Title: Where the Soul Rests
Summary: During the break following the Triwizard tournament, Draco finds out a terrible secret about what really happened in the Graveyard. Desperate to figure out a solution he seeks to befriend Harry Potter. Slash.
Author: Camelot's Revenge
Note: There is a purposeful use of time skips of weeks and months in order to illustrate how rushed and out-of-it Draco feels.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.
Where the Soul Rests: Part One
Draco's eyes quickly scanned the crowd as he walked along Platform 9 ¾ , looking for the signature platinum blonde hair that marked the Lord and Lady of the Malfoy family.
"Master Drakesys!"
Rather than the immaculate forms of his parents in their showstopping fashion he was met with the small demure form of his parents' personal house elf. Red tinged his ears awkwardly as he stared at her.
"Master Drakseys welcome back," Mipsy smiled, wringing her long ears nervously. The threadbare rags she wore were getting looser and looser everyday.
Draco frowned. "Where is Mother and Father?"
The tentative smile on the house elf's face turned upside down and she shuffled her feet.
"Mrs. and Mr. Malfoys are busy and told me to come get you. They not says why. Mipsy supposed to take you home now," she said, holding out a long-fingered hand.
He warily placed his hand in her small one. The last way he ever thought he would travel was by house elf. Their magic was different from wizarding magic and he wasn't sure if he was going to end up splinched or ill.
It was with pleasant surprise that when he blinked-and his body felt pins and needles, similar to when his foot would fall asleep-that he found himself already standing on the rolling hills of Wiltshire. Instead of the hot air of the busy train station, it was now cool and Draco drew his robes closer around him. Ahead of him, he could faintly see lights twinkling on the hill-the Manor.
Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a moment to inhale the sweet night air and appreciate its difference from the Scottish air at Hogwarts.
Mipsy allowed him this brief moment before she tugged her hand free from his and began to make the trek down the path towards his home.
Every time he returned home after being gone all school year, the Manor always took his breath away. Their ancestral home stood several stories high, with East and West wings that were illuminated by the floating orbs of dim light that winked in and out of existence. Each of his ancestors contributed an orb upon reaching their majority as a way to help strengthen their wards. Their wards had become known as one of the most impenetrable wards attached to a home in Wizarding Britain. Draco eagerly awaited the day that he could lend his magic to his beloved home, that he could help protect his family and the Malfoys to come. Their home was not only the most picturesque demonstration of their wealth but also of their history and the importance that they placed on family.
From the pathway he could see the tips of the train of feathers of his father's prized Albino peacocks as they strutted about the back hedges that had been artfully trimmed by his mother's wand.
As they approached the front door, the innermost layer of the wards kissed his skin, embracing him warmly as a Malfoy and enfolding him in their protection. It was this part that always solidified for Draco that he was finally home.
Closing the door behind them, he cast a look of gratitude at Mipsy, knowing that she could have simply taken them directly to the house rather than going the long way. Rather than respond, she simply returned an indescribable look and disappeared before his eyes. She was kind at heart, but she was unwilling to forget the harshness in which he had treated her when he was younger. Still, he was grateful to her.
Pulling out his wand, he cast the tempus charm before shrugging off his outer robe and placing it on the robe rack.
Concern grew in him the longer that he was in the house and no one came to greet him. Usually, his parents would have been with him the moment he stepped off of the Hogwarts Express. Even when he went on outings alone and returned home, there would always be at least his Mother present to greet him and question him about his day.
Draco began to call for his personal elf Topsy, to question him on his parents whereabouts, when he heard murmured voices floated down the hallway, stemming from his Father's study.
"Father?" he questioned, calling out as he made his way towards the study.
He had already raised his fist to knock when he realized that the mahogany doors were already partially open. His heart thundered in his throat, confusion flooding him at what he saw.
His father was on his knees and someone was carding their hands through his long platinum hair. They were talking to each other in low voices, a seductive one responding to the voice that he knew to be his father's.
His father shifted, making to bow lower, to kiss the hems of the person's robes and the candlelight revealed them.
Avada green eyes flickered with power, the dark fringe of his hair doing nothing to conceal what Draco knew.
His father was kneeling before Harry Potter.
Draco's mind felt frozen. His breath stilled in his chest.
Was his father shagging Harry bloody Potter?
Draco would never admit it aloud to anyone-despite how sure he was that Pansy and Blaise knew but they were dutiful friends and never said a word-but Draco had always admired Potter. It was recently, though, when he was watching Potter dart around the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament, that he felt something began to realize that he had felt something other than hatred. Fear. Merlin, he had actually been genuinely scared for Potter. The Hungarian Horntail was massive, dwarfing Scarhead's small form, and he was so much younger than the other contestants-who had the skills and the knowledge of seventh years.
He admired him. He desired him. He desired him in a different way than he had when he had held his hand out all those years ago, though. He desired Potter's attention. His lips on his. His hands ached to caress his lithe, tan Seeker body. To hear him whisper sweet nothings just for him.
When he heard his father let out a low moan, Draco's fists and teeth clenched so much that it hurt. He could feel the beginnings of a bout of accidental magic crackling in the air his betrayal was so great.
Besides the fact that Potter was an underage wizard his father was thrice Potter's age for Merlin's sake!
Draco had been working so hard to get Potter to notice him-desperately starting meaningless arguments in the corridors so that maybe Potter would challenge him to a private duel. And there he would come clean, show him, tell him how much he admired him and how much he was working to change, to be worthy of the light wizard. Draco was a dark wizard, that would never change, but he was quickly learning about the idiocy and hypocrisy of blood purity. He wanted to tell Potter his discovery, shock him into silence with it, so that it would give Draco the chance to tell him how he felt about him.
The moan Lucius gave was deeper this time, louder, as he rasped, "Yes, My Lord" so loud that it echoed throughout the hallway.
Something in Draco stilled, his fingers uncurling from where they had been biting into his palm.
Then he felt it. Dark Magic. It was seeping through the walls, creeping in the corridors. And it was hanging all over Potter.
If there was one thing that Draco could always count on, even in an apocalypse, it would be that the Malfoys would always have dinner at six o'clock promptly.
Throwing his door open he walked down the hallway and descended the staircase, ignoring the titterings of the portraits as he passed. The one of Abraxas Malfoy, his grandfather, gave him an indescribable look that made Draco feel like he knew of his eavesdropping. Draco sneered at the portrait.
"Father, Mother," he greeted stiffly. He had to force himself to look at his father in acknowledgement. Thankfully, Lucius wasn't looking at him, his gaze to engrossed in the whatever the main story in the newspaper was.
"Do sit down, Dragon," Mother smiled warmly at him. She was absently swirling her wine glass, the red liquid drifting slightly.
Draco obeyed and as soon as his tired form hit the chair his dinner appeared in front of him already on the second course due to his tardiness. The duck looked succulent and the smell of the roasted potatoes made his stomach grumble in want. Despite this, when his fingers passed over the salad fork to the dinner fork, he didn't know if he could keep the food down.
His mind was haunting him with exaggerated imagined scenarios of his father and Potter being intimate, of his father taking Potter against the desk of his study, Potter's legs spread wantonly wide. He could hear Potter chanting, "Oh, Lucius" over and over and it made Draco's veins boil even though he knew that it was all in his head.
He lifted his fork and speared a potato. Even if he wasn't hungry he knew it would look suspicious if he didn't at least eat. All not eating would accomplish was worrying his mother and being subjected to unwanted questions.
"I apologize that we had to send the elf to pick you up from the station, dear," Mother said, "We had to take care of a matter that required our immediate attention."
Draco wanted to ask what could have possibly drawn them both away from so long. "Am I privy to know what this matter is?"
Mother opened her mouth to say something, however, Lucius' voice cut in sharply, "Not at this moment, no."
Draco was unsurprised. He wondered if it had anything to do with Mother finding out about his affair with Potter. He glanced at her when her eyes drifted downward to her plate. She didn't seem distressed. Her blonde hair was perfectly combed into an updo and there were no lines of distress worn on her face. Her hands were steady as they absent-mindedly maneuvered her cutlery. No, Draco didn't think she knew. And that made his heart break with the oddest combination of relief and distress. She needed to know.
"We will let you know when we can," Mother followed up, softening the harshness of Lucius' tone. Mipsy appeared beside her, refilling her glass of wine. They could have used refilling charms but his mother loved the sound that wine
"How was your last day, Dragon?" Mother questioned.
"It was fine," Draco replied, taking a bite of his food. It tasted like ash in his mouth.
"Why were you late to dinner, Draco?" His father immediately followed up, taking a look at him from over the top of his newspaper.
"I was unpacking."
Lucius raised an eyebrow. "For so long?"
"I was doing it the Muggle way, Father," Draco stated blankly, internally enjoying the way that his father's face held hints of disgust at his words. The lie was effortless.
From there, the meal progressed quietly other than his mother's failing attempts at drawing them both into deeper conversation. Frustrated, though she would never say so, she bid them an early goodnight and the rest of the meal was spent in heavy silence with only the house elves making any sound as they cleared away plates.
"I'm retiring to my study. Goodnight." Without another word, his father wiped his mouth with his embroidered napkin, before standing and moving swiftly from the dining hall.
Irritated and feeling dismissed, Draco walked briskly to catch up with Lucius as he made long strides on the staircase.
"Father," Draco called out when it became evident that Lucius wasn't going to acknowledge Draco following him down the hallway. The man turned. A brief silence settled between them and by the look in his father's eyes Draco knew that he was waiting for Draco to go ahead and speak whatever was on his mind.
A proper pureblood was raised to never question the Head of Household and while Draco had originally intended to let Lucius talk his way into an eloquent game of wits he found himself blurting, "I saw you!"
Lucius stilled. He was quiet for a moment, the only sign that he was surprised the slight tightening of his hand on his cane, his knuckles white. "And you saw what exactly, Draco?" he murmured. Though his words were quiet there was an undercurrent of steel, of bite.
Draco wanted to swallow but shoved the nervousness down. He held his father's eyes.
"You're having an affair with Harry Potter," he accused, draining the anger from his voice but not managing to stop it from raging in his eyes. "How could you do this to Mother?" To me! "I don't understand how you could disgrace us with such paedophilic behavior."
He had expected his father to backhand him or curse him for his last thing he expected his father to do, however, was let loose the deep laugh that he did. His head fell back, the blonde strands strewn about the darkness of his robes. His Lordship ring glimmered with the motion.
Indignance and anger rising swiftly, Draco hissed, "You dare make light of this, Father?" He fingered his wand in his pocket.
"Draco, my son," Lucius said, his eyes bright with an almost mad joy. "You must not tell anyone what I am about to say."
Draco made to hiss a retort when Lucius gripped him by his shoulder and murmured reverently, "The Dark Lord has returned."
Fear took hold of Draco, a sudden worry that his father would make him swear allegiance to the murderer crushed his lungs. He kept it from his face; seeking more information through his indifference.
"Forgive me, Father, but what does that have to do with Harry Potter?"
"Our Lord's soul has possessed Potter's body," Lucius finally revealed.
The horror and panic that had settled in his stomach, making it churn, increased. Draco felt like he was going to be sick.
"What about Potter's soul," he finally managed after a moment of silence. He made sure to keep his face blank, but inside his organs were melting and his heart was screaming out. If Potter soul was still there then he could help him. He could-
Lucius raised an eyebrow, his hand caressing the silver top of his cane. "It didn't survive the ritual."
It was almost as if Draco's entire world had emptied itself of color, the vibrancy drained into nothingness.
"What do you mean?" Draco found himself demanding desperately.
"The boy's soul was destroyed. Come now, Draco," Lucius murmured, his eyes pinning his son, observing him, calculating, "it was merely a necessity to ensure our Lord's survival. I thought you would be elated with how much you hated the boy."
Draco felt the heat drain from his body. Potter was dead. The words didn't sound quite right together. Scarhead was the Boy-Who-Never-Bloody-Died. He irritatingly survived anything the world threw at him-trolls, basilisks, escaped murderers, Dark Lords. Potter couldn't be dead.
Finally noticing that his father was still waiting for his response Draco used his
Occlumency to lock away the warring tidal waves of denial and grief that threatened to rock his mind, threatened to make his father even more suspicious.
"I am," he heard himself say, his lips numb, "I was just pleasantly surprised. I did not expect such news." At his father's smile and his pat on his shoulder more so than ever Draco felt like a doll that was cursed to always live up to his parents' expectations, right down to his reactions. He was cursed to follow in their footsteps because they would make sure that he did.
He had no doubt that if he expressed what he was currently feeling that his father would put him under the Cruciatus curse or Obliviate him. Right now, even though he felt like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling, he felt unshakable in the weirdest of ways. He was determined to not lose his memories of this. He wanted to remember the truth about what had happened to Potter; he needed to. He would be the most sly, the most cunning, and he would come out on top of whatever deadly political scheme the Dark Lord was concocting.
"I am very proud of the man that you are becoming, Draco," Lucius told him, drawing Draco from his thoughts as he gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.
Draco felt sick as the part in him that always sought his father's approval warmed.
"You are old enough now to handle the responsibilities that come with being a Malfoy. It is important that we monitor where our interests should lie. I want you to report to me his movements in Hogwarts, Draco," Lucius intoned. His entire demeanor was as if he was indifferent, unaffected, but Draco could see the tightness in his perfect features and the slight fear that was in his eyes at his audacity to take such a gamble.
"If there is one thing that I have always tried to impress on you, son, it is that Malfoys win. While I would love for nothing more than to see our Lord reign with the Muggles and Mudbloods beneath our feet where they belong, I need to know for certain that he will win. I can't risk all that we have built since his Fall-our political ties, our wealth. I need to know that he will be the unequivocal winner. I need you to do this for me, son, for the family. You are the only one who can watch him in Hogwarts."
The weight of what his father was asking him to do suddenly pressed down on Draco and the beginnings of fear began to stir in his gut. Lucius wanted him to spy on the Dark Lord. The bloody Dark Lord!
His limbs felt cold.
"Will you do this for your mother and me, Dragon?" Lucius murmured, using Mother's nickname for him in an obvious attempt to appeal to Draco's love for her. It made Draco sick.
"Of course I will, Father," someone said with Draco's voice. He felt foreign in his own skin and he vaguely recognized it as shock, as him switching to autopilot as he effortlessly played the role of the dutiful son.
Pleased by his answer, Lucius tapped his elegant fingers against the silver moulding of his cane and Draco swallowed.
"I trust your loyalty, my son, but just in case, you will be required to take the Unbreakable Vow before you leave the Manor for Hogwarts."
Not trusting his voice, Draco nodded.
Lucius gripped Draco's chin, searched his eyes. The pupils nestled in his gray irises were blown wide and at such a close distance Draco could faintly see what looked like specks of blue in his father's eyes. After, finding whatever Lucius thought he found he released him, satisfied. He nodded to himself, shifting slightly before regaining his poise and making to sweep anticlimactically out of the conversation. "I shall discuss this with your mother. Be prepared to take the Vow tomorrow," he told him before leaving Draco standing in the corridor.
As he drew further and further away, taking the weight of his presence with him like a vacuum, Draco could feel what he now realized had been his Father's wordless Muffilato around them dissipate.
Draco had no concept of how long he had been standing there before he finally sank to his knees, his body unable to hold the weight of his grief any longer. He knew he should stand, should regain his poise, but he couldn't find the will in him to care.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he desperately fought to calm the soundless shudders that were ripping through him. Unsuccessful, he drew in a raspy deep breath and a half-sob tore from his throat as he opened his eyes. The royal blue carpet beneath him he knew it had silver accents but he couldn't see it his eyesight was so blurred with his tears. He could feel them hitting his clenched fists, one by one until they seemed never-ending. They burned. Potter-
Harry was dead.
At the oddest hours the most seductive of Dark Magic residue would waft throughout the manor and Draco would lie awake. He would wonder what his father was doing to cause the magical fluctuations. His father or their house guest; he would have to remember to include the last one since he had felt himself the dark magic around Potter only a couple days ago.
So far Potter had avoided him. Something that Potter would understandably do-he hated him. His parents had mentioned the presence of "a house guest" in passing and simply had instructed Draco to give them all the privacy they needed since they had just gone through a "tragedy". Draco wondered what they defined as tragedy.
The next few days had passed with him moping around the Manor so it was almost like a well aimed bludger to the gut when he finally ran into Potter in the foyer when he was on his way to go for a broom ride.
"Potter?" Draco spluttered. His surprise was so genuine that it hurt. Not once had he seen Potter in person since he had been staying at the manner.
The Gryffindor's black hair, which had always been a rat's nest, now looked more sleek and purposefully windswept. His body had filled out more, toned by the years of Quidditch, and he was almost as tall as Draco now. Bags were heavy under Potter's trademark green eyes which were framed by his thick lashes. And right now those eyes were aimed at him.
"Malfoy," Potter acknowledged, his emerald green robes left open to reveal oversized Muggle clothing that draped his form.
All in all, he looked exactly like, well, Potter. Draco had been expecting some sort of overwhelming sign that it was the Dark Lord directing the show upstairs but there was nothing. Merlin, he even had Potter's half-sneer half trying-to-be-civil expression down to a science.
After his deplorable show of emotion last night, Draco's mind was more clear and with this, he felt more suspicion towards Voldemort truly being in control of Potter.
Draco's mind raced.
What if...what if Potter was playing his father, was playing all of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle, in some sort of ploy to control and destroy them from the inside out? Or what if Potter had truly gone Dark and defected to their side, ruling in the Dark Lord's knowing stead?
"What are you doing he-" Draco began to demand.
Potter breathed out a weary sigh. "My relatives were killed," he finally said after what seemed like an eternity stretched out between them. He was biting his chapped lip. "Your parents managed to pull some strings and get temporary custody of me while everything is sorted out."
"Surely, they told you already, " Potter mumbled, half-heartedly belying his dislike of the situation.
Draco was stunned. The last thing that he would have thought was that Dumbledore would've let the Gryffindor slip out from between his talons.
"Why would my family want you?" Draco exclaimed.
Harry's eyes pierced his soul. "Surely you've heard of the word 'politics', Malfoy," he stated tonelessly, the air of patience around him. "What better way to piss off the Light than to have their weapon under their thumb. Not to mention their image would look stellar to the wizarding community. My relatives dying gave them that opportunity and they took it."
"You probably got them killed with your stupidity," Draco sneered, the calculated comeback slipping out of his lips, almost as if it were rehearsed. The heated exchanges of their rivalry seemed to feel more and more like putting on an old pair of boots, comfortable yet lacking any true bite since they had already said all the vile things there were to be said about each other.
"I did it," Potter revealed after seemingly thinking, "accidentally," he added afterwards almost nonchalantly. The coldness in which he said those words did not go unnoticed.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, allowing some of his shock to filter through his expression.
"Yesterday, my uncle was pointing his shotgun at me and screaming that he was 'finally going to kill the demon', and I guess my magic didn't like that," he said, looking down, his bangs shadowing his face as he rubbed his arm self-consciously. "When I woke up they said that my aunt and cousin had been caught in the blast too."
"I assume you're going to cry about it while you're here," Draco sneered. "Just make sure to keep it down. My room is down the hall from the guest room; and there's nothing more hideous to the ears than orphan sobs."
"You're such a prat, thinking that this is just another thing to be a git about" Potter bit out, his eyes quickly darkening in his anger. "You have no idea what it was like. My relatives," Potter revealed, "they beat me. They were scared of me," he sneered, "just because I have magic. They were always scared of what I could do so they locked me in a cupboard majority of my life."
It was with that horrifying statement that Draco realized that Potter was most likely not the one in control of his own body. And not only that, but using Potter's past this way-if this was even all true-was wrong. Things that Draco knew that Potter would never have ever told him-that he didn't even know if Potter had ever shared with the Weasel or Granger-were suddenly being thrust in his face, offered up freely.
"Merlin," he breathed. He didn't have to feign his horror.
The Dark Lord could have fabricated this, made up this story of abuse that would easily propel him into the Malfoy family's hands but something deep in him knew that this wasn't a story of Voldemort's own creation. Sometimes you didn't have to make up a lie when the truth was just as sharp and drew twice as much blood.
It made Draco fucking sick to know that he mocked him as "Saint Potter" and thought that he was so pampered.
He had wondered once. About why Potter always stayed at the castle during hols. About why he always came back from summer looking so bloody awful, practically skin and bones and all scuffed up. He had even asked his godfather once.
Draco felt like he was watching someone else use his mouth, forcing the words in them before he could stop them. "Where does Potter even go?"
Surprised that he had actually let those words slip he carefully reconstructed his mask, desperately inside trying to look nonchalant and uncaring. But he was genuinely curious. Every year Potter would come back significantly more skinny than he left and his form would be swathed in oversized Muggle clothing.
"Please," Severus had sneered down at the paper he was grading, marking a blood red TROLL with relish, "he's being waited on hand and foot just like his father was. The last thing you should be worried about is Potter."
Draco began to open his mouth before frowning. "I'm not worried."
Severus looked up from his work, his entire demeanor bleeding condescension. "Draco, you have had an unhealthy obsession with Potter since you were young." He paused, seemingly thinking, before he continued with his words slowly and carefully measured, "I say this because I care about your well-being. Do try and get over your crush on Potter. You are a Dark wizard and he is a Light one. Moreso he will be on the opposite side of our Lord when he returns. Not to mention the years of fighting with Potter you have under your belt."
The only reaction that Draco gave was the tips of his ears turning red. He resisted the urge to purse his lips and shriek. "I do not have a crush on bloody Saint Potter," he instead said calmly.
He tried to ignore the way that hearing "our Lord", the implication that Voldemort was his lord too, turned his stomach.
His godfather only hummed noncommittally, dismissing Draco's rebuttal as insignificant. "Is that all you came here for, Draco? To bother me incessantly while I try to grade the work of these miserable cretins?"
He had trusted his godfather. Trusted him when he said that Harry was waited on "hand and foot". After that encounter he had dismissed all of his concerns.
Apparently he was wrong.
"Mudbloods, they're despicable. All of them," Draco said, knowing that's what he would be expected to say. He softened his face. "You did good getting rid of them, Potter. I know you probably don't see it that way but this was for the best."
Potter just stared at him. His eyes were unnerving the longer the silence went on; they were dull, almost as if they weren't reflecting any light.
"Of course you'd see it that way, Malfoy," Potter said bruskly, pushing past Draco where he quickly disappeared up the grand staircase and made his way to the West wing, the wing opposite to Draco's that he was rarely allowed in. His heavy footedness echoed loudly in the silence, lingering even after he had left.
The broom is Draco's hand felt hard and cold, the excitement he had felt about flying long gone.
He had assumed that Potter would have stayed hidden in the manor and that his parents would have continued concealing his identity as their house guest from him. He hadn't realized how deeply this had been thought out, that there was an underlying political agenda that the Malfoy House was involved in beyond assisting the Dark Lord.
Now, he understood why his father had stopped forcing him to read Daily Prophets every day while he had been home "to keep up with the political knowledge" of their society, why his father told him that there was an illness going around their owlery so he wouldn't be able to receive correspondence from his friends for a while. He had believed him blindly, even though he knew that there was a plot lurking in the household, and he hadn't connected the dots because he still trusted his father. What a fool he was.
Potter's family was dead. And, now Potter was here, living in his family's Manor, in the midst of the people Draco knew he considered to be enemies. And it wasn't even that impossible of a stretch that he was here, if Draco truly thought about it.
Abandoning his plan to take a round about the Quidditch Pitch, Draco began to make his way back upstairs and to his room.
After Dumbledore publicly disobeyed the Ministry by revealing the truth about what happened to Cedric Diggory coupled with the propagandist slandering of him in the Daily Prophet his political influence was extremely low. Protesting Potter's reassignment to a "well-known, wealthy pureblood family" would have gone in one ear and out the other.
The question, though, was why the Dark Lord chose this route. It had to run deeper than just not wanting to deal with Muggles for a handful of months. No, there was something that Draco was missing. He tried to see the Dark Lord's endgame but failed miserably; each route of possibility that his mind brought up was quickly dismissed as improbable.
Flicking open his door absent-mindedly with his wand, Draco gently set his beloved broom by its case. He would put it away later, when his mind was clear enough and he could give it the proper polish and care he normally would. Draco sat numbly on his bed as his mind finally came upon the most likely possibility.
The Dark Lord was going to bide his time and slowly construct Potter's fall from the Light before ultimately "defecting" and switching sides. He was going to destroy their savior and show them the futility of their fight. If the Light thought that Potter had defected of his own will it would destroy a lot of their morale and would disintegrate their ties to the families that had been more neutral before the undeniable strength of Potter's powers became evident.
The more that he thought about it the more likely that this seemed to be the Dark Lord's plan.
It was brilliant.
It was terrifying.
He could feel his ancestor's gaze scorching through him from the portrait above his bed, judging-judging but carrying a sadness that lurked around the oil hues of his blue eyes.
He squeezed his eyes shut and greedily sucked in air.
The months that passed all blurred together. That time he had seen Potter in the corridor was the last time. Potter never showed for meal times nor did he respond to Draco's invitations, sent via Topsy, for a game on the Pitch. He hadn't even accompanied him and his parents when they went to get his supplies for the year. All in all, it was as if he didn't exist.
So when Potter randomly appeared right as his family was about to activate the portkey to King's Cross, it heavily startled Draco and made his chest clench tightly. Rather than having shrunk his trunk and placed in his pocket like Draco, Potter's trunk and books were full sized and stacked upon one another on a dolly similar to what the Weasleys did. Draco caught the sneer his father almost gave before the man wiped his face clean of the emotion.
"Do you have all of your belongings, Harry?" Mother questioned stiffly, unsurprised by the boy's appearance.
Potter nodded in her direction. "Yeah. Thanks for your hospitality."
"It was our pleasure," Draco's father answered, making Draco's stomach swim with the way that he seemed to purr the words. His mother's eyes flitted to his father's briefly, coldly, before dismissing him. For the first time that summer, Draco saw that there was a tension brewing in the air between them that he hadn't noticed before. It was in the way that they stood firmly apart from one another. Normally, when people were present his mother would show her affection by merely brushing her arm against his father's, but they had Draco positioned in between them in this moment. He suddenly felt naive and childish as he was confronted with just how unobservant he had been.
He met his mother's gaze, questions in his own. Her response was simply to smile placatingly though it wasn't reassuring at all. Lucius avoided his look.
"Everyone grab ahold," Mother said, holding out the elegantly carved ebony tobacco pipe.
"Purity," was the activation phrase and then they were suddenly being squeezed and contorted before contracting and swelling back into their forms.
As soon as they landed in the middle of the bustle of the station, Mother kissed both his cheeks and gave him a long, warm hug that left him smelling like her cinnamon scent. "Be brave, my son. Do well in your classes." Her words were barely heard over the loud conversation that assaulted the from all angles.
His father watched their embrace, his eyes pinning him with reminders, with his expectations.
"Do not forget," was all Lucius said before he turned, not even sparing him a second glance. Why had he even come to see him off, Draco wondered.
And, for some reason, he felt indescribably used-more so than he had ever felt in his life. His gaze hardened.
"Dragon."
Hearing his mother's smooth voice Draco looked down to meet her blue eyes. She seemed to get smaller and smaller every time they came to King's Cross. He was only fifteen and yet she came up to his nose.
Her platinum, the exact shade of his own, was in an elegant updo. Her poise was impeccable, befitting of her noble status, but she was his mother and Draco could see all the signs of her nervousness as plain as day. Her jaw was slightly too tight and he knew she was redirecting all of her stress there, clenching her teeth to ensure that she would not fidget unbefittingly. Her composure held but he still saw her.
Potter shifted awkward off to the side, green eyes averted to stare at the scuffs on the Muggle shoes that he had refused to give up. Draco tried to ignore him.
His mother's slightly calloused hands held his tightly. She didn't need to say anything else; her grip conveyed all of her love, all of her belief in him.
Taking that emotion and burying it deep inside him, where it would be protected, Draco smiled at her. Patting her hand, he let her go and began to pull his trunk past the barrier.
For the briefest of seconds he wanted to look back at her but he did not. He was aware of Potter slowly trailing behind him.
First years, with wide eyes that roamed every inch of the train, were either excitedly beating off their snotting parents or were sobbing themselves as they clung tighter. Among the overpowering yells of "All Aboard!" and "Hurry Up" were the squawking of owls, the morose intones of toads, and the annoyed impatient squawking of cats. The mindless chatter only furthered the cacophony as everyone filed into the train.
The flash of black and green that he was hyper aware of in his peripheral vision wavered.
As he took a seat in an empty compartment Draco realized that the bustle that he had once found comforting was now simply annoying and foreboding almost. Everyone was excitedly going about their day and they had no clue-no clue whatsoever-who was sitting among them.
Draco could almost imagine Granger throwing her arms around Potter in greeting and he wanted to cringe out of both annoyance and concern.
He was surprised when, of course, the door slid open and instead of Pansy and Blaise piling into his personal space, chattering excitedly, Potter was standing there.
Draco raised an eyebrow. What was his ploy?
"I thought you were going to go find your...friends?" Draco drawled.
Infuriatingly enough, Potter just shrugged uncouthly and moved further into the compartment.
Trying to not stare at the Dark Lord; suddenly finding himself hardpressed to tell the difference between the two, Draco pulled out his novel and tried to force his eyes to scan the page.
Draco found himself still watching Potter occasionally, studying him from beyond the banal musings of his book.
The difference between the Dark Lord and Potter was nonexistent. If he closed his eyes Draco could almost pretend to himself that it was all a dream. Potter hadn't acted off once the whole summer, had never let his mask slip. Maybe his father had been mistaken, after all?
The raven-haired teen had his head resting on his folded arms, his eyes trained on the rolling green scenery that inched by.
Their companionable silence was ruined the moment that brown eyes spied Potter through a crack in their compartment door.
"Harry, mate! It's so good to see you!" The door slammed open.
The relief in the gangly redhead's voice made Draco almost ill.
Weasel began to walk more into their compartment, chattering away, when his muddy eyes spied Draco sitting in the corner.
"What are you doing here with Ferret?" Weasel sneered, his upper lip curling downwards. He had gained several centimeters over the break again and Draco could see that he would easily dwarf him. The freckles that spotted his nose seemed even more pronounced as dislike painted his face redder and redder.
Draco couldn't tell whether he was annoyed or furious at the insult. His slowly brought his eyes up to Weasel's, placing the Malfoy's trademark look of disdain on his face. "Listen, Weaselby-"
"The Malfoys were nice to me, mate. Lay off," Potter interrupted, making Weasel's mouth shut with an audible click. He had lifted his head and was now sleepily looking at the ginger. "Was loads better than the Dursleys," he added, eyes lowered for effect.
"Alright then," Weasel said, recalculating uneasily, shifting awkwardly. He cast another quick look at Draco, causing Draco to bristle at how easily he was dismissed.
"Well, c'mon, mate. Mione, Seamus, Dean, and the lot are waiting to see you with their own eyes. Make sure you're okay."
"Sounds good," Potter replied unexpectedly. Standing up he stretched, his school robes bunching, before he grabbed the handle of his trunk and turned to follow the wizard.
The weasel gave Draco a nod, like they had some sort of understanding that he didn't understand, before he closed the door behind them.
"What happened to Hedwig, mate?" he heard Weasel ask.
"She didn't make it," was Potter's reply, his tone the perfect cocktail of anger, grief, and regret.
"Oh, man, I-I didn't realize that they got to he…" The farther away they got the quieter their voices became until Draco couldn't hear them at all. All that left was the soft murmurings from the other parts of the train and steady sound of the wheels.
Finally in peace once more Draco reopened his book.
"Drakey-poo!"
Draco cringed as the door slammed open once more and Blaise and Pansy, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, immediately began to invade his personal space.