Footsteps on Fallen Snow

by catsintheattic

Imagine a world where Pansy Parkinson changed the outcome of the war. Written for Springtime Gen 2010.

Author's notes: Written for scarletladyy at Springtime Gen 2010. When I read the prompt I was jumping up and down with joy – Draco and dark or angsty fic are my favourite pastimes. I had no idea what I was getting into when I started this story.

Thank you, celta_diabolica and melusinahp, for your sharp eyes and helpful comments, for pushing me to write a better story and for making time in the thick of your own tasks. You rock! Thank you, AmyLouise, for sharing your knowledge of Latin to help me come up with a new spell. Kennahijja inspired the summary, even though she didn't know it. :-) And massive thanks to the mods for being so patient with me.

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Footsteps on Fallen Snow

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His mistress is deeply worried. After months of hosting a monster, the household is finally relieved of it. And yet, she continues to worry. He isn't a reader of minds, but he has known her all her life, has moved with her to the manor house. "Bring the tea," she says, and from the tone of her voice he knows what kind of day it's going to be. He is bound to her by life and secrets. And if she is miserable, his life is prone to misery, too.

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When the Dark Lord defeated Potter, it was due to Draco's best friend.

After Pansy's betrayal of Potter, she was sent from Hogwarts with the rest of Slytherin House and the younger students. But immediately upon her arrival in Hogsmeade, while Draco, Crabbe and Goyle sneaked back to the castle and into the Room of Hidden Things, Pansy went straight to the Dark Lord and then returned to Hogwarts with his troops. And in the decisive moments of the battle, when Harry Potter and the Dark Lord set about duelling to the death, it was Pansy who launched herself at Potter and wrung Draco's hawthorn wand from his grip. The Dark Lord, master of the Elder Wand, didn't hesitate and killed Potter with an efficient, merciless Avada Kedavra. And that, as they said, was the end of the story.

Draco, unfortunately, hadn't witnessed Pansy's great moment. He was still outside the castle, wandless, afraid, and unable to fight. But, of course, Pansy told him all about it when she visited a day later to return his wand. The first wave of frantic celebration was slowly ebbing away and rumours had spread that the Dark Lord, now residing at Hogwarts, was already planning the final wipe-out of the remaining Potter-fighters.

"I knew I could do it," Pansy said to Draco, laughter bubbling from her lips. "Because it was your wand. It has this notch where the handle rests against the hand, which bites into your palm when an opponent grabs the wand, making it impossible to keep your grip. You have a little beast of a stick, Draco, so willing to turn against its owner."

Her throaty laughter rubbed pleasantly against his eardrums, and he joined her then stepped up closer, put his arms on her waist and twirled her around between more bouts of laughter. Too soon he had to stop, gasping for air. His breathing was not yet back to normal; his lungs still suffered from the effects of what had happened in the Room of Hidden Things. Every breath felt like an intake of shards of glass. His skin, where it had been exposed to the Fiendfyre, was stretched taut over his flesh, and he felt the pulls and burns with every move.

Despite the soft pressure of his wand in the back pocket of his trousers, Draco almost couldn't believe the outcome of the war. If he thought about what the Dark Lord's victory meant for his family, the twist in his stomach he'd grown accustomed to over the last two years worsened. But when he looked into his best friend's eyes, he decided that, right at this moment, he preferred not to think about the future.

The day after Pansy had brought his wand back, Draco found his mother in front of the fireplace in his father's study, tear tracks in the smudges of soot on her face. When Draco entered, she quickly ended her call and wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her thumb.

After all they'd been through, she was still trying to protect him.

"Mother," he said. "Don't."

"Draco." She stood. "There's something I have to tell you. We should sit."

She crossed the room and sat down at his father's desk, which was covered in papers. His mother's favourite white peacock quill lay across them. Draco took a visitor's chair and pulled it over to the corner of her side of the desk. His mother's posture was as upright as ever, but whereas she usually held herself with a natural grace, now her back was rigid and her gestures stiff.

"Your father," she drew a deep breath, "was forced to leave."

Draco opened his mouth, but she lifted her hand, silencing his question.

"I'd hoped that they would have spared him, that our choices in the end would have been enough. But ... no such luck."

Draco knew that in the thick of the battle all Father had done was looking for his son and wife. The Dark Lord couldn't be too happy about further proof of their shifted priorities, of another failure to serve him. Draco's mind reeled with a million questions. How had his parents known that Death Eaters would come for his father so quickly? How had Father managed his escape? Where was he now and how long would he be gone? They had a little chalet near Geneva, where the magical community had always remained neutral towards the rest of Europe. And his father's life would probably be worth less than a Knut should he ever set foot on British soil again.

But one look at his mother told Draco that she was holding onto the last shred of her dignity. He couldn't bother her with questions.

He simply nodded. "Is there anything ...?"

Narcissa shook her head. "No, thank you. I should go through these papers, make sure that we're taken care of. I'm sorry."

She shifted her chair towards the desk, and Draco, knowing he'd been dismissed, left the study. But the image of how her hands trembled when she picked up her quill burned on in his mind.

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She is wife and mother, and keeper of the keys. Other mistresses might hand them over, but never she. Whenever he brings her afternoon tea into the study, she is working her way through stacks of papers and documents. She always needed to stay on top of things, and now she tries to come to terms with the changes in her life. The world has turned into a place where she is no longer the donor of charity, but almost a receiver. She must remain unnoticed, she must keep control, and she must preserve what matters most.

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Draco didn't go to Aunt Bella's funeral. There must have been an obituary in the Prophet, but since the war had just ended, the manor was still cut off from owl delivery. Bella had been killed by the mother Weasel in the erupting chaos right after Potter's death. Even though she had been taunting and vicious in life, Draco still missed her as a protector and a link to the throne. Her death had left a huge gap in the life of his mother. Narcissa was in deep mourning, pale and withdrawn on those rare occasions when Draco met her at breakfast. Pain had etched deep lines into her beautiful features, and even though she retained her silent resolve, Draco often caught her on the verge of tears if she thought he wasn't looking.

The Parkinsons were rewarded beyond imagination. Draco wasn't invited to Pansy's Marking ceremony or the feast held in her honour and neither was his mother. But he often imagined what it must have been like. Pansy, in her dark-green dress, its colours and her black hair bringing out the milky light of her skin and the pale glitter of the diamonds around her neck. She was old money, Pansy, just like Draco, and now that she was among the Dark Lord's favourites she could have any bachelor she wanted. She might not want to look at Draco twice, with his family fallen out of grace and hers quickly rising in ranks.

There wasn't enough for him to do and too much on his mind, and so he decided to fill the empty time with a bit of potion brewing. His father's small potions lab in the cellar was still intact. The adjacent cell held unpleasant memories of captives being imprisoned and tortured during the war, and Draco was eager to slip past it into the comfort of the old laboratory.

It reminded him of the time when he was still too young for Hogwarts, helping his father to brew the potions a self-respecting wizard never bought: healing salve, Pepper-up Potion, Blood-Replenishing Potion. To be honest, he hadn't so much helped as rather sat around, playing with spatulas and watching his father go through the stages of brewing. Something akin to peace washed over him when he breathed in the scent of sulphur and asphodel that had seeped into the walls, when his gaze travelled over the neatly arranged spatulas and cauldrons, the glass flasks and wooden boxes full of precious ingredients. It lasted only until he found a small stack of parchment with notes – the handwriting not his or his father's, but that of Severus Snape.

It took him several minutes of standing with his eyes closed and holding onto the work table until he was able to touch the notes and put them aside, to clear away the last few items: a forgotten quill, a pot of ink, a tiny flask, meticulously clean. Snape was dead and Draco's father was in Switzerland, and only Draco himself was still here, braving the ghosts of abandoned cauldrons and ingredients to claim back his life and undo the damage to his family's reputation.

The Draught of the Living Death would be a difficult enough potion to start with, ideal to occupy his mind and the perfect solution to his continuing bad dreams. Draco opened Advanced Potion-Making on page ten, set a fire under a small-sized copper cauldron and began heating a half-litre of water to prepare the infusion of wormwood. Once the wormwood was steeping, he started cutting up valerian roots. Very soon, he felt the calming effect that cutting and measuring always had on him. It was a relief to do something he enjoyed, something he was good at without a doubt. And it wasn't until the final stages, after he had been stirring his potion counter-clockwise for more than twenty minutes with no change of colour from lilac to clear as water, when it occurred to him that something was wrong. Had he set the fire too high? The set-screw for the regulation of the flames was a little loose, and maybe he had given it an inch too much. Letting go of his stirring staff, he bent down to examine the flames. But in his annoyance, the staff got caught in the sleeve of his robes and the cauldron tipped over.

Draco jumped back with an angry snarl, while the potion spilled onto the work table and the floor. It wasn't so much that he minded brewing another batch, but simply that the potion-maker in him hated the waste of time and perfectly good ingredients. Absently, he pulled out his wand, cast a Vanishing Spell, and was about to put his wand back when he noticed that the mess was still all over the table and floor.

He repeated the spell.

Nothing happened.

"Evanesco!" This time with a more forceful motion of his wand arm.

Still: nothing.

Frowning, Draco pointed his wand at Advance-Potion Making. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The book stayed on the table.

Draco shook his wand first carefully, then with increasing vigour. The wand didn't even give a spark.

"No," he whispered. In the silence of the laboratory his voice still sounded too loud.

He tried again. "Accio Potions book!"

And again. "Lumos!"

And again.

Finally, Draco put down his wand. The handle was wet with sweat. His throat closed off in terror. Something was deeply, thoroughly wrong, but he couldn't even bring himself to think it in his mind. Perhaps he should first clean up and brew a new batch of the sleeping draught before he investigated further.

But after another round of brewing, after stirring the final stage of the potion for over an hour without the expected change in colour, Draco had to face the facts: despite following the correct procedure to the letter, he wasn't able to brew the potion any longer. And yet his mind still refused to accept the consequences.

All he knew was that looking at the unfinished potion hurt too much. Draco sank down on a small stool in front of a nearby desk, turned his back to the work table, and covered his face in his hands.

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Her nerves are worn thin, and he has the bruises on his skin to prove it. She has never been the most patient or compassionate of mistresses, but he has no choice but to follow her whims. It can't be easy, with her husband torn from her side and her son's health so deeply impaired. She watches her son, all the time, like a hawk watches a mouse from high in the sky – ready to catch him if he falls.

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Over the summer and autumn that followed the Dark Lord's victory, Draco's worries for his parents and himself proved sadly justified. Pansy's Marking wasn't the only event they weren't invited to. No owl, no Floo-call, no visitor disturbed the silence of the manor. Draco instructed Pringle to keep the fire in the drawing room and the study constantly fed, and the flames crackled merrily, uninterrupted. No assignments came for Draco to redeem himself, not even the task to house a minor protégé of the Dark Lord.

But even with his magic off, he was the only member of his family who could gain back the Malfoys' rightful place in society. Every time he so much as mentioned the Dark Lord's name his mother flinched, no matter how much she tried to hide it. It was such a sharp contrast to her cool demeanour at the time they'd actually hosted their master at the manor that Draco couldn't stop wondering how much more had gone on during that time that he didn't know of. So far he had not talked with his mother about what to do, but it was only a matter of time before they would have to. Something must be done, and soon. Better to be one of the lowest in ranks than to be forgotten.

The idea to write a letter to the Dark Lord came to him one afternoon, after another abandoned attempt to talk his mother into taking the first steps towards greater visibility. Narcissa ignored Draco's hints, steered the conversation to lighter issues and then retreated into the study.

Which was why Draco found himself in his room, chewing on his quill while he tried to compose his letter. He had to pick his words carefully: there wasn't much he could tell the Dark Lord that couldn't be turned against him. The form of address alone was tricky. My Lord? That had been sufficient before. But would it still be good enough now? Draco shuddered. He didn't know. But he knew whom he could ask for help.

Pansy, wonderful Pansy, was still loyal to Draco, a real friend. She didn't have a lot of time to visit in those first months after the war, and whenever she visited, she was so tired from all the social gatherings and Death Eater meetings that she didn't talk much. But she stayed with Draco for tea, and her eyes gleamed when they met his over the steaming cups. He was glad to know that they were connected by more than social glue.

So it was only natural for Draco to let her in on his plan, and to ask for her support. Alas, Pansy's reaction was far from what he'd hoped.

"Are you daft?" she exclaimed, almost spilling tea onto herself.

Draco glared at her.

"You can't do that. You can't write to him!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's too damn dangerous, that's why. Don't you see?"

Red spots danced high on her cheeks, and she gestured wildly with her fingers spread wide, so that the light caught on her rings and flashed across the tea tray, the fragile cups on their saucers, and the silverware.

"All I see is that I have to do something," Draco pressed on. "And you're the only one I can talk to. Why can't you at least tell me how to address him?"

"Because I don't want you to write that letter." And she continued in a much softer voice, "I'm too afraid something might happen to you."

Draco nodded. "Pansy, please."

Pleading had never failed with her, and it didn't now.

She locked eyes with him. "It's still 'My Lord'," she said. "Promise you'll at least show me what you've written."

This, he could do.

And when he did, she told him he'd written a good letter. There were still no owls available, and so Pansy took Draco's letter with her to give it to the Dark Lord.

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They tell him to feed the fire, and that is what he does. When he comes to see to it first thing in the morning, he cleans out the cold ashes and throws them out into the garden. Ashes make an excellent fertiliser for herbs and flowers. He keeps dry wood neatly stacked near the fireplace, and enough paper to quickly rekindle the flames from the embers. Sometimes, he puts orange peels onto the ashes and their soothing, bittersweet scent fills the air, reminding him of happier times.

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With his best friend so close to the Dark Lord and her promise to take care of the situation, Draco felt safe enough to let things slide for a little while. But as autumn turned into winter, winter into spring and spring was about to make way towards summer, the situation should have improved.

Instead, nothing changed. He was still stuck at the manor and Pansy, who miraculously managed to divide her time between her visits and her new position as the Dark Lord's favourite, never mentioned his letter or the Dark Lord's reaction to it. What was taking her so long?

It wouldn't do to ask her directly about the letter. Knowing Pansy, Draco was certain that she would feel insulted by his lack of trust. And he wanted to trust her. All he wanted was to bask in her reassuring smile and let himself believe that all was well. But how could he, when all he did was wait for time to move on and release him? He wouldn't become delusional like an insect that was stuck in amber for all eternity, still believing it could fly away at any moment.

Pansy's visits were sweet as ever, her gaze warmed him and her stories made him laugh. But something had to be wrong, or else she would have mentioned his letter months ago. Did she regret her promise, afraid of associating herself with a social pariah after all? Draco had known Pansy all his life, and he was certain that something wasn't right, even though he wasn't able to tell what exactly.

Maybe it wasn't about him? Maybe it was something to do with the Dark Lord and she said nothing about it to spare Draco the worry? Whatever it was, he had to find out, not only for his safety, but for hers as well. Draco's place with the Dark Lord was precariously close to eviction. But as the new star among the Death Eaters, Pansy's position was even more dangerous. Too many would envy her tremendous success in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts and be continuously on the lookout for weak spots. She had to be careful.

Draco knew too well what happened to Death Eaters who lost their wits around the Dark Lord. He couldn't bear for her to make a mistake. The thought of Pansy going through something similar to what he had experienced in his sixth and seventh year made Draco break out in a cold sweat. He couldn't watch another friend suffer. And while Pansy was able to look out for herself pretty well, she couldn't have eyes everywhere. Pansy was a social creature, always quicker on the uptake with others than at realising what she herself might reveal. It was Draco's task to cover her back. He had to find out what was going on, and he had no more time to lose.

So on Draco's nineteenth birthday, while he and Pansy sat on the sofa in the newly decorated drawing room over tea and scones, Draco put down his cup and took the boggart at wand point.

"Pansy, we have to talk. Something is off, and don't think I haven't noticed."

Pansy's eyes shifted away from him and towards the wedding portraits of his parents on the wall above the mantelpiece as if asking them for assistance on how to deal with Draco.

"No, don't do that. Look at me! I'm ... I'm worried about you. You don't know what it's like, being so close to him and then ... to make a ... to slip. You know?"

She turned her whole body around and stared him fully in the face. "What're you trying to say? That I'm about to lose my wits, my position?"

Draco lifted his hands. "No, I ... Listen. I care about you. You know that, don't you?"

Pansy faked a laugh. "Yeah, 'course. You've a funny way of showing it. You should be happy for me instead of acting jealous."

"I'm ... I'm not jealous. Remember how happy I was when you first told me? But now I'm concerned. You don't show it, but you must be tired all the time, the way you travel between the manor and your position as the Dark Lord's lieutenant. And you can't go on like that, rolling your eyes when you talk about his followers as if they're a bunch of halfwits."

She grinned. "But they are. And it's not as if I'm showing them."

"For how long? If you don't control yourself here with me, it's only a matter of time until you slip up with them. And you can't let that happen. Believe me, I know how these things work. I've seen them."

Pansy uncurled Draco's hands from around his knees. She held them loosely at the wrists, her own palms turned upwards.

"You're trembling," she whispered.

Why did she have to expose his weakness like that when he was only trying to protect them both?

"You do care about me, don't you?" Pansy continued.

She knew him too well. His anger evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "'Course I do. I want you safe."

She pulled his hands down into her lap, and started to caress the knuckles with her thumbs.

Draco briefly closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on her touch. He still had his suspicion and he had to voice it, even at the risk of losing her.

"It's not that the Dark Lord is giving you a hard time because you associate yourself with ... with my family?"

She continued her stroking and shook her head. "No. I have to admit I don't flaunt it in his face, but if he knows, he hasn't mentioned my connections with your family. And I'm not going to break them." Pansy gripped his hands, hard. "You're my friend, Draco. Nothing is going to change that. Understood?"

He gave her a small nod. "I know. That's why I was worried."

"Enough about me." She smiled at him. "How are you doing?"

She must know how it was for him, with his father out of the country and his mother lost in her own pain. Apart from Pansy, he had no one to talk to all day long, worrying about how he should approach his come-back.

Draco shrugged. "Why do you ask? It's not like I can tell you anything new. I'm still biding my time, and I wish that Mother would finally talk to me about how to approach the Dark Lord's regime. I haven't got a clue about what's going on outside, aside from the titbits you feed me."

"There are many things I'm not allowed to reveal, you know that."

"I know! And I'm not blaming you. It's just that ... I should never have fallen into such a position – a Malfoy being cast away. It's ... unacceptable." The portraits of his ancestors kept berating him every time he had to walk down the corridor to the library.

"I can't just go on doing nothing. I appreciate your loyalty, and what you do for my family. I really do. But I have to do something myself, too. Look at my parents: Father is out of the picture and Mother hasn't recovered from Aunt Bella's death. Every day she disappears into the study for hours, and I don't know what she's up to. She's probably going through old pictures and letters. I can't wait for either of them to reclaim our family's place. It's my job."

"I know. It must be hard for you to sit around and do nothing but wait," Pansy said.

She was still stroking his hands, such a gesture of reassurance that he wished she would go on with it forever. Draco's stomach lurched. The chance to ask was finally there, and he couldn't shy away from it. He swallowed hard.

"You remember my letter to the Dark Lord? The one where I was asking him to take me back? You said you'd take it to him. That was months ago."

He winced. There. He'd said it. He averted his eyes, afraid to see the warmth in Pansy's gaze turn into contempt.

"Draco, don't push it. From what I keep hearing, it's still best if the Malfoys keep a low profile, and that includes you. There'll still be time to contact the Dark Lord, later."

He voice was firm but calm. She was still on his side. Draco fought hard to suppress the urge to cover his face with his hands and rub his eyes. "Oh, Pansy."

She placed her hand softly on his shoulder. "I know." And after a pause: "Leave it to me. Please."

Nothing more. No promise. But enough to make him look at her. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I am." A crooked little smile played around her lips and eyes. "You have to be patient. I'm doing what I can, and you're the first one I'm going to pull back into the Dark Lord's circle when the time is right. But so far, it's still better not to mention your family's name to him. Just yesterday, he punished Rowle for a minor infraction at the Ministry. Trust me, Draco. You don't want him thinking of you right now."

Draco shuddered at the thought of Rowle writhing at the Dark Lord's feet and gritted his teeth. She was right, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Pansy glanced at her watch. "I have to go." Already on her feet, she leaned forward and kissed Draco on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow. Stay safe. You are mine, Draco Malfoy, and don't pretend otherwise."

"Will do. I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me."

At least he had managed to avoid discussing his health. He was anything but fine, but he didn't want her to worry about that too. Over a year after his encounter with the Fiendfyre, his magic was still off. On good days he had the magical skills of a first-year. On a bad day, his wand wouldn't even give off a spark. With diplomacy, Pansy would be able to help in due time. But how could she help with Draco's magic? If she found out, she might reconsider her association with someone who was not far from a Squib, all reassurances aside. Even her loyalty could stretch only so far.

Draco felt his lip curl into a snarl. He hated what he'd become. And he wasn't willing to let anybody know, not his mother, not Pansy, and certainly no one else. The Malfoys' defences were low enough, and he had no intention of letting anyone see another weakness. St. Mungo's was out of the question – too many of the Healers would love nothing better than to report such delicate information to the Dark Lord. Draco couldn't have that. He had to find a way to heal on his own.

Trusting Pansy's judgement was easy when they were together. Left alone, Draco found it a lot harder. His mind told him that she was right, that her position of power allowed her to see his situation much clearer than he. That it would be wise to stay out of sight until his magic was healed. His heart told him to trust her, because they were friends. But he knew his first duty was that of a Malfoy. Malfoys were survivors, and they didn't survive to hide from the world. They could lie low in times of danger, but they also knew when to seize the occasion and act.

Was it time to wait? Or was it time to act? Pansy had told him to wait, but Draco felt his patience wearing thin.

He waited for a few more weeks before he wrote the next letter. This time, it was a lot easier, and his words flew from My Lord to Yours sincerely as if he'd done nothing but write letters for ages. He regarded it as a sign that he was doing the right thing. The Dark Lord would hear him out, after all. And if Pansy ... well, Draco didn't have to involve her at all. That way, she would be protected if anything went wrong. But ... it wouldn't go wrong. It couldn't. Everything Draco had laid out in his letter was proof of his willingness to bend over backwards to get back in the Dark Lord's good books.

Now, all he had to do was to get the letter out of the house.

The solution was so easy that he couldn't believe that he had not thought of it before. All he had to do was give the letter to Pringle. House-elves could Apparate to any place they wanted, and it wasn't as if Pringle could say no to Draco. Eventually, he would manage to deliver the letter.

Alone in his room, Draco summoned the elf, who bowed low before him.

"I have a task for you."

"Yes, young master." The elf bowed again.

"Take this letter to the Dark Lord. You know him, don't you?"

The elf flinched. "Yes, master."

"So you will find him for me, won't you?"

Another flinch.

"Answer me!"

The elf's ears drooped. "Nuh-, yes, master. Pringle will ... will do everything to find him."

"Good. And don't let Mother know about it. Now, leave."

The sounding crack of Disapparition was like the trumpet of a new age. Draco's return to the world was within his reach.

.

He can tell that something is going on. The family documents are newly arranged, and yet his mistress spends hours in the study, writing letters, talking at the fireplace. She is testing her boundaries, looking for ways to improve the dire situation. This morning, she told him to prepare a guest room in the west wing, one of the ones that haven't been stripped bare. He would have put some flowers on the dressing table, too, but with the garden under so much snow it is hardly possible.

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A few days later, Draco came down for breakfast after a night of restless sleep and found his mother in the sitting room with a visitor, whom she introduced to Draco as a friend from France. The other woman held herself in the same proud way as his mother, but with much greater ease. The war had treated her well; with her chestnut-brown hair open and long enough to reach over her shoulders she looked like a woman in her mid-twenties and not a day older. When Draco kissed her hand and told her this, she blushed delicately and broke into a smile.

Draco turned to his mother. "Will your guest stay for tea? Pansy said that she would visit, and we might take our tea together."

Narcissa shook her head. "I'm sorry, Draco. We won't make it. I promised to help with a few arrangements."

"That's a pity. I would have loved to introduce your friend to Pansy. She might be able to help with ... the arrangements."

"That won't be necessary." Narcissa's guest said. A frown had formed on her forehead. When she noticed Draco's irritated look, she reassumed her pleasant demeanour. "I'm sorry. I was forgetting my place. Please, understand, this has nothing to do with you or your friend, Mr Malfoy. It's more that—"

"It's about family matters. Draco, please," said his mother, with a subtle emphasis on family.

What was he doing, pressing his mother's guest about her personal affairs, when Narcissa had taken every care not to introduce them? No matter how young the stranger looked, she might have losses to bear and secrets to keep, too.

"It is I who must apologise, madam." Draco bowed deeply to the woman. "I forgot my manners, didn't pay attention to my words. Could you forgive me my impertinence?"

She nodded.

They exchanged a few more polite pleasantries, then Draco excused himself and left for his room.

To his surprise, Pansy was there, lounging on a recliner. When she saw him come in, she jumped to her feet and crossed the room with quick steps.

"Draco Malfoy! Have you lost it completely?"

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Pansy. Nice to see you, too."

Pansy waved an envelope into his face. It bore the familiar Malfoy signet. "Do you have any idea about the danger you'd have been in, had your letter been delivered?"

His letter? How did she know about his letter?

"I knew it! Look me in the eye, and then tell me that you didn't send that house-elf to seek out the Dark Lord."

Draco bristled. How dare she Apparate directly to his room and then attack him on top of it? And how on earth had she found the letter in the first place? He would have a word with Pringle; that much was certain.

"So what? It's not as if you've done anything for me."

"Not as if—? I told you to wait! I told you it's still too dangerous. You can't just walk into the Dark Lord's—"

"And I can't wait forever either! You have no idea what it's like, and ... you know what? I think you don't care! All your visits and pretty words – they're just to distract me from doing what I should have done long ago. I don't need you!"

"I see ..." Pansy's gaze could have frozen a dragon's breath. "Well ... if you think so, maybe it's time you try it on your own."

All she left behind was his letter.

Draco shrugged, then called for Pringle and sent him to stand outside in the snow for an hour. Pansy would come around. She usually did.

Yet this time, Pansy didn't return either the next day or the next week, not even for their traditional Sunday afternoon tea. Draco waited in vain.

The second Sunday without her, he sat down and wrote a letter, telling her that she was wrong. He demanded that she come and see him or at least write back. After several letters, he started explaining to her why there had been no other option for him but to send his letter with Pringle.

Every day, Draco wrote a new letter to Pansy, his project to reach the Dark Lord completely forgotten. As his last resort, he sent a Howler, insulting, shouting at and threatening her. She had never been able to let go a provocation unanswered.

But Pansy remained silent.

Finally, Draco wrote another letter, in which he apologised profusely. When he was done, the floor was covered with paper and the feather of his quill was chewed down to a stub. He walked through the manor, but couldn't find an owl. How could he send a letter without an owl? The question seemed important, and he made a note on one of the papers lying around in his room so that he wouldn't forget ask his mother about getting a new owl.

When he woke up the following morning, the floor was immaculately clean. One could say a lot about house-elves, but those belonging to the Malfoys were well-trained and knew their job.

.

It's silly for someone like him to get his hopes up. Nothing has come of the letters and the Floo-calls, and the visitor has left without a promise. The joints in his hands ache from the times he shut the oven door on them, but there is still work to be done. The young master's health is not getting any better. He fears the day when his mistress finds out just how damaged her only son is. On that day, he will hurt in a lot more places than his hands.

.

Draco was constantly freezing, and no amount of heating could drive the chill from his bones. His feet stayed cold, no matter how tightly he tucked them under the duvet. His naturally pale skin had a constant bluish hue, and all his use of Pepper-up potion couldn't chase it away. And the worst thing was: he couldn't even cast a warming charm. Finding sleep grew into a serious problem.

Every night, Draco lay in bed shivering under layers and layers of blankets, unable to sleep. Warm milk and hot baths didn't help. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he tried reading. Why on earth was there snow and ice in August? Maybe the weather was related to his misery about the loss of Pansy, or to the prolonged instability of his magic? He'd heard of wizards whose loss of magical control could even cause a hailstorm. But that couldn't happen to him, could it? The thought gave him the chills. If the icy wind and snow storms were his doing, he wouldn't be able to hide his condition from his mother much longer. Every other night, he took another book from the manor's huge collection, searching for an explanation for his miserable situation. From medical books for Healers he turned to books on spells and potions, finally even searching the whimsical truths of legends. Every night, he read until exhaustion claimed him at dawn. He slept fitfully for a few hours and then awoke with eyelids heavy as lead.

The snow around the manor was too thick for owls to get through, so ordering Dreamless Sleep was out of the question. And he wasn't desperate enough to try brewing a potion on his own. Instead, he went into the smoking room and opened the cabinet to his father's collection of the finest brands of Firewhisky. Different shades of amber glittered in beautiful crystal bottles, with stoppers shaped like magical creatures and objects of wizardry. Draco let his gaze wander over the tiny models of unicorns and fairies, over miniature wands and cauldrons, and remembered how much he had admired them as a young boy, how later he had dreamt of the day when he would come of age and be invited by Father to share a glass of Firewhisky in the smoking room. The thought made his eyes burn, and he hastily picked the nearest bottle, removed the stopper and poured a glass.

The whisky burned when it went down his throat, and Draco gasped for air. That was, as he found out, a mistake, because the next moment he was coughing and spitting so hard that tears ran down his face. Once he was back to breathing normally, Draco filled another glass. Determined not to breathe, he pinched his nose and gulped it down. His eyes still watered, but the burn of the alcohol travelled all the way to his stomach and settled with a warm glow.

The third glass he knocked back in his room, sitting in his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and three blankets bundled up all around him. It went down smoothly, and after that one, Draco stopped counting.

He woke up some indefinite time later with his mouth tasting like mould on a rat's arse. His cheek and pillow were covered with stinking gunk, and while he realised that he must have puked all over himself, the room never stopped spinning. Draco heaved again, bitter-tasting green bile gushed into his mouth and nose and onto the sheets.

His greatest shame was caused by Pringle's worried look when the elf came to change the sheets.

The following night, Draco lay in his freshly made bed, tense and desperately wanting to sleep, when Pringle appeared, carrying a bulky object.

"Master Draco?" he croaked and bowed low.

"What is it?"

"Pringle brought Master Draco a bed warmer." The elf presented the object in his hands. Its thick part was covered in wool, and a long metal handle stuck out from it. "It goes into the bed and—"

"Give it here!" Embarrassment shot through Draco like white-hot coals and made his cheeks burn, but he would be damned if he refused the means for a night of sleep in a warm bed. He grabbed the handle and wrenched the bed warmer from Pringle's hands.

"Please, Master Draco must take care that the cover doesn't—"

"All right, all right, stop your blubbering. You can go now." Draco had already turned and stepped over to his bed to tuck the bed warmer under the covers and only spared the elf one glare over his shoulder. Pringle stood in the middle of the room, wringing his hands. "Are you still there?"

"Please, Master Draco, be careful that—"

"I said: Go now! So go, before I change my mind and demand that you punish yourself for lingering."

A squeak and a crack, and the elf was gone.

Draco went to bed. Warmth radiated from the lower end towards his frozen feet and legs. Not long and they were practically glowing. It was heaven. He snuggled closer under the covers, placing the bed warmer a little higher up, so that he could curl around it. When his finger accidentally brushed the metal under the woollen cover, he snatched his hand back with a hiss. The metal was brutally hot, and without the cover, there was no question what it would do to his skin. But Draco wouldn't be so stupid as to remove the cover. He found a comfortable position on his side, the bed warmer close to his stomach and chest, his knees drawn a little upwards so that he could take up maximum heat. Exhaustion and warmth made him drowsy, and before he could finish another thought, he was fast asleep.

He woke up to an inferno.

His skin was on fire, and fire was clinging to every part of his body. He wanted to get away from it, but whatever it was that he held in his arms, he wasn't able to let go of it. A distant part of his mind told him that it was causing him incredible pain, and the pain itself made it almost impossible to think about anything else. And yet Draco knew that he had to hold on, no matter how much it hurt, he had to hold on to the fiery object because otherwise, he would die, and others would die too. Someone was screaming at the top of their voice, and hands were touching him, shaking him, trying to uncurl his cramped body. The pain kept eating him alive, and Draco wanted to let go and yet didn't dare to let go, until his arms were forced open, and whatever he was holding was ripped out of his grip.

"Draco, let go!" The voice of his mother – desperate and pleading. She had her wand drawn, and had flung the object away. It was the bed warmer, Draco realised, through the haze of pain that throbbed through his hands, arms, chest and belly. He whimpered. She removed the top of his pyjamas with a flick of her wand, and Draco stared at the angry red blisters with incredulous detachment.

"What happened? What was that thing doing in your bed?"

"I ... ah ... ugh ..." He couldn't even talk.

"Hush, darling. I'm sorry. No questions. Just lay still, all right?"

He gave a small nod, and his mother started murmuring a sequence of healing spells, moving her wand over his body in a soothing pattern. The stabs of pain dulled to mere throbs. Draco closed his eyes in relief.

When his mother was finished, she repeated her question.

"Pringle gave it to me, last night."

Her eyes flared. "Pringle!"

A moment later, the elf cowered on the carpet.

"What have you done to my son? Speak!"

"Pringle is sorry, Mistress Narcissa, so sorry. Pringle never meant Master Draco to come to harm. Please!" The elf threw himself at Narcissa's feet, beating his bulbous head against the floor.

"Why?"

A sound escaped Draco's throat, and the elf's frantic gaze flew towards him.

"Pringle can't say, Milady, please. Pringle can't say, but Pringle meant no harm, none at all. Pringle only wanted ... please!"

Narcissa narrowed her eyes. "Go to the kitchen, and hold your hands in the fire until they start blistering. Then, heal yourself and do it again, five times. You are not allowed to heal yourself after the last time. You hear me?"

The elf lay on the floor, whimpering.

"You hear me?"

A whisper from the floor. "Yes, Milady. Pringle hears you."

"Then go and do what you're told."

A shudder went through the elf's body, and Draco found his voice.

"Mother, no."

Narcissa turned towards Draco, her blue eyes wide. "No? But Draco ... this mindless beast is the reason you were hurt." She looked at him more closely. "Or is there something you haven't told me?"

"I ... Mother ... I can explain. But please, don't make him burn his hands. I ..." Draco fought for words, but couldn't find any. His chest rose and fell in quick succession.

Narcissa lifted her hand. "All right. It's all right."

She addressed the elf. "You are lucky to have such a generous young master. Leave us. And take that ... thing ... with you."

"Yes, Milady, thank you so much, Milady. And thank you so much, Master Draco."

When they were alone, Narcissa turned to Draco. "Why a bed warmer, Draco? Why didn't you use a warming charm?"

Draco's shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He wanted to deny it, to apologise, to hide inside a hole in the ground. How could he tell his mother that her adult son was practically reduced to a young wizard with his first signs of magic? He searched his mind for a way to phrase the truth so that it wouldn't hurt too much. What would his father say if he knew? How could Draco ever manage to win back his family's place? Question upon question, consequence upon consequence piled up in his mind – but no explanation came forth that he could offer his mother.

He sat for what surely must have been minutes, not uttering a single word, when her hand came to rest on his shoulder ever so lightly. "Draco," she said, and her voice was warm like an embrace. "Draco, you're making it snow."

.

Kindness from his masters is something he's never seen before. He has no idea why the young master has prevented his punishment, but he is glad. Burnt hands hurt like hell. He still remembers his Aunt Elsie who – back in the good old days – had to burn her hands so severely that once the infection was healed, only the stumps remained. She didn't survive long after that, a useless mouth to be fed. For a moment, he is tempted to think about useless wizards and what would happen to them. But that's not a very safe thought, and so he goes back to cleaning up the kitchen.

.

His mother brushed aside Draco's objections to seeing a Healer with one determined raise of her chin, and the next weeks went by in a blur of medical examinations. Draco didn't know what she told St. Mungo's to receive personal visits, but when his mother wanted something done, she usually got her way. Alas, after a lot of wand waving and blood tests, the latest Healer, a tiny wizard who reminded him of his former Charms professor, only shook his head and declared that no known remedy existed to help Draco with the loss of his magic.

"His wand isn't working for him, but he's making it snow in the middle of the house? It might be due to shock. Who knows? Such incidents happen, and they usually take their time to wear off," he croaked. "You said he'd been in an accident? Mmm ... Well," he threw a fleeting look at Draco, "you could always consider a Kwik-spell book for him. I've heard they aren't that bad ..."

Narcissa's hand shot to her wand. "Get. Out."

When the flames had fallen low behind the departing Healer, Draco turned to his mother. "No. I'm not going."

"You don't even know what I was going to suggest."

"You'll either try to send me to Paris Academy or the Carpathian Committee of Knowledge. And I'm not going. I'm not a medical case to be prodded and mocked."

"But, Draco ... what if they could help with your magic?"

Draco's cheeks burned with shame. Being forced to discuss his disability with his mother, of all people, after what had just happened – it was humiliating. "No. We can't afford such nonsense. I just need to sleep properly."

"But isn't your ... problem the reason why you couldn't sleep in the first place?"

"Yes. No. I ... I don't know. I just can't leave. This is my home. Don't make me, please?"

Narcissa's eyes softened. "All right. But if you aren't well by the end of the year, we'll see another expert."

It wasn't typical for his mother to give in so easily, but Draco was grateful for even a small victory. It wasn't as if he had many, these days.

He shouldn't get his hopes up. But when his mistress tells him to prepare the guest room in the west wing, again, he can't stop himself from suggesting flowers. He has never seen her cry and cringes in shock when she turns to him with a wet gleam in her eyes. "That would be lovely," she says, and he can only nod and bow and assure her that, yes, he will get the flowers. Somehow.

With the return of summer, finding sleep was a little easier. Even though the warmer weather made his accidental snow appear more often, the fact that no outer cold added to his chills was a bonus for his health. And when Draco came down to breakfast on his twentieth birthday, a pleasant surprise awaited him.

"Look who's here!" called his mother from the drawing room.

There, dressed in travelling robes and with her hair longer than he'd ever seen it, stood Pansy.

After months of missing her every day, Draco almost couldn't believe that she was back. He should have felt awkward, embarrassed about their fight and his childish behaviour, but he was too relieved to have her back to waste time worrying.

Draco crossed the room with a few quick steps and embraced her. "Pansy! It's so good to see you."

Pansy yelped a little, before she relaxed into Draco's arms.

He pushed her away at arm's length. "What's wrong with you? Since when don't you—"

"You shocked me, Draco. That's all. Your hands are like ice."

There wasn't anything he could say to that, and she noticed his strained silence immediately.

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry. Is it still that bad?"

How did she know? He might have mentioned it to her in one of his letters. Draco nodded. "'m always cold," he mumbled.

Pansy took his hands into hers, surrounding Draco's hands with warmth. "Don't worry. I'm here to take good care of you."

A small cough reminded him of his mother's presence. "Pansy is back from her trip around Europe. She will stay with us for the time being."

"Isn't it brilliant?" Pansy continued to hold Draco's hands. He couldn't remember the last time his hands had been that warm.

And she had come to stay. He smiled at her. "That's wonderful. And I like your hair. You've finally come to your senses and let it grow." Now he spied the small armada of suitcases and boxes behind the sofa. "I see you've already brought your luggage. Let's go and pick a room for you."

.

When he brings the tea, his mistress and her guest are talking so intensely that they almost don't notice him coming and going. He is a good servant, and when his hands don't hurt he carries his trays silently and steadily. His mistress touches the younger woman's cheek as if admiring a statue. Magic buzzes in the air while the two witches size each other up. He hastens to leave the room. But as the days add up, the young woman stays in the guest room, and he concludes that she and his mistress must have reached some kind of agreement.

.

Having Pansy around was such a relief. Finally, there was someone to talk to who wasn't carefully avoiding every other subject. They laughed together and made fun of each other just as they had in their time at Hogwarts. Pansy was the security of a shared past, a past in which Draco had been capable of doing magic and had a future. Now that future was taken out of his hands, but Pansy was back at his side, ready to tell everyone that she belonged with Draco. Not that anyone asked, but that wasn't what was most important. And what did it matter that Pansy kept a long list of associates she corresponded with by Floo-talk or owl post? What did it matter that she sometimes was so occupied with her latest project that she forgot some of the anecdotes of their youth? Draco was happy to refresh her memory when they sat together on the sofa over tea and scones, anxious for the moment when Pansy would move a little closer to pet Draco's hair or to hold his hands until warmth and feeling came back into them.

Time flew by, and Draco was glad to let it slip through his fingers like the quicksilver fish he never had been able to catch as a young boy. He knew that his mother was taking care of their financial affairs. Any day, he would join her and take up the mantle. But for now, he was content that he could find sleep without shivering for hours from the cold, and that he could rest without a constant stream of nightmares. The Malfoys' ban from society had never been Pansy's fault. It was the Dark Lord whose harsh regime kept them confined at the manor.

One afternoon in December they were sharing a cup of the light-bitter green tea Pansy had grown used to drinking during her stay on the continent. She now preferred it to black tea, even though she complained that Pringle could never get it right. Outside, the snow on the hedges in the garden sparkled in the sun.

"I wish time would stop," Draco said.

Pansy resumed combing his hair with her fingers. "Why would you do that?"

"It's a perfect day. I just don't want it to change."

"Wouldn't you want it to be even better?"

He would have, once. He would have wished for power, influence and recognition. And after that, for more. But he'd learned his lesson. All he wanted was to keep everything as it was.

Draco firmly shook his head. "I don't think it could get any better."

When things changed, most of the time, they changed for the worse.

.

The owl that brings the sealed letter is huge. It must have come from a far-away place, judging from the ferocity with which it drives its beak into the bowl of owl-treats. His mistress takes the letter to the study, charms the door shut and doesn't leave the room for three days. He magicks her tea to appear on the small table in front of the fireplace and hopes that she will remember to drink and eat. It's not his place to tell her what to do, but if she crumbles, he and the young master will no longer be safe. He is a lot less concerned about the young witch.

When he learns that she, too, is to be regarded as family, he has to hide his surprise. His mistress's wishes leave no room for interpretation, and so he moves the young lady's belongings to a larger room and arranges the furniture to accommodate her needs. If this is what it takes to preserve the family's fragile fate, he will do his part.

.

"Draco, there's something I have to tell you."

Pansy's expression was the one she wore for particularly bad news, with her brows forced so hard into a position of fake relaxation that it almost made Draco want to laugh out loud.

"I have to go away for a few months. My parents asked for my assistance in a family matter."

There. She was going to leave him. The urge to laugh passed in a heartbeat and left nothing in its wake but the wish to protest. It didn't matter that her parents had moved to Russia, to help the Dark Lord's campaign over there. That didn't mean Draco had to like it.

He swallowed hard, unable to contain his need. "When will you be back?"

"Four months, five at most, I hope." She studied his face. "I don't want this any more than you do. But they are my parents. And they need me."

Draco scowled at her for the three days she took to pack her things. When all her suitcases had been shrunk and owled ahead and the time arrived for Pansy to take the Floo, she turned towards him.

"I'm really sorry. I wish I could stay." She opened her arms. "Give me a hug, will you?"

He stepped into her waiting arms, felt them close around him. His lips brushed the shell of her ear and he breathed in the spicy scent of her hair.

"Pansy."

She pushed him away, gentle but determined. "Don't. I have to go now. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Don't forget to write."

"I won't." She smiled and waved, and then she was gone in a swirl of colour and flames.

.

They are back to being three in the house: his mistress, his young master, and he. It's unnerving how much laughter and joy have left with the departure of the young witch, and he grudgingly acknowledges her soothing influence on young master. His mistress is back to dividing her time between the study and her son, but a day has only so many hours and the burden is clearly eating away at her strength. He does his best to cook the tastiest titbits to whet her appetite, but he cannot force her to sit down and take the time to eat. So he hopes every day that the young witch will return soon and continues to dust the abandoned shelves in her room.

.

Pansy's notes were short and almost detached, no match for the dedicated letters Draco sent to her. Well, he had sent such letters at first, but lately he'd toned them down considerably. Her lack of enthusiasm stung. Being left to wait and unable to act was bad enough. He didn't have to make a fool of himself on top of it.

And if being miserable about Pansy wasn't enough, Draco's sleep was more disturbed than ever. Every night, he lay awake for hours and when he finally fell asleep his nightmares showed him events of the war. Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower. Draco standing with his wand trained at a helpless victim on the floor. And worst of all: the night of the final battle. Hogwarts burning. His classmates dying, or barely surviving.

Two young men sat half-lying on the floor in a corridor whose walls were streaked with soot. Draco's breath came in choked gasps, the burning in his lungs made every breath feel like someone was pouring hot poison down his throat. He sensed more than he saw Gregory crouch beside him, heard his friend panting for air just as hard. Gregory reached out for Draco, but the touch of his hand on Draco's caused pure agony, and Draco flinched away from it.

Draco looked down at his hands and arms. His skin was cracked and pulled taut over his flesh, covered in angry red scratches that looked like he had been attacked by fiery claws. The trouser leg on his left thigh was torn and the leg underneath was oozing blood where bits of flesh had been torn away by angry teeth. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer, and focused on Gregory's wheezing. They sat like that, unable to move, for what could have been only minutes, but to Draco it felt like eternity.

Suddenly he felt a soft prickling on the back of his left hand. The sensation lasted mere moments and was quickly replaced by the next prickling, and the next. Draco opened his eyes. There, on the back of his hand, sat a snowflake. It melted into his skin, and the next snowflake followed. He stared at his hand, while snowflakes kept falling down on it and melted on his burning skin, soothing the pain.

"Draco," he heard Gregory's voice between coughs, "since when ... since when does it snow inside Hogwarts?"

Draco woke up, trembling with cold. Snow covered his duvet and blankets; they were soaked through and icy. Pushing them back, he sat up and fished around for his slippers. He walked over to the dresser on numb feet and fumbled with the drawers to retrieve a fresh pair of pyjamas. His fingers were so cold that he almost couldn't close the buttons. Going to sleep in an icy wet bed was no option, and so he put on a dressing gown, picked up a blanket and headed for the library.

There was no explanation for this nightmare other than Pansy's absence wearing him down. Why would he dream of that night in the Room of Hidden Things, more than two years after Vince's death? That part of his life was over and dealt with. He had lost his magic. He had lost Vince, and Greg had never visited the manor after the war, probably to save himself from being associated with social pariahs. But Draco wouldn't lose Pansy. He would make her see that she was his. She was his Pansy, and he knew her better than anyone else. She had come back once and promised she would never leave him.

All she had to do was to come back again.

When she Floo-called him the next day and he told her about the dream, she blanched considerably. Draco had a hard time seeing her fully, because the fireplace on her side was such a tiny thing. She insisted on taking the calls in her private room instead of her parent's drawing room. It looked like she was swaying from exhaustion, but Draco couldn't tell for sure. It could have been a flicker of the flames. But there was no use in asking her. Being Pansy, she would dismiss it with a throw-away gesture and a smirk. So Draco kept his questions to a minimum.

"How long until you can come back?"

She coughed, and this time he was sure that she sounded exhausted.

"I've started packing. Give me another few days, and I'll be back."

"You'll stay with me?"

She nodded. "I won't leave you again."

He had no words for his relief or his gratitude. But he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen a fraction and had to suddenly blink to clear his sight.

Draco remained in front of the fireplace long after they had closed the call, his face burning with the shame of what she must have seen. She must feel pity for him. Why if not out of obligation would she return to such a sorry excuse for a wizard?

.

The young witch is back, with a whirlwind of life that is keeping her busy all day and night. The house hasn't seen that amount of activity since the days when his young master was a little boy. There is so much to do, and she has taken to ordering him around in almost the same manner as his mistress. It adds to his daily burdens, but since his mistress doesn't say otherwise, he has to obey. He does it, half grumbling and half content. After all, the new distractions mean that they are moving forward. The family is finally adjusting to the changed world around them. There is hope.

.

Draco's hope of being relieved from his nightmares was disappointed. Despite Pansy's return to the manor, his incapacity and failures kept mocking him day and night.

He had no magic, no life, no future.

A Family. If only he could have secured this one thing ... Draco's father had been twenty-two when he'd married Narcissa, and that had been in a time riddled by war, with everyone eager to tie the knot. These days, the taint was still firmly attached to the Malfoy name, and no respectable woman would want to marry Draco. The Dark Lord had made sure of that. For now, Draco had to be content with what Pansy gave freely – her presence at the manor, her promise never to leave him. It was far too early to ask for her hand in marriage.

But he didn't need an official contract. She was his. Wasn't she?

So why were his nights haunted by the war and by people dying? It was as if his mind insisted that he'd take a look at the past over and over again, even though all he wanted was to forget. He dreamt of a girl crying for water, her face a mass of charred flesh. He heard the high-pitched wail of a little child, as if every future generation of witches and wizards had come to die on that day in the Battle of Hogwarts. The nights when he didn't wake up to a bed full of snow were few. He got used to taking a thick blanket with him to bed. Pansy had cast an Impervius Charm on it, and Draco carefully wrapped himself in the blanket before he went to sleep.

Pansy's duties increased, and their time together was limited. Sometimes, she would hear Draco screaming in his sleep and wake him up, but most nights he was left to fight alone, because Pansy was dead tired and didn't hear him from her quarters. And so he started to dream of Pansy too, when he tried to flee from the burnt girl to look for any kind of solace. The Pansy in his dreams touched him with kindness, like she used to do in real life, and the expression in her chocolaty brown eyes was deeply worried when she bent over his bed to make sure that he was all right. He never was.

It was in one of those nights when the cries of the victims in his nightmares were loud enough to shock him into wakefulness before the snow started in earnest. For a few disturbed moments, Draco thought the crying continued, even though he was no longer dreaming. But then he touched his cheeks and felt tears running freely down his face, and understood that it had been just him, all alone in the darkness.

The permanent cold crept into his joints like rheumatism, making it hard for him to move even inside the house. His mother gave him extra-warm clothes made of Siberian husky fur for his twenty-second birthday, and Pansy added a cashmere sweater, socks and a scarf. The clothes were beautiful, and Draco thanked both his mother and Pansy for their thoughtful gifts. But when he went to bed that night, alone in his tastefully decorated room, where furs and pelts covered every inch of the floor like it was the room of the Winter Prince in one of Beedle's stories, he wept. Outside, it was June, and he could still remember birthdays he'd spent with his friends under the warm summer sun or coming home with his father from one of their trips, walking barefoot in the grass.

That night, he dreamt of the dying girl again. She was floating under the ice of a frozen lake, looking up at him from the water below. Her face wore a pleading, panicky look, and Draco knew that she wasn't dead yet. He knew that if he could only hack his way through the ice, she would be saved from drowning in the cold, black water. He had no tools, and so he attacked the ice with his bare hands until they were bleeding. But the ice didn't give in, and in that one cruel moment when he stopped trying, the expression on her face changed from hope to desperation and hate. No matter how hard he beat at the ice, she kept looking at him with condemnation, until he gave up.

He woke up, his hands full of burns, his bed covered under a thick blanket of snow. Pansy stood at his bedside, shaking him lightly.

"Draco, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

He whimpered from the pain in his hands, and she healed them, quickly and efficiently.

"Was it the girl again?" she asked.

He nodded, still too shaken for words.

She gently helped him out of bed and into his bathrobe, then led him down into the kitchen, where she started to prepare a hot cup of green tea for them. She didn't have to look twice for where the items were stored.

"This isn't the first time you've made tea for yourself."

"Huh? Why, yes ... I like to do that. It calms me when I'm upset."

"You're upset a lot? Did my... Did I ..."

"No. I'm glad I woke up. Better than having you suffer any longer."

He nodded, glad that she didn't make a big deal of it.

"So, did you dream about the girl again? The one with the burns?"

"Yeah. It was different this time."

"How so?"

He told her. But Pansy didn't know what the dream meant, either. They ended up sitting in the kitchen, drinking their tea until none was left.

"Ready to go back to sleep?"

When he hesitated, she added: "Why don't we stay down here and take the sofa in the library? With a few more blankets, it should be warm enough."

And he wouldn't have to go back to sleep all alone in his room.

They settled on the sofa, Draco's head in Pansy's lap.

"How will you be able to sleep?" he asked.

"Don't worry about me. I'll wait until you're asleep, and then I'll take the armchair. I'll be fine."

It wasn't the manly thing to do, but it was what his tired body and exhausted mind demanded. Draco fell asleep to the touch of Pansy's hands in his hair, and for the rest of the night he didn't dream.

.

Who would have expected such a drawback? Everything is going so well, but young master's health is worse than ever. His mistress tells him to keep several sets of blankets ready, so that one can be used while the others hang to dry.

She is sick with worry; she and the young mistress discuss what to do and become loud and agitated, but come up with no plan good enough to help.

"I won't hear of it. He hated being prodded then and he'll hate it now. It's important not to excite him even more," his mistress says. "I don't want him hurt."

The angry click-click of a spoon being stirred at great haste counters his mistress's speech, but when the young witch finally speaks up her voice is calm, and only her hands pressed together in her lap betray her feelings. "He dreams," she says, "all the time. He's hurting already. Don't you see the chance of—?"

His mistress isn't done. "They told me it's too dangerous, too unstable. We can only wait, humour him, until ... he's ready."

He hears the faint tremor in her voice when she pauses, mid-sentence. And oh, he knows how much she's grown to hate waiting.

.

The first time Draco saw the boy, he suspected a trick of his eye or a hallucination. But hallucinations didn't usually build snowmen in the garden. The boy's hair was the same whitish blond as his own, and he was about seven or eight years old. Draco watched the boy, clad in arctic fox furs with a scarf and mittens, forming three huge snowballs, stacking them up and decorating them with coal, a broomstick and a cloak. Draco didn't dare go down to meet him, but he stood at the window of his room with his breath held and took in the image of the boy until the child had finished his work and skipped round the corner and out of sight.

That night, Draco went into the library to look at old photo-albums. And there, standing between his mother and his father, holding their hands, was he: eight years old, with the white pelt of an arctic fox framing his face. He drew a deep breath. Nothing in his life had prepared him for such an encounter, but it was clear what he had to do.

The next time the boy appeared in the garden, Draco was ready. The sun was out, so he didn't look too unusual when he strolled around the trees and hedges until he reached a part that couldn't be seen from the manor. Here, he stood and waited, throwing a treat to the peacocks every now and then. He'd always enjoyed feeding them, and soon the boy appeared at his side, watching the eagerly picking birds. Draco half turned and offered him the paper bag with the bird-seeds.

"Want to feed them?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." The boy grabbed a handful of treats and began throwing them to the clucking birds. He laughed out loud when they fought over a particular fat treat and clapped his hands with delight.

Draco enjoyed watching him and was otherwise content to hold the paper bag. The boy would reveal himself to him, he was sure. But when the seeds were gone and the peacocks dispersed, the young stranger still hadn't introduced himself. Not knowing how much time he had before they would be disturbed, Draco decided to make the first move.

"I'm Draco Malfoy." He stretched out his hand.

"I'm ... I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." The boy shook Draco's hand and bowed slightly, and Draco couldn't prevent an amused little smile from playing around his lips. This was just the way his mother had taught him how to act around adult. At twenty-two, he must seem like an adult to the boy. Of course, his mother had also taught him introduce himself when he was in a conversation. Something this boy here had not done so far.

"And you are?" Draco prompted.

The boy shook his head. "I mustn't say. It's a secret." He smiled, as if he was sorry that he couldn't tell Draco.

Draco regarded him with a frown. His suspicions were rising every minute. "You mustn't say ... I see." He laid a finger to his nose. "I think I know who you are, and I think I know why you can't tell me. Let me guess ..."

The boy's gaze hung at his lips.

"I think your name is Draco, too. Am I right?"

A giggle. No confirmation, but no denial, either. Draco decided to push his theory somewhat further.

"I think you have travelled a long way to come here."

The boy smiled at him. His eyes were a lot more knowing than Draco's had been. Well, he had to know something. Why else would he travel forward in time to meet him?

"I think you're ... you're me. Am I right?"

The young eyes looked troubled. Was he pressing the boy too hard?

"I'm you?" It sounded like a question, but it had to be a confirmation.

"I think you are me, from the past. You've come to see me in the future." Draco had heard about time-turners, back when he was a little boy, long before Potter had destroyed the last existing time-turners at the Ministry of Magic. But then, there were other, more arcane ways to travel in time. People could go different places in their dreams. They could also visit their past and possible variations of their future, even interact with others. Draco had always been a vivid dreamer. He must have dreamt of the future, and then forgotten about it. This was the only explanation that made sense.

"You are me?" The boy still sounded a little unsure, but his cocked head told Draco that he was warming up to the idea.

"Who sent you?" Draco asked.

"Mum told me I could go and play while the sun was out." The boy looked at the sky. "It's getting dark. I should go."

Panic seized Draco. He quickly knelt down and grabbed the boy's sleeve. "Come back. Promise me. I ... I ... It's important that we meet again."

The boy froze and looked first at Draco's hand on his sleeve, then stared him in the face. "My mum says it's impolite to grab." He wrinkled his nose.

Draco forced his fingers to release the fabric of the sleeve, afraid the boy would disappear before his very eyes. One could never know with dream-travelling. "Your mother is right. But you have to come back. We have to meet again. Will you make sure you do whatever you did and travel here again?"

"You're funny." The boy laughed. "I'll be back."

He turned, and all Draco could do was peek around the corner to watch his younger self run away and disappear through the kitchen entrance.

He had discovered that entrance when he had once chased Dobby round the manor. He must have been six or seven years old. Dobby had escaped into the kitchen, and suddenly Draco had been surrounded by clanking pots and steaming pans. Disoriented, he had searched around the room, terrified house-elves in his wake who were frantic to get him out of danger, until he had seen a double door at the far side of the kitchen. He'd burst through it, and into the garden. When his mother had tucked him in that night after a stern lecture from his father about behaviour befitting a Malfoy, she'd told him that the door was for large deliveries to the kitchen, when she and Father held one of their huge dinner parties. She'd smiled at him and her face had looked radiant and young.

Well, that time was over. And somehow, whether by accident or intention, his younger self had found a way to dream-travel through time. Draco had still no clue what it meant for him and why young Draco had walked into the future, but he was certain that there was a reason. Just as he was certain that, should he decide to follow the boy into the kitchen at this moment, he would find no one but Pringle, busy preparing the afternoon tea.

.

His mistress and the young witch do everything they can to care for the family. There is always so much to do, and he helps as best as he can. But he isn't as young as he used to be, and the hard times they've been through are starting to show. On especially frosty mornings, he can feel the twinges in his joints, and he needs a good thirty minutes until he can move about from room to room like he used to. But he tries not to let them see. He still remembers Aunt Elsie, and he is still a far cry from being useless.

Sometimes he wishes he could talk to his mistress, tell her what she doesn't see. He knows that it's not possible, that she would make him punish himself for forgetting his place. But sometimes, he finds it hard to watch and know and know that she would want to know, but won't.

It is never wise for a servant to meddle with the affairs of his masters. There's nothing he can do about it, and so he makes sure that her afternoon cup of Darjeeling First Flush is timed to steep exactly two and a half minutes, just like she prefers, and places the first snowdrops of the year in a small vase on the tray.

.

As the months went on, Draco continued to meet with his younger self. The boy was careful around him, reluctant to reveal the real reason for his visits or anything important about the past. Did he have an adult guide to help him with his travels? Questions about his parents and family life were met with a silent smile. All Draco found out was that the boy's mother was a lovely lady, and that his father wasn't around much. It figured. And maybe it was for the best if he didn't gather too many details. Dream-travel was fickle and best not disturbed.

But the boy never objected to being called by his real name. And Draco could tell from the casual way the boy leaned into him when they sat and watched the peacocks that his younger self felt more and more comfortable around him. Draco also couldn't help noticing that every time they met, the boy had aged. He gained height, his gestures became more elaborate, his sentences grew longer and his questions more complex. He still enjoyed feeding the peacocks, but their conversations moved from magical creatures to books and spells and potions. Draco felt a strange mixture of nervousness and excitement. Soon, the boy would be ready to go to Hogwarts, and the events involving Draco's role in the war would be set in motion.

He had to make sure that Pansy wouldn't find out about the young time-traveller. No matter how much she cared about Draco, she was too deeply enmeshed in Dark Lord's affairs. Knowledge of what Draco was about to do could only bring her to harm. If he burdened her with the secret of his younger self, and then something went wrong, there would be no way to spare her from the Dark Lord's wrath. For himself, Draco didn't plan on getting caught, but then he was much less under observation. Or at least, that was what he hoped. Finally, the lack of attention from the outside world played to his advantage. The image of his father writhing on the carpets of the drawing room was still vivid in his memory, and he had every intention of not meeting a similar fate.

Acting behind Pansy's back wasn't going to be easy. Lately, with a growing routine in her duties, she had gone back to always being around, keeping a close eye on Draco and his needs. It would be best if he withdrew a little, just so that Pansy wouldn't be hurt or suspicious. And if she noticed, he would pretend that he'd only wanted to give her more space, with all the duties she had these days. He couldn't lose her. But he couldn't lose his chance to make things right, either. And no matter how much glory she had now, and how much he was going to take away from her, it would be still better to live an uneventful life in a world where Potter had won than to go on living in a world where the Dark Lord ruled with fear and destruction.

"And no one has given you a message for me?"

The boy shook his head so hard that his hair went flying. "No. I've already told you. There is no one. Why do you keep asking me the same questions over and over again?" He kicked at the gravel. "This is boring."

Draco suppressed the urge to shout. There was no use in pushing an eleven-year-old. Not when his name was Draco Malfoy. He of all people should know. It wouldn't do him any good if the boy came to the conclusion that visiting Draco wasn't fun. A change of tactics was in order.

"So what would you like to do?"

The boy's sullen face lit up. "We could go flying. I've just got a new broom. It's brilliant!"

"Ah, no, we can't do that. It's ... it's not safe for me to fly."

The boy looked at him, surprise rounding his mouth. "It's not? But you are a wizard, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm a wizard. It's just that ... I'm too ill to fly, you see?"

"Ah ... okay. That's too bad. But ..." The boy's gaze dropped to the ground. "I understand. My dad is ill too."

His father was ill? The Lucius Malfoy Draco knew had never been ill in his life. Was he all right? Draco quelled the impulse to ask a bundle of questions concerning his father's health. Had the past started to change already, altered only by the boy's visits into the future? How much longer would he be able to meet his younger self until time would separate them forever? Was it worth trying to change the future if his father had fallen ill due to Draco's meddling?

"Mr Draco?"

"Huh?" Draco looked up and found that he'd lost track of his surroundings. The boy eyed him expectantly.

"We could go to the river and try and catch some fish. That's something you could do, couldn't you?"

Draco's breath eased with relief. That, he could do. And that was what they did.

That night, in bed, he kept replaying their encounter. If the past had already started changing just by his younger self being here, then maybe he had to rethink his theory. It wasn't his younger self who had a message for him. It was he who had the message, probably had had it without realising all along since he'd been a boy.

But now he had the chance to make sure that young Draco would understand its importance and act accordingly. Fighting against Potter had been wrong. Supporting the Dark Lord had been wrong. Everything the Malfoys had done to bring the Dark Lord to power had only put them at his mercy. But there was no mercy at the Dark Lord's feet. Draco had to tell his younger self, make him see what had to be done – and not forget the message later. Maybe not everything was lost. Maybe Draco could still save his family after all, even if it meant acting against their wishes.

.

The mistresses have a row. He can only hope that they will work out their troubles. The family is too small for quarrels; they should stick together. But no. They fight!

"He deserves to know the truth," the young witch yells. "He keeps asking me. And don't deny that he does the same to you."

"Lower your voice, unless you want to find him out while eavesdropping," his mistress hisses back. "Do you think he will be satisfied once he knows? That you can keep him from asking more questions?"

No, the young mistress said, she didn't.

"But Draco's so close to finding out already. He could be ... better. We all could be better!" Her shoulders sag, as if she's lost all her will to fight. "Why can't we just ..." she says, and her voice is now so low that he almost doesn't catch her next words. "I'm so sick of pretending. I simply can't go on like this any longer."

Well, she better had, his mistress tells her. There is no other way. His mistress's lips are pressed into a thin white line.

It's the first time he feels sorry for the younger woman. All she must perceive is the rejection. She can't see how much they suffer from the same source.

.

Draco's only hope lay in meeting his younger self before he went to Hogwarts, to tell him that he had to befriend Potter – but not for the reasons he believed. This wasn't about fame or about pulling Potter over to the dark side. This was about picking a different side, about making sure that Potter would be well-equipped to win the war. Draco had much to give, much more than the uneducated Weasel or the Mudblood who could read all books she wanted but would never understand an ounce of wizarding tradition. If only Potter trusted Draco as a friend, he would accept his knowledge and advice. In order to save Draco's father and Pansy from getting caught on the wrong side of the war, Potter had to best the Dark Lord long before the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco could help Potter to eliminate the Dark Lord and see his family on the winning side.

But no one could know about it. The more he thought about it, the more he understood that Pansy would object. She was, at present, not just any Death Eater but the favourite of the Dark Lord. No matter how fond she was of Draco, she wouldn't want her future changed into a world where she was reduced to the girl who had suggested that they should turn Potter over to the Dark Lord. She would do everything to fight Draco. She might even bring him to trial if his silence couldn't be secured otherwise.

And his mother? It wouldn't matter if Draco told her about his great plan to set things right. His father wouldn't be convinced so easily, and she would rather see her husband in Geneva than in Azkaban.

He was on his own.

When he spotted the boy in the garden on the morning of his twenty-third birthday, it was the best present ever. The boy waved at him as soon as he saw Draco, clearly excited.

"Hello, Draco," Draco said.

"I'm going to Hogwarts! I've just got my letter last night. Can you believe it?"

Draco chuckled, remembering the thrill he'd felt at the arrival of his letter. "I never doubted that you would go to Hogwarts. It runs in the family, you know."

"Mother said she's going to buy me a wand at Diagon Alley. And we'll go to Flourish and Blott's for my books and to the apothecary for my potions kit. It's going to be brilliant!"

Draco nodded, smiling, and then grew sombre. This was his moment to put things right. Who knew if his younger self would be back once he was occupied with lessons and Quidditch. "Before you go to Hogwarts in September, you have to promise me something. All right?"

"Huh? Oh, okay. What?"

"When you go shopping with your mother, you will also shop for robes. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions is the place – the finest robes for wizards and witches I know of."

"I've never heard of it."

Draco frowned. "You will, soon. Now, listen closely.

"You'll meet a boy in the shop. Harry Potter. Tousled black hair, shabby clothes, doesn't look like much. I want you to be nice to him. Don't talk too much about Quidditch and brooms. Don't tell him that Slytherin is the only House that's worth being in. I know you've been raised to think so, but believe me, Houses don't count as much as some people want to make us think. And don't make fun of the gamekeeper, Hagrid. Try to ... ah ..."

"But what should I do instead? And I don't really think that Slytherin is the only house that's worth being in."

"Do you not? This might be easier than I thought. Try to be ... nice to him, make him feel welcome. He's new to being a wizard, you know. He lived with Muggles."

The boy nodded. "Oh ... they do that?"

"Yeah. Don't ask me to tell you why, I can't reveal too much to you. You have to trust me on this. Will you do that for me?"

The boy nodded again.

"And when you meet him on the Hogwarts Express, don't insult his friend. Potter is a generous boy. He'll be your friend if you don't attack those already close to him." Draco held up his hand. "And one more thing. You mustn't talk to anyone about this. Not even to your parents. Especially not to your parents."

"But—"

"No, Draco. If you do, everything will be ruined, and all your efforts will be for nothing. I know you can do this. You have to remember. And if you find the time, come and visit me when you're older and I'll tell you more."

If he still existed by that time and hadn't vanished as soon as the past changed the future. But that was a risk he had to take.

"Okay. I'll try. And I'll come back here for the holidays." The boy beamed at him.

Draco's stomach twisted. His younger self still believed that life was easy. And if he was right, his future self would never see the world in colours as bleak as this.

A noise at the other end of the garden made him look up. Pansy walked through the gate, his mother in her wake. Draco's stomach gave another lurch. They couldn't see him and the boy together. He had no idea what would happen if they got hold of young Draco, but whatever it was, it wouldn't be good. His mother would recognise her son, and if Pansy found out anything about Draco's plot against the Dark Lord, there was no telling what she would do.

They had to try to get away. Maybe Draco could escape to the past together with his younger self. Wouldn't that interfere with time? Would he cease to exist when he followed the boy into his dream? At least he had to make sure that the boy got away. Draco grabbed the boy's hand and started to pull him deeper into the maze of the garden. Maybe they could outwit Pansy and escape through the kitchen into the past.

Pansy must have spotted them. She began to run. "Let go of him, Draco. Let go of him!"

The boy at Draco's side reacted immediately. "I'm all right, mum," he yelled. "He's my friend!"

"Get away from him, Scorpius. Now!"

And then Draco heard his mother. "No, don't! Not Draco, not Draco!"

But Pansy didn't listen. Still running at full speed, she whipped out her wand. Then she stopped, placed her feet in a fighting stance and pointed her wand at Draco. "Revelio memoriam! Revelio mem—!"

Something lurched at Draco, and for a moment he thought that she'd attacked him with a Seer's Hex. But then he realised that he was already familiar with the images that flooded his mind. His nightmares had finally reached daytime. Draco saw Dumbledore falling, saw his father suffering under the Cruciatus curse. He felt Fiendfyre licking at the soles of his feet as Potter's broom took them high up in the air. He heard a baby crying in the middle of the roaring of a battle. Then the battle cries changed again to the sound of wind feeding a fire, which danced over the body of a girl. And when she lifted her face to look him in the eye, he saw Pansy, her black hair changing into chestnut-brown and back again, her face scrunched up in the terrible agony of being burned alive.

He knew the girl who lay before him on the ground. Draco heard her moans and slowly crept nearer, careful not to be seen. She had fallen victim to a powerful Incendio, which had burnt away her clothes and hair. Her flesh was charred black where it had melted into her bones and whitish with glistening red boils where her flailing and rolling around had extinguished the flames. She was too far gone to notice Draco, not even when he bent low to calm her. She kept tossing her head from one side to the other, and from her lips came a litany of screams muffled by a growing weakness.

Draco almost couldn't stand to look at her, and yet he couldn't look away. Not after what he had just gone through, his own skin still tense and cracked from the Fiendfyre. He shuddered. She was an agonising example of what could have happened to him.

One of her hands accidentally brushed his leg. She stopped and stilled her head, as if listening for something. Draco cleared his throat. She moaned again, then moved her lips. He crouched lower.

"-a -ter." She inhaled with a cramp, then tried again: "-a -ter."

Draco's tongue felt dusty and swollen in his mouth, and he could only imagine how thirsty she must be. But he had no wand. He couldn't conjure water, no matter how much he wished to ease her last moments. "I ..." he began, and then broke off.

He couldn't tell her, he couldn't make any excuses, and besides, he wasn't even sure if she could hear him. He didn't dare touch her terribly burned skin – there was nothing he could do to soothe her anguish. A sob threatened to tear out of his throat. He bit on the insides of his cheeks and swallowed to keep it down. He wouldn't cry, he couldn't. It wouldn't be fair to her if he cried.

The girl's movements had stilled, and then he felt her hand brush his leg once more, almost like a caress. He looked up. Tiny flakes of white glittered on her body. She had turned her face upwards, and Draco's gaze followed hers. Snowflakes were falling from the sky; he had to blink to keep them from burning his eyes with their icy kisses. They began to cover her body and the ground she lay on, first melting away, but soon building up a thin layer of snow.

Draco scooped up a small handful of snow from the ground and brought it to her lips. The melting flakes fell from his fingers into her mouth, and she opened it a little wider. If the cold was bothering her, she didn't show it, and so Draco offered her more, eager to ignore the numbing of his fingers and legs, the shivers that ran through his body.

And he sat with her, long after she had stopped licking the water, after her movements had stilled, and all he could see of her was the soft form of her body under a thickening blanket of snow.

When Draco came to, he was lying on the sofa in the drawing room, feeling chilly despite the blanket that was drawn up to his chin.

He looked around. There was no sign of his younger self. Pansy lay curled up in one of the armchairs. Her forehead was crunched up in tense wrinkles, and she looked guarded, even in her sleep. Somehow, she seemed less familiar. Without a noise, Draco sat up and took a closer look.

Whatever glamour the woman had put on had slipped from her face, leaving her nose a little longer and her chin somewhat rounder. Her black hair had lightened to chestnut-brown. Only her eyes, which opened at that instant, were the same colour of dark chocolate. She struggled to sit up, but Draco leapt forward from his sofa and thrust out his wand. Its tip made a slight indentation under her chin.

"You're not Pansy."

"Draco, you—"

"Don't." He pushed his wand a little further. "Don't deny it. Who are you? What are you doing here? And what have you done with Pansy?"

She looked at him all the way from his wand to his hand and arm and face. Her eyes were calm, steady. "Put that thing away. It's not like—"

He was on her with one fluid movement, grabbed her blouse by the collar. He lifted his free hand. "My wand might be useless, but my fists are still fully functional. Now, tell me what I want to know. I won't ask again."

Her eyes closed briefly, and he could feel her swallow against his tightly clenched knuckles.

"I'll tell you. Just ... just promise that you'll hear me out before you do anything rash."

Draco released her with a short nod. "I'll hear you out. Tell me."

"I'm ... My name is Astoria. I'm your ... we're married."

"Married? What happened to Pansy? She would never have ..."

The woman, Astoria, put her hand over Draco's hand, the hand that had held a wand under her chin mere moments ago. Her eyes were still calm, but also full of pain.

"Draco, I'm so sorry. Pansy ... she's ... she died in the Battle of Hogwarts."

Dead.

Pansy couldn't be dead. She'd been with him for the last four years, ever since the war had ended. He would have felt—

No! She couldn't. She couldn't. She—

She would have never allowed this to happen. Not for Draco to marry another woman, and not for him to lose his magic, his purpose, his position in life. Pansy would have never forgiven him for losing it, for losing her, for not missing her every day of his life. She had to be—

But how could he have missed her when he believed her to be around? How could he have not noticed the difference? But he had noticed, hadn't he? And yet, he hadn't seen it clearly enough, sharply enough to point it out – until now. Until this woman had told him that—

Pain ripped through him. He was breathing splintered glass, like on the day of the Battle of Hogwarts, and his chest heaved in his desperate attempt to get some air. He smelled burning flesh and heard a young woman moan for water. He didn't need to hear Astoria's story; he knew the one answer that led to all the others. The answer was too terrible to know, and he didn't want to know. But the truth had finally caught up with him and escape was no longer an option. A sob was wreaking havoc in his throat, threatening to leap out and shatter the world. A world without Pansy, who had been burnt to death that night.

"I saw her. I saw her duelling. And I couldn't ... I'd lost my mother's wand. I called out a warning. She was startled, and then ... she was on fire. All I would have had to do was cast an Aguamenti. But ... I couldn't. I couldn't save her. I couldn't even give her a sip of water to drink."

Astoria said nothing, and so Draco attacked her with another question.

"Who won?"

"Potter. All Death Eaters were prosecuted and brought to trial. But your mother had helped Potter, and so you were allowed to keep the Manor and your assets."

She'd died for nothing. And the world they'd grown up in was ripped from under his feet.

"What about my father?"

"He went to Azkaban. He's ... he's dead. We didn't dare tell you, because you were already in such a fragile state."

His father, also dead, and in Azkaban at that. The thought was too terrible to fully comprehend it. At least Mother was still alive. And he was ... married.

"You said we're married. Since when? Why would I marry you, when I didn't even know you? Why don't I remember?"

She paused and took a deep breath before she answered. "Your father died around Christmas 2004. We were married in February 2005. The ceremony was held—"

"Are you kidding? How can we have got married in 2005 when I'm only twenty-three? You're talking about—Are you from the future? Like ... like Draco came from the past? What happened to him?"

Maybe his young self had managed to escape. Could Draco still wake up from this nightmare into a different life?

"Huh? Oh, I see ... No, I'm ... no, I'm not from the future. And it's not 2002. It's ..." She hesitated.

"How old am I?"

Her face crunched up as if in pain. "Oh, god, Draco, I hate doing this to you. You're ... damn! You're thirty-seven. You were so ill when I first saw you. They'd tried several times to bring you back from your ... But it didn't work. You were fighting it so hard, clinging to ... to your explanations. And so we tried to play along until you would remember on your own."

Numbness was spreading all over his body. He couldn't feel his fingers any longer. "What year is it?"

"Your memory returned when I hexed you, but it started long ago when your dreams became so vivid. I knew you'd remember soon, I was sick of lying to you, but your mother was afraid to speed it up. The first years, they had to keep you sedated so often; you were fighting your memories so hard."

"What ye—"

"No—let me finish! I didn't want to hurt you, but when I saw you in the garden—I didn't know what to think—I was afraid that you'd hurt Scorpius!"

"What year is it? I asked you what year it is!"

All the blood had gone from her face but for the two red blotches on her cheeks. Her lips quivered, and she pressed them together until they were nothing but a faded line.

"It's 2017. You're thirty-seven years old. And we have a son. His name is Scorpius."

Thirty seven. It was 2017. It was 2017, and he had a son. Scorpius – the name she'd called in the garden. There was no young Draco who had been visiting him from his past. There was no need to set things right. It was 2017, and he'd woken up to a world where the Dark Lord was dead and Potter's side ruled.

He should have felt relieved, but all he could think about was the terrible price he had paid: Pansy. His father. Nineteen years of his life gone in a haze. Suddenly, his hope come true sounded a lot less attractive. What else had changed? Could it get any worse? They still seemed to own the manor, but maybe they had been placed under house arrest. Maybe this was why his mother spent all her time in the study. Or maybe they were down to their last sack of Galleons. His treatment must have cost them a fortune. Merlin knew what his mother had to go through to keep the family clothed and fed.

Draco felt a hand, Astoria's hand, close around his own, and it was then that he noticed how much he was shaking. Not just his hands, but his whole body was quivering with shock and loss and need.

"Draco," Astoria said, and her voice sounded as if she was soothing a frightened child, "Draco ... you're making it snow."

His vision went black.

When Draco regained consciousness, he was once more on the sofa, with Astoria watching him from the armchair.

He blinked at her. "You're still here. So I guess you've told me the truth, haven't you?"

She nodded and waited until he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Then she handed him a cup of tea. "Are you ready to hear the rest?"

Draco inhaled the strong scent of the green tea. His mother preferred black tea. Green tea was a habit he'd learned from ... Astoria.

He gave her a small nod. "Go on. What else is there?"

"You wanted to know how I came to be your wife. My family ... I lost everyone. My parents, my sister, they're all dead. After Hogwarts, no one would hire me, the daughter of Death Eater sympathisers. I met your mother at a charity event. She said that people like us should hold together.

"And what I saw of her ... she was wonderful, Draco. She did everything to keep the manor, to take care of you and to fight for your father's release. But she was in over her head. After you had burned yourself so badly, it became obvious that you needed a care-taker. I needed a job, and I looked a bit like Pansy, especially with a few glamour spells on. So she hired me."

"That doesn't explain how we came to be married. Did you do that for the money, too?"

Astoria gave him a distant little smile. "You can be quite charming, when you're together with a woman you're fond of. And your loyalty towards your family is admirable. Something happened I'd never expected: I began to see more in you than just a job." She shrugged. "I always wanted a family. It's not as if I could have hoped to find many men willing to be with someone with my kind of background."

Draco sneered. "So you thought the ex-Death Eater and the war orphan would make a nice match? I wonder how you sold that to my mother."

He'd hoped to get a reaction to his insult, but she ignored it. "No. I knew you and Pansy would make a nice match. And after ... after your father's death ..."

Details clicked into place and Draco was able to fill the blanks for himself. "My mother approached you. She arranged it all?"

Astoria had the grace to blush. "She did. She said if you ever came to your senses you'd understand why."

The realisation was almost unbearable. It was crushing him, and Draco fought with all his might not to slump forward in defeat.

"I do."

An heir. A child with a clean record. His mother had achieved what he hadn't been able to do on his own. The family would live on.

"I don't remember ... Did we ever ...?" He looked at her, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks. She was his wife. And here he was, flaming red in the face at the thought of touching her.

She shook her head. "No. Never. A few weeks after the marriage, a Healer performed the Perpetuo Progeniem."

Perpetuo Progeniem – I perpetuate the family. Old Pure-blood magic, designed to create a magical conception in case the head of the family was mortally wounded. To make sure that the family wouldn't be left without an heir. His great-great-grandfather had been a child of the Perpetuo Progeniem. Draco had been told his story as a young boy, had learned at his father's knee that Pure-bloods would never give up their lineage.

He looked at his hands holding the empty cup. They were the hands of a man past his first youth. He shuddered.

"And we have a son."

"Yes. Scorpius. I believe you've met." Astoria's face was relaxed, her head tilted just a little, as if she was eager to know more about his encounters with the boy.

Draco nodded. "I thought he was ... I thought he was me. From the past." Now, it sounded insane even to his own ears. He would never be able to tell anyone what he had wished to accomplish. "I hope I haven't scared him too badly. Does he know that I'm ... his father?"

"The Healers advised us not to let you see him, because you two look so alike. They were afraid it might confuse you. So your mother and I told him his dad was too sick to see him properly." Astoria laughed a quiet, pleasant laugh. "When he first told me about you, I thought he'd made you up. Until I saw you together in the garden, I was convinced you were an imaginary friend he had given the name of his father."

She didn't add the typical You know how children are, and he was grateful for it. This morning, he had woken up a twenty-three-year-old young man. Now he was thirty-seven, the same age his father had been when he'd first sent Draco off to Hogwarts. He felt old. He didn't know anything about having a child.

He had a son. A son who thought his father was crazy. And wasn't it the truth, if one looked close enough? He'd sired a son, secured the Malfoy line, but what difference did it make? Scorpius had no father to teach him how to fly a broom or discuss Quidditch, or to brew potions together. Scorpius had a father too fragile to see him. And now he'd even lost his crazy friend from the gardens.

Draco closed his eyes. He wanted ... his son. But he shouldn't want him. Shouldn't pursue him, but rather let him be. Scorpius would be better off without him. He could still be someone, have a fresh start, a future unblemished by the failures of his wannabe Death Eater father.

Astoria cleared her throat, and Draco opened his eyes. "He loves you, Draco. He knows that you're ... not well. But he'll come to terms with it, now that you're back with us for real."

"How could he? Spare me the pretty words! You don't have to lie to me any longer. That job is over!" The urge to punch Astoria for her sugar-coating was overwhelming, and Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest to keep control. "How could he possibly love me? He doesn't know me. How could he if I don't even know myself? Do you have pretty words for him, too? Who am I? I've a son and I don't know him."

Astoria's eyes flared up. "If, for just a moment, you would stop pitying yourself, you'd see that it's not true. You made it through eleven years without knowing your son. You have all the rest of his life to get to know him and make it up to him."

He would need more than eleven years to come up with ideas for how exactly. And he also had Astoria to deal with. They were, after all, married.

He was tired, so deadly tired. But he needed to know one more thing.

"I know it's silly, and it won't bring my magic back. But ... what about my hawthorn wand?"

If Astoria was surprised by his sudden change of subject, she didn't show it. "I don't know. I suppose it's still with Potter."

Draco still had a hard time wrapping his mind around what it meant that Potter had won the war. "So he's alive. And the Dark Lord is really dead?"

"Yeah. Potter's alive. He has a fam—"

"Don't. Please." Draco lifted his hand. "Don't tell me. I still need ... there is so much I don't know about my own family yet."

She nodded. "It's all right. Take your time."

Draco regarded the wand he'd owned for the last nineteen years, turning it around in his hands. He knew what he was about to say, but that didn't make it easier.

"This is ... it isn't my wand. It's ... Pansy's. Her wand has this small notch on the handle, digging into your palm. She was the only one able to handle it. She used to say that if someone ever stole it from her, it wouldn't bring them any success. I took it ... then. And it never really worked for me."

"It doesn't mean that she didn't want you to have it."

"But ... I failed her. I didn't save her. She must have been so angry."

Astoria shrugged. "You could ask Potter to give you back your old wand. Or maybe it's time you get a new one?"

"Maybe." Draco didn't feel like talking about it and, thankfully, Astoria soon dropped the conversation and went to help Scorpius go through his shopping list for Hogwarts.

Dinner that evening was just between the two of them. His mother was probably taking care of their son.

Astoria kept pushing around the food on her plate, and Draco didn't feel much like eating. So he started with the next topic. There was so much they had to talk about, enough words to fill the awkwardness between them.

"You must have been wondering: What will become of you? Did you ever think about what would happen if I'd regain my memory?"

Would she want to stay? Arranged marriage or not, his mother would have never agreed to her leaving with the child. And neither would Draco.

"You've just lost the woman you loved." Astoria gave him a little smile. The corners of her mouth curved upwards, whereas her eyes stayed sad. "I don't expect you to—" she broke off.

She must know that he wouldn't abandon Pansy's memory for the sake of a stranger. Not even for a stranger who'd taken care of him for the last decade.

"But you can't simply kick me out. Your mother and I set up the marriage contract together."

"I ..." he began, and was shocked when he heard the tremor in his voice. "I won't make promises of which I'm not certain. But you'll always have a roof over ... a home at ... here.

"I don't want our son to lose his mother." He looked at her again and saw how tightly drawn her shoulders were, how white her hands from pressing them against the top of the table. "And neither do I want you to lose your son."

Her eyes grew hard. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

He realised his mistake. "No, ah ... that came out all wrong. Hear me out, please?"

She nodded, a stiff movement of her chin, almost as if her neck wasn't involved.

"I ... I know we're ... married. I just ... I can't promise you ... love. But you'll always be my wife."

An arranged marriage. Just what they'd had all those years.

Astoria nodded again. "I ... Thank you. This is ... We'll both need time to get used to the new situation."

She stood. Her posture was less rigid, but her eyes were still distant. "I need to be alone for a bit. Will you be all right?"

"Of course I will. Don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast."

The door closed behind her.

"Astoria." It was the name of a stranger. Draco didn't even know her maiden name. All of her family was gone, she said. And he realised that today, while he had lost Pansy, Astoria had lost the husband she'd taken care of for the last eleven years.

.

They all tiptoe around each other, and yet, some weight seems to have been lifted from them. The young mistress hasn't changed her room for another, and his master still sleeps in the same room he had since he was a little boy. But his mistress has ordered him to clear out the master bedroom, unused since she moved to her private wing a few years after the end of the war. And so he takes great care to air out the mattresses and to dust the shelves when the young couple is outside.

They wander around in the gardens for hours. Sometimes, they talk. Often, they simply walk together. The young mistress stays close to his master, ready to catch him if he stumbles. But she doesn't take his arm as she used to do.

Meanwhile, his mistress continues studying the papers and writing her letters in the study. The other day, he heard her humming a little tune when he brought her tea. He doesn't know much about such things, but it might have been a waltz.

There's a knock at the window. A beautiful brown owl waits to be let in, a long and thin box tied to its leg, the card addressed to his master. He relieves the owl and sends it on its way with a treat.

.

The first of September came too early. And yet, what mattered more was that the days had their correct dates and didn't melt into a timeless blur any longer.

A knock at the door indicated Astoria. "Are you ready?"

Draco's stomach lurched. "Just a moment. I'm on my way." He threw a final glance at the mirror. White-blond hair that caressed his temples, grey eyes, a pointed chin. He could see his father's features in his face, still looking for a much younger man whenever he encountered his image in a mirror. The mirrors of the manor had been enchanted with blindness so that they never showed his image when he walked past them. A precaution that was no longer necessary.

He stepped away from the dressing table and opened the door. Astoria stood waiting in the hall, beautiful in her new robes. Draco took her hand and kissed her cheek. He was glad for the formal rules of courtship. Getting to know his wife would take longer than the three months they'd spent together since the return of his memory, but for now, it gave them a set of rules to operate by. And they both agreed that Scorpius deserved the best co-operation they could manage.

"Where is he?" Draco demanded.

Astoria took his hand. "Come. He's waiting for us outside."

A series of side-along Apparitions brought the three of them to King's Cross, and through the steam of the engine Draco could see the outline of the Hogwarts Express. His eyes started to water a little, but it wasn't from the steam alone. This was where he had wanted to send his younger self, to start anew. Now he was here with his son, and he could only hope that Scorpius's future wouldn't be tainted by old feuds and prejudices.

He felt a sharp tug at his sleeve and looked down.

"Dad, look! Over there," whispered Scorpius. He was practically bouncing, and Draco knew it was only due to his upbringing with Narcissa that he didn't point. "Can you see him?"

"Who?" Draco squinted through the mist.

"The boy. Over there. With the black hair. The boy you told me about, he's there!"

The mist shifted, and then, Draco saw first Weasley and Granger with their children and right beside them Potter with his wife and children too. A young boy stood at Potter's side, the spitting image of his father. Draco gave a curt nod in Potter's direction and turned towards Scorpius.

"You were right about the boy, Dad. You knew he'd come."

Draco felt like the biggest fraud in the world, but there was no way he was going to destroy the trust in his son's voice, even though he wasn't sure he deserved it. "He's going to Hogwarts, same as you."

Scorpius looked at him, his eyes huge in his face. "I remember what you told me ... when you ... when you were still sick. What you said about friendship and Houses ... does it ... does it still count?"

Draco's mouth went dry. Maybe there was a way to change the future, after all. To free his son from the burden of the past. He wasn't sure how much difference he would make – too much depended on the goodwill of others – but at least he had to try.

He crouched down so that Scorpius's face was slightly above his own. "What I told you then ... It still counts. I ... I don't know if he'd like to be friends with you. You don't have to make him your friend, not for me. Just ... be yourself. That'll be enough. And if you decide you want to be friends with him, you'll find a way. I'm sure."

"That's no big deal. I can do that." Scorpius frowned. "I thought it would be more of a secret."

Draco lightly ruffled his son's hair – a gesture of affection he'd grown to enjoy over the last three months. "There'll be enough secrets waiting for you at Hogwarts. And I'm certain you're going to discover each and every one of them."

Scorpius's arms around him as they said goodbye were the best and most real thing he'd felt in a long time.

"Don't worry, he'll be all right," said Astoria once they'd waved Scorpius goodbye and the train had left the station.

"I hope ... yes, he will. It's just ... I've only begun to know him and now he's gone."

"He'll be back. And we promised to write him every week." Astoria offered him her arm, Draco took it, and she Apparated them back home.

But when she wanted to step away to make more space for him, he held on. "Walk with me?"

Her eyes lit up, she nodded, and together, they walked along the driveway towards the high iron gates of the manor. Astoria took calm, firm strides, easy enough for Draco to keep up with. Their shoulders rubbed together every other step.

Draco inhaled deeply. The autumn sun was warm on his face.

.

The End