…o0o…
Four And Half Seasons
Part II
Autumn 2008
…o0o…
When Draco Malfoy went to war, he wore a young man's clothes. He had been so sure that somehow he would make it, despite the odds. What a fool.
When Draco Malfoy steps out of Azkaban, ten years have passed him by and he no longer quite remembers what sunlight looks like.
When he sees it again, it is a narrow ray of yellow light that pours into a cramped office through a filthy window and that light fills him with horrified apprehension.
But they are so proud to see him go that he doesn't have the heart to ask to stay.
…
His parole Auror is Ginevra Weasley, of all people.
She has grown into a serious woman with hard lines on her face and confidence in her eyes. It suits her, surprisingly, and Draco can barely recall the carefree, silly little girl she once was. Her stable presence calms him some, the dread for the future dissipating a little in the face of the past.
"Weasley," he greets, stiffly but not impolitely.
She doesn't reply but waves a graceful hand towards a chair. Draco sits obediently. They are at the Ministry now, in her office, and clearly on her own ground.
"You look dreadful, Malfoy," she says first and makes Draco twitch self-consciously.
"I know," he replies. He showered this morning, shaved and dressed nicely but it wasn't enough to delude even himself. An unfamiliar face had looked back from the mirror, hallow and gaunt and nothing like the Draco Malfoy he remembers. He tries not to think about it too much.
"Good," Weasley says and unexpectedly smiles a little.
Draco avoids her knowing eyes, glancing around her office and taking in the organized disorder that controls the space. There's a picture on her desk, a moving photograph of a small dark-haired girl who grins widely at the camera and waves. Two of her front teeth are missing.
"Your daughter?" he asks, just to break the silence.
"Yes," Weasly confirms. "She just turned five." Her eyes soften ever so slightly when she glances at the picture.
"Hmm," Draco replies and carefully doesn't ask about Potter.
She clears her throat awkwardly and begins to explain practicalities: Stay in the country. No magic. Weekly check-ups. He sits there nodding silently while she talks. He tries not to be too obvious about it, but every time he glances at her he startles a bit, involuntarily. There are lines on her face, little etchings of time. They are subtle, but still there.
Ten years. He feels like the understanding of what that actually means is just beginning to dawn.
He interrupts her, "Do you know anything about my mother?"
She blinks, caught unawares in the middle of her speech. She swipes hair from her forehead, a nervous tic. "She's at St. Mungo's."
He nods slowly. "I see."
"Would you like to meet her?" she asks then and looks at him searchingly. "I could arrange it."
He doesn't have the time to think before a desperate, rough "no" escapes him.
She doesn't question it, merely nods her acceptance and writes a few lines in her papers.
Draco wonders what happened to her family, but doesn't care quite enough to ask.
…
He is assigned a flat at the edge of London's wizarding district. It's more of a shoebox than a flat, but he doesn't care. There's heating and there's natural light, which is more than what he's used to. Draco can feel the wards around the flat hum gently when he passes through them, and wonders if they are there to keep him in or to keep everyone else out.
It is strange, this newly found freedom. Not much has changed really, because the idea of leaving the flat doesn't even cross his mind for the first few weeks. Instead, he spends hours standing by the window and staring at the world that flows by. That is definitely a luxury Azkaban sorely lacked. The world outside that window is a grey London street, dirty, dull and as rainy as ever. It is the most fascinating thing Draco has seen in ten years.
In his darker moments, it feels like a dream. Sometimes he thinks that he's still there, in his comfortably dark little cell, waiting, and all this is just a vision that his mind has conjured to appease him. In those dark moments he thinks that maybe insanity—if that's what it is—isn't so bad after all.
Actually, he thinks he's doing quite alright, all things considered.
...
Weasley visits him on Fridays.
"How have you been?" she asks the first time she appears and takes a curious, apprising look around Draco's new prison.
"It's alright," he says almost defensively, unsure if he's talking about the flat or himself. He clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm fine."
She looks him over and clearly doesn't believe it for a second.
They talk. It's almost nice in a way, even though Draco doesn't really have anything to say. He listens, and hums and nods in all the right places. She hands him a stack of papers he has to read, takes a few signatures and pointedly mentions his mother a couple of times. He just hums and nods some more and lets her natter on. After a decade of deafening silence and ear-splitting screaming, her soft lulling voice is a welcome change.
"You do know you are allowed to go outside, don't you?" Weasley points out after she has nothing else left to say.
Draco shrugs. "Where would I go?"
"You could visit friends, family perhaps," she suggests as she begins to leave.
Draco quirks a sceptical brow and doesn't say anything, but she seems to understand.
"Right," is what she settles for in the end and finishes with a curt nod. "I'll be back next week, then."
"I'll have tea ready," Draco offers and she smiles a little. It is a silent agreement to make this as painless as they can.
Then she's gone, the door snapping silently behind her. Draco stands there, in the middle of his small kitchen, unsure what to do next, what to do today, tomorrow, next week, next year. In the end he heaves a breath and wanders over to the window and gazes down to the quiet street outside.
For now that is enough. Perhaps it always will.
…
Nightmares haunt him day and night and sometimes it is hard to tell if the chill he feels is a memory or a dream. It seems like the cold of Azkaban has seeped into his very bones and that he can never quite shake it off. Draco cranks up the heating and hides under the duvet most days, but even then he can't quite stop the shivering.
Sometimes he wakes up screaming and forgets where he is, stumbling blindly in panic and terror for long, slowly dragging moments, until he remembers again who his is and where. Going to sleep is even more of a hassle than waking up. His bed is too soft and even when the blinds are closed the room is flooded with weak light that keeps him up into the early hours of the morning.
But overall, he's doing a lot better than he expected.
…
It is during Weasley's fifth visit when she finally cracks and says, "You have to get out."
Draco looks up from the empty teacup he's been staring at, trying to interpret the leaves left at the bottom, and frowns at her. "What?"
There's frustration in her tone when she says, "You have been huddled up here for weeks. This is a rehabilitation program. I don't see you rehabilitating anytime soon if you carry on like this."
Draco turns to look at his cup again, unsure how to respond. As his silence stretches, her irritation grows.
"You don't even have to go anywhere. Just step outside. Walk around the park or just go stand in the middle of the street, for all I care. Just do something," she orders.
He draws in a breath, sighs and shakes his head slowly. "I can't."
"Why not?" she asks. She sounds almost angry, but disappointed most of all. It's alright. Draco's used to being a disappointment.
He reaches across the table and gently places his teacup in her hands. Her gaze bounces a few times between the cup and him. A displeased downward quirk of her mouth demands an explanation.
"I can't," Draco repeats emphatically, before adds, "Because I think that's the Grim. Better not risk it."
He hasn't said so many words at once in years, but it is worth it in the end. Her eyebrows climb high on her forehead and her confused gaze falls back to the teacup as she scrutinises the tea leaves. Then gradually, almost reluctantly, a muffled, silly little giggle escapes her, before she has the power to crush it completely. She looks almost startled then, as if she had forgotten she could make a sound like that.
She stands up quickly, elegantly, and completely in control again. Amusement lingers in the look she casts at him, but everything else about her speaks of sternness.
"I am very good at my job, Malfoy," she says, "And I will not let you ruin my perfect record."
He can only nod his acceptance at that. She oozes determination that he doesn't have the power to fight against, so it is easier just to agree.
He walks her to the door and watches her leave.
Afterwards, he stands in the doorway, with the door slightly ajar, and stares into the hallway. He stands there for a long time and occasionally he can see movement as someone peers into the peephole in the flat opposite of his. He has no clue who his neighbours are, but neither does he care. They probably think him insane, standing here in his doorway like an idiot, if they already didn't think so before.
Seconds stretch into minutes and minutes pile up into an hour, while he hesitates there. Eventually he reaches over and pulls the door closed. It locks with a soft click.
He can't, just like he told Weasley.
But for now, with the door securely closed between him and the rest of the world, he's doing just fine.
…
The simple fact is that Draco has no future and the past has passed him by long ago. He is stuck in some kind of a limbo between the two. He watches from the window how the world slowly turns, but for as long as he remains safe in this self-made prison not a thing out there can touch him.
It is better this way, he reasons. He is nothing but a relic of the past, an unwanted reminder of darker times.
The Dark Mark on his left arm has faded dull dark grey, but it is still there.
…
"You have to get out, Malfoy," Weasley persists.
The next week she says, "You can't stay in here forever."
The week after that it is "This is ridiculous. Some fresh air would only do you good."
Eventually, Draco stops responding and just morosely shakes his head every time.
And then, one Friday she appears like a fiery whirlwind waving a paper with official signets and signatures and Draco is robbed of the choice on the matter.
"It's just one trip to Gringotts," Weasley explains, "To sort out the inheritance and official paperwork. It will take half an hour at the most. If you want, I'll even accompany you."
Draco has a white-knuckled grip on the window frame as he stares down to the street again. For a brief, wild moment he wonders hysterically if the drop would be enough to kill him.
"I can't do this," he snarls through his teeth and shoots a pleading look towards Weasley. Perhaps there is an ounce of humanity and pity somewhere underneath her hard façade, perhaps a little mercy.
"It's now or never. You'll lose the inheritance, the properties, the titles, everything, unless you do this," Weasley tells him and proves herself heartless, "No one else can do this for you. You have to be present in person."
"Then it can all burn. I don't care," Draco answers and tries to push down the panic that is bubbling in his chest.
"And how do you plan to pay your mother's hospital bills then?" Weasley asks and it is a low blow. Draco flinches as if physically struck and then sags weakly against the wall behind him, staring at Weasley with wide accusing eyes.
"Fine," he forces out. It is a weak strangled gasp, but he is surprised he manages that much.
Weasley nods her satisfaction. "Good. Do you want me to come with you?"
He exhales a weak, "No."
She frowns a bit and for a moment it looks like she is going to argue. But then her expression smoothens and she nods again. "Alright. I expect this to be taken care of the next time I visit."
Draco raises his gaze to her and spits out venomously, "Get out."
She doesn't take insult, merely offers a small wry smile. "Till next week then."
Only when the door snaps closed behind her, Draco allows himself to collapse to the floor and hyperventilates.
…
Draco tries to leave for Gringotts on Monday. He stands at the door for two whole hours, one hand on the door handle and heart beating a restless rhythm in his chest, before he gives up and withdraws. The next ten hours he spends by the window again, trying to convince himself that there is nothing out there that could be worse than what he has always been through.
He tries to leave again on Tuesday. It takes half an hour this time, before he cautiously opens the door only to yank it back closed again. He double-checks the lock to make sure it stays that way.
He makes another attempt on Wednesday. After three hours he hates himself more intensely than ever before. The only reason why he refuses to give up is that Friday is coming up fast and Weasley's "I told you so" will be more disheartening than his self-loathing could ever hope to be.
On Thursday he steps through the door, descends the stairs briskly and carries on down the street without pausing. He grinds his teeth together, casts his eyes downwards and refuses to stop. One step at the time, breathe in, breathe out. It's easy if he concentrates.
Halfway to Leaky Cauldron and with sheer terror strangling at his throat, Draco begins to wonder if he will ever be alright again.
…
Diagon Alley looks untouched by time and the people look the same, even if the fashion has changed. Draco too feels the same, like an ugly dark smudge tarring this otherwise flawless world. He half expects someone to notice him, to point him out and say, "Death Eater" with disgust and fear and loathing. But no one pays him any attention; no one even looks his way. For some reason it makes him even more uncomfortable.
He feels almost relieved, when upon telling his name to the goblin banker, the creature's face twists in to a scornful sneer.
"I see," the goblin says and Draco can hear the insult and mockery in the words. He doesn't mind, appreciates it even.
He signs papers in blood to prove his claim and nods agreeably when necessary. He receives keys he doesn't intend to use and documents he will never read. The goblin looks about as reluctant to be there as Draco feels. It is utter waste of time, none of it matters, and Draco begins to suspect that this was merely something Weasley arranged in order to get him to leave the flat. Perhaps she is more devious that he has given her credit for.
"One last thing, Mr. Malfoy," the goblin says and Draco hides a flinch and thinks about his father. The goblin reaches over and passes a large silvery signet ring to him. It weighs more than the cold, shimmering silver would suggest and it burns against Draco's skin. The family crest glares back at him mockingly.
"I see," he mumbles weakly and doesn't know why he didn't realise to expect this.
He is starting to feel nauseous, the harsh sounds and the bright lights wearing upon him more heavily every passing second. He quickly slips the signet ring into the safety of his pocket.
"If that is all. . ." he forces out, but doesn't stay to wait for a response. This is all he can handle today, if there is anything else, it can wait.
The goblin must know this, because he sardonically calls after him, "Do come again."
Draco makes a silent vow never to do just that.
…
He leaves Gringotts in haste, doesn't quite run but hurries his steps a bit too much than what is appropriate. Outside it is a little easier to breathe but the cold sweat clinging to his skin stays. His hands shake unsteadily and he draws a calming breath, composing himself. What a pathetic display of weakness that was, a perfect example of what he has become. A mere memory of the past has rendered him into a nervously trembling wreck.
He bites his inner cheek hard and draws blood. The sting makes it easier to focus. He straightens his back with the sheer willpower and looks up and down the restlessly buzzing Alley. He is better than this, stronger than this, and he has to prove it. He has to prove it to himself, since there's no one else left to set expectations.
A deep breath, firm spring in his gait, eyes forward. It is easy if he concentrates.
His already flickering concentration gets the final blow before he manages ten steps from Gringotts' doors. The blow comes in the form of a glittering and sparkling woman, hanging onto an arm of an equally finely dressed man.
"Draco? Draco Malfoy?" the woman squeals out, more inelegantly than her groomed exterior would have led to expect. A pale hand flies to her red-painted lips in surprise, stifling a gasp, a cry and a surprised laugh, all at once.
Draco stares, curses his bad luck and yields to the inevitable.
"Pansy," he greets and offers a tiny nod.
The stiff and motionless silence lasts for four fleeting seconds before Pansy gathers her overflowing skirts and shuffles over. As her softly curved figure presses against him and her arms wound around his neck, he remembers how he liked to think he was in love with her and almost laughs.
She squeezes hard, heaves small shaky breaths and flutters like a leaf in the wind.
"Dear Salazar, I can't believe it! I thought. . ." She doesn't reveal what she had thought. Just pulls back enough to take a good look at his face and sighs.
"You poor, miserable bastard," she says, shakes her head and smiles through unshed tears. For a moment Draco fancies himself a bit in love all over again.
"I'm doing alright," he assures her and for the first time the lie comes easily.
They talk briefly. Exchange empty nothings and skirt around all the important subjects that neither of them wants to address. The man accompanying Pansy is her husband whose name Draco can't be bothered to remember. It's something long and French. In the end, the husband subtly herds Pansy away with gentle words and touches, while casting wary looks at Draco. Pansy refuses to leave without raining dinner invitations behind her, looking pleading and worried all at once.
Draco doesn't decline but neither says he yes.
…
"So, how did it go?" Weasley asks that Friday and swirls a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
Draco shrugs, but doesn't know what to say. He focuses on peeling an orange, just to avoid looking directly at her.
Her eyes narrow and mouth pulls downwards. "You did go, didn't you?"
Draco sighs, "Yes, I did."
She hesitates for a moment, clearly unsure whether to believe him or not, but nods finally. "Good. Now give me something to work with here."
"It was fine," he lies through his teeth.
"Were you?" she asks observantly and sips her tea. Draco shoots her a glare, but she seems unaffected and merely waits for him to respond.
"I saw Pansy," he admits, when the silence gets too pressuring.
The teacup halts hallway to her lips and she stares at him over the rim. "Parkinson?" she asks, curious.
He hums his confirmation and rips his orange into sections.
"And?" Weasley prompts impatiently.
"There is no 'and'," he tells her and shrugs again.
She offers a small smile. "There is always an and."
Draco looks up and for a moment he wonders why she cares so much, why she persists like this.
"There is no and," he repeats emphatically and on a whim flicks one of the orange sections at Weasly. It bounces off on her forehead and falls into her teacup with a splash. She shoots him an irritated glare, but the shake of her head is more amused than angry.
"You're an infuriating prat, Malfoy," she tells him.
His dry, "Only my best for you, Weasley," makes her smile and Draco knows that she is sufficiently distracted from the topic.
"You should call me Ginny," she says this time before she departs.
"Goodbye, Ginevra," he responds, just to spite her.
…
He doesn't leave the flat again after the trip to Gringotts. He considers it once or twice, but each time he remembers that there is nothing out there for him, so he stays instead. He watches from the window how autumn paints foliage with hues of brown and how people swap for thicker jackets to protect themselves from the wind and the rain.
Weasley's nagging is relentless and unforgiving, but he develops a remarkable immunity to it over the weeks that roll by. Her visits are the only thing to break the monotony, so he rather welcomes them. He never says as much to her, but he suspects that she knows anyway.
"Don't you ever actually consider going out there?" she asks once and waves a hand towards the street Draco spends most of his days observing. This time the question isn't an accusation or a suggestion, but one born out of honest curiosity.
"No. Not anymore," he replies truthfully.
In fact, Draco is quite determined that he will rot away right here, in this cosy little prison he has created for himself, and it's perfectly fine. He is fine and he has made his peace with the world.
…
And then on Tuesday a knock at the door tears that wavering peace to shreds.
At first Draco doesn't know how to react, merely turns to stare at the door frozenly. After a few minutes the knock repeats, and three sharp, resolute beats echo around the flat. He stands up slowly and takes halting steps towards the door. He draws a breath and tries to convince himself that he's hallucinating, that he has finally gone insane. Two more knocks. If it is a hallucination, then it is the most resilient one he has ever had.
He waits one more knock, just to be sure, before he opens the door.
Harry Potter stands there at his doorstep and offers a wavering expression that is probably meant to be a smile.
"Um, hello," Potter greets cautiously.
Draco stares for a few heartbeats more and then closes the door in Potter's face.
"Merlin damn it all," he mumbles and rubs his eyes tiredly.
Insanity is even more disconcerting than he thought. It does, however, seem to be exactly as persistent as he had always believed, as the knocking returns twice as loud. In some strange, twisted way it almost makes sense that it is Potter who has turned up to torment him in his darkest hour.
Draco yanks the door open again.
"I just want to talk," Potter says this time and shrugs a little.
"Well, I don't. So piss off," Draco responds, but the vision isn't only stubborn, but it appears deaf as well.
"I'd rather we talk indoors. The neighbours seem a bit shifty," Potter tells him and glances towards the opposite flat.
"The neighbours can go fuck themselves," Draco informs him, but Potter only grins wryly.
"You're still a right git, aren't you?" he says.
Draco doesn't reply, only waits.
After a moment, Potter shuffles on his feet awkwardly. "The wards won't let me in without an invitation," he hints.
Draco bites back a vicious 'Good' and he starts to wonder instead, if this is actually really happening. He doesn't find that a particularly comforting prospect. Insanity would have been a more welcome houseguest than Potter.
"Ten minutes of your time," Potter says, "And then I'll be out of your hair for good."
Potter's determination is legendary, so it is entirely possible that he could spend the rest of the day knocking at the door and then come back for another round the next day. Draco feels almost petty enough to let him.
"You have five," Draco finally says and invites him in.
"I'll speak fast then," is Potter's answer and it is a peace-offering of sorts. Draco hums vaguely and prepares for a fight.
Potter looks strange in his small flat and seems to eat up all the little space there is. Draco pushes past him into the kitchen to have some room to breathe and sits down at the table. He doesn't bother with words but lets his expectant stare speak for him. There has to be a reason why Potter is here, filling up Draco's flat and wearing on his sanity.
"I have something of yours," Potter says, as he reaches over to place something onto the table between them with a soft click, "And I think it's about time I gave it back."
Draco lets his eyes drop on to the table and breath catches in his throat.
It's his wand, the same one he had lost to Potter almost eleven years ago. It looks so familiar and foreign at once, a piece of wood and dragon heartstring, utterly insignificant and yet the most important thing in the world.
Draco looks up at Potter and demands, "Why?"
Potter shrugs. "It's yours and I don't need it. It seemed only fair to give it back."
Draco reaches over hesitantly, but can't quite bear to touch. His fingers hover over the wand, before slowly draw back.
Silence sits still for a moment, before Potter clears his throat and asks, "So, they finally let you out of Azkaban, huh?"
Something small and important snaps in Draco's head. He snatches up the wand and uses the same momentum to aim it at Potter's face and watches with glee how the green eyes widen in surprise.
"Give me a reason," he snarls out, violent and ugly.
Potter's surprise fades into a mocking smirk. "Really? I thought I had done enough already," he says, a laughter lurking in the words.
Draco wants to wipe that expression from his face so badly that it hurts. His hand tightens around the handle of the wand and incantations dance across his mind. It would be so easy. He takes a step closer, the tip of his wand aimed steady and precise. It would be so easy.
"Do it, you coward," Potter dares then, amusement obvious in his voice. He clearly doesn't think Draco will, but he's mistaken. Draco could do it and he probably wouldn't even regret it.
Ten years in Azkaban. A life time couldn't be much worse than that. Whatever Azkaban could destroy in him, has already been broken. He has nothing left to lose.
"Do it," Potter repeats vehemently and Draco sees.
The bastard wants him to do it. He wants Draco to cast and kill and finish it all for good. Potter has probably planned this, or at least hoped for it. The realisation irritates Draco even more.
He jabs the moron with the wand violently, before quickly withdraws and turns away.
"Fuck you," he grits out and pockets the wand. He feels strange, almost jittery and more awake than he has felt once during the past ten years.
Potter heaves a shaky breath and runs a hand through his wild hair. Draco can see the fiery scorch mark on his forehead, right next to the stupid, iconic scar, where the wand had made contact with his skin. It's a small consolation, but it makes Draco feel better.
"You're a rude bastard," Potter tells him and there's something foreign in his tone. It sounds almost like defeat.
"So I've heard," Draco answers. "Do you want tea?"
"Yeah, sure," Potter nods, "Why the hell not."
They drink tea in silence and it's the most surreal thing Draco has ever done.
…
-tbc-
…
