As ever, I write fanfiction when I should be studying for impending doom of exams, although it has no doubt been a long time since my last update of any kind. This was written to the Downton Abbey soundtrack which is really worth a listen, and the tv series well worth watching. Any feedback, particularly constructive critique, is always appreciated and I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: None of the characters mentioned in this story belong to me, nor will they ever. Which is for the best, I'd say.


It isn't entirely ironic to think that the son of a Death Eater had been, at one point buried deep in his childhood, afraid of the dark. The years (not to mention his father) had taught him constant vigilance well before Mad Eye and that meant having his wand always within reach and a hex ready on his lips. But the Draco aged single digits had sometimes liked to sleep curled up beneath the covers, back arched like a prawn and nose pressed into the comforting smell of his cashmere duvet. Buried as he was, the cold shadows of Malfoy Manor were banished before his padded fortress of warmth and the darkness confined to only what he knew.

He would never admit to you that when he wasn't mulling over his hatred of Potter and Weasel (not jealousy, never jealousy) or being threatened with a slow and painful death by the same fools plus a few deranged acquaintances of his Aunt Bella who couldn't seem to comprehend the power of the Malfoy name, that he found the Slytherin dorms beautiful. The light that filtered through the Black Lake made the dungeons a dancing cauldron of green and when he was hidden away behind emerald drapes and a silencing charm it became the only home he'd ever known. He slept there like a man exhausted after months, then years, of sleepless nights, too busy trying to differentiate between what was right and wrong while simultaneously trying to keep his hide intact. The scars from Potter's impulsive Sectumsempra indicated that he was only marginally successful doing either.

During the war, Draco's efforts at espionage for the Light granted him a dusty corner of 12 Grimmauld Place and a knitted confection Mother Weasley's appropriately mothering instincts couldn't help but provide for him on Christmas Day. He remembered the months there as a time of perpetual injury, gaunt cheekbones and gritted teeth against the brood of blood traitors (although it could be safely argued that he was one now himself) who were highly vocal in their distrust of his apparently newfound conscience. And then there was the Mudblood herself, a lower lip chewed away into nothing because of her excessive compassion that knew no boundaries and over time managed to eat away at his reflex spitting of harsh words.

As a married man he'd given up existing habits in favour of sleeping with the curtains open, every window of his house in Dover facing the seemingly endless waters of the English Channel. There were no spies because Voldemort was dead and the only back he cared about protecting was the one he pressed himself against, the warmth of his wife with his arm thrown across her waist, much as a child would clutch some beloved stuffed toy, so that he could wake to the coconut scent of her untamed russet curls and be reminded of the inconceivable luck that he should have secured for himself the brightest (and most stubborn) witch of the age.