“No! Leave him alone!”

Hermione was about to pull her wand to help Grawp, but Harry held her hand down, and forced her to follow him.

“They’re hurting him, Harry!”

“Did you not see him? He can defend himself.”

“He’s hurt.”

“He’ll be fine,” he said angrily.

Harry looked down and saw her wand in her hand. He stopped walking and turned to her. She could see he was livid.

“You have your wand?! Why didn’t you attack Umbridge!”

“She was holding you as a shield!”

“Still! —wait, how come you still have it? I thought Malfoy took it from you.”

Oh… “He thought he did,” I’m sorry Harry, “Wandless confundus.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Well, this was a brilliant plan Hermione, genius!  What do we do know? You heard Kreacher, Voldemort has Sirius! By the time we get to London he’ll probably be dead!!”

I know…

“I’m sorry,” she said, miserably.

If she hadn’t insisted on making sure Sirius had been kidnapped they’d be half-way there already. If Sirius died it would be her fault.

She walked silently behind Harry. Felt it was best to give him some space. Until they came out of forest.

“How are we getting to London?” she asked, “You don’t have your wand.”

Harry stopped in his tracks. Turned suddenly, his hand extended. “Lend me yours. I’ll go alone.”

“Or,” said a voice they would recognise anywhere, “you could not be a git, take your own wand, and we’ll come with you.”

Chapter Text

Ron walked towards them from behind Hagrid’s hut. Ginny, Luna and Neville weren’t far behind. Hermione and Harry stared at him in disbelief. It was the most confident they’d heard him in a while.

“How did you get away?” Harry asked.

Oh, right… the Slytherins.

She hadn’t even thought about that. Such was her shock at hearing the old Ron again, even if it was only for an instant, that she’d forgotten they were supposed to be in Umbridge’s office. Hostage.

“Couple o’ stunners, a few disarming charms. Wish you’d seen it, Malfoy fell immediately, it was hilarious. Must’ve been hit by one of the Slytherins—”

That doesn’t sound right…

“—Neville tied Crabbe to a chair,” Ron chuckled, “Ginny hit Pansy with a bat-bogey hex—if you get a little closer to the castle you might still hear her screeching. We took your wand from Bulstrode, Harry,” he said, offering Harry his wand. “But we couldn’t find yours, Hermione.”

Harry turned to her, a glint of pride in his eyes, “She confounded, Malfoy—”

“Where’s Umbridge?” Luna asked, looking behind their shoulders. Thankfully interrupting before anyone could question her story.

Hermione smiled, “She got carried away by a herd of centaurs.”

“And they left you behind?” asked Ginny, sounding both surprised and unusually calm.

“They got chased off by a giant.” Harry explained.

“A giant?” breathed Luna.

Harry waved her dismissively, “Yes—but never mind that.”

Ron stepped forward, his face serious, “Harry, does he have Sirius?”

“Yes.”

They all went silent. Ginny reached for Ron’s hand. He held her tightly while they exchanged silent glances.

Harry shook his head, trying to shake pessimistic thoughts. “I’m sure he’s alive, but… I can’t see how I’m going to get there to help him.”

“We’ll have to fly,” Luna said with a soft smile.

“First of all,” Harry said, his temper flaring, “we, aren’t doing anything if you’re including yourself in that, this is my—”

“I’m coming with you,” Hermione said, interrupting his rant.

“Us too,” said Ron.

Harry frowned, looking at Ginny. Before he could object, Ginny whispered:

“Charlie could be there. And you know we care about Sirius too, Harry, please let us help.”

It was as much of a plea as a confession of a nightmare. Hermione placed her hand on Harry’s shoulder, nodded encouragingly. He had a tendency to refuse help when he most needed it. It was infuriating.

“Well, then, how are we getting there?” Neville asked.

“Nev—”

“Just shut up and be thankful Harry,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Fine. That’s all well and good but we still don’t know how to get there.”

Luna, who had been distracted by a rock on the ground, looked up, “I thought we were flying.”

“We. Don’t. Have. Brooms.”

“There are other ways to fly,” Luna said, sounding, to Hermione’s surprise, slightly condescending.

“I s’pose we’re going to ride on the back of the Karcky Snorgle or whatever it—ouch!” Ron jumped back when Ginny stomped on his foot.

“The crumple-horned snorkack can’t fly.” Luna looked past them, pointing to the forest, “But they can.”

Hermione turned to where Luna was pointing. There was nothing there. She turned to Harry, expecting to see him fuming, but he was staring with the same amazement as Luna did. And it clicked.

Thestrals.

Not ten minutes later, and despite Harry’s noble protests, the six of them were flying high amongst the clouds, heading to London. Harry, Luna, and Neville seemed confident in what they were doing. After all, they were able to see the beasts that were carrying them. Ron and Ginny, though a bit hesitant, were at least used to flying and were managing.

Hermione, on the other hand, was terrified.

Her fingers had gone numb from how tightly she was holding onto the thestral’s short mane. A thestral she could not see. As it was, for all intents and purposes she was floating in the air at a tremendous speed, held by an invisible force. If her father had seen her, he would’ve probably made some Star Wars joke to make her laugh and ease some of her anxiety.

The cold air hit her face. The same way it had when her father had taken her to Alton Towers the summer before fourth year, about a week before she left for the Quidditch World Cup. They’d gone on Nemesis at least five times. It wasn’t heights she was scared of, as Ron and Harry believed, it was the lack of safety equipment. On the rollercoaster she was strapped to the seat so she wouldn’t fall off. And she’d had fun!

She wasn’t strapped now.

She closed her eyes as tight as possible, and kept telling herself she was going to be alright, that she wouldn’t fall. Unfortunately the thestral kept tugging at her robes, licking the dried blood off the fabric, each time she feared she would fall. Every single muscle in her body was tense, desperately trying to stay glued to the invisible beast. Without the slightest clue how long they had been in the air, she begged the universe they would get to London safe. And soon.

It felt like an eternity had passed before she felt her stomach lurch when the thestral dived. A terrified scream burst from her, piercing the night air.

And suddenly everything was still.

It took a minute for her heart to slow down a little, and for her to find the courage to open her eyes. Her legs were shaking and she struggled to let go of the beast’s hair.  She’d landed a short way off from Ronald. Still trembling all over, Hermione flung her leg over, trying to dismount, but her foot caught on something, and she fell from the invisible creature.

She stayed on the pavement for a few seconds, thanking the universe she was still in one piece and back on firm ground.

“Never again,” Ronald whispered, “Never, ever again. That was the worst.”

“Over here!” called Harry, standing near an old telephone box, “Come on!”

Ron offered her his hand and helped her up. Hermione barely had time to look around at the deserted streets of London before they stepped into the box, squishing together until they were all inside. They all groaned and complained when she pushed back a little to close the door.

“Whoever’s nearest the receiver,” Harry said, sounding a bit winded, “dial six, two, four, four, two!”

Ron wiggled a little where he stood, careful not to push them too hard. He reached the phone behind him, bending his arm awkwardly. One by one he dialled the numbers. When he finished, Hermione held her breath in anticipation.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” said a clear, female voice, “Please state your name and business.”

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley—” Harry rushed to say, “—Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood… we’re here to save someone, unless your Ministry can do it first!”

Way to be inconspicuous Harry.

“Thank you.”

There was a short silence that ended with the clinking of something coming down the metal chute were coins usually came out.

“Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes,” continued the pre-recorded message.

Ron reached behind his back again and, one by one, distributed the badges. They had their names written on them and underneath, with dark red capital letters: VISITOR.

“Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“Fine!” Harry yelled, impatiently.

“Harry calm down.”

“SIRIUS IS—”

The floor shook, making them lose their footing. They were so cramped inside the box, there was no space to fall. They old phone box slowly sank into the depths of the earth.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” said the woman’s voice when the lift halted.

The door opened and they spilled out. As she got up from the floor—for the second time in under ten minutes—Hermione noticed the gorgeous dark wood floors. She looked up and was astonished by the sight. Soft golden light illuminated the enormous space. The impossibly high dark teal ceiling had some gold symbols moving across it. And the fountain, it was magnificent. Even if it made wizards look a bit… arrogant.

“Come on,” Harry urged them to move.

They followed him through a set of golden gates. On the left were rows of unlit fireplaces, which was safe to assume were connected to the floo network.

On the right there was a small desk. But no one was around to check their wands as the lift voice had said.

Harry ploughed ahead. Hermione almost had to jog to keep his pace. They passed through another ornate set of golden doors and went straight into another lift. There was enough space in this one to fit all six of them comfortably. They went in, the doors closed, and Harry pressed number nine.

The ancient looking lift shook a little, then it began descending. Rattling loudly as it did. Hermione closed her eyes again and took a few deep calming breaths. This was the opposite of sneaking in. There was no way they weren’t being heard just about anywhere inside the Ministry.

“Department of Mysteries,” announced a different voice.

The doors opened to a long dark corridor. The walls were lined with lit torches flickering a soft blueish light. Barely enough to light their way. On the far end was a small, unremarkable black door.

“Let’s go,” Harry said, walking along the hall as if he’d been there many times before.

I suppose he has…

Luna was a few steps behind him. Ron and Ginny stayed close together. At the back, Hermione and Neville walked side by side.

Harry stopped in front of the door. Stared at it for a moment. “Maybe—uh… maybe some of you should stay as lookout,” he said, looking at Ginny and Luna.

“And how will we let you know if something is coming?” asked Ginny, defiant, daring Harry to come up with a ridiculous idea just to keep them outside.

“We’re coming with so open the door,” said Neville.

“Go on.” Ron waved Harry forward.

Still looking conflicted, Harry acquiesced.

He slowly turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. They went through one by one, hesitation slowing their every move. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand. They’d walked into a large circular room. It was black top to bottom, with rectangular, even-spaced—also back—doors going all around. There were some candles between the doors. They had blue flames, similar to the ones from the torches of the corridor they’d come from. The cool light shimmered on the marble floor. Making it look like the surface of the black lake in the middle of the night. 

“Shut the door,” Harry whispered. 

Wait—no!

The moment Neville closed it, they were left in almost complete darkness. The light from the little blue flames not enough to let them see. Hermione stood very still. Her heart was beating wildly inside her chest. Deep down she still felt like this was all a mistake, that they were walking into a trap, but Harry was so certain… She grasped around herself, trying to find someone close, and clung to the first arm she found. 

Now what?

Almost as if the room had heard her thoughts, the walls started spinning. The flames blurred into a dim line going around them. It only lasted a few seconds. But it was enough to confuse them, after all, all doors were identical. They had no way of knowing which door they came in.

“So… we’re trapped,” Ron whispered.

“Obviously,” Ginny said, exasperation and a good dose of fear in her voice.

They had no way out of the Department of Mysteries. If Harry was right, that meant they were now locked inside with Voldemort, with no chance of escape.

“Where do we go, Harry?” Neville asked.

“I don’t—” Harry sounded confused; she heard him shuffle in place probably looking around trying to recognise something that told him the way. “In the dreams… I went through straight into a room that kind of… glitters. We should try a few doors.”

He opened the door closest to him and went in. They followed, not wanting to be split up. It was a long rectangular room. The only source of light were some low hanging lamps. On the end was a huge tank filled with a green substance. They got a little closer. Curiosity beckoning them forward. Hermione squinted a little, trying to see the pearly things floating inside the tank better.

Ginny gasped, “Are those—?”

“Brains…” Hermione breathed.

“Brains?” asked Ron, taking a couple of steps back.

“Yes…” Hermione said, getting closer. “I wonder what they’re doing with them.”

“Let’s go. It’s not here.”

“There are doors here,” said Luna, pointing at a couple of doors on the other side of the tank.

“In my dream I went from the dark room straight onto the shiny one. I think we should go back,” Harry insisted.

So, they did.

Great. Now it’ll spin and we won’t know—

“Wait!” she yelled at Ron before he closed the door, then pointed her wand at it. “Flagrate.”

Hermione drew a fiery X, marking it so they didn’t open it again.

The next door they went through led to a room larger than the one before. It looked like an ancient Roman theatre, except squared. At the bottom, where the stage should’ve been, was a low platform with a tall stone archway on top. Despite looking like it was about to crumble, a black curtain hung from it, dancing delicately, as if a soft breeze was blowing across it. Behind it, Hermione could feel the shadows calling her to them.

“Is it here, Harry?” she asked apprehensively, unable to look away from the eerie structure.

Harry didn’t answer. She turned to see if he was still there and found him staring, unmoving, eyes wide and mouth half-open, his gaze trained on the mysterious archway.

He wasn’t the only one. Ginny and Ron looked halfway between terrified and elated, also enraptured by it.

Uneasiness began creeping up on her. She had no idea what that archway was, but she suspected it wasn’t anything good. She swallowed hard. They had to get out of there. But it was so difficult to ignore the call. Like a million voices whispering at the same time. The shadows beyond the veil.

“Harry?”

There was no answer. She poked his arm.

“Harry, is it here?”

He looked at her with unseeing eyes, “No. It’s not,” he whispered, then turned back to the centre of the room, “but…”

Hermione grasped his arm and pulled him back before he took a step down. “Then let’s go back.”

Harry frowned, looked between her and the veil.

“Now, Harry. Sirius is not here!”

Harry jumped, startled, shook his head a few times and blinked rapidly for a couple of seconds, then looked around the room and nodded. They had to drag Ron and Ginny out. Luna helped them with Neville.

“What was that?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know, but it was dangerous. We have to go.”

They slowly followed her back into the black room. Once again Hermione marked the door they’d just entered, and they waited for the walls to stop spinning before trying a new one. This time it didn’t open when Harry pulled the lever. He tried again. The door remained closed. 

“It’s locked.”

Ron stepped forward, pulled his wand and pointed at the lock, “Alohomora,” he said, but nothing happened.

“I’ll use Sirius’s knife.” Harry said, pulling the small pocketknife from his robes. Carefully he slipped the blade between the door and the frame and slid it down. When he pulled it out it had melted.

“Choose another door,” she said, writing a fiery X on it.

“What if that’s the one?” Ron asked.

“It can’t be, it’s locked. No doors were locked in Harry’s dream remember?”

She stepped back, joining the others at the centre of the room. The walls spun once more. Harry opened the unmarked door closest to him.

He poked his head inside, cautious. “This is it!” he said, before flinging the door open and going inside.

The room was beautiful. Every surface sparkled as if covered by hundreds of diamonds. Once her eyes had accustomed to the light, she was even more fascinated. There were clocks, of all shapes and sizes on every surface. Bookcases, lining the walls, filled with ancient looking books. It was as if the most beautiful library to have ever existed was also a wonderful clock shop.

“This way,” Harry said, confidently running deeper into room.

On the far end was a massive crystal bell jar. It was the source of the light that shimmered all over the room.

“Oh look!” Ginny exclaimed, pointing a jewel egg that sat in the middle. The egg cracked, and a hummingbird emerged. It flapped its wings, so fast they became a blur. The hummingbird rose to the top of the jar, then began descending. Hermione couldn’t believe her eyes. As the hummingbird flew down, its feathers became limp and damp. By the time it reached the bottom, it was encased in an eggshell again.

Time…

“Let’s go!” Harry yelled impatiently. Ron pulled Ginny’s arm and together they followed Harry.

He stopped in front of a door behind the glass jar.

“This is it.”

Hermione took a deep breath. They all pulled their wands. If Harry’s dream was true, Sirius was being held captive on the other side of that door. They needed to be ready. Harry opened it, and they all walked in.

The place was freezing, and even higher than the atrium. Or perhaps it only looked like that because they couldn’t see the ceiling as the place was so dark. There was nothing in the room but rows and rows of towering shelves, stacked as high as she could see with glass orbs of different sizes, glimmering dully in the soft light.

Every aisle between the shelves was numbered, and had a single candle burning a pale blue light. She looked up to see they were standing in front of aisle fifty-three.

“You said row ninety-seven?”

“Yeah.”

“I think we need to go that way,” Hermione said, pointing to the right.

In silent agreement, they walked slowly. Ears strained for any suspicious sound. Hermione rubbed her hands together, trying to regain feeling on her fingers. They walked undisturbed. Their steps were the only sound they could hear. It appeared they were alone.

“There!” she said, pointing at the little number at the beginning of a row a few metres ahead.

They finally reached row ninety-seven. It was empty.

“He’s right at the end,” Harry assured them, quickening his pace, “You just can’t see it properly.”

But no one was there. Harry looked around, glanced across the glass orbs to the aisles on the other side, but Sirius was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be here,” Harry whispered.

Shit. SHIT.

Alarms blared inside her mind. If Sirius wasn’t there, then Harry was led here for some other reason. “Harry…”

SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.

“He might be…” Harry turned left and right, holding his wand to illuminate the space “or maybe…”

“Harry… I’m sorry, but no one’s here. We must leave. Now.”

Harry ignored her. Kept walking along the aisle looking for Sirius. Ron and Ginny exchanged a look. Neville started throwing nervous glances to the place where they’d come. Luna was examining the glass spheres on the shelf to her right.

One of the orbs caught Ron’s attention, “Harry…” he whispered.

“What!”

“That one has your name on it.”

Forgetting his search, Harry got closer to where Ron was pointing. He had to go on tiptoes to see the orb with his name. For a good minute he stood unmoving, staring at the glass ball and the tag attached to it.

“What is it, Harry?” asked Luna.

Neville kept glancing at the end of the alley, twisting his wand in his hands, looking increasingly uneasy. Ginny was pacing, holding her wand tightly, occasionally turning to Ron, as if making sure he was still there.

Hermione kept her eyes on Harry. “I don’t think you should touch it, Harry.”

“Why not?” he asked, in a faraway voice, “It’s about me isn’t it?”

“Harry, don’t,” Ginny ordered.

“It’s got my name on,” Harry repeated, and then, before anyone could stop him, reached for the orb, closed his fingers around it, and took it off the shelf.

Hermione winced, bracing herself for something awful to happen. But nothing did. Harry looked at the tag, and rubbed the crystal on his robes to clean it.

“Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”

The unknown voice made them all jump into a defensive stance. A tall figure, clad entirely in black, stepped out of the shadows. He wore a horrifying aged-gold mask to cover his face, and a hood over his head, but his hair spilled from the sides. Long white-blond hair.

Lucius Malfoy.

Knowing his own son wanted to get away from the wizard made Hermione fear the man even more. Considering what he was willing to put his family through, she didn’t want to find out what he would do to children that stood in his way.

Black shadows emerged from every side and soon they were surrounded. Trapped.

“To me, Potter,” Mr Malfoy repeated, “Go on, be a good boy.”

Standing to his full height, Harry asked, “Where’s Sirius?”

The Death Eaters laughed.

SHIT!

“The Dark Lord always knows,” someone said, quite a few chuckled in agreement.

“Always,” Mr Malfoy said, “Now, give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“I want to know where Sirius is!”

“I want to know where Sirius is,” mimicked the figure beside Mr Malfoy in a distinctly feminine voice.

“You’ve got him!” Harry insisted, though to her ears he sounded less certain, “He’s here. I know he is!”

“The little baby woke up fwightened and fort what it dweamed was twoo…?” the woman mocked in a horrid baby voice.

The six students froze. Hermione had been right. It was a trap. They’d lured Harry here, knowing he would never stay away if there was even the slightest possibility Sirius was in danger.

“Don’t do anything,” Harry muttered, “Not yet.”

And what exactly are we to do against a dozen Death Eaters?

The woman howled with laughter. Hermione wanted desperately to know who she was, so she could hate her properly, but the hood shrouded her face in shadows.

“You hear him? You hear him? Giving instructions to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!”

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix.”

Lestrange…

Hermione felt Neville tense beside her at the mention of the witch’s name. She hoped Harry had a plan, but if he didn’t tell them what that plan was there was no way they would escape out of there alive. They’d walked right into their trap and now they were surrounded, outnumbered, by a group of deranged wizards who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a group of children.

“You see, he has a great weakness for heroics,” Mr Malfoy continued in a bored voice. “The Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“I know Sirius is here, I know you’ve got him!”

The Death Eaters laughed again. Closed in on them. Mr Malfoy raised his hand and they stopped.  They were getting restless. Hermione wondered how long it would take them to grow tired of Harry’s reluctance to give them what they wanted. How long until they disobeyed Mr Malfoy’s orders and just took what they needed by force.

“Harry…” Ron whispered, an unmistakable urgency in his voice.

The fear was palpable amongst them. Luna and Ginny were trembling uncontrollably, Neville was mumbling something under his breath, keeping his head down.

“It’s time you learnt the difference between life and dreams, Potter,” said Lucius Malfoy, a touch of impatience in his voice, “Now give me the prophecy, or we start using wands.”

“Go, on then,” Harry said, raising his wand.

The other five students did the same. Even though Hermione knew they were all scared to death. There were at least twelve Death Eaters, and only six of them. Six students. She didn’t mean to, but she began feeling whatever they did would most likely be futile.

Mr Malfoy took one look at the tip of Harry’s wand and chuckled softly. “Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt.”

Hermione scoffed.

“Got something to say? Mudblood?”

“Don’t talk to her!” Harry bellowed.

The woman raised her wand and yelled, “Accio—”

Her spell bounced on the shield Harry cast.

“Oh, he knows how to play, little bitty baby Potter,” she sneered, “Very well, then—”

“I SAID, NO!” Lucius roared; the woman huffed but obeyed. “If you smash it—”

They had to get out. If they wanted the stupid glass, surely Harry wouldn’t mind giving it to them or breaking it so they wouldn’t get it.

The woman shifted impatiently in her place. Then pulled back her hood. She wasn’t wearing a mask. Her face bared for them all to see. Hermione had never met her before, of course. She’d only seen her portrait on the Black Family tree at Grimmauld Place. Azkaban had taken a toll on Bellatrix.

“You need more persuasion?” she said, her crazed eyes looking them all before setting on Ginny, “Very well—take the smallest one. Let him watch while I torture the little girl.”

They closed ranks around Ginny.

“Take another step forward and I’ll smash it,” Harry said, holding his hand with the crystal orb out. “I don’t think your boss will be too pleased if you come back without it, will he?”

The Death Eaters stood still. So did they. Standing almost in a circle, their backs to the centre. She could hear Neville’s rapid breathing and Luna’s quiet hums.

“Why does Voldemort want this?” Harry asked.

Bellatrix took a step forward, wand raised, “You dare speak his name.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can say it again if you like, Vol—”

“Shut your mouth!”

Jesus, Harry, stop taunting her!

“You dare speak his name with your unworthy lips,” Bellatrix said, with barely contained rage. “You dare besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare—”

“He’s a half-blood too!”

Harry, please, please shut up.

“Or has he been telling you he’s a pureblood—?”

“Stupefy!”

“NO!”

Bellatrix’s spell bounced off, deflected by Mr Malfoy. It hit the bottom shelf to her left, shattering the orbs in it. Hushed voices filled the room instantly. Several ghostly figures emerged from the broken glass. She couldn’t understand what they were saying.

“DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!”

“He dared!”

“WAIT UNTIL WE’VE GOT THE PROPHECY!”

Perhaps it was the enraged scream, or the creepy costume, but Lucius Malfoy was extremely frightening. She’d always dismissed the wizard as a racist aristocrat whose power came from the money he could use to influence others, but now she could see how truly dangerous the man could be. If Bellatrix Lestrange herself would willingly obey his orders…

“If you want it, you’ll have to tell me why it’s so special,” Harry said calmly.

Mr Malfoy laughed. “Dumbledore never told you?”

Harry balked. He’d hit a nerve. And worse, Mr Malfoy knew it.

“Did he failed to mention the reason you have that scar on your forehead was hidden in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries?”

“I—what?”

“Harry don’t listen to him,” she hissed.

“Can this be?” Mr Malfoy said with feigned surprise, “Did Dumbledore truly never tell you?”

The mirthless chuckle made the hairs on her arms stand on end. “My goodness,” he whispered, “seems like quite the oversight if you ask me. Almost as if he didn’t want you to know.”

Harry pinched her hand. Hermione looked down, saw Harry pointing at the smashed shelves.

What?

“Well,” Mr Malfoy continued, “this explains why you didn’t come running the moment the Dark Lord showed you the place where it was hidden in your dreams, he did wonder…”

“So, he wanted me to come and get it? Why?”

“Why? Because the only people who are permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made, as the Dark Lord discovered when he attempted to use others to steal it for him.”

“Why would he want to steal a prophecy about me?”

“About both of you, Potter.” Mr Malfoy took a step forward, “Haven’t you ever wondered why the Dark Lord tried to kill you as a baby?”

“So now he’s got you doing his dirty work for him, has he?”

Mr Malfoy hummed, watching Harry carefully. “Much like Dumbledore had Arthur Weasley doing his, I suppose.”

“REDUCTO!”

Ronald destroyed the entire shelf above Mr Malfoy’s head, showering them in broken glass, obstructing his vision with ghostly figures. She followed a split second later, pointing above Bellatrix’s head. Neville, Luna, Ginny, and Harry did so too, destroying rows and rows of shelves.

“RUN!” Ron yelled.

Hermione pulled Harry, and they ran behind the others. Shelves were flying everywhere. The weakened frames causing them to collapse, starting a chain reaction that followed them as they escaped. Hermione held her arms over her head, protecting herself from the falling debris.

A hand grasped Harry’s arm and pulled him back. “Stupefy!” she yelled, freeing him instantly.

Soon it was as if the room had been filled with fog. Thousands of the ghostly figures appearing everywhere. She couldn’t see Ron and Ginny anymore. 

Harry passed her, getting lost in the pearly fog. “Come on Neville!” she yelled, looking back at her friend and slowing down a little to wait for him.

Together, they passed through the door to the room with the hummingbird.

“Colloportus!” she gasped, sealing the entrance.

“Where—where are the others?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked around. She’d thought they were ahead of them. She and Neville had fallen behind, they had to be ahead of them.

“They—they must’ve gone the wrong way!” she cried.

Frightened tears rolled down her cheeks. Terror was rapidly taking hold of her. She tried to take a few deep breaths, trying to stay focused, but she couldn’t. Harry was pacing nervously, furiously running his hands through his head.

“SHH” Neville said, suddenly, “Listen!”

Voices were getting closer to the door.

“Leave Nott! Leave him,” screamed Mr Malfoy, “I say he deserves to pay for that traitorous son of his.”

Ironic.

“The only thing that matters is the prophecy,” he continued, “Jugson, come back here. We’ll split into pairs and search. Do not forget, be gentle with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy. Kill the others if you have to—Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you take the left; Crabbe, Rabastan, go right—Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead—Macnair and Avery, through here—Rookwood, over there—Mulciber, come with me!”

She started trembling. “What do we do?” she whispered, “We can’t leave them!”

“We can’t stand here waiting for them to find us.”

They ran as quietly as they could, past the shimmering bell jar and towards the exit. They were almost there when they heard something large and heavy crashing with the door. “Stand aside!” someone yelled, “Alohomora.”

The door flew open. Hermione dived under a desk and so did Neville and Harry. Two Death Eaters walked into the room. The clicking of the heels of their shoes the only indication of where they were. She feared if they stood still for a second, they might be able to hear her heart beating wildly, threatening to jump out of her chest.

“They might’ve run straight through the hall,” one of them said, rushing along the room. Getting closer to them.

“Check under the desks!” The other ordered.

“Stupefy!”

Harry had hit one of them. She couldn’t see the other, so she crawled from under the desk so she could aim properly.

“Avada—”

A scream died in her throat. The Death Eater couldn’t finish the spell. Harry had tackled him to the ground. Neville toppled a desk to barricade himself and Hermione while Harry wrestled with the second Death Eater.

His hand shaking violently, Neville pointed at the wrestling wizards, “Expelliarmus.” 

Neville disarmed both Harry and the Death Eater, who scrambled after their wands. Still pointing at the pair, Neville tried to aim at the Death Eater.

Realising the reason of his hesitation, Hermione yelled, “Harry move!”

“Stupefy!” yelled Neville when he had a clear target.

The Death Eater stumbled backwards, hitting a glass cabinet on the wall. Clocks shattered instantly, glass flying everywhere. The Death Eater ripped his mask, “Stup—”

But Hermione was quicker, “Stupefy!” she yelled.

Both Death Eaters were on the ground. Hermione controlled her breathing, though she could still feel her heart in her throat.

“Accio wand.”

Though her voice trembled slightly, Harry’s wand still flew to her hand.

“Thanks,” he rasped when she gave it back.

“Look out!”

Neville pointed at the Death Eater Harry had subdued first. He had fallen back onto the bell jar. His head had gone through the glass and now rested where the hummingbird had been. It was both astonishing and terrifying, what was happening to him. His head shrunk and his skin smoothed. His features softened and his hair began to fall. His head was going back in time. Soon there was a baby head on an adult wizard’s body. But it didn’t last long, for it started ageing again, until it was back to its original age.

She stared dumbfounded as the head went back and forth between baby and adult until they heard a loud crash and a scream from a room nearby.

“RON?” Harry yelled, “GINNY?! LUNA?!”

“Harry shush!” Neville begged.

But it was too late. Footsteps grew louder, getting closer. They ran towards the black circular room. It felt like the walls spun for longer than they’d done before. When they stopped, two more death eaters stepped into the black room. They rushed into one of the unmarked doors.

Hermione turned as fast as she could, “Collo—” but she couldn’t close the door. An impediment jinx kept the door open and knocked them off their feet.

 She was slammed against a bookcase. Books rained down on her, hitting her everywhere.

“WE’VE GOT HIM!” bellowed one of the Death Eaters, “IN AN OFFICE OFF—”

“Silencio!” Hermione cried.

The Death Eater kept mouthing the words, but no sound came out. The other death eater pushed him aside and pointed his wand at her. She froze.

“Petrificus totalus!” she heard Harry shout from the other side.

Hermione turned to him, a big smile on her face. It was the second time he’d saved her. “Well done, Ha—”

A purple light hit her and all air was knocked out of her lungs. A sharp pain burned across her chest. The edges of her vision started darkening.

“Hermione!”

She tried to take a breath but couldn’t. It was as if she was burning inside out. She stumbled forward and fell as everything went black.

It had always amazed him, the seemingly boundless waters of the Great Lake. At night, its magnificent beauty turned dark and dangerous.

Sitting on the black leather armchair, Draco stared out the window at the dark-green vastness, bouncing his leg to the rhythm of his bewildered heart.

Father is in Azkaban.

After dinner, Professor Snape called him to his office. When he got there, he found Crabbe. Without going into much detail, Professor Snape had told them their parents had been apprehended after a scuffle inside the Ministry. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Potter and the rest of his idiotic Gryffindor friends had left the castle after escaping from the headmistress’ office, and now his father had been caught after a scuffle inside the Ministry.

A scuffle. Please.

A part of him was worried, the part that still held a small hope his father would realise the path he had chosen didn’t lead to a happy ending. He was his father. Draco still remembered a time when he would've given anything to be more like him. When his father was his hero. That part of him, the one that died a little with every passing day and threatened to disappear completely, grieved the fact his father was in such a dangerous place.

The oppressive silence inside the Slytherin common room only added fuel to his grim, wretched thoughts.

But there was that other part of him. The part that saw his father’s imprisonment as an opportunity. After all, the only reason he’d dismissed most of his and Granger’s ideas was because his father was bound to find them anyway. With him out of the way, perhaps he still had a chance.

Breathing hurt. That had never happened to her before. Slowly, she began regaining awareness of every single part of her that was in pain.

She wished she could go back to sleep.

Her eyelids were so heavy. Hermione tried to rub her eyes but couldn’t move her arms. Frustrated, she grunted.

“Hermione?”

Harry’s voice sounded so hopeful. And rough. And a tinge sad. Very sad. She wondered what had happened. Last thing she remembered they’d been inside the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps someone had been hurt.

Hermione tried to speak but only managed to groan softly.

“Oh, thank god,” Harry gasped, then started crying quietly.

She finally opened her eyes. Harry was sat on a chair beside her hospital bed. He’d leaned his head back over the backrest and was furiously rubbing his eyes.

She tried her voice again. “Harry?”

His head snapped up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and looked impossibly green in contrast. “I’m sorry,” he said again, a bit louder, “I’m so sorry, Hermione, you were right.” Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You were right, and I almost got you killed.”

“Harry…” my head is killing me, “It’s all right. I’m not dead.”

He shook his head and looked down. She looked around. Harry was the only one there. Where were the others?

“Harry… what happened?” she asked, terrified of the answer.

“When you fell—I couldn’t reach you. Neville—he cast a bombarda, I was thrown out of the room with Dolohov. I couldn’t find the door. I thought you were dead.” His voice broke, and he wiped his eyes again.

“Where are the others?”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “They’re sleeping. Injured… because of me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth! If I hadn’t—If I’d listened.”

“Harry, what happened?”

Harry swallowed hard. He knew she wouldn’t stop asking until he told her. It was one of the benefits of knowing someone as well as you knew yourself. So, he told her. He began the tale when he was flung backwards by Neville’s bombarda. Told her how he’d desperately tried to go back into that room, to reach her and make sure she was all right. That she wasn’t dead. But she’d been so still…

It broke her heart to hear his distress as he shared the details.

After that he’d found Ron, Ginny, and Luna in the circular room, but the Death Eaters found them so they went into the room with the brains. Ron had been hit with some weird spell that made him all dopey and careless. When he saw the brains, he thought they were funny so he summoned one. Harry said the brain wrapped itself around Ron, almost chocking him.

Ginny was knocked unconscious while pulling Ron out of the way, they both fell behind a desk which probably saved them. Harry and Luna had run out of the room, trying to get the Death Eaters away from Ron and Ginny.

In the room with the arch, Luna had been tortured by Bellatrix. Harry’s voice broke again when he described Luna’s cries of pain, how she’d told him to run and hide despite being tortured.

“If it wasn’t for the Order—”

Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley and Bill had come to their rescue. They’d duelled the remaining Death Eaters so they could escape. Dumbledore had been there too.

Harry’s whole demeanour changed when he reached that part of the story. It was like he was still afraid. Dumbledore had duelled Voldemort himself, had gotten Harry out of the Ministry after the Minister for Magic and his team arrived at the scene. Finally confronted by the truth.

Voldemort was back.

“At least they’ll stop calling you a loon,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He then told her how he only learned she was still alive until Dumbledore brought him back to the castle.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “You’re my family Hermione. You Ron and Sirius are all I have. I can’t lose you. I’m sorry I put you all in danger.”

Ron was still wrapped up in bandages because of it. Ginny and Neville were safe, back in the Gryffindor common room. Ginny had suffered a broken ankle, and Neville a broken nose. Madam Pomfrey had healed them quickly. Luna had a few scratches but was fine, no lasting effects from the cruciatus. 

“Sirius is with Charlie?”

Harry groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. “Yes… he—uhm… he sent a howler.”

Hermione laughed, but had to stop when the pain became too much. “I wish I’d heard it.”

Harry smiled. “Loads of colourful language.”

“Wouldn’t expect less.” She tried to move a little, winced from the pain.

“You should rest,” Harry said, getting up from the chair. “I’ll let Madam Pomfrey know that you’re awake. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Hermione stared at the ceiling of the Hospital wing. They were extremely lucky to still be alive. She was thankful they’d escaped but knew they had to be more careful. She’d known Death Eaters were dangerous. That they were cruel and unforgiving, that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill children. It was a terribly frightening thing to have confirmation of just how evil they could be.

It made her feel guilty of her reluctance to help one who wanted to escape them.

On her third night in the Hospital wing, she was woken by a low, and somehow familiar voice, and the sound of turning parchment.

“I still don’t have a plan,” he said with a huff, “I’m not like you, you see, I’m not a stupid reckless idiot. I cannot just rush into danger without a properly thought-out plan.” 

Malfoy.

Hermione remained still, wanting to see where the monologue would go.

“I can’t just see what happens,” he mumbled.

He stopped flicking through whatever parchment he’d been skimming.

“What if I make a move and it’s the wrong one and I get her killed? I suppose now we could run and hide but she won’t—she would never—” He groaned. Hermione could almost see him pulling at his white-blond hair in frustration. “I just want to keep her safe.” Malfoy took a deep breath. “I wish I could, believe me, but I can’t do it on my own. I just… I can’t—”

“You don’t have to,” she said, finally taking pity on him.

Malfoy grumbled something she couldn’t hear properly, “How long have you been awake?”

“The whole time. Nice speech by the way, very touching.”

Though she couldn’t see him, she somehow knew he’d rolled his eyes. Thankfully he’d kept quiet. Perhaps in consideration to her injuries he was being somewhat decent.

He stayed in silence for a moment. Uncomfortable not knowing what he was doing, she turned to see him. Her eyes met his the moment she did.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, waving at the bandages that covered most of her torso, “Was it—”

“No,” she interrupted, knowing exactly who he meant. “It was someone else… a… Dolohov? I think that’s his name.”

Malfoy nodded, then turned away from her. “You could’ve died” he said. Not in reprimand, or with worry. He said it as the fact it was. That somehow made it more uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” he rushed to say, “However, I would appreciate it if you refrained from going on suicide adventures until after you’ve helped my mother and me.”

It was only a matter of time before he went back to his annoying self. She should’ve expected it.

“Duly noted,” she said, her irritation evident.

They fell silent once again. During her forced rest she’d had a lot of time to think. She debated whether it was the best time to share with him the idea she’d had. She looked at him again. He looked tired. Even more than before.

“I—uh… I had an idea.”

Malfoy turned to her, a glimmer of hope shining in his grey eyes. It made her hesitate. Her idea wasn’t particularly nice. In fact, it included some of what Malfoy had explicitly wanted to avoid.

“You won’t like it.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I don’t have the luxury to be picky anymore Granger.”

She had to agree. In little over a week they’d be on their way home. Away from the protection of the castle.

“It’s a work in progress, we have a week to hash out the details—” pain shot along her injury when she tried to turn completely.

“Granger, it was bloody stupid of you to charge into the Ministry.”

Of course he’d heard what happened. She sighed. She had assured Harry they’d done the right thing, that they had no way of knowing Sirius wasn’t there. That it was the only way. But right then, laying on the hospital bed, not being able to turn without feeling unbearable pain, she didn’t feel like lying.

“I know.”

Malfoy shook his head and muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘Bloody Gryffindors’.

“This plan of yours… you think it might work?” he asked, placing Madam Pomfrey’s notes about her condition on the bedside table.

“Yes.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

Chapter Text

Hermione opened her eyes as the first rays of sunshine peeked over the horizon. The world outside was still calm and quiet, being far too early for London to be up and about. She tossed and turned, hoping she could fall back into unconsciousness, but sleep eluded her. There was too much on the line that day.  

It was, after all, the day of Lucius Malfoy’s trial.

In the darkness of her childhood bedroom, going over the details of their plan, Hermione allowed herself to be completely honest. It was quite possible she was in way over her head.

When he snuck into the hospital wing to berate her for their foolishness, Malfoy had stayed almost until sunrise discussing a possible plan. After that midnight visit he hadn’t returned, but they’d resumed their book-based communication, with books mysteriously making their way to her bedside table and her asking Luna to return them to the library. She’d only been discharged from Madame Pomfrey's care the day before she was to return to London to her parents. 

As she understood it, Malfoy had taken care of some of the details while she remained in the hospital wing. Like purchasing the most expensive invisibility cloak money could buy. She’d briefly considered asking Harry to borrow his, but she didn’t know if she could trust Malfoy with it. 

She’d been home less than 24 hours. The first thing she did was tell her mother the little part she was to take in their plan. Surprisingly, her mother had agreed to help without question and without demanding they told her father.  

When she heard the distant ring of her parents’ alarm clock, she got up and opened her window to let the sunlight in. It was a fine morning. Birds were singing, the sun was shining, and despite the early hubbub of working London, it was peaceful.

She loved it.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione opened her closet and rummaged around for the dullest, most uninteresting bag she owned. A dark grey canvas bag with leather straps and a sturdy zipper to keep everything inside. She carefully folded the robes Malfoy had transfigured for her. He’d left them in the third stall of the second-floor girls’ bathroom for her to find before leaving for the summer. Thankfully Myrtle hadn’t been around when she’d picked them up. It would’ve been difficult to explain why Draco Malfoy was giving her clothes. Especially since said clothes were absolutely gorgeous (though perhaps excessively elegant).  

After taking a shower and changing into a pair of shorts and a tee, she went downstairs for breakfast.

Her father was already half-way though his second crumpet when she walked into the kitchen, kissed his cheek and sat across the table from him.

“Where are you off to this early in the morning?” he asked, his eyes glued to the newspaper he dexterously held in his left hand while reaching with his right for his cup of tea.

She exchanged a nervous look with her mother, who was finishing cooking their breakfast.

“Hermione and I have some shopping to do,” Linda replied casually.

“More shopping?” 

“Oh yes, last time was for fun. Today I’m helping her buy some items every young woman needs—” 

“Mum!”

“What?” her mother asked innocently, with a playful smile on her face. 

“Right…” Richard lowered his cup and placed the folded paper on the table. “Uhm… that’s great.” He then got up and kissed them both goodbye. “Have a good day then,” he said, before leaving to get ready for work.

The two Granger women laughed at Richard’s obvious discomfort. They ate mostly in silence, with the occasional mention of neighbourhood gossip, both far too distracted by the weight of what would happen that day.

After finishing their tea, Hermione glanced at her watch. It was time for them to leave. 

Meanwhile, over at Malfoy manor, Draco drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, waiting in the foyer for his mother to come down. She was taking longer than usual to get ready. He supposed it wasn’t every day one attended one’s spouse’s trial for attempted murder. A trial Lucius was bound to lose.

From the moment he stepped foot in the Manor he feared the Death Eaters would come for them. He had roamed the halls of his home looking over his shoulder yet still taking in every detail, every memory he held of that place.

In case he never saw it again.

He wanted to be positive. He wanted to believe he would return to Malfoy Manor one day, that he would be allowed to continue caring for it the way his family had done for generations, but there was a big chance that wouldn’t happen. The thought was heartbreaking.

After dinner the day before, an elf had come to his bedroom to talk. For the longest time he’d stopped seeing them around the house, except for the times they were called for something specific. In his eagerness to emulate his father he’d caused them to stay away and hide from him whenever possible. Lately, he’d seen them everywhere. They were more open with him, sometimes approaching him just to say hello. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

He wasn’t particularly surprised when Poppy showed up late at night. The little elf had taken special interest in him since he was a baby, and would probably insist on being his personal elf when he became Lord of the Manor. If he ever did.

She stared at him with large amber eyes, nervously shifting her feet, then said something he didn’t expect.

“Little master mustn’t come back to this house.” She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand when she said it, her eyes immediately filling with tears.

Draco stared at the little elf. She didn’t know he didn’t plan on coming back. She couldn’t know. The elf who’d taken care of him for as long as he’d been alive, who’d made sure he was comfortable even when he didn’t want to have anything to do with her, who’d stayed by his side caring for him from the shadows, didn’t think he should return to their home.

“I could say the same to you. Neither of us is safe here,” he said, kindly.

“Poppy can’t leave.” She sounded miserable. “Poppy belongs to this place.”

“So do I, Poppy.”

“But master Draco is in more danger,” she whispered, looking around in panic, as if fearing the walls themselves could hear her.

Draco carefully thought of an answer. He didn’t want to upset her further. It was always complicated to talk to a house elf, they were especially sensitive when discussing their homes.

“Poppy… if I ordered you to leave—” he quickly lifted his palm to stop her from crying. “If I ordered you to relocate to another property,” he amended, “And hide there until it was safe to come back here, would you do it?”

Poppy sniffled and wiped her enormous eyes with the back of her hand. “A Malfoy property?” she asked with a broken voice.

“Yes, of course. Whichever one you chose. Just stay there and… take care of things. You know they’ve been empty for a long time. They probably need a lot of work…” He could see her interest growing. “And if—uh… if someone arrived where you’re staying, someone dangerous, you should move to a different house. Another empty place to take care of.”

Poppy frowned, mulling over his words. “But Poppy can come back to the Manor?”

“Only when it’s safe.”

Poppy blinked quickly, then wiped her nose with the hem of the pillowcase she was wearing. “Poppy could do that. If little master asked… but what about little master?”

“I’d do the same.”

“You’d stay with Poppy?” she asked, hopefully.

Draco shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that Poppy, you’d be in danger. It’s best if we hide in different places.”

“But… how would Poppy take care of little master? He’s so useless—”

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” she sniffed, “Poppy worries.”

“I know. I worry about you too. And I can take care of myself. I’m not as useless as I seem,” he said, trying to stop himself from smiling. He was going to miss her. He was terribly sorry for ever causing her to fear him.

“Poppy—Poppy can do that, yes. But Poppy doesn’t know if the other elves will agree.”

And so, he’d snuck out of his room, rounded up the Malfoy elves and talked to them, assuring them they’d be able to come back to their home once the danger had passed. The oldest refused to leave, arguing someone needed to stay and take care of the house  that they could hide and continue protecting their home.

Draco couldn’t force them to obey him. He couldn’t do to them what his father had done to Dobby. The elves had been in the manor for far longer than he had, and would probably stay there long after he was gone. He couldn’t force them to leave the place they called home.

Tippy was a different matter entirely. She was devoted to his mother. He was afraid to ask for her help, thought she would alert Narcissa and ruin his plan, but when he mentioned getting his mother to safety, instead of becoming enraged on behalf of her mistress, Tippy looked wistful.

She stayed silent for a couple of minutes, sniffling softly. Draco didn’t dare interrupt her. Eventually she confessed she’d been thinking the same. That she was worried, and it made her sad that her mistress wouldn’t leave such a dangerous situation.

So they made a deal. The moment they left for the trial, Tippy would stop answering Narcissa’s calls, and Draco would do anything in his power to protect Narcissa.

His fingers stopped when he heard her heels clicking down the staircase.

“Are you ready, Draco?” 

He got up from his chair and offered his arm to her. “Yes mother.”

It had taken a lot of convincing to get her to agree to have breakfast in the city before they headed to the Ministry. She wanted to stay at home until the last possible second, hiding from prying eyes. He argued it was best to show a united front, to make them see the Malfoys wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone, that they could and would overcome anything. He said it as if he believed it. And when he promised they could leave if she was too uncomfortable, she was convinced. 

They floo’ed to Diagon Alley and walked along the street arm in arm, followed by angry whispers and disdainful stares. He thought it was entirely unfair how only a month before his mother couldn’t walk down the alley without someone trying to gain her favour, and now those same people treated them like they were the scum of the earth. It had been Lucius who’d attacked a group of children, not them.

They found the little coffee shop a little way off the alley. It wasn’t too busy. The people who were eating turned to see them, the whispers starting almost instantly. As Granger had warned him, the owner looked at them with more than a little mistrust. He reigned in his sneer—at Granger’s insistence—bowing his head politely instead.

He led his mother to the back of the room where, according to Granger, there was a relatively private space. The booth was a half-circle, completely hidden behind a large column. He had to give it to her, it was close to perfect.

His mother sniffed disdainfully when she saw the menu. “I don’t understand why you insisted on coming here.”  

“Well… we can’t exactly go to our usual place. Didn’t they warn you to stay away?”

Narcissa huffed. It would’ve been humorous under any other circumstance, but considering what he was about to do, he dropped the subject and continued perusing the menu.

It was obvious the waitress that took their order didn’t want to be there. He wondered if she’d lost a draw or something. They ordered tea, a croque monsieur for him and an omelette for her. They made small talk, mostly about the gardens. His mother told him about the new rose bush she’d acquired. The phial in his pocket growing heavier with every passing minute. 

Eventually, Narcissa lowered her cutlery, daintily wiped her mouth, and looked at him with those piercing blue eyes. “Whatever happens today, Draco, I’m always with you. Do you understand?” 

“I know.”

I just hope you say the same tomorrow.

They finished eating in silence. The ticking clock grating his nerves more and more with each second. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Despite feeling slightly overheated, he stopped himself from pulling at his collar. He’d barely touched his tea when she’d already finished her meal.

Narcissa elegantly rose from her seat. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, before heading to the restroom as he knew she would. After all, they were about to be photographed from every angle, both getting into the Ministry and after Lucius was condemned to a life in Azkaban.

Draco took a deep breath before reaching into his pocket for the phial. With a wave of his hand, he vanished the contents of both cups and poured tea into them. He uncorked the phial and poured its contents inside his own teacup. Then waited.

His mother returned moments later. Looked at both cups then at him through suspicious eyes. Draco remained impassive. In a complete breach of etiquette, she switched the cups. Draco rolled his eyes and shrugged before taking a large swig of her tea.

Narcissa smiled before sipping his.

Draco saw the flash of anger and disappointment a millisecond before her head fell forward. He thrust his arm to catch her before her face hit the table.

“How did you—?”

“She’s my mother, Granger.”

Hermione took off the invisibility cloak and climbed down from the headrest where she’d been sitting for almost an hour. Her bum and legs had gone numb, and the smell of coffee and pastries had made her slightly hungry.

She could see Malfoy was feeling conflicted and that talking to him would only result in disaster. So, she stayed quiet. She helped him rest Narcissa’s head back on the seat, and plucked one of her blonde hairs.

“Where’s her wand?” she whispered.

“Right sleeve.” 

Malfoy deftly removed the most exquisitely delicate wand holster ever. Made of what appeared to be silk, it wrapped tightly around Narcissa’s forearm and held her wand inside her robes so snugly it looked as if it wasn’t even there.

They carefully covered her with the invisibility cloak. Hermione stuck the hair into the flask she’d brought with the potion Malfoy had included with the robes, then looked at him hesitatingly. She knew they were running out of time; anyone could be coming around the corner at any second and they’d be discovered. But it was terribly stupid to drink a potion handed by someone untrustworthy.

“Drink up Granger, I stole it from Snape. I doubt he made it to poison you.” 

Hermione closed her eyes and took a large gulp. It tasted bitter, but not unpleasant. Like a cup of sugarless coffee. Her hand flew to her mouth, afraid she was about to be sick. She recognised the burning spreading through her, having gone through the effects of the potion once before. Although this time at least she knew exactly who she would transform into.

Her hair grew, it straightened and lightened. She felt herself grow a couple of inches, saw her hands lengthen and get a perfect manicure.

“Merlin...” Malfoy whispered, looking at her like he’d never seen her before. “Mother would drop dead if she knew.” 

Don’t tempt me, I might tell her.

“Then it’s best she doesn’t,” she said instead.

Malfoy gave her the shoes he’d removed from his mother while she transformed. Hermione took off her trainers and put them inside her bag before vanishing it with Narcissa’s wand.

Together, they held Narcissa up and wrapped her with the cloak. Malfoy asked for his mother’s wand, then cast a disillusionment on her in case the cloak slipped a little. Carefully, he then placed the unconscious and invisible Narcissa over his shoulder.

Seeing him struggle, Hermione grabbed Narcissa’s wand and cast a featherlight charm and a sticking charm for good measure. He frowned at her but didn’t say a thing.

When they were about to step out of their hiding place, he offered his arm to her. She must’ve looked quite shocked because he groaned: “You’ll have to act like you’re not disgusted by me if this is to work.”

He was right. Hermione wrapped her arm around his and, after Malfoy paid the bill, they walked out.

It was a surreal experience, being Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione supposed what she was going through that day was remarkably different to Narcissa’s usual life. People sneered at them and whispered insults when they walked past. It was horrible. All the while, Malfoy kept a straight face. He walked resolutely towards the Leaky Cauldron, where he would venture into muggle London for the first time. She’d expected him to be at least a little nervous.

Tom frowned when they walked in, and kept his eyes on them until they walked out into Charing Cross. Her mother was parked close to Wyndham’s Theatre. She was so thankful Londoners kept to themselves and wouldn’t bat an eye to a pair of strangely dressed people. They walked briskly. She could tell he was tense, looking around in a slight panic.  

“We’re almost there.” She said it as much to reassure him as to reassure herself because she was also starting to panic. “Oh god…” she whispered, “I just kidnapped someone.”

“We, Granger. We, just kidnapped someone.”

“And that’s better how?”

“Maybe we’ll be cell neighbours. You know I can hold an interesting conversation.”

She remained silent. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting that, when he wasn’t being unpleasant, debating with him was actually quite interesting.

Hermione kept eyeing the place where Narcissa was, unable to see her. She feared she might wake up suddenly and expose them. “We should give her another dose; she might wake up soon.”

“She won’t.”

“You only gave her a few drops of sleeping draught—”

“Extra strength sleeping draught. We’ll be fine.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks, pulling Malfoy back, who cursed and struggled to keep his balance.

“Where did you get that?” she hissed, “It’s a controlled—”

“I brewed it,” he growled, pulling her hand to continue walking.

“You gave your mum an experiment of yours?!”

“Excuse you, it was not an experiment. I am a fantastic potioneer.” He sounded quite offended. “Anyway, don’t worry. She’ll wake up this afternoon… or perhaps tomorrow.”

Hermione kept moving, shaking her head, amazed by the level of arrogance. They had no time to argue. They were near the theatre. Her mother should be around.

And she was.

Standing a few feet from their car, Linda was talking animatedly with what appeared to be a lost tourist, giving her instructions and quite possibly loads of unrequested suggestions. Hermione slowed down, waiting for the tourist to leave before approaching her mother.

Linda laughed at something the tourist said, then shook her hand before they parted ways. Slightly nervous, Hermione got closer.

“Excuse me,” she called politely.

“Oh, hello!” Linda said, in that friendly yet impersonal way she always adopted with strangers. It was odd having it directed at her.

Hermione didn’t like it.

“Mum, it’s me,” she mumbled.

Linda took a fearful step back. Hermione froze, unsure about how to proceed. She’d forgotten to tell her she wouldn’t look like herself when she met her by the theatre. Linda looked from Hermione to Malfoy, her frown deepening.

“Mum—”

“What’s your name?” Linda asked, taking another half-step back.

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

“Which book did we refuse to buy for you when you were eight, but then you threw such a hissy at the library that we had to buy it, even though we only let you read it last year?”

Malfoy chuckled softly. She elbowed him. Damn it, mother.

“Anna Karenina.”

Linda relaxed, then stared at Malfoy for a few seconds. Hermione could see Malfoy was at the very least slightly uncomfortable.

“This is Theo?”

“Theo?” Malfoy asked Hermione, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione looked at him apologetically. She hadn’t had time to explain why she’d lied to her mother. Not that she thought he would understand.

“Well…” she started to explain, wincing when she saw Linda’s enraged face. “Actually, mum, his name is Draco—”

“Draco Malfoy!” Linda growled, taking a couple of menacing steps towards the startled Slytherin.

Malfoy held his invisible mother and turned to place her behind him protectively. Hermione had automatically moved to stand between her mother and him.

“Mum!” she begged, holding her hands up in what she hoped was a placating manner.

Linda looked at her through narrowed eyes. “So you’re telling me this boy is your friend now?”

Shit.

“Of a sort… NOT like that!” she hastened to say when she saw Linda’s eyes going wide. “He’s more like… an ally.”

Linda huffed, crossed her arms, and pressed her lips into a tight line. They really didn’t have time for a stand-off, but there was no way she would let it go unless she came up with a good lie about why she’d decided to help Malfoy.

“If I may, madam,” he said, and before Hermione could silence him before he made it worse, he kept talking. “I would like to say that I sincerely apologise for how I treated your daughter before. She’s been nothing but kind to me, and now has been gracious enough to help me with this problem. Believe me, for that I will forever be thankful.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. It almost sounded sincere. Except the part where he said she’d been nothing but kind to him. That definitely could’ve been said with a bit less sarcasm.

“Very well,” said Linda, not looking entirely convinced but at least willing to cooperate. “Where’s your mother?”

Malfoy and Hermione pointed to his shoulder, where a weightless and invisible Narcissa was. Linda shook her head and opened the door to the back seat. Draco seemed hesitant.

“Is it safe?” he whispered.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a valid question.”

“Yes, it’s safe. Either we leave her here under my mother’s care, safe, or, if you prefer, we could drop her off anywhere and just hope she isn’t found.”

“No need to be nasty, Granger.”

Hermione removed the sticking charm and the disillusionment. Malfoy struggled to lower Narcissa onto the seat. He carefully slid her down from his shoulder, and held her head so it wouldn’t bang with the roof, then folded her legs and removed the cloak.

Hermione heard her mother gasp when an unconscious Narcissa appeared suddenly, peacefully sleeping on Linda’s backseat.

“We’ll meet you where we agreed,” Hermione whispered. “Then we’ll carry her inside the house I visited last time.”

“Are you going to be safe?” Linda asked, holding Hermione’s perfectly manicured hands.

“Yes mum.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I just—we just have to be there for a moment. We’ll be in and out in no time.”

Linda squeezed her hand, then turned to Malfoy. “An apology is not enough, young man,” she said, waving her finger at him. Malfoy gulped.

“I agreed to help your mother, but do not think for a second that I have forgotten what you’ve put my daughter through, understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Turning to Hermione again she said: “I’ll see you soon my dear” and went for a hug but stopped. “I’m sorry this is too weird, I’ll hug you when you look like my Hermione again.”

Though it stung, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair enough. See you soon.”

Linda hopped on the driver’s seat and disappeared into the traffic. Feeling the flares of anger resurface, Hermione faced Malfoy.

“Listen here you little shit,” she seethed, “I am putting as much trust in you as you are putting in me. I just left my mum alone with yours. I’m trusting you didn’t lie to me and that she will remain unconscious and won’t attack her—”

“You have her wand!”

“As if she couldn’t do something without it!” she yelled, drawing stares from passersby. “The point is, I am trusting you with my mum’s safety. Just like you trusted me with yours. So shut the fuck up and stop complaining.”

“Yes mum,” Malfoy drawled, then smiled mockingly.

“Ugh, I hate you,” she snarled, before walking away.

She heard Malfoy’s steps just behind her.

“I would very much appreciate it if you wouldn’t say stuff like that while you look like her, Granger.”

She deflated a little and felt slightly guilty for not realising sooner that all interactions with Malfoy that day she’d do while wearing his mother’s face. She would never want to hear her mother say she hated her, under any circumstance. Just having her greet her like a stranger was painful enough.

“Sorry.”

Draco wasn’t sure which was worse, Granger apologising to him, or his mother apologising at all. He followed her a few steps behind, looking around in awe.

This had been the part of the plan Draco had objected to the most. He had never been to muggle London before. The last thing he needed on the day of his father’s trial was enduring any more ‘new experiences’. Especially when he still wasn’t entirely sure it was completely safe.  

He wanted them to walk back to the Leaky Cauldron after leaving his mother with Mrs Granger, then floo to the Ministry from there. But, as Granger had so kindly pointed out, it would be suspicious if they did since they’d already been seen leaving the Leaky. Which meant, instead of walking a short way back, they’d have to go all the way to the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry. In muggle London.

He would never, ever admit it to anyone but, from the moment they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, Draco had kept his eyes down, fixed on his mother’s shoes, afraid of what he might see. It was only his enormous curiosity about Granger’s mother that forced him to look up.

And now he couldn’t look away.

There were so many muggles. And they were all just… minding their own business.

They walked down the street, away from that white building with the ornate arches and dark wood doors Granger called ‘theatre’. He wondered what it was that merited a special name for it. Perhaps if they saw more buildings called ‘theatre’, Granger would be overcome with her need to blurt facts and explain.

He also noticed there were many of those large metallic machines like the one he’d stuffed his mother into. Granger had called it ‘car’. But they were in so many different sizes and colours, perhaps there were more names for them. Maybe only the kind Granger’s mother had was called ‘car’. It was fascinating how they seemed to obey whatever the muggles inside wanted them to do.

When they passed another one of those ‘theatre’ buildings and Granger remained silent, he was tempted to ask about them but dismissed the idea almost immediately.

Granger slowed down a bit and led him to a spot on the road that had white stripes going from one side to the other. She looked to both sides before crossing. It was odd. He would’ve thought the muggles would stop their machines for them. Perhaps they didn’t have such good control of them after all and they needed specific areas where it was safe to cross the roads.

“That’s a church,” she said, pointing to a grey building ahead. And—rather unhelpfully—didn't offer more explanation than that.

Church.

The building called ‘church’ was big and rectangular, and it had several columns at the front. There was a long spire on top of it, which had a large golden ‘T’ at the end.

They walked past it and were met with the first open space he’d seen. He hadn’t noticed how big the building to his right was. It was huge. It was a similar grey-ish cream colour as that ‘church’ building, but it was massive and instead of a spire it had a dome. And there was no golden ‘T’ anywhere.

The esplanade in front of it was filled with muggles walking in different directions. He wondered where they were going in such a hurry. Though not all of them seemed to be in a rush. There were many just staring at the buildings. It was odd. Maybe there was something wrong with those muggles.

A little further down, there was a statue of a man on what looked like a small abraxan without wings. Or a unicorn without the horn. The statue overlooked a small fountain.

They kept a brisk pace. It was almost time for the trial. He noticed a lot of the muggles who were standing still, were holding tiny boxes to their eyes, pointing them to the big building, or at the statues.

The largest column was at the bottom of the square. It towered above all buildings and trees, the sculptures of four lions sat at its feet, as if guarding whoever was on top. He must’ve been a very important muggle to be there. Draco wondered what he’d done to deserve such an honour.

He wouldn’t mind a statue of himself lording over a large space such as that one.

They crossed a couple of roads, always at the places with the white stripes. At a distance he saw a large structure with three arches. A lot of those car things moved through it. It had some writing on top, but he couldn’t make up what it was. It was too far. Before he could ask if they were going that way, Granger turned left. The street was lined with more of those ornate buildings. Perhaps he’d get to see another new kind of building. One that wasn’t ‘church’ or ‘theatre’.

“We’re almost there,” she said, but didn’t offer any more names. Which was not disappointing at all.

He followed close until they stopped beside two red structures, like a weird and very small greenhouse. Its name was written on top, on a white sign with black letters. ‘Telephone’.

Granger reached for the door, but he pulled her back.

“Granger, they could see us,” he whispered, looking around nervously. They were surrounded by muggles. They couldn’t risk breaking the statue of secrecy.

“They won’t. Come on.”

Granger opened the door, stepped in and pulled him with her. It was larger inside than it looked from outside. There was a strange black contraption in the middle. He looked at her for the first time since they met Mrs Granger.

She looked slightly sweaty, her eyes were panicky, and her hands trembled slightly. That wouldn’t do.

“Chin up Granger,” he said in what he hoped was a not-so-antagonistic tone. “You look afraid. Narcissa Malfoy never looks afraid—or, not in public anyway. Give me the wand.”

She frowned. He saw the hesitation in her eyes.

“Narcissa Malfoy always looks perfect. Give me the wand, I’ll apply some glamours. It won’t take long.”

She did as he asked. In less than a minute Granger was back to looking like his mother usually did. He offered his arm. She took it, still trembling.

“What if your father wants to talk to me alone.”

“He won’t,” he answered, truthfully. “Plus, I doubt they would let him.”

With a sigh, she stuck her finger on a hole labelled ‘6’ on the disk stuck to the black thing by the wall, and turned it. She did it again, each time sticking her finger in a different number. Six, two, four, four, two.

A mechanical voice welcomed them to the Ministry and asked their business.

“Draco and Narcissa Malfoy. Here for the trial of Lucius Malfoy,” he said immediately.

After giving them some instructions, the black thing spit out some tags which they stuck to their robes, then it began descending.

“Are you ready?” she asked him, though he suspected she was talking to herself.

“Not at all.”

Chapter Text

At least six painfully bright flashes went off the moment the lift doors opened, blinding Hermione momentarily. She placed her free hand protectively over her eyes, holding Malfoy’s arm tightly as they shouldered past the journalists who bombarded them with questions.

“Were you aware of your husband’s activities, Mrs Malfoy?” one of them asked, thrusting the camera closer to her face, “How involved were you in your husband’s plans?” yelled another, a few feet behind. “Do you think your husband will walk away as he did at the end of the war, Mrs Malfoy?”

“Mrs Malfoy, did you help bring back You-know-who?”

“Narcissa, are you divorcing Lucius?”

“Mrs Malfoy, do you condone violence against children?”

“What about your son, Draco, Mrs Malfoy?”

The rapid-fire questions were dizzying. She wondered where the journalists had come from. As far as she knew, the Daily Prophet was the only newspaper in Wizarding Britain. And yet, there were at least six journalists pestering them, blocking their path into the Atrium.

“How do you feel about your father trying to kill your classmates?” she heard someone ask Malfoy, whose steps faltered beside her.

Surprisingly, that was the one question that made her angry. Though she wanted to throw a most scathing glare at the rude journalists and tell them to back off, she regained her composure quickly, remembering she was supposed to be Narcissa Malfoy, and schooled her expression into one of indifference before gently tightening her grip on Malfoy’s arm so they stopped to face the journalists.

“You may ask me as many questions as you like. Though we all know I won’t dignify any with an answer. But you will not bother my son. Am I clear?” a couple of journalists nodded, all looked a bit stunned. They probably did not expect her to actually talk to them.

“Do not force me to remind you again. I do hate having to repeat myself.” Trying her best to copy one of Malfoy’s signature expressions, she sneered at the journalists before turning to Malfoy who looked slightly amused by her outburst.

“Come darling,” she said, patting his arm lightly and pulling him deeper into the Ministry.

It was a completely different experience seeing the Atrium in the middle of the day. All the fireplaces were lit, bright green flames flaring whenever someone came in. The whole atmosphere had an air of bureaucratic urgency, with Ministry workers going about their business in a constant state of almost manic hurry.

She led Malfoy past the fountain to the desk underneath the sign that said ‘Security’. The wizard sat there wore dark teal robes and an annoyed expression on his face, and looked the least likely wizard to keep anything ‘secure’.

The man rudely asked Malfoy to step closer, before passing a golden stick over him, like some sort of magical metal detector. Then he asked for Malfoy’s wand, which he placed in what looked like a brass scale. After a few seconds a piece of parchment emerged. Looking thoroughly bored, the wizard tore it off and read: “Ten inches, unicorn-hair core, been in use five years. Correct?”

Malfoy confirmed it was true and took his wand back. The wizard then pushed him aside and ordered her to step forward.

Her heart began to race. The room suddenly felt like it was a thousand degrees. She knew she had Narcissa’s wand on her. That she’d left her own with her mother. There was no way he could know it wasn’t Narcissa Malfoy handing in her wand. Yet, even though she knew all this, she still felt like they were about to be found out.

Obviously, they weren’t.

The watchwizard scanned her with the stick, just as he’d done Malfoy, then recorded Narcissa’s wand and sent them away.

They went past the golden gates and into the nearest lift. At least ten other Ministry employees went in with them. She pressed number nine and stepped back next to Malfoy. His presence was oddly comforting. After all, they were in it together.

The lift began moving and she took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm herself. There was no way to go straight to level ten, where the courtroom was. They’d have to get off the lift at level nine. Where the Department of Mysteries was.

Draco kept glancing at Granger wearing his mother’s face. It brought him some sense of peace, even though he knew it wasn’t her.

He could feel her hand trembling slightly in his arm. He wanted to snap at her to keep it together. She was pretending to be Narcissa Malfoy for fucks sake. Showing weakness was completely out of character. It was a strange reaction after she’d done so well at the atrium.

Only until the lift stopped on level nine, and the Department of Mysteries was announced, did he realise why Granger was so scared.

Thankfully they were the only two people left. So, when Granger froze, staring at the black door at the end of the hall, he could lean and whisper: “Come on, we’re not staying here, don’t worry”, without the danger of being overheard.

He stood to her right, doing his best to block the view of the creepy door, as he led her to the flight of steps a short way to the left.

He had only been there once before. Lucius had taken him on a tour of the Ministry, back when Draco still wanted nothing more than to be like his father. And now here he was, about to watch that same man be thrown into Azkaban for the rest of his life.

It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

But Lucius was still his father. And it hurt.

Granger stopped for a moment and turned to the door. He placed his free hand over hers on his arm and pulled her gently. It wouldn’t do to dwell where they were not supposed to be.

They went down the stairs and reached a corridor made entirely of dark grey stone, illuminated with flickering torches. It felt like being back at the Hogwarts dungeons. The doors they passed looked heavy and ancient, with ominous looking iron bolts. Almost at the end, they found the door they were looking for. The one for courtroom ten.

If possible, it looked even older than the rest. “Are you ready?” he asked, and this time he wasn’t sure he wasn’t talking to himself.

“No,” she whispered, before turning the heavy door handle and pushing the door open.

They walked in together. As they’d discussed. Arm in arm, presenting a united front. Just as he usually did with his mother. 

The room was large. He didn’t expect such an imposing place from the look of the filthy door they’d just gone through. It was rectangular, with high ceilings, and well lit. Made of even darker stone than that from the corridor, it almost looked black. There were stands on both sides, where people where already sitting. Waiting.

Draco scanned the faces in the crowd. He didn’t recognise anyone. No friends. No one there to support his father other than himself and Granger posing as his mother. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth. It made him wonder if anyone would support him, if he was ever in need.

Probably not.

Not that he intended to be in a courtroom about to be tried for a serious crime anytime soon. Perhaps it was expected for any goodwill to vanish when one had made that kind of mistake, but still…

Huddled together in one corner he saw another group of journalists. Quick notes quills and parchments ready. He wondered which magazines they wrote for. One of them was bound to be from the Prophet. He could only imagine the terrible things they would say once it was all over.

His eyes landed on a curly blonde head. The owner was wearing her signature hideous glasses, drumming her claws on the banister in front of her. Rita Skeeter. Merlin knew the pile of rubbish she was bound to print about this.

He hadn’t thought about the repercussions to his family beyond what the Dark Lord could inflict. Only then did he realise that, while only his father would be judged by the Wizengamot, all three Malfoys would stand trial at the court of public opinion.

On the far end of the room, set in neat rows of ten, were the high ornate benches where the Wizengamot sat. They were still empty. The trial would begin soon, but they were always the last to arrive. The ones who would pass judgement.

The most disturbing feature of the room by far had to be the lone chair that stood right at the middle.

It was the oldest looking piece of furniture in the room. The wood looked decayed yet strangely solid and sturdy, and it was covered in iron chains.

Granger pulled his arm slightly. He hadn’t realised he’d stopped to look. She quietly led him to the top of the stands and gracefully sat beside him, finally looking calm and composed. The way his mother would’ve had she been there.

The room filled rather quickly after they arrived. Alastor Moody came in, dragging his wooden leg. It made Draco uneasy, despite not being the same person who’d attacked him almost two years prior. An auror with bright pink hair also walked in, and sat behind the journalists waiting to get a snap of the fallen member of the Malfoy family.

Draco couldn’t keep his eyes off the chain-covered chair for long. His father would occupy that chair soon.

It was like he was having an out of body experience. He couldn’t understand how he’d gotten to that point. The more he thought about it the less sense it made. Lucius Malfoy was about to sit, chained to a chair, and be tried for committing a heinous crime in service of the Dark Lord. Meanwhile, Narcissa Malfoy lay unconscious inside a muggle contraption, left under the care of a muggle Draco had only met that very morning. And to top that off, none other than Hermione Granger was sitting next to him, looking exactly as his mother, holding his hand while they watched his father’s trial.

He was very close to convincing himself all of it was just a bad dream, that he would wake up on his bed in the Slytherin dormitories, ready to start one more day of O.W.L.s.

His inner rambling was interrupted by the Members of the Wizengamot filing in. One by one they sat on their respective chairs. Some of them he’d witnessed trying to get his father’s favour. A few more than once. And now those same people who’d benefitted from his father’s schemes were getting ready to send him to rot in Azkaban.

The courtroom was almost full. The low buzz of the crowd went quiet when the great Albus Dumbledore walked in.

He had forgotten the headmaster would be there. But of course he would, he was chief Warlock. He had to be there.  

Draco stared at the old wizard as he neared his assigned seat and turned to look at the people in the room. Dumbledore scanned the crowd, much like he always did at every welcome feast. He did so with the same small smile and twinkling eyes.

Until their eyes met.

Draco was shocked to feel the familiar intrusion in his thoughts. It was sudden and incredibly gentle. His mental defences rose instantly, and Dumbledore looked away.

He kept staring at the headmaster, certain that, if he hadn’t been trained to protect his mind, he wouldn’t have even noticed the intrusion. He didn’t realise he was frowning until Granger asked if everything was OK.

“Do not look into Dumbledore’s eyes,” he whispered.

“Why?” she asked in a low voice so only he could hear.

“He’ll know.”

She stared at him, looking very confused, but didn’t object. She gave a slight nod before turning away from him.  

The sound of the gavel reverberated across the room. The room went quiet once more, and everyone stood.

The Minister for Magic walked in, proud and arrogant, and sat in the front row. Right at the centre.

That duplicitous hypocritical leech. Draco vowed to make sure the truth about him was known. Perhaps not soon, but one day.

The seat for the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic remained empty. Umbridge had been moved to St Mungo’s at the beginning of the summer holidays, still recuperating from whatever Granger and Potter had done to her. He’d heard some rumours involving centaurs, but he wasn’t certain. He made a mental note to ask her sometime.

The gavel was knocked again, and everyone sat. Moments later, Lucius Malfoy was brought in.

Wearing dirty, tattered robes, and with his long white-blond hair dull and tangled, his father walked into the room with his head held high. His posture completely at odds with his appearance. His hollowed eyes searched the stands for them—for her. Always her. When he found them, he stared for a moment before he kept moving to his reserved chair.

Lucius didn’t know it wasn’t his wife who was watching him from the stands. That it wasn’t the woman he’d spent the last twenty-five years with showing support for him. Draco knew just the sight of her would give him some respite. How someone could love a person so deeply and still choose to hurt them was beyond him.

That’s not love…

Granger reached for his hand and squeezed gently. He didn’t recoil. In fact, he was shocked to find it was a welcome gesture. If he put enough effort, he could almost fool himself into believing it was his mother who was trying to comfort him. And he needed it.

The moment Lucius sat on the chair the chains flew up and swirled around him before tying him up. From the look on his face, they probably held him a bit tighter than comfortable.

“With the accused being present, we may begin the trial of one Lucius Abraxas Malfoy…” began the Minister for Magic.

Draco tried to zone out, to drown the sound of the Minister’s voice. The list of Lucius’s crimes was extensive. Much more so than he’d imagined. Everything from burglary and destruction of property to treason and attempted murder.

When Granger reached for him again, she left her hand in his. He held on to her like a lifeline. Draco struggled to keep a straight face as he listened to Fudge read every single one of the charges against his father. He felt nauseous. He didn’t want to be there.

The whole time Lucius kept his chin up, his eyes boring into the Minister for Magic, exuding arrogance. When he was asked to give a statement, his words meant he regretted his actions, but Draco could tell he was lying. Just as he’d done all those years before. When he was interrogated, however, he evaded questions and sneered at the members of the Wizengamot, no doubt knowing there was no way out this time. He knew he was doomed, so he dropped the façade.

Lucius Malfoy was convicted in record time. The deliberation took less than an hour. Draco supposed it wasn’t difficult to convict someone you’d seen with your own eyes committing the crime.

Lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban.

Two aurors came into the room and took his father away. When the members of the Wizengamot started leaving, he felt himself being pulled out of the bench. He couldn’t believe it. His father had been taken to Azkaban.

Forever.

He would never see him again. None of it felt real. Perhaps it was just a nightmare. He would wake up soon. Perhaps Bellatrix had gone a bit too far with the cruciatus and he was still unconscious. Perhaps—

“Draco, come on we need to go,” Granger said, dragging him by the arm towards the lift.

He nodded lamely and followed her. It wasn’t a nightmare. Back at ground level, the same group of reporters were waiting for them when they stepped out of the lift and into the Atrium.

Draco could hear their shouted questions but couldn’t understand them. They rushed to the fireplaces so they could use the floo. They were almost there, the green flames within reach, when Granger pulled him back, and turned to face the reporters.

Her voice pulled him out of his daze. Strong and resolute. A near perfect imitation of his mother.

“I kindly request that you leave my family alone,” she said, holding his hand tightly, “My son and I—we both need time to heal from this ordeal and figure out what we’ll do in the future. I must ask you to please respect our privacy. These are difficult times for us, and I will not allow for my family to be harassed. So, again, I strongly suggest that you back off. Thank you.”

She pushed him into the nearest fireplace and grabbed a fist of powder from the container besides it. They jumped at least four times, at the Leaky Cauldron, Kings Cross, and some other place before they stopped somewhere he didn’t recognise.

“Come!” she hissed, pulling him out of the fireplace and into a pub that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since before he was born.

“Where are we?” he asked, glancing around nervously. None of the patrons paid them any mind. He supposed that was a good thing.

“A pub.”

No shit.

They got out of the establishment and found themselves in a narrow alley between two buildings. Granger looked around before pulling his mother’s wand and transfiguring his robes into something that looked a lot like what he’d seen some of the muggles wearing earlier.

“Granger what the—”

“Shut up!” she snapped, before staring at his hair with a frown.

“What?”

“You look too much like you.”

“And?”

She shook her head and pointed the wand to his head. He jumped out of the way.

“Don’t you dare touch the hair, Granger!”

She sighed, before pointing it instead to her own robes, transfiguring them into a weird looking dress. Something far too common—and indecent—for his mother to be wearing. Then she twisted her hair into a messy chignon.

“What the hell are you wearing!”

“It’s called a summer dress, you prudish twit, now shush, we need to blend in.”

He stared at her while they walked. Sure, her face looked like his mother, but with the mannerisms, the clothes, the hair...

“Merlin, it’s like you’re a completely different person.”

“I am a different person,” she said, with a smile.

He couldn’t look away. He hadn’t seen his mother smile in so long. “You know what I mean.”

They walked for a few minutes before reaching a large building that said: ‘Wimbledon’ in large white letters, next to a red circle with a blue band across it that read: ‘Underground’. He had no idea muggles had underground buildings. Why would they need to go underground? Perhaps it was a bit like Gringotts.

He followed her inside, past some metal barrier and down some stairs until they reached a platform. Like the one at King’s Cross but underground. It was such a strange experience.

He’d used the Gringotts carts, of course, but this felt very much not like that at all.

There were loads of muggles waiting as well. It was so noisy, the muggle world. And hot. The platform was way hotter than outside. And it smelled. Hot and smelly. Stuffy. He didn’t like it. He wanted to go back. Out in the open. Where there was air. Fresh air.

He was incredibly uncomfortable. And curious.

He got closer to the tunnel. A gust of colder air came from deep inside. There wasn’t much to see, it was so dark. How could they move within without a good lumos?

There was a loud noise. Draco turned to see a huge metallic machine coming at full speed. When it flew past them, he jumped back a little. Granger chuckled softly beside him. When the machine stopped, she stepped inside.

“I’m not going in there,” he said, refusing to move.

“It’s the only way to get where we’re going. I’m not going to walk all the way.”

“We could fly,” he whispered.

An old lady who was passing near them stared at him like he was insane. Granger let out a forced laugh. “Yes, it would be quite wonderful if we could fly, darling, too bad we don’t have superpowers.” Then she leaned closer to him, scowling. “Get in,” she hissed, pulling his arm.

Draco stepped into the strange worm-like apparatus. He could admit to himself that he was a little afraid. The thing moved so fast and he had no way of controlling it.

Inside there were seats on both sides, facing each other. The old lady sat in front of them. Watching him curiously. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, hating every second.

“Aw, afraid of the tube, is he?” the woman asked Granger.

“Oh, no. He just gets a little dizzy.”

Granger and the old lady started talking. He ignored them. The thing started moving. He felt it gaining speed, when it turned, when it slowed down. He held on to the edge of his seat with all his might. Twelve times it stopped. On the thirteenth Granger elbowed him gently. “We need to get off here,” she said, before pulling him up and away from the metal trap.

But instead of going up like he’d hoped, she led him into another one. This time they got off on the fifth stop. He followed her in silence, out of the building, down a busy street and to the right.

“Why did you say Dumbledore would know it was me?” she asked, avoiding looking at him.

He was too tired to be evasive, so he settled for honesty. “He’s a legillimens.”

She hummed. “How could you possibly know he’s a legillimens?”

He shrugged, hoping for an air of nonchalance. He felt her eyes on him but he refused to divulge.

“You’re an occlumens,” she breathed after a few beats.

He stayed silent. She was guessing. Perhaps if he avoided—

“You are?! How?”

Damn it.

“I learned occlumency.”

Granger stopped in her tracks. Staring at him with her mouth slightly open.

“Pick your jaw from the floor, Granger.”

Though he tried to sound harsh, he failed. He felt the corners of his lips curling slightly up. For a moment he wished it was her who looked at him that impressed, and not her looking like his mother.

“Who taught you?” she asked, apparently unable to drop the subject.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Harry tried to learn but he couldn’t,” she blurted, then groaned and wrinkled her nose.

Draco laughed. “Of course he couldn’t. It requires finesse, and the ability to control your thoughts and emotions. Potter lacks both.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong?”

Granger rolled her eyes and kept walking. Finally silent. After a few minutes he saw the apparatus where he’d stuffed his mother at a distance and almost ran towards it. Mrs Granger was standing next to it, glancing at the back from time to time. Where his mum was sure to still be sleeping soundly.

Fantastic potioneer, thank you very much.

“Hermione! Good lord, you look completely different,” Mrs Granger said when they reached her.

“That’s what I said.”

The two women looked at him with the exact same annoyed expression. He almost smiled at how similar they were. He would’ve if they weren’t also a bit scary. Another thing he would never, ever admit.

“She’s still asleep. Does the cousin live nearby?” Mrs Granger asked, handing Granger a bag.

“Yes. We’ll carry her from here.”

“I’m coming with you—” 

“Mum, I told you about his house. I don’t know if—”

“I know what you said but if you think I’m letting you—”

“Mum please… please trust me. I’ll be just fine. This is the last part of the plan. After this we can go home.”

He watched the silent exchange feeling only a little uncomfortable. The two women stared at each other for a few seconds before Mrs Granger agreed.

“How long will you look like that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Granger said, “Perhaps another—”

“Eight or nine hours,” Draco added.

“Eight or nine?!—Hermione!”

Granger winced. Mrs Granger looked far from happy. This was definitely not good. Granger glared at him, before looking at her mother apologetically. It was a most bizarre experience to see so many emotions displayed on his mother’s face.

“Right… Granger—uhm, Mrs Granger, I hate to interrupt but we have to go,” he said, suddenly feeling way too uncomfortable and wanting the exchange to be over.

“Good luck explaining this to your father,” Mrs Granger said, ignoring him.

“I thought we could go to the movies or something,” Granger offered, weakly.

“We are not. We’re going straight home.”

“But—”

“That’s enough young lady. Escort the Malfoys to their cousin’s home and come back immediately so we can leave.”

Watching his mother’s face looking guilty and apologetic was a whole new experience for him.

“Yes mum,” Granger said, and helped him get his mother out of the ‘car’ and over his shoulder.

“Thanks a lot,” she said once they were out of earshot, her words dripping sarcasm.

“She asked,” he replied defensively. It wasn’t his fault Granger wanted to be dishonest with her mother.

Granger handed him a pair of strange glasses and a hat. “Put these on.”

He put the hat on even though it was the middle of summer and extremely hot outside. Then opened the glasses and examined them. They looked like spectacles, but tinted. He supposed they would hide half his face, and the hat would hide the hair. It was a smart idea.

“I was planning to tell her I probably made a mistake and that’s why it was taking so long to fade,” she explained, still angry.

“You could’ve told me. I’m a great liar.”

“Yes, I know.”

They walked down a road lined with identical houses on one side and a park on the other. He noticed the houses followed a sequence until number eleven, which was followed by number thirteen. Number twelve was missing.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around.

“Black House.”

Sirius Black.

“Wait here,” she said, then disappeared between numbers eleven and thirteen.

He sat on a bench nearby, pulled the hat down over his ears, covering all his hair, and put on the glasses. They were so close to being safe. It was all down to Sirius Black now.

Hermione opened the front door to number twelve Grimmauld place as quietly as she could. As usual, it was dark and slightly damp inside. She doubted Sirius would ever manage—or bother—to get rid of the resulting issues the house had after years of neglect. Though she did wonder if it was all the result of being abandoned for so long or if it had always been like that. She wouldn’t be surprised if the darkness was intentional.

“Sirius?” she called.

The man of the house stepped out from the dining room. When he saw her, he immediately tensed and pulled out his wand.

“It’s me, Hermione,” she said, raising her hands in surrender.

“Yes…” he mumbled, lowering his wand and relaxing a bit, “I suppose dear old Cissy would never wear anything like that.” He finished waving at her clothes.

She pressed her lips together. They had no time to waste arguing. “Did you find the parchment?”

Sirius reached into the left pocket of his vest and handed her a small parchment with an inscription in that familiar narrow handwriting.

“Bring them in. And hurry up, we don’t have much time.”

Hermione rushed back out. Malfoy was sat on a bench, wearing the wool hat and sunglasses. To any muggle he probably looked incredibly suspicious. But she wasn’t trying to fool muggles.

“Read this,” she said, and thrust the parchment into his hand.

Malfoy did as he was told. She then burned the parchment as Sirius had asked. She still couldn’t believe he’d kept it. It had been a blessing, but it was quite irresponsible to keep it lying around.

“Think about what you just read and look there,” she instructed, pointing to the place between number eleven and thirteen. His little gasp told her it worked. Now all they had to do was get inside. Malfoy followed close behind.

“Granger? What are these?” he asked, taking off the sunglasses once they were inside, “They completely eliminate the glare—”

Malfoy stopped talking when he saw Sirius standing in front of him.

“Hello cousin,” Sirius said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then out of nowhere, “Stupefy.”

Malfoy dropped forward. Hermione tried to stop his fall, knowing he was carrying Narcissa on his shoulder.

“Sirius!”

Instinctively she stepped between the Malfoys and Sirius, wand raised, hand trembling. “You promised,” she whispered, “If you hand them to the order—”

“Will you relax, Hermione? I’m not delivering them to anyone.” Sirius put his wand back in his pocket. “Now help me get them upstairs, to the third floor.”

She hesitated a moment. Seeing the sincerity in Sirius’s eyes, she removed the cloak and the disillusionment off Narcissa. Sirius was ready and levitated her off Malfoy. Hermione waved Narcissa’s wand and followed Sirius, levitating Malfoy behind her.

“You plan to hide them in your bedroom?” she asked.

There were only two rooms on the third floor. One was Sirius’s, the other belonged to his brother. She had never been to that part of the house, only knew because of Ron and Harry.

“No.”

He didn’t explain anything else. Just kept going up. They reached the top of the stairs in relative silence. It was just as gloomy as the rest of the house, and if possible, it looked even more derelict.

The threadbare carpet was almost useless now, yet it still retained some of the original colour and details, enough to know that it had once been magnificent.

“Right—” Sirius said, dropping Narcissa unceremoniously on the barely carpeted floor.

“Sirius, be careful.”

“Oops.”

He examined the ceiling. Humming occasionally and waving his wand. When, after a few minutes of examination, he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he turned to her, an apologetic look on his face that made her anxious.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to need you to trust me on this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if Harry ever told you, but when my father lived here, he put every security measure known to wizardkind on this house… and a few others that were not so common.”

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to find a way to explain one of his family’s most closely guarded secrets.  

“Now, I didn’t tell Dumbledore about this feature, and I sincerely doubt he knows, quite simply because it’s impossible—”

“But it’s Dumbledore.”

“The man is not omniscient, Hermione, there are things even he doesn’t know,” Sirius said, begging for her to understand. But he wasn’t exactly offering much information. What exactly had Sirius’s father hidden in the house?

“For example, he doesn’t know my father built a secret room in the attic. One which can only be accessed by those with Black blood. Not even Blacks by marriage can get in. Unless they are bound to their spouses by a blood ritual but that’s terribly archaic—”

“Blood magic?”

“Yes. I don’t have time to explain it, all you need to know is that the room can only be found, and is only accessible, to the Black family.”

“Oh…”

“And those two,” he said pointing at the unconscious figures of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, “Well, they have Black blood in their veins.”

“Ok… so, you need me to leave?”

“Yes. You can come back later so I can let you know how it’s going, and if you wish I can explain a little more about the room.”

Hermione nodded. “Any news on Andromeda?”

Sirius shook his head sadly. “No. I’ll tell you more when you come back. Now leave, someone might come soon.”

Feeling a little apprehensive, Hermione went downstairs and disappeared out the door.

“Open your eyes little Malfoy, I know you’re awake. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Draco couldn’t recognise the voice giving him orders. His head felt a bit woozy. He took stock of himself. He was tied to a chair. He didn’t feel any pain, so it was probably safe to say he hadn’t been tortured.

Yet.

Granger you traitorous cu—

A slap across his face woke him fully. He opened his eyes to find Sirius Black smiling at him. Draco swallowed hard. He wasn’t back at the Manor then. And he wasn’t at the Lestrange’s either. Or at least… he didn’t think he was.

He was probably still at wherever place Sirius Black had been hiding at all these years. Number twelve Grimmauld place. That couldn’t be such a bad thing.

But why am I tied up?

He looked around the room in a panic. His mother was evidently no longer on his shoulder.

“Over there,” Sirius said, pointing to a corner, answering his silent question.

She was sleeping on a large ornate four-poster bed, with dark green and silver bedding. She looked unharmed and peaceful. 

“Where am I?” he asked, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a large room. It looked old but well taken care of. Like it had been suspended in time. It was made entirely in dark wood, even the sparse furniture. There was a small table on one corner, and a couple of beds on the other side. The bottom half of the walls was covered in a dark green patterned fabric. It took him a moment to recognise the pattern. It was the Black family crest, woven in a slightly lighter shade. On the top halves of the walls there were slightly lighter rectangles all around, where portraits must’ve hung once.

“You’re safe. That’s all you need to know,” Sirius replied, sitting on a chair in front of him. Unwittingly mirroring the moment he’d tied Granger to a chair back in the castle. 

“As it is, I’m pretty sure Hermione would have my balls if something happened to you.”

His head snapped up. “Granger brought me here?!”

“She told you you’d be staying with me.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t say you’d keep me tied up!”

The man laughed. It wasn’t maniacal as Bellatrix, but it wasn’t warm either.

“It’s only temporary. Hermione may trust you, but I still have my reservations.”

Oh. That’s… fair.

“What did you give her?” Black asked, pointing to his mother, “I tried to wake her, but nothing would do.”

Still feeling the sting on his left cheek, Draco fumed, “Did you slap her too?”

“Of course not little Malfoy, I tried a rennervate. didn’t work. I also yelled at her a little. Though cathartic, it didn’t work either.”

“Extra strength sleeping draught.”

Black shook his head, chuckling, “Smart.”

Draco fought against the ropes binding him. It was useless but he didn’t feel cooperative.

“Tell me, how did you convince Hermione to trust you?”

Now it was his time to laugh. As if he could’ve ever convinced Hermione Granger to trust him. Eliciting pity was not the same as earning trust. 

“I didn’t,” he answered truthfully.

Black hummed, leaned back and scratched his beard. “Why are you here?”

“I didn’t want my mother to die… I don’t want to die,” he said, regretting his raw honesty instantly. “Nothing good would’ve come of me staying put and following orders.”

They stayed silent for a long while.

“I suppose that’s a good reason,” he finally said, vanishing the restraints.

“Welcome to Black House.”

Chapter Text

There were many stories about the house on the other side of the hill. It had been abandoned for longer than anyone in town could remember. No one knew who owned it, or why it had never been fixed.

All they knew were the stories. Tales of an evil lurking in the halls of the abandoned house. Of gruesome murders and malevolent ghosts.

Most never dared go anywhere near the haunted building, and anyone who did came back telling the same story, describing the same feeling. A paralysing fear. A sudden, desperate need to be anywhere else. The town thought it had to be something supernatural.

No one even considered magic.

Inside the dark and dreary halls of the house on the other side of the hill, an angry witch stormed into the old dining room. He was sat on a high-back chair, looking out the window at the withered garden on the other side.

“Have you found them?” he asked without turning to face her.

The witch clenched her teeth, an overwhelming rage threatening to take over.

“No, my Lord. There’s no trace of them anywhere.”

She had been searching for a week. On the day of the trial, she’d arrived at the manor for breakfast, sure she’d find them eating in the dining room. That she’d have enough time to make it clear what was expected of them. Of him. But she’d been too late. They were gone when she arrived.

Her anger raising with every hour that passed, the witch waited for them to return from the Ministry. The trial was sure to be a short one. Everyone knew he was guilty.

When the sun began to set, and there was still no sign of them, the witch went into a violent rage, destroying everything in her path on her way to her sister’s beloved greenhouse.

Setting it on fire brought a smile to her face, but it didn’t quench her need for vengeance.

“I will find them, my lord, I will find them, and I will bring them to you. They can’t hide for long—”

“And yet,” he interrupted, slowly getting out of his chair, “it has been a week and you have no idea where they went.”

“If I may, my Lord,” said the deep voice of the Professor who had been listening in silence from a corner. “Perhaps what the papers are saying is true and they are merely staying in one of their properties outside the country. You know Narcissa can be—”

“That’s not possible!” the witch snapped, “Cissy wouldn’t—we would’ve known if they’d left!”

“Narcissa is quite clever, she could’ve found a way.”

“My sister would never—!”

“Enough!”

The rough, malevolent voice silenced the two followers at once. The Dark Lord watched his most devoted servant carefully, how she struggled to keep her emotions at bay.

“You forget I have glimpsed into their minds Bella, are you suggesting they could’ve hidden something from me?”

“My Lord—”

“We will know the truth in time,” he said, vanishing the table and its chairs. “When you bring them to me, Bella, I will ask them myself. Don’t forget, we still need them so we can teach our dear Lucius a lesson.”

Appeased, Bellatrix nodded. The Dark Lord called for his most faithful companion. She answered at once, gliding across the floor and curling at his feet.

The ones he expected had arrived.

A moment later there was a knock on the door. It opened without waiting for an answer. Six figures clad in hooded black robes walked in, escorting a frightened woman holding a child no more than eight years old, and a teenager.

The young Slytherin walked into the room standing to his full height. He had been dreaming of this moment ever since his father had mentioned the possibility.

It had been a few weeks since his father had failed the Dark Lord—Or rather, since Malfoy’s father had failed, and caused them to be locked up in Azkaban. He couldn’t let such shame befall his name, he would do anything to make things right and regain the favour of the Dark Lord. Because that was what mattered most. He knew what had to be done. There was only one thing he could offer. His full devotion to their cause. His life. 

The Dark Lord skimmed their minds as they walked into their now empty dining room. Fear was all he could sense in the woman; she would be of no use to him. The boy, on the other hand, he was eager to serve. Even more so than when he’d met him before. 

“My friends tell me you wish to join us,” he said to the young boy. “Is that true?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he answered without hesitation.

“Why should I accept you in our midst? Your father has disappointed me greatly, what makes you think you could be useful to me?”

“I can learn. I will do whatever you want. I swear it. I wish to make it up to you for the mistakes of my father.”

It was almost amusing, his eagerness to please. The boy wasn’t much. There was no strategic intelligence to exploit. No brilliant initiative. No raw talent. Only that mad desire to inflict pain.

The boy wouldn’t bring much to the table, no, but he could be useful. And if he wasn’t… he could always get rid of him.

“Perhaps someone like you could be very useful to our organisation…”

“But my lord—”

“Quiet, Bella!”

The witch shrunk back into a corner. He eyed the boy once more. He wasn’t the one he wanted. He’d get that one later. For now, this one would have to do. It was his way in. 

“Do not forget you have much to atone for. I will welcome you into our midst. There’s something I need you to do for me. If you succeed, I shall consider forgiving your father for his mistakes.”

“I will do anything you ask, my lord.”

Everyone in the room followed the conversation closely. It wasn’t often that a new member was inducted. They watched as the Dark Lord appraised the young Slytherin.

“Step forward.”

The boy approached the Dark Lord confidently. Without fear. Wonder and excitement written across his face. With a wave of his wand, the Dark Lord forced the boy to his knees.

“Extend your arm.”

The unblemished skin of the boy’s left arm seemed to shine under the candlelight. The Dark Lord pressed the tip of his wand to his left forearm and began muttering something.

The boy writhed. The Dark Lord held him tighter, digging his long nails into his arm. Thick black smoke emerged from the place where the wand touched his skin. When the Dark Lord began moving his wand along his arm, the boy screamed in pain.

Soon the dark cloud had engulfed the whole arm. The boy’s cries echoed around the room and beyond.

When the Dark Lord finished, the boy dropped to the floor, clutching his arm. Tears gathered in his eyes. Large drops of blood dripped from every wound. The Dark Lord watched with disgust as the boy squirmed in pain.

“Welcome, Crabbe.”

Inside the hidden attic over at Black House, Draco was coming to terms with the terrifying possibility that he was slowly—but surely—losing his mind.

He’d been locked in that god forsaken place for a little over a week. Despite the confined quarters and subpar food—which was delivered by Sirius Black at irregular intervals and always under a stasis charm, not freshly cooked—it wouldn’t have been so terrible if he'd had someone to talk to.

But his mother hadn’t said a word to him since she woke up.

When the sleeping draught finally wore off, he was there to calm her down and explain where they were. Before she even opened her eyes, she grasped for her wand. When she didn’t find it, she jumped out of the bed and went on a defensive stance.

She barely looked at him before retreating to a corner. After that, no matter how much he tried, she wouldn’t speak. For three days he did everything he could think of to engage her in conversation. Nothing worked.

The only time he’d heard her voice was the first time Sirius arrived with a tray of food for the day. She sent a wandless stinging jinx which caused their food to be ruined. They had a screaming match that lasted almost twenty minutes. Sirius had silenced their side of the room. Draco appreciated the gesture. He didn’t need to know what she was saying. The look in her eyes was enough for him to know.

She hated him.

Earlier that year he’d thought her betrayal had been painful. Now he knew it didn’t compare to her loathing.

Laying on his bed, Draco waved his hand back and forth, wandlessly levitating a candlestick he’d found inside the larder. His mother was writing on some parchment Sirius had brought for her. It was all she did, write on her parchment, eat when the food arrived, and sleep.

The door opened. The candlestick clattered on the floor when he lost his concentration.

“Good morning, children,” Sirius greeted them, strutting into the room with his usual cheerfulness.

Black looked from Narcissa to him, frowning. “Still not talking?”

Draco shook his head and turned away. He didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. Sirius shifted on his feet, his gaze faraway.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he finally said, so low Draco barely heard it.

He sighed. He was sorry too but he didn’t regret taking her away. As long as she stayed alive and unharmed it didn’t really matter if she refused to speak. He could live with the pain of her rejection. He didn’t want to find out if he could live with the pain of losing her.

“I need you to come with me,” Sirius whispered.

“Outside?”

“Yes, we don’t have much time. The house won’t be empty for long.”

Draco followed Sirius to the exit. He could feel his mother’s eyes on him. Perhaps she would think he was leaving her alone? That he intended to keep her imprisoned? With his hand on the door, he turned to see her, hoping she would see he wasn’t leaving her. As soon as their eyes met, she looked away.

They climbed down the steep wooden ladder, and went into the first door to the right. Sirius’s room.

“Sirius, I—hi!”

Granger stared at him with wide eyes. Her hair was a mess as usual. She was wearing muggle clothes and had a large dark brown leather bag slung over one shoulder, the strap across her chest.

“Granger,” he said flatly, not in the mood for pleasantries. She had, after all, stunned him, then left him locked inside a room with nothing but his own company for a whole week.

She frowned. “Wow, no ‘thank you Granger for getting me and my mother out of that hellhole’. I suppose it was too much to expect a little gratitude—”

“I’m sorry if I don’t feel particularly friendly after being stuck inside a windowless room for a whole week!”

“You’re with your mum—”

“Who isn’t speaking to me!”

“Dear lord shut up,” Sirius interrupted. Rolling his eyes and dramatically dropping himself over his bed. “We don’t have much time; you can argue later.”

Granger kept her eyes on him. The frown had softened. If Sirius’s pity was annoying, hers was much, much worse.

“She’s not speaking to you?”

I kidnapped her, of course she isn’t speaking to me!

Draco huffed but said nothing, instead addressed Sirius. “Why did you bring me here?”

“We need to talk about what happens next, and Hermione can’t go upstairs.”

“Mother wouldn’t—”

“It’s not about her,” Granger said impatiently. “I know she can’t do anything to me, we have her wand. I can’t go up because I’m not a Black.”

Draco looked at Sirius for confirmation.

“She can’t even see the door. And if she’s with me, I can’t find it either,” he raised a hand to stop the question about to leave Draco’s mouth. “One day I may explain why. First things first. When you got here, I sent Andromeda—that’s your aunt by the way—a letter. Unfortunately, she hasn’t replied.”

“Great. Now what?” Draco asked, feeling both angry and dejected.

“I send another one. Perhaps she thought I was joking—”

“What if she doesn’t want to help?”

“We’ll think of something if that happens. I honestly think it’s highly unlikely she’ll refuse.”

Draco sat on the chaise at the corner near the window. He wished the attic at least had a window, so he could distract himself. Even if he could only stare at the clouds.

“I don’t know how much longer I can stay up there,” he confessed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I think I’m going insane.”

“Are there no books up there?” Granger asked.

“It was never meant to be lived in. Only to stay there until whatever threat made you get inside passed.”

“Why didn’t you—”

“Shh!” Sirius interrupted, jumping off the bed. “Someone’s in.”

Granger got closer to the door. A faint voice called for Sirius on the other side.

“Shit. Stay quiet. Do not go out. I’ll see who’s downstairs.”

Granger stared at the door wringing her hands.

“I get why I can’t go out. Why can’t you?”

“Might be someone from the Order. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“What Order?”

She looked at him with incredulity. Like he’d asked the stupidest question ever.

“Do you not remember the parchment you read to get in here?”

He vaguely remembered something about some headquarters. Despite having only been a week, it felt like it had been ages ago. He couldn’t remember anything specific, so he shook his head.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. Probably deciding whether to tell him about this ‘Order’ of hers. After taking a deep breath she said: “It’s a group of people who stand against You-know-who. It’s called the Order of the phoenix.”

“Order of the phoenix?” he scoffed, “What a ridiculous name.”

“It’s not ridiculous!”

“It’s a rather stupid name for a war.”

“It’s not a war.”

Naïve.

“Whatever you say, Granger.”

“It’s not a stupid name. We want a world reborn.”

“Better be careful. You’re sounding a lot like the Dark Lord there, Granger. Surely you know a phoenix needs to burn to ash before being reborn. Not exactly reassuring. Is that your plan for the Wizarding World?”

He watched her open and close her mouth a couple of times without uttering a sound. In the end she pressed her lips into a thin line again and scowled.

“I hate you.”

Victory!

Draco smiled. Granger opened the door just a crack. All they could hear were hushed voices coming from downstairs. She closed it carefully and went to sit on the bed.

They were silent for a couple of minutes util she asked: “Were you lying?”

“When?”

“When you said those things about… Death Eaters kidnapping muggles.”

He remembered. He’d said they’d go looking for her parents.

“No. I wasn’t lying.”

She nodded once, keeping her eyes trained on her lap. “Listen… I didn’t know Sirius was going to stupefy you. I’m sorry about that—”

I thought that had been you. My bad.

“Also… Dumbledore has gone through the library here, I doubt you’ll find anything that isn’t at Hogwarts so…”

“So I’m fucked.”

“Well…” she hesitated, biting her lip before making a decision, “I have a book that isn’t at Hogwarts with me now.”

“Are you bragging? That’s a bit cruel.”

She rolled her eyes. “I could lend it to you, it’s just…” she trailed off. It was incredibly irritating.

“What?!”

“It’s a muggle book.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He was going insane up there. There was only so much entertainment he could get from levitating a stupid candlestick. But he had never been in contact with anything muggle. Except that weird worm-like transportation Granger had stuck him into. Nothing had happened to him there. And he was desperate.

“Is it in English?”

Granger narrowed her eyes, and rummaged her bag, mumbling something that sounded a lot like ‘ignorant prat’. He chose to ignore the insult.

She pulled a small book and threw it to him. He only had time to read the title (‘The alienist’), before the door burst open.

“Good, you’re both still alive. We don’t have much time, it’s time to go.”

Draco got up, hiding the book in his pocket.

“I’m sorry about your mum,” Granger said when he passed in front of her. “I’m sure she’ll come around.”

He nodded and reluctantly followed Sirius back into his cage.

Strange things were happening all over the country. Unexplained hurricanes. Fallen bridges. Missing people. Murders.

Malfoy’s confirmation that Death Eaters were targeting muggles shattered any remaining sense of peace she had. It meant her parents were in far more danger than she ever imagined. For the sole reason that she was their daughter. An unexpectedly magical daughter. Hermione couldn’t help thinking their lives would’ve been far easier if she’d been born a muggle.

She looked at her parents, discussing a patient on the front seats of their car. They’d agreed to take her to Sirius’s again so she could drop off some books for Malfoy, before going out to celebrate her ten O.W.L.s, nine ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’.

She’d been left with no other choice but to tell her father everything after he saw her still looking like Narcissa Malfoy. He was still angry but, like her mother, he agreed to help because it was the right thing to do.

How could she protect them? Even if she stayed with them all the time, there was not much she could do against a group of Death Eaters. And, as Malfoy had pointed out, no one in the Order had offered to help.

The more she thought about it the more she was convinced there was not much they could do without resorting to some plan not unlike what Malfoy had done with Narcissa.

In order to protect her parents, she would have to explain the reason why they were in danger in the first place, or they would never cooperate. However, the moment they found out why they were in danger, they would insist on taking her far away so she could stay safe until the danger passed. They wouldn’t let her help.

And she wanted to help. She couldn’t abandon her friends.

She stamped down the fleeting thought of asking Malfoy to return the favour. Though he was quite smart and almost as thorough as her when making a plan, she didn’t trust him. Which meant she had to do it alone.

She had to keep them safe.

Over the next few weeks, she settled into some semblance of a routine. She spent time with her parents as often as she could. She went to the library looking for inspiration from muggle fiction. And she wrote to Harry.

Harry was staying at the Burrow but would be heading to Grimmauld place soon. He’d been keeping her informed on the Weasleys. Bill had moved back to the Burrow to help Molly, and was engaged to Fleur. Charlie was still in Romania—allegedly—but would come back soon according to Bill. Percy was still not speaking to his family, which was taking a toll on Molly. Fred and George were living in the flat above their store in Diagon Alley. Ron was still a bit of a minefield to deal with, but was getting better. And Ginny, when not helping Molly, would spend her time complaining about Fleur.

Hermione had been invited to the Burrow as well. She’d considered going but, in the end, decided to stay with her parents. She could always join Harry at Grimmauld for the last two weeks of summer.

Weeks went by, july gave way to august, and Hermione’s worry only grew. News of disappearances, unexplainable accidents, and even murders appeared almost daily in the Prophet. She was now fully convinced she’d have to do something drastic to protect her parents. But what?

The night before she’d received a letter from Sirius telling her Andromeda would be at Grimmauld the next morning to discuss Narcissa and that she was invited to join if she wished to do so. Her first reaction was to decline, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious about the woman who turned her back on pureblood beliefs for love. Tonks’s mother. Sirius’s cousin. She sent her reply within the hour.

After breakfast with her parents, she told them she would spend the day at the library, not wanting to get them involved anymore. They said goodbye before going to work and Hermione headed to Black House.

She arrived a little after eight. Sirius opened the door and waved her in. It was difficult to guess when the house would be empty. Being headquarters of the Order, there was always someone in to plan something or to pass information.

She sat on the chaise in Sirius’s bedroom while waiting for Malfoy to be brought in. Sirius asked them to wait while he went to get Andromeda. With the parchment destroyed, the only way to get her inside was side-along apparition.

The idea to ask the Slytherin for help crossed her mind again. In her desperation, this time she didn’t dismiss it.

“You know Death Eaters,” she said, and winced at how idiotic it sounded.

“Unfortunately,” he drawled while rolling his eyes. “I’m even related to two. Or did you forget?”

She bit back her scathing reply. There was no need to antagonise him. “How would you go about protecting two muggles from Death Eaters?”

“You want my help to protect your parents?” he asked, a twinge of incredulity in his voice.

“No. I just… want to bounce ideas.”

“Oh, how the tables have turned.”

She really wanted to slap the mocking grin off Malfoy’s face.

“You owe me.”

The smile disappeared instantly. Good to know he didn’t like being reminded of his debt to her.

“Indeed,” he said through gritted teeth. “Can’t you convince them to go somewhere else and hide? I’m sure they’re reasonable people—No, wait, you’re their daughter. Forget I said anything.”

“They’ll demand to know why I need to send them away, and if they know I’m in danger they’ll refuse to leave.”

Malfoy looked down at his feet, resting his elbows on his knees. “Alas, I’m not familiar with that sort of situation. I doubt I’d be much help.”

Oh… “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Granger, I drugged my own mother and I’m currently keeping her locked in an attic. I suppose the answer to your problem depends on what you’re willing to do to protect them.”

“I—”

They both jumped with the crack of apparition. A tall, slim woman with soft brown hair slapped Sirius’s arm.

“Dear Merlin Sirius! What? Now that you’re an outstanding citizen you can’t be bothered with manners? Warn a witch before you apparate her away!”

“You wound me, Meda. I have never been an outstanding citizen.”

Malfoy had frozen where he sat. Eyes wide and barely breathing, he stared at the woman currently looking at the pictures stuck to the wall.

Sirius caught Andromeda’s eye and shook his head in the direction of Draco. She turned far too quickly making Malfoy jump a little.

 “Oh… Hello,” she said, taking a step forward but stopping midway, seeming to think better of it, “I’m Andromeda, your aunt.”

Andromeda.

Draco wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d thought Bellatrix had found him when he first laid eyes on Andromeda. They were so similar at first glance. Only when he really looked did he see the difference. Her hair was lighter, and her eyes were kinder.

“Hello,” he said lamely, before getting up and extending his hand to her. He’d seen her hesitation to approach him. Whatever her reason, he didn’t want her to think he needed her to keep her distance. He didn’t hate her.

His aunt shook his hand. Her hand was delicate, just like his mother’s.

“I have come to tell you that I’ve spoken to my husband and my daughter. They’re both willing to help, provided I decide it’s safe.”

Safe?

“She hasn’t spoken since she got here,” Sirius said, leaning on the door with his arms crossed.

Andromeda looked a little sadder after receiving that information. I wish she changed her mind too, he wanted to say, but kept quiet.

“Sirius tells me you’re sincere in your intentions to stay away from that life.”

“Sirius is right.”

“But we don’t know if Narcissa will cooperate.”

Draco looked away. It was a strange feeling. It took him a moment to realise it was shame. He was ashamed that his mother wouldn’t turn her back on those who’d hurt them so much, not even to save her own life. 

“She already hates me,” Andromeda whispered. “I don’t think it will make much difference if she adds ‘keeping her imprisoned’ to her list of reasons why.”

Not imprisoned, please.

“We can’t keep her locked in a room she’ll go insane.”

“I know. I would never keep her in a room. We live in a house by the sea. My daughter can ward it so Narcissa can’t leave the property. She can come and go as she pleases within its boundaries.”

Andromeda reached for his hand. He didn’t shy away.

“It’s no Malfoy Manor, but she will be all right.”

“I suppose you’ll be keeping her wand.”

Andromeda sighed and patted his hand. “We both know it’s for the best.”

Draco nodded. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to have his wand taken away from him, but if they gave it to his mother she would leave. She would go back to the manor and get herself killed. Or worse.

“You should hide as well.”

What? Me?

Draco blinked twice before slowly shaking his head. “That would make things worse for us,” he explained. He’d spent the better part of the last semester thinking about every possible scenario. “If I return to the castle, I can say mother decided to take a summer holiday out of despair or some shit—”

Sirius snorted. Draco frowned.

“What?”

“Going with the disgruntled wife story?” he said with a laugh. “Very Slytherin. It might actually work.”

“Bellatrix won’t believe it,” Andromeda said sombrely. Unlike Sirius, she wasn’t the least bit amused by the idea.

“Doesn’t matter,” Draco said. “As long as everyone else does, what Bellatrix says—”

“She has You-know-who’s ear.”

“He’s far more likely to dismiss mother as a poor overwhelmed wife than a traitor if she sends me back to school.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Yes.”

I know.

Of course he knew. He’d spent a semester agonising over what to do to escape his own fucking home because of how dangerous his situation was. Going back to Hogwarts was hardly ideal but it was the only way he had to at least create some doubt about whether or not they’d betrayed the Dark Lord. In the castle he would be safe. He’d have one year to think about what to do for the next summer, and by then he’d be of age, he wouldn’t have to rely so much on others.

Yes, it was dangerous, but it was also his only choice.

Andromeda looked at him sadly. Then signalled Sirius, who at once stepped forward and pulled a familiar envelope from his pocket.  

“Here,” Sirius said, giving Draco his Hogwarts letter. “I swiped it just in time. Remus was here and almost saw it.”

Granger, Andromeda and him glared at Sirius.

“He didn’t!”

Draco carelessly tore open the envelope. Something fell from it and bounced off the wooden floor. Granger picked it up, took one look and gave it back to him,

“You’re quidditch captain. Congratulations.”

Try to sound less sincere, Granger, I dare you.

“Thanks,” he replied instead, absentmindedly staring at the little thing. Under different circumstances he would’ve been thrilled about the new position. It was something he’d wanted since first year. Now he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep up with everything.

Draco put the badge in his pocket and read the book list. A new problem arose. He didn’t have school supplies.

“Hermione has agreed to do your shopping for you,” Sirius said, correctly interpreting his silence.

He groaned running his hands down his face. “Granger, you don’t have to—”

“I’m well aware I don’t have to, but it has to be done. Sirius can’t because he’s going with Harry and the Weasleys. It would be odd if he went back to buy everything again. Andromeda can’t because Tonks won’t let her. That leaves only me.”

He finally looked up at her. Granger was scowling at him, arms crossed. She’d agreed but she was not happy about it. Why do it then?

Obnoxiously good.

“I said I couldn’t go with the Weasleys because I have a thing with my parents. That I would go alone later.”

“My daughter has agreed to accompany Hermione, they’ll get everything you need. I’ll take your measurements and give them instructions to order new robes for you and have them sent to my house.”

That would solve the problem. There was nothing else to do. He could return to Hogwarts and follow his plan without exposing himself by showing up at Diagon Alley. It was perfect.