Chains Forged In Life
Never in his life had Draco Malfoy known what true cold was. As a child, he had sprinted from the Manor into the snow and played without gloves until his fingers burned. His teeth had chattered plenty of times down in the dungeons of Hogwarts, quickly remedied with a soft cashmere jumper or a thick woven blanket. But never, in his short eighteen years, had Draco Malfoy known what it felt like to be in a state of constant, damp, bone-chilling cold.
An ancient stone fortress, Azkaban's temperature had not risen to comfortable in the entirety of the eight months he had been incarcerated. The windows were paneless, allowing for the open air, wind, and rain to blow into his cell. With dementors circling nonstop, the winter air was frigid. As he sat, clad only in the thin prison jumpsuit, against the wall furthest from the window, Draco hugged his arms around himself. His jaw ached from the constant clanging of his teeth and his lips were chapped and near bleeding from the wind's assault.
The guards were making their nightly rounds, chatting jovially between themselves as they did. It was Christmas Eve and holiday cheer and excitement were buzzing in the air just beyond his cell. "Got the wife tickets to see Celestina Warbeck-had to save three months worth of wages to afford 'em," the thin warden was telling his more rotund partner.
"Barmy, you are. I got the missus a new pewter cauldron-something actually helpful," his partner responded.
Just past them, Draco could hear a haunting caterwauling. Rosalie Yaxley, wife of the sadist Corban Yaxley, had been tossed into Azkaban alongside her husband. She had been eight months pregnant at the time and upon giving birth, the child was stripped from her. Her mental faculties had slipped steadily since then until she was reduced to a mere shell of a woman. Each night, Draco and the other five prisoners in their cell block were serenaded by truly eerie lullabies wailed in a manner that made his skin crawl.
"Oi, you, stop with the screeching!" the thin guard called to Madam Yaxley, knocking along the bars of her cage with the end of his wand.
Dropping his head back against the stone, he pulled the wool blanket up and placed his chin against his knees to try and still the movement of his jaw. He hadn't the energy any longer to backtalk the guards, to point out that she wouldn't be screaming if they would allow her some kind of visitation with her only child. The heavy-set guard walked up to his cell and his chubby cheeks widened as he grinned a toothy, yellow grin. "Where're your fancy Yule galas and champagne now, eh, Malfoy?"
Draco knew better than to give in to their taunting. His last snarky comment had led to a round of sadistic torture that had his fingertips twitching for days after. He peered at the man from under his lengthy fringe and then turned his gaze to a tiny field mouse that had made its way into his cell. "No smart remarks? Afraid of a little crucio, boy?" the thin guard jeered, grinning beside his oaf of a partner.
"Doing some soul searching," Draco replied in a sarcastic tone, turning his face so that his cheek rested against his knee, his eyes trained to the sliver of moon visible in the break of snow clouds.
"Is that right? We have some specters who can help you with that!"
"If the dementors get their way-and they surely will soon-you won't have to look too far. You'll be able to watch the soul leave your body as they come down to seal the deal," the thick man said, elbowing his friend who made kissing noises in Draco's direction.
Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his mouth, his blood boiling within his veins. He had no doubt that these two pricks and their gang of cronies with badges had brought about his mother's death the month prior. Though he had reserved himself to dying since her demise, begged for Death even, they had simply toyed with him, inflicted endless rounds of the cruciatus curse and thrown him right back into his stone cage to rot. Engaging them in an argument now would only result in searing pain and further hopelessness.
"Ah, come on, Bert. 'E's no fun tonight," the thin man said, and Draco heard the footsteps of their heavy boots as they made their way to the next prisoner.
Without the soft glows being emitted from their wands, his cell was once again dark as pitch, the moon's light being swallowed as clouds laced themselves over its surface. Nights in prison were always the most miserable for Draco. During the day, he found compartmentalization a far easier task. At night, however, the other prisoners all fell into fitful slumbers, their screams breaking the silence as the nightmares of their past indiscretions invaded their minds.
Draco found it difficult to discern where the screams of sinful Death Eaters ended and those of the victims of his nightmares began. Closing his eyes and laying on his side, he prepared for the hours of agonizing memories that were to fuel his insomnia. Raising the walls of Occlumency in the hopes that he would be able to catalog the faces of the casualties of the War away for just one night, he breathed evenly. One...two...he counted each breath in.
The Dark Lord's maniacal laugh pierced through his mind, refusing to allow slumber to settle his nerves. Professor Burbage, draining on his dining room table before being eaten by that fucking snake. The low hiss of Parseltongue as the Dark Lord cajoled Nagini into finishing her meal.
Draco pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, causing blinding white lights to flash behind his eyelids. Every night, the same scenes. The death, the carnage, the fallen innocents. Her. Swallowing hard, he clenched his jaw, refusing to allow tears to flow. No. He had cried far too many tears thinking of her.
"They're coming," came the rasping hiss of Madam Yaxley, followed by a harsh choking noise and the sound of a body dropping to the floor.
Draco looked over his shoulder as though he would be able to see through the wall to into her cell. "Yaxley?" he whispered.
The responding noise was a strangled gargle and then silence. He rolled over and dropped his feet over the side of his bed and padded to the cell door, grabbing the bars between stiff fingers. "Rosalie?" he tried again, his throat burning with disuse. "Are you alright?"
He was met with complete silence. A sickening feeling rose in his stomach and bubbled up his throat. The thud of her body hitting the floor and the ethereal, grotesque growl of her voice whispering, "They're coming," echoing in his head. But, who? Who was coming?
"Guards!" he called, pressing his face to the bars of his door as he tried to see into her cell. Her hand protruded under the bars of her cell from where she lay on the ground.
"Quiet down in there!" came the faint sound of the fat guard's voice.
"Guards, there's something wrong in here!" he attempted to put some urgency into his pleas and was met with the sound of the door to the prison corridor slamming shut as the guards made their way to the floor below.
Draco shook his cell door, clanging loudly against the metal in an attempt to try and rouse some suspicion and get the warden and his sidekick to return. A grunt sounded from his left, followed by Amycus Carrow barking, "Will you shut up!"
Ceasing his attention-seeking behaviors, Draco's heart was thrumming rapidly in his chest. He was certain that some evil had befallen Rosalie Yaxley only one cell over. Had she been attacked by a rogue dementor? He stilled his body, trying to feel if the air had grown colder around him. With a look at the window over his shoulder, he couldn't discern a difference. His hands were shaking as he made his way back to the bed, Yaxley's endless mourning of the child she never even held ringing in his mind. What had happened ten feet away from where he lay on a thin slab of wood, trying to slow the racing of his heart?
The guards would find her body in the morning and the remaining prisoners would be interrogated mercilessly. Dread flooded his entire being at the impending pain and doom that awaited him in a few hours time. He tried to close his eyes and quiet his mind once more. Brick by brick, the walls went up around the faces of each casualty, creating a mighty fortress of his psyche.
His chin trembled as tears finally slipped over the bridge of his nose to puddle next to his cheek. He brought a hand to cover his mouth as he sobbed, lest he anger the others again with his incessant whining. Hugging his other arm around himself, Draco pulled the thin wool blanket as tightly around himself as he could, trying to block out the wind.
"Pathetic," a deep voice hissed into his cell and he whipped around, expecting to find that the warden or his lackey had found their way into his cell.
Instead, his heart stopped at the sight that actually awaited him: Vincent Crabbe was leaning casually against the stone wall opposite him. Or rather, the ghost of Vincent Crabbe stood before his eyes. Half of his face body was blistered and badly burned, some of the taut skin peeled away to reveal shiny red subcutaneous tissue beneath. He turned to glance in Draco's direction, and the shadow cast over the burned half so that only the unaffected half of him was visible. He almost looked as he did the night he had died. Save the strange grey light being illuminated from within. "Crabbe?" Draco managed to croak, pulling the blanket around his shoulders.
His oldest friends scoffed a laugh and smirked with the normal half of his mouth. "Who else?"
Draco's eyes darted around in the dark prison cell, trying to see anything moving in the corridor. Was someone playing a cruel joke on him? The thin guard, back with a conjured spirit? "Hello?" he called into the darkness.
"For fuck's sake, boy, shut your fucking trap," Amycus hissed from beside him, chiding his noise-making once more.
"What are you doing?" Crabbe questioned, lazily stuffing his large fists into the pockets of his tattered and singed robes.
Narrowing his eyes, Draco glared in the direction of Crabbe's spirit. His throat was growing dry as cotton as he stared at the ghastly sight. "You can't be real. Just a hallucination. An undigested bit of beef...there's more gravy than grave about you!"
Even as the words left his mouth, he knew them to be mere hopeful utterances. Vincent Crabbe was certainly back to haunt him, but why now? Why Christmas Eve of all days? The square-shouldered man, forever immortalized as an eighteen-year-old, moved closer to where Draco took steps back to avoid contact. "You crying, Malfoy? Goyle was right-you really are going soft. I don't know why we ever followed you-you're no leader. No Slytherin Prince. You're a coward! Crying like a pitiful old witch!"
Draco's blood was rushing through him, pounding behind his ears as he stood staring at his friend. "Did you come back to insult me? I assure you, Crabbe, I have plenty of fodder to fuel my fucked up thoughts."
"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I died because of you. The least you can do is listen to me, for once," Crabbe mentioned, crossing his arms.
Crabbe had once been Draco's lackey-a boy who trailed blindly after the most influential and affluent Slytherin in their House. He never would have questioned Draco like this in life, had never thought to talk back. And here he was, hostile toward the man who had led him to his grave. One more reminder of the terrible decisions that had peppered the last few years of Draco's life.
"Why are you here, then?" he questioned, certain he was hallucinating.
Crabbe sneered at him, his maimed and burned flesh wrinkling in a horrifying way. "Dumbledore sent me."
Draco's brows knit together in bewilderment. He had directly brought about the Headmaster's death and had since tried so desperately to keep the memories of that particular night from entering his psyche. Flashing in his head were scenes of the weakened old wizard, sliding down the Astronomy Tower pillars in a pathetic state, even as he offered a proverbial olive branch and the chance to join the Order. Draco clenched his eyes tightly, willing the memories to fade even as the ghost of his friend smirked in his direction. "Dumbledore? What would that old crackpot need with me?"
Crabbe scoffed and crossed his arms, looming over Draco in a way that made the wizard tremble. His size and perceived stupidity had once been appealing to Draco in his quest to bully other students, but he found his size and sharp indignance intimidating now. "Seems to think you need saving."
"Saving?" Draco questioned, tasting the word on the tip of his tongue. "How could you possibly save me?"
"Dumbledore wanted me to show you exactly where you were two years ago," the apparition shrugged. "Seems to think it'll help you get out of here somehow."
Draco knew exactly where he had been two years prior to this moment and he gulped down the nauseating lump in his throat as Crabbe stepped forward. "Come on, then. I haven't got all night. The others will be by soon."
"Others?" Draco croaked as Crabbe grabbed his arm.
"Yeah...there's going to be two more to show you scenes Dumbledore deemed worthy. Crazy old bastard-Death didn't change him a bit," Crabbe muttered. "You remember when we went flying after the Yule Ball party? And you threw up all of your father's good firewhiskey?"
With a grimace, Draco nodded. Crabbe let out a breath of a laugh, almost reminiscing if it weren't for the angry set of his chubby jaw. Death had turned Crabbe bitter, not that Draco could blame him-it was his fault he had died in the Fiendfyre, his fault they had even been in the Room of Requirement to begin with. "Well, you might want to close your eyes for the transport. It feels even worse than puking cinnamon through your nose for days."
With that, Crabbe's hand closed around his upper arm and Draco clenched his eyes tightly, praying for it to be over quickly. He felt a tugging, not only in his navel as with a portkey, but in every fiber of his body. It felt as though his skeleton was being tugged first and its fleshy encasement had no choice but to follow. The sensation burned like a crucio and made his stomach roil grotesquely before his feet slammed down on solid ground.
Draco dreaded opening his eyes, knowing exactly where they would be standing. The smell of wood and plaster and furniture burning assaulted his nostrils. The sounds of screaming filled the air around him and heavy footsteps pounded the ground near where he stood. He could feel spells shooting all around him, even one through him, creating a searing pain in his right shoulder. Crabbe shook his arm. "You've got to open your eyes, Malfoy."
"I know where we are. I don't understand why I have to watch this again-as though this night doesn't haunt me enough as it is," Draco argued, his shoulders tensing as he opened his eyes.
The scene around him was one of mass chaos and fright, one he remembered with a sickening constricting of his heart. His first revel with the other Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had commanded him to join in the festivities, pleased with his revelation that a Vanishing Cabinet was the key to infiltrating Hogwarts. Draco watched in revulsion as people fled their burning homes into the streets, only to be met with the deadly end of a curse.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, recalling his positioning as the pandemonium erupted around him. If he were to turn around, he would see himself at sixteen, wand raised limply, crouching behind the front hedgerow of a house that belonged to Milton and Hortense Harker. Of all the ways to spend Christmas Eve, this was the worst way he could imagine-wreaking havoc on innocent families as their children dreamt of Father Christmas and Yule cakes.
Bellatrix was prancing in the street to his left, cackling maniacally as she spun and twirled as a teenaged girl before her first date. The end of her wand ignited emerald every so often and there would be a new thud as a body was added to the growing pile. "I can't believe this is what we ever wanted," Draco remarked, watching as Bellatrix flounced past.
The Death Eaters who were present on this evening were the underlings, the Dark Lord's inner circle all incarcerated for their failures in the Department of Mysteries. But even the weakest of Death Eaters were far more ferocious than he would ever be. Crabbe looked over his shoulder. "Ah, and there you are-our fearless leader. Cowering in the shrubbery," he mentioned, pointing over Draco's shoulder.
Bracing himself, his line of sight followed Crabbe's extended hand and his eyes fell on his sixteen-year-old self. Draco could feel the fear singing within his own body as he remembered the incapacitating terror he had felt during his first revel. Bellatrix danced her way toward him, and he could see the exact moment his younger self realized he would be expected to participate.
"Oh, nephew! Why are you hiding back here?" his crazed aunt taunted. "Hiding like your pathetic excuse of a father?"
Draco watched as he stood and squared his shoulders even as his face turned ashen. "I am not hiding, Aunt Bella. Simply surveying so I know how to proceed."
Bella threw her head of wild curls back and laughed, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward the front door of the home. Draco drew his cracked and bleeding lip between his teeth, knowing exactly what they would find when Bella blew the doors from the hinges. "Scared, Malfoy?" Crabbe asked from beside him, walking forward a pace and indicating that Draco should follow.
"Why are you doing this? What does Dumbledore think I am going to gain by watching this again?" Draco demanded once more, reluctantly taking a step forward to follow the specter.
"I'm following orders. Don't like that I'm not blindly following you anymore?" Crabbe asked, turning to look over his shoulder as they went up the stairs of the front porch.
Bella blew the door off, just as Draco knew she would and pushed his sixteen-year-old body through the smoke cloud. "Sniff them out, nephew. Find them."
Draco followed Crabbe, staring at the little details he hadn't been able to take in, mundane things that had not made their way into his nightmares-the color of the clapboard siding, crooked near the doorframe; a potted tentacula plant on the porch, withering under dark magic; the incessant barking of a dog from a few houses down.
Just as they had two years ago, Draco's eyes found the portrait of a beautiful family, smiling and waving at him from the hold where the door had once been. Milton Harker was a muggle-born from Surrey and his wife, Hortense, a half-blood from Wales. "Wastes of perfectly good magic," he could hear his aunt rasping, a phrase that had echoed in his mind every night for two years.
Crabbe stood still and waited for him to pass, following his former self and his aunt. Draco did, covering his ears with his fingers as he shuffled forward. A piercing scream rang into the darkness and Crabbe flinched at the sound. The Harker's five-year-old daughter was screeching like a banshee as Bellatrix grabbed her mother up in a fistful of hair. "Grab her, Draco!" his aunt commanded as the young girl began to kick her shins.
"Don't, you dolt!" he reprimanded, even as his sixteen-year-old body moved forth toward the child.
She was a feisty little imp and attempted to bite Draco. He pulled his wand and pointed it at her. "Bite me and I will pluck your teeth out one by one," he hissed at the tiny girl, who promptly closed her mouth.
The fear was rolling off of him in waves and was nearly palpable as he, as an adult, chided himself. "Idiot, leave the girl be!"
It was no use-the Draco of the vision could not see or hear him. Bella had Mrs. Harker on her knees, staring at where Draco was holding her tiny frame with trembling hands. Her husband lay, petrified, behind them. "I'm leaving. I can't watch this again, Vinnie. It's too much," Draco snarled, turning on heel before he could possibly witness the event that was mere seconds from following.
As he stepped from the front door, his foot hit harsh stone and he was once again standing in the damp, frigid cell in Azkaban.
Draco looked around, waiting for Crabbe to follow. But the scene had dissipated, the sights and smells of that night once again reduced to a mere memory. The ghastly sight of a half-burned and maimed Vincent Crabbe seemed more like a hallucination in the darkness of his prison.
Was he going mad? Spirits were known to inhabit the earth, fulfilling menial tasks in the afterlife. But this was Crabbe, not Professor Binns or the Bloody Baron. Why would Dumbledore have sent Crabbe to show Draco one of the worst nights of his life? How did Dumbledore even know about that night-nearly seven months after his own death?
Knees wobbling, the wizard collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his shallow breaths coming rapidly until he was nearly hyperventilating. The little Harker girl's death, the way she went limp in his body at the use of Bellatrix's Killing Curse, was forever ingrained in his mind, his body, his being. He would never forget that night and the vivid reminder was certainly unwelcome.
Draco lay on his back on the wood slab that served as his mattress and the tears streamed down from his eyes and puddled on either side of his head. The skin of his face was raw and the slick trails burned as the cold air settled in tiny ice flakes. A clattering and banging sounded at the end of the long corridor, before the door to their block opened and closed. Draco stood and braced himself for the guards' taunting and instead heard a deep guffawing. "You ignorant pricks! No sense of humor!" called a familiar voice between laughs.
Alarms sounded around the prison as a black smoke filled the space, creeping like tendrils of ivy as it surrounded Draco. It was warm and thick, causing him to cough as his eyes began to burn. "Well, if it isn't the whiny little git himself. Tell me, will daddy hear about this one?" chimed a sing-songy voice through the cloud.
The sound of it was familiar, a voice from his past that he couldn't seem to place. His hands lifted to his eyes, attempting to keep them from watering as the inky smog burned and his throat tightened. He heard rattling and rustling as other inmates awoke. "What the fuck?" came the growl of Fenrir Greyback, the feral noise of a wolf snarling.
"Shut it, you mangy mutt," the male's voice chided lazily.
A whistle sounded directly next to Draco's ear, deafening him and effectively blocking out all noise. The black cloud began to slowly clear and he opened his eyes slowly, realizing he was on his knees. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but as his vision came back, he realized he was looking up at another specter, this one gangly and redheaded. The Weasley twin. The black smoke was siphoning into the end of his wand and he was smirking at him in amusement, a single ginger eyebrow raised. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Ferret got your tongue?"
"Did Dumbledore send you, too?" Draco questioned, ignoring the jibe.
"'Spose so. I couldn't pass up the chance to show you how much of a prick you really are," Weasley told him, pulling a large coin from his pocket and turning it between his fingers.
Draco looked around and noticed, for the first time, that they were standing in the knee-deep water of a swamp. The wind blew lightly, rustling cattails around him. He was within some kind of a dome-like ward and he could see snow falling in arcs around them, though he stood in a temperate climate. Over the twin's shoulder, he could see a run-down and hastily assembled shack that looked like multiple houses stacked atop one another. "Where are we?" he asked, running his fingertips over a cattail, causing it to explode into a puff of soft silk in his hand.
"The Burrow," the twin responded, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
Peering first through and then around the ghost, Draco narrowed his eyes. "Charming. Why?"
"Dumbledore wanted me to show you what is happening as your sorry arse rots in a prison cell right now," Weasley responded, turning and walking atop the water's surface toward his childhood home.
Draco stood, his feet seemingly taking root in the swamp bed. In the still evening, winter turned summer with strong magic, he could hear the loud chattering of voices. Willing his eyes to focus, he watched from outside of the window as Harry Potter gesticulated and slammed a hand down on the kitchen table. Hermione Granger and the other Weasleys were all gathered around in the small space, Kingsley Shacklebolt seated and rubbing his temples. The ethereal twin looked over his shoulder. "Are you going to stand out here all night and let the grindylows bite? Or are you going to move your arse?"
Draco looked down at the water's murky depths and then began to wade as quickly as possible through the thick muck. The twin tossed his head back in a barking laugh as Draco stepped onto the bank, glaring in his direction. He put a hand out a slipped through the wall of the house and into the kitchen, Draco staring indignantly. His head popped through the door, his red hair falling into his face as he frowned. "Come on then," he commanded, grabbing the front of Draco's prison jumpsuit into his fist.
With a forceful tug, Draco was standing in the Weasley's kitchen amidst a crowd of people. All of whom, it appeared, was in a heated discussion about him. "His mother saved Harry's life and we couldn't even repay the favor before she died, Kingsley!" Molly Weasley was reprimanding, her hands on her hips. "That action alone helped us win this War."
"Yes, Molly," the Minister conceded, "I understand how integral Narcissa Malfoy's action was in turning the tides in our favor. However, her actions do not erase those of her son."
"Codswallop," Arthur Weasley responded, sitting back in his chair across from the Minister harshly. "That's Ministry politics at its finest."
"Malfoy hesitated in identifying us in the Manor when the Snatchers captured us!" Potter claimed, crossing his arms as he stood behind the Weasley patriarch. "Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Harry," Shacklebolt began, "It's not so simple. The public-"
"The public wants a monster and so you are giving them exactly what they want!" Granger spoke up and Draco felt his heart clench as if in a vice at the sound. "Regardless of what is right!"
It was hammering in his chest when he glanced in her direction and the sight of her made his mouth run dry. Granger was spitting fire and her hair was wild and carefree around her face, growing in volume as her anger rose. His lips parted slightly and he felt an icy brush of his shoulder. He realized the dead twin had tried to clap him on the back. "So you fancied her, then?"
Draco rolled his eyes and averted his gaze to where the Minister was sputtering over a response. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"All those years you made her life a living hell and it was all because you fucking fancied her?" he questioned, looking at Draco in disgust. "How fucking sick is that?"
"My father would have killed me," Draco mumbled, looking at Granger from under his lashes. "Or worse, her. I couldn't bear it."
Weasley huffed and rolled his eyes, though he went still a moment later, looking over Draco's head. Draco turned to see the other twin, a large G on his jumper, walk into the room. George. So the dead one was Fred Weasley. Fred looked at his likeness and Draco saw a pained countenance overtake him. "Georgie. God, I miss you, fuck face."
He moved to embrace the living twin and his arms slipped around him. Fred was crestfallen as he back away. "Fuck Dumbledore. Why the hell would he have me show you to my parents' home, with my family gathered around?"
Draco turned away, attempting to give the twin a moment of privacy in the midst of the argument continuing around them. "If that little shit hadn't ever let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, my brother might still be alive," George mumbled, passing everyone on his way to the cauldron hanging in the hearth.
Granger moved toward the surviving twin and placed a hand on his back. "George, look at me," she commanded lightly, taking the soup ladle from his shaking hands. "You know you're speaking out of anger. Malfoy was a child, scared and mislead. He didn't kill Freddie."
George looked down at Granger and raised a hand to cup her face. "Always the optimist, 'Mione."
Granger smiled and lifted a hand to cover his. "It's the right thing to do. He and his mother saved our lives-the lives of everyone in the wizarding world."
Everyone else was looking at the pair, matching looks of trepidation painting their features. Ron Weasley was leaning against the sink, running his palm over long, curly scars along his forearm. "I never thought I'd see the day I wanted to help Malfoy. But Hermione is right. The smarmy bastard's cowardice is the only reason we're alive now."
"It's not this simple," Shacklebolt began again, putting his forehead into his hands.
"You can call an emergency Wizengamot session," Granger told him, crossing her arms.
"On Christmas?" Shacklebolt asked incredulously.
"Even better. Fewer members will show. Fewer people to convince," Potter claimed, smirking as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Why are they trying to get me released? I don't deserve their compassion. I didn't hesitate to save them-I did it to save us all, myself included. If the Dark Lord had won…"
His voice trailed off and Fred spoke from where Granger was standing next to George, running a hand over his back comfortingly. "Because this is what we do-whatever is right. You might be a foul git with greasy hair and a broom handle up your arse, but you weren't an evil Death Eater."
At a loss for words, Draco looked around the room. Shacklebolt looked defeated and he finally leaned back from his slumped position. "Fine. But if I'm going to make myself look like a fool, the three of you," he motioned to each member of the Golden Trio, "are coming along. I'll be in touch in a few hours."
Potter and Weasley both shook the Minister's hand as he took his leave and Granger gave him a hug. "We appreciate this. An innocent man doesn't deserve to spend Christmas in Azkaban."
"I cannot guarantee anything, Hermione," Shacklebolt tried and she waved him away.
"No. But we will fight them on this."
With that, the family led the Minister to the floo, Draco and Fred trailing behind them. The deceased twin looked morose once more as he watched his family gather around the shabby living room. "They'll open a single gift now," he mentioned, glancing briefly at Draco. "It's tradition."
Draco nodded as they stood and watched the family members all take their seats. "It was tradition in our family, as well. Usually, we gave each other a book."
It was only then that he noticed all of them had a jumper with their initial on it. Molly was passing around gifts and Draco moved to stand behind Granger. She and Potter were conversing under their breath, discussing the likelihood that he would be released. "It makes me sick that they're only keeping him there to set an example."
Potter shrugged. "He was a Death Eater, no matter how reluctant. The public is scared, 'Mione."
"Nonsense. It's not like he's going to try and be the next Dark Lord. He was sixteen. We all made stupid decisions at sixteen," she retorted, smiling at Molly when a package was balanced on her knee.
He noted the pointed glance that was sent in the youngest brother's direction. He was conversing with a tall man who was covered in shiny burns he knew were from a dragon. "Lavender will be flooing in tomorrow. She's on holiday with her mum in Italy…"
Granger rolled her eyes and Potter pat her awkwardly on the back. They all began to unwrap their gifts and Fred was watching as his twin unwrapped a book. "'One Thousand and One Curses to Make Someone's Life Hell.'"
Ron looked up and grinned from ear to ear. "I figure we could use those and incorporate them into some of the products in the new year."
George smiled for the first time since they'd arrived. "An excellent idea, baby brother. The masses won't even know what hit them."
Fred's mouth parted slightly before it broke into a wide grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Ron stepped up and is partnering with George at the shop," he said, pride coloring his tone.
Draco put his hand up to clap him on the back but thought better of putting his hand through the cold air once more. "Looks like they're doing quite well, all things considered."
Fred wiped at a fat, silvery tear on his cheek. "Seems that way."
Draco turned away, his attention back on where Granger's fingers plucked at the wrapping paper. She uncovered a third edition of The Unabridged Biography of Merlin and smiled widely at the Weasley who had the dragon burns. "Thank you, Charlie. I haven't read this one yet!"
Draco scoffed and Fred raised an eyebrow. "Something amusing, Malfoy?
"I'd have given her the first edition from the library at the Manor," he commented, staring down at the frizzy-haired witch.
"Not everyone can afford that," Fred defended.
"I'd give her every book in the library," Draco mumbled, ignoring the twin's indignance.
At that moment, Granger looked up from where her fingers were touching the worn edges and Draco could have sworn she was looking right up at him. His heart clenched painfully and he fought the urge to brush his fingertips along her jaw. Just as he thought that he could watch her for days, the room around them began to dissipate once more, the warmth and love of the Weasley household evaporating into the grim slate stone of his cell.
The twin was gone and Draco was left standing in his cell. A cold breeze blew through the window and he looked down to find that his jumpsuit was completely stripped from him. He looked around and found the garment balled up on his bed and heard an unearthly cackling and the whistling of one Fred Weasley as he stomped up the stairs. "Happiest of Christmases, ferret!" he heard and then there was silence.
Fighting a grin, Draco quickly slid into his striped jumpsuit once more, needing the barrier the thin garment provided against the wind. He sat on his bed once more, his back against the damp stone. He almost wished that he had known Fred Weasley in life, instead of instantly hated him for his blood-traitor family and Gryffindor status.
As his amusement in the twin began to wane, it was instead replaced with a hollow longing. Granger had looked so radiant, so blasted fiery and heated as she argued-on his behalf, no less. Try as he might, he had not been able to push her from his mind or his heart during the endless days of mourning since the War.
Draco knew he did not deserve the zealous crusade being waged in his defense. He had been on the opposing side of the War until the very last moment, trying to save his and his mother's lives. The sky outside of his window was lightening, the inky black turning to a turmoiled snowy grey, laced with violet as the sun began to rise on the horizon.
The sound of the door down the hall startled him from his thoughts and he heard the garbled hyena calls of the two guards as they ambled in. There was grumbling from the cell next to him as they drew nearer, clearly having drunk a significant amount in their absence. They were laughing jovially and the light from their wands shined through the bars of his cell door. "Still awake, boy? Dreaming of dear old mum?" the thin one taunted.
His jaw set and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to block the sound of their voices as they threw crude insults in his direction. From just beside his left ear came the sweet sound of humming-a tune he was intimately familiar with from his childhood. His head whipped up from its resting place against the wall and he saw the luminescent figure of his mother sitting on the bed next to him. "Little Dragon," she breathed, moving her hand to cup his cheek.
"Mum," he croaked, trying to place his hand over hers the best he could as a shiver rippled through his body.
Narcissa chuckled lightly and smiled sadly. "You look far too thin, son. They're starving you in here."
"Just like they did you," he retorted bitterly, turning to the guards who had apparently just taken note that Madam Yaxley was sprawled across the floor of her cell.
"They didn't starve me, dragon. The dark magic did," was her calm reply even as she stared, seemingly through the wall into Yaxley's cell.
Draco remained silent and still, though he yearned to throw his arms around his mother in a rare show of affection. She turned back to him with a kind smile. "You've had a bit of a rough night, haven't you, son? Hope Freddie wasn't too mischievous."
"He was alright. Bit perturbed at having to sit in front of his own family as they celebrated Christmas without him," Draco mentioned casually, already mourning the moment his mother would have to leave him once more.
"I think Dumbledore wanted him to find peace more than anything," Narcissa told him, putting an arm over his shoulders.
The cool air of her arm over his bare neck caused gooseflesh to raise over his skin. It wasn't right, didn't feel at all like the Narcissa Black Malfoy he remembered. His mother, even in the face of the foulest monster, had been the warmest individual to ever grace this earth. Her face, forever enshrined with her prison identification tattoos, may not have aged or changed much, but her touch was unraveling his heart more than wrapping it in comfort as it once had. "Have you? Found peace?" he asked in a whisper, recalling dubious scenes from his childhood as he did.
"I miss you. And your father," she told him, her faded crystal blue eyes watering. "But it's not so bad otherwise."
Draco never wanted the night to end now that he was back in his mother's presence but knew that she was not there for a simple game of catch up. "What do you have to show me? I know Dumbledore sent you as well. I've seen my past and the present. It only seems to point to the fact that you'll show me my future?"
Narcissa smiled widely and attempted to run her fingers through his hair. "Always the deductive, rational one. I'm here to show you the future. Should you choose the right path."
His mother saddled up closer to him, making his icy body even more chilled and waved her hand before her. He marveled, not for the first time, at how elegant and graceful his mother's movements were. Before them, on the wall, a scene began to play out, like one of the old muggle films he'd read about so long ago.
"I always wanted to go to the muggle theaters when we visited Paris on holiday," he remarked, wishing he could nestle into the warm embrace of his mother once more.
"I'd hoped to ride out the War and take you. Once we weren't under such...restrictions," she phrased carefully, not wanting to damn his father but making her stance known. "Now watch."
A scene spread out before him, as the guards' panicked voices faded beyond. He saw himself, older by perhaps a few years and healthy, fit and able. He was sitting behind a large chest, pulling Christmas decorations from a box, a grouchy countenance upon his face.
"I still don't know how we got roped into doing this. I don't even like these damn 'Ministry Christmas Extravaganzas'!" he spat bitterly, tapping a string of fairy lights with his wand.
"Oh, hush, you old Scrooge!" Granger commanded, stepping in behind where he sat on the floor so she could peer over his shoulder.
She bent over and retrieved a limp strand of garland, her nose lifted in a disgusted sneer. "We will have to improvise with these decorations a bit. They're…" she waved her hand, searching for the word.
"Older than the Malfoy bloodline?" he supplied, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at her.
Granger giggled and swatted his shoulder before straightening the garland and using her wand to try and bring some life to the pathetic wisp. Draco had a smirk on his face as he tapped the fairy lights to life one by one. The lights in the ballroom were extinguished and Granger and older Draco were illuminated only by the lights in his hand and hers.
She went to the nearby table and turned up the muggle radio she had perched there, humming obnoxiously to the music. Draco's smile, ever present, widened slightly where she couldn't see. "Merlin, Granger. Sounds like the mating call of a thousand hippogriffs."
Granger huffed and stomped her foot, glaring at his back from where she was using a sticking charm to hang the evergreen bough. Draco watched himself as the older version of him began to hum with the tune on the radio. "I didn't know you knew muggle Christmas songs!" she accused.
"You've played on that blasted thing them every day for a month!" he told her, standing with the string of fully illuminated lights in his hand.
He strode to the Christmas tree, lazily waving his wand so that it wrapped neatly around the branches. "Are you going to visit your parents this year?" he asked loudly.
Granger bristled and stepped down from her step stool. "I'm not in contact with my parents. The Weasleys invited me, but I don't want to impede on their holiday plans, you know?"
"Yes...Christmas in a house full of little-redheaded brats...and their children, too. Can't blame you," vision Draco remarked, grimacing when she tossed a plastic Christmas ornament at his head.
Draco noted that his taunts were said in jest and held no malice, a fact that apparently did not slip by Granger as she let out a jovial laugh. "Normally, I'd reprimand you for your constant digs at Ron and the others...but Lav-Lav is going to be there. And I really don't think I could stand to watch the two of them snog like teenagers over their bread pudding again."
"You sound a little bitter," Draco remarked and he went to stand next to Granger.
Next to the real Draco, his mother bent close to his ear. "This is my favorite part."
Draco watched closely as his older self put a hand on Granger's back and the pair took in their meager decorations. "We're rubbish at this, you know," he pointed out, turning his head to the side to take it all in.
"What about you? Where will you spend Christmas?" Granger asked quietly, leaning into his side slightly, waving her wand at baubles to place them on the tree. "Please tell me you're not spending it in this dank Ministry building?"
Draco instinctively knew the words that would fall from his mouth before his vision could even speak. It would be what he would ask her, if he could see her right now, under the right set of circumstances. "I'd love to spend it with you if you'd let me."
Granger looked up at him and the look on her face made Draco lift a hand to his heart as he watched the pair. It was aching as it thumped rapidly at the sight. "I'd love that. But...not at the Manor, right? You can come to my flat and we'll cook together. You can show me some of those culinary skills you're always bragging about."
Both Draco's laughed and Narcissa smiled. "Apparently, when I leave here, I abandon the need for servitude and learn to cook. Father would have a stroke," Draco joked and his mother simply nodded pleasantly, staring as the scene shifted before them.
The couple was now standing in a modest kitchen and Draco's hands were covered in flour. "I much prefer hand-rolled pasta to the boxed stuff the muggles process," he was saying as Granger took a sip from a glass of red wine.
"If you say so. I'm sorry I burned the chicken," she stated, dumping a strange lump of meat from a pan into a rubbish bin.
"We can have pasta with a wine sauce. No need for meat," vision Draco shrugged, looking pleased as punch to be standing in that cramped space, wearing an apron that read, "KISS THE COOK."
He washed his hands and then opened the oven to levitate out a tray of bread rolls, baked to perfection. "This is little Darla's recipe. You've got to try a bite."
Draco let out a squeak at the mention of his house elf and Narcissa tried to pat his thigh sympathetically. He had not thought much on what happened to the tiny elf that had always nurtured and cared for him, the faces of his human victims haunting him far more frequently. But, faced with the sound of her name, her large brown eyes and floppy ears refused to leave his mind. "It hurts, Mother. Everything."
She smiled knowingly. "Just watch, my fierce little dragon."
Draco heeded her command, one again turning his attention to the couple in the scene splayed across his cell wall. Vision Draco was tearing a roll apart and lifted a small bite to Granger's lips. She raised an eyebrow as she ate the bite of bread, sipping on red wine after to clear her palette. "It's-"
Draco never got to hear what she thought of his cooking, because the older version of himself brought his lips against hers in a quick motion. He felt his mouth fall open at his future self's gumption, his cheeks staining with color as he felt his mother's eyes on him. Narcissa's tinkling laugh filled his mind and she put a hand under his chin, prompting him to close his mouth. "Surprised?"
Surprise didn't begin to cover the emotions coursing through Draco as he watched Granger thread her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. She was kissing him back, with fervor and interest. His hands ran under the hem of her shirt over the skin of her back and his mother vanished the scene before it could get too heated.
"You could have that, Draco. If you'd only open your heart and let the girl in," his mother implored.
"Open my heart? If, by some miracle of Merlin, they are able to get me out of here, she would never forgive me of my past grievances," he replied sadly, closing his eyes to his mother's otherworldly gaze.
"You don't know her very well at all, then. Perhaps you don't deserve her," she chided lightly, rising from the bed. "But let me show you what awaits you if you can't manage to pull yourself together."
Opening his eyes, he watched as his mother tapped the empty wall and a new scene spread from her fingertip like the rippling of water on a pond.
He appeared to be in his fifties, if the receding hairline and graying temples were any indicator. The resemblance to Lucius was striking and Draco felt his stomach roil at the sight. He was sitting in a chair by the window, staring out at the world beyond as snow swirled and danced. Raising a glass of amber to his lips, he gulped it down in one go only to refill it a moment later. A bottle of Ogden's, aged fifty years. Rich. Ostentatious.
"A lonely old grouch, alone with only a bottle of whiskey and your thoughts," his mother told him, pointing at his bleary stare and disheveled clothing.
Narcissa touched her fingertip to the wall again and the scene shifted to reveal Granger, her fingers laced with George Weasley's as they watched a young woman, who looked to be the perfect mixture of the two, unwrap a gift. She was smiling merrily, though her eyes drifted to the window for a brief moment, watching the snow fall. "A first edition?" the young woman screeched and she tossed her arms around both parents.
"I saw Mister Malfoy in town today and mentioned that I was searching for it," Granger explained, both to her daughter and husband. "He returned with it, already wrapped, not a minute later."
"How is he?" George questioned, pushing a set of reading glasses onto his nose to look over the book.
"Not well. The Healers said he may have six months, at most," Granger told him quietly, clearing her throat before smiling once more. "But enough about him. Let us enjoy our Christmas Eve."
"There are two paths you can go by, son, but it is up to you to chose your destiny," his mother spoke, commanding his attention as they stood together in his cell, the early morning light filtering in.
Draco felt his eyes welling with unshed tears, his heart heavy as he knew his mother's time was heading to an end. "Mother," he whispered, turning to her and wishing, for what amounted to the hundredth time that night, that he could embrace her. "I don't want you to go. Can't you stay? Like the Baron or Professor Binns?"
Narcissa's lips curved into a sad smile as she took in the sight of her son, far too thin with the grey pallor of malnutrition on his skin. Her eyes took in the rising sun and she shook her head. "I've stayed too long as it is, darling. It's time for me to go. You'll do just fine without me hovering over you."
"Mum-"
"You're a good man with a heart of gold. Show the world, Draco," she told him, her figure already beginning to fade. "I'm proud of you, son."
With that last heartwrenching proclamation, she was gone and he knew it would be for eternity this time. So much had happened in the last few hours and yet, an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion set in and he found himself fighting to remain standing. Stumbling to his bed, he pulled the thin woolen cover over his body and curled into the fetal position. Granger's voice, his mother's humming, Fred's laughter-they created a cacophony of sound within his mind that served to lure him into a fitful slumber.
o-o-o
"Oi! Malfoy! Get your sickly carcass out of the bed!" a voice startled Draco from a dead sleep.
With a groan, he pulled his blanket over his face once more. "If you would rather stay here, you can. But you're being released!" the male voice called again and his eyes shot open as he tossed the blanket from his body.
"I'm...I'm what?" he asked, watching as the guard-someone unfamiliar to him-said the correct sequence of charms to release his door.
"For some reason, the Wizengamot has decided to let you walk. Don't understand it myself-"
"Stop with that, Felfoy," came the voice of an angel from a few feet away.
Granger stepped into his line of vision and stood with her hands on her hips, watching as the guard pointed his wand at Draco's forehead. "If you try to attack me, I'll release the dementors," the guard warned and Molly Weasley pushed past them both and walked right into the cell.
"Have you been starving him?" she questioned, eyeing the guard with suspicion as she took in the sight of his jumpsuit hanging limply from his frame.
The guard rolled his eyes. "He gets his three meals a day."
Meal was being generous-if a roll and a hunk of meat smaller than his palm was a meal, than a single feast at Hogwarts could have fed him for a lifetime. Molly stood in front of him and sighed. "May I call you 'Draco'?"
He shrugged, eyeing the three intruders to his privacy. It all came flooding back-the three spirits, the tenacity in Granger's tone as she pressed Shacklebolt to release him, his mother's request that he open his heart. "What are you all doing here? Granger? Missus...Weasley?"
"Seems your mother made quite the impression on Harry during the Final Battle," Granger told him, surveying every inch of his cell, no doubt to bring her findings before the court once more.
"Potter?" he rasped, rubbing a hand over his throat, sore with disuse. "Potter had me released...from prison? But we've never gotten along."
"War changes people, Malfoy," Granger told him, as though this wasn't a reality he faced every moment of his life. "Harry has been making amends with everyone."
"So where is he? Why are you here?" he asked as the guard prodded him in the back with the tip of his wand, ushering him from the cell.
Granger and Molly flanked him on either side and Granger raised an eyebrow as she looked up at him while they strode the corridors, cat-calls from other prisoners resonating from the stones. "Would you have rather he retrieved you, then?"
Draco shook his head. "Not exactly."
As they neared the registration room to retrieve his few belongings, a sinking feeling weighed like a stone in his stomach. The Manor, his vaults-it had all been seized and all assets frozen while he had sat in prison. Even a free man, he would have nowhere to go. Molly, as though she read his thoughts, smiled. "You'll come to the Burrow for the night. Better than staying at the Leaky on Christmas."
Draco bristled as he retrieved the black shirt and trousers he had been arrested wearing. "You may have some to the conclusion that I have never been some bloodthirsty villain, but I am far from being friends with any of you."
"There's plenty of time to change that, then. Come and break bread with us. No one wants to be alone, drowning in whiskey on Christmas," Granger told him, gracing him with the first real smile.
He hesitated and she nudged him with her elbow. "'Tis the season of forgiveness, right?"
Draco thought back to the glimpse of his bleak and dreary future alone, only for it to be replaced with the warmth that had spread through his entire body at the sight of himself kissing the witch next to him as they cooked in her kitchen. His eyes flickered to her lips for a brief moment and Molly sighed impatiently. "You're coming with us, dear. What is your favorite Christmas trimming? Bread pudding? Roasted potatoes? How about a few slices of succulent ham?"
She placed her hand on his shoulder and tapped the clothing in his hand and then his chest, replacing the prison garb with his own. Bursting with confusion and gratitude at their kindness, Draco shook his head slightly. "Uh...my house elf used to make sweet rolls. I always enjoyed them."
"Darla?" Granger questioned and he raised an eyebrow with a nod.
"She's staying in the Center for Displaced Elves in Diagon Alley. Quite the personality she has," she informed him with a wide smile.
"She's alive?" his voice was a mere choke of relief.
"And feisty," Granger supplied.
Darla had made it through the War unharmed. Draco was freed from the confines of prison. Granger was smiling up at him, pleased with his apparent relief. Molly was prattling off a menu that made his mouth water. He was uncertain how his life had transfigured in the blink of an eye, from barren and futureless as he rotted in a cold prison cell, to being brought to celebrate Christmas with his one-time enemies.
Molly had to nearly drag him into the floo as his feet trudged with uncertainty. His arrival at the Burrow caused a dozen set of eyes to stare and a din of laughter and joy to quiet to a dead silence. He could not bring himself to look into the eyes of any of the others-people he had hurt, time and again over the last eight years of his life. He had nearly killed Ron with poisoned mead. His father had nearly killed the girl with Tom Riddle's diary. He had nearly killed them all by leading Death Eaters into the castle.
It was Arthur Weasley who rose first, extending his hand to Draco. He stared at it a moment before closing his hand around the smaller, sun spotted one of the Weasley patriarch. "Was the trip over satisfactory?"
Molly spoke over Draco, removing her scarf. "That damn prison-they're starving them, Art."
Granger sprung to life from behind him as well. "You wait until the new year. I am going straight to the Daily Prophet. It's abborhent, how they're treating the prisoners-prisoners who haven't even had a trial, in some cases!"
"You'll be hard pressed to find anyone who cares, Hermione," Bill Weasley told her, putting his feet up on the coffee table as he wrapped a hand around Fleur Delacour.
"I do! And I will make others see!" Granger protested, huffing even as Bill watched her with a challenging eyebrow raised.
"Like you did spew?" Ron asked, sitting on the floor at Lavender Brown's feet.
Granger turned and glared in his direction. "Who now runs a highly successful elf sanctuary?" she demanded.
"Touche," Weasley told her with a lopsided grin, though he was eyeing Draco over her shoulder, wary but attempting to keep the peace under his mother's watchful gaze.
Lavender was watching him with distinct displeasure, though he had not moved a muscle since stepping out of the fireplace. Potter came to stand next to him, holding out a tumblr of clear liquid. Draco looked up at him and took the glass hesitantly. Potter smirked and tipped his own shot back. "We didn't fight to get you released, just to poison you in Molly's clean sitting room on Christmas."
"I'm so lost," Draco admitted quietly, trying to focus on anything but the way they were all looking at him, a mix of fascination and hatred, hesitation and suspicion.
They did not fully trust him, though they had all agreed that this was the right and just thing to do, to have him released. Granger retrieved the one gift left under the tree and he knew instinctively that it was a book. "Sit by the fire. I'm sure it feels good after being in that decrepit pit all this time."
Draco looked around at them all and individuals began to rise, making excuses to leave the room. "How about a game of pick up quidditch?" Ginny suggested, looping her arm through Potter's and giving her brother and the maimed Brown girl a pointed look.
"I can really clear a room, huh?" Draco joked without mirth.
"I couldn't save them all," Granger told him, sitting next to him on the floor by the fire. "Just one."
Draco furrowed his brow and hooked his finger under the wrapping paper. Now they were giving him gifts-what was wrong with these do-gooders? Pulling the paper away, an ancient and well-worn book was revealed to him. Draco's throat closed as a lump rose and his breath hitched. The Tales of Lady Morgana and Merlin. He raised a shaking hand to cover his mouth, knowing what came next. He lifted the cover and his mother's soothing voice poured into the room. She had charmed the book to read aloud in her voice when he was a child. It had accompanied him to Hogwarts that first year, if nothing more to keep him company as he battled crippling loneliness in the face of his cronies.
"Happy Christmas, Malfoy," Granger murmured softly as she rose to give him a few moments of privacy.
It took moments for him to find his voice and when he did, he was alone in the room. "Happy Christmas, Granger."
o-o-o
A/N: Well...a quick take on Dicken's A Christmas Carol. The bolded line is directly from the book and the title is a play on a quote spoken by Jacob Marley to Scrooge when he first visits him. Obviously, a little friendlier version of the Light, accepting him right away. But it's Christmas.I am still battling through a hiatus and struggling to find time to write, but I spent the last three days tapping away to give y'all something before the year ended. Please review, and Merry Christmas to all of you lovely humans.