A/N: If you're not already aware this is a prequel to Flesh and Blood, which had an update yesterday.
Even drunk, Draco Malfoy knows the crooked, winding streets of Knockturn Alley like the back of his hand — the cobbles are raised slightly there, a metal rod juts out here, the steps are just slightly off kilter there. He knows it by pure repetition alone — there's only so many times a person's willing to trip over the same imprecisely laid cobblestones, pissed or not.
Besides, he's having enough trouble maintaining his balance as is without having to worry about shoddy workmanship getting in the way.
The ember liquid in the bottle under his robes swishes as he sways down the street. He's nicked the bottle right from under the pub owner's nose when they kicked him out and the fools were none the wiser. They should know by now to never turn your back on a Slytherin or some rubbish like that. And isn't he the poster boy for Slytherins?
The mark — it burns, it never stops burning — on his left forearm is proof of it after all. There's no getting rid of it either — he's tried. So he forgets. Or at least, he tries to. Most nights, with a little extra help, he succeeds. On others, the screaming in his head doesn't stop and sometimes he screams with it, solidarity and all that.
He pulls the bottle out and takes a long swig, wiping his mouth roughly as the firewhiskey scorches a hot trail down his throat.
Draco is so intent on avoiding the next potential point of falling that he doesn't hear them approaching. It's a novice mistake that would have Bellatrix whipping it out of him but she's long cold in the ground and the alcohol has done a sufficient job of dulling his senses — just the way he likes it.
Draco doesn't even realise they've summoned his wand away from him till it's far too late.
Their first mistake though, in the arrogance that they far outnumber him, is to not immobilize him. Their second mistake is to get within arm's reach of him.
There are merits to learning how to fight like a muggle, namely in that wizards tend not to expect a fist coming their way. Most prefer to think themselves above such savagery, even amongst the denizens of Knockturn Alley.
Lucius would be appalled, but it serves Draco well and he gets a few good punches in. Their clumsy, unpractised attempts at dodging him only lead to them knocking into each other. Unfortunately, fighting and alcohol never did make the best of bedfellows, so it is only a matter of time before he stumbles over his own two feet and goes down like a sack of apples.
He is inordinately proud when his attackers abandon their wands in favour of kicking and punching him with their own hands and feet. The spitting he finds, he doesn't appreciate as much. Neither does he much enjoy their angry calls of 'wanking, thieving, sod', 'buggering son of a whore' and 'bleeding death eater'.
Draco tries to open his mouth to protest that his mother is, in fact, a lovely woman who to his knowledge has never slept outside of her marriage, but one of them manages to kick him in the jaw and the only sound that comes out of him is a hiss of pain. A metallic taste floods his taste buds and he idly hopes he hasn't severed his tongue, unsure if tongues grew back or not.
Belatedly he remembers that he is a wizard — they probably have potions for the regrowing of tongues — and that he is capable of wandless, non-verbal, magic. He can't do a lot, but he can certainly do wordless summoning, very well in fact, as evidenced by that one time he sleepily intended to get pants from his drawers and ended up summoning half the Slytherin dorm's worth of pants. One of them in the midst of being pulled up Graham Montague's bum.
Draco is careful enough to specify only his wand this time, thank you very much. In a flash, proving that the war never truly leaves you, he has his attackers propelled backwards, backs hitting stone walls in successive thuds. He shakily gets up, keeping his wand trained on them, and turns on the spot, but not before ensuring the bottle is still on him.
He lands on the Malfoy grounds face first, rolls himself onto his back, and promptly loses consciousness.
Draco wakes up cocooned in soft sheets with far too high a thread count number and on a mattress that yields easily under his weight. He blinks wearily, finding the shine of sunlight far too glaring for his liking. There is no headache that accompanies this. He has stopped getting them a while back. It probably isn't a good thing, but he finds it difficult to care much about anything these days. Except perhaps for where and when he can get his next drink.
Draco attempts to go back to sleep but the aggravating sun seems to be filtering through his eyelids what with how bright the rays feel. He grumbles and pushes himself up to a sitting position, eyes defiantly close till he is forced open them.
They do fly open though when he begins to feel the results of his impromptu fight from the previous night. Sore does not even begin to describe how he feels at the moment. Like he's been wrung through a presser would probably have been a better description. Although, he reflects, that it's not the worst he's ever been, so he supposes he should count himself lucky.
There is a small pot of ointment on the bedside table to his left, either left there by Mitzy, his house elf, or by his mother. Next to it is the bottle of whisky he had swiped last night, beautiful and enticing. Now that is definitely Mitzy's handiwork. Thank Merlin for house elves.
He passes over the ointment in favour of the bottle. The bruises, as there undoubtedly are some, he decides he will wear like a badge of honour.
A deep pull of liquid courage later, the bottle almost fully drained, he gets up on wobbly feet and dresses himself to face the day.
He bypasses the dining hall, not bothering to check if it's indeed a mealtime or if he has missed one, and heads straight to the Malfoy library.
Opening the doors, he steps in and takes a deep breath, letting the comforting smell of old books wash over him.
Other than his nightly excursions, the library is where he spends most his time at. Most of the Manor is a reflection of his family, grand and imposing with skeletons swept under the rugs of the drawing room, but the library has somehow, throughout everything, remained untouched by the subtle thread of despair that laced the rest of the house.
Draco strides purposefully to his usual nook. It is in a hidden corner tucked away from prying eyes — a place that even his father, for all his posturing about as master of the manor, has not been able to ferret him out in.
In his younger years, it was a place to hide from the acute disappointment that marred his father's face whenever the topic moved on to things like school results and quidditch. In later times, it became a much needed sanctuary from far more malevolent sources.
In the nook is an overstuff armchair, well-loved and wearing thin in parts where he keeps rubbing against while fidgeting for a comfortable position. In front of that chair is a table, piled high with various books and assorted knick knacks.
Several leather bound books lie open, exactly as he left them. Draco scans the pages quickly and quirks a tiny smile at them — he recalls having a sudden burning curiosity about vampires one day after re-reading one of the books he had nicked from Blaise back when they were still in school.
Who knew that Blaise had a secret love for thrashy penny romances?
Draco certainly didn't, at least not till he accidentally peeked into Blaise's trunk one day. Well, perhaps 'accidentally' isn't quite the right word. Draco didn't really realise he had a bit of an itchy hand problem till he started to pile together the things he has 'borrowed' from various people — which is basically what the table contains.
Draco drifts his fingers lightly over the items on the table.
He gently flicks the corner of a box of stale sweeties courtesy of Greg, the box itself is tied up with a hair ribbon from Pansy. Next to it is a pair of earrings from Daphne, neatly lined up with a pair of cufflinks from Theo. His hand hovers over them and he wonders if they are finally together just like their things are.
Over there is a hairbrush from Millie — she was a quiet girl and didn't speak much. He wishes he had spent some time speaking to her back then, but such is the arrogance and folly of youth.
Draco looks away quickly from Vince's mismatched socks. He took them because he thought it was such a classic Vince thing to do, now he wonders if it's just because Vince liked his socks to always be a different colour. He always did like colours — he had the most vibrant wardrobe out of all of them.
On the table are even things from the Golden Trio. From Weasley is a black chess piece. Draco didn't think it odd at the time, but come to think of it, who walks around with a knight piece in his pocket? Of the Potter, he had relieved from him, he found out much later on, a fifty pence piece after Yule one year.
Lastly is a novel he palmed from Granger called 'Mathilda' lying atop of a pile of Blaise's embarrassing secrets. Draco is not ashamed to admit he's read all of them. If he were braver, he might have asked for more. From Granger or from Blaise, he's not ready to admit which yet.
He thumbs the well-worn book cover. If he feels at all lonely, then he doesn't show it.
It's almost nightfall by the time Mitzy fetches him from the library for dinner.
He is about to argue that he doesn't need to eat but Mitzy threatens to stick herself with a red hot poker for failing to retrieve him as is her duty and he relents though not with a fair amount of grumbling. He doesn't really know if Mitzy ever follows through with her threats, but he's learned he'd rather not chance it.
Draco grouches at the blasted elf as she gambols happily ahead of him, a slight spring in her steps. Her demeanour is, in Draco's opinion, entirely too inappropriate for someone who was just about willing to perform self-torture.
His parents are already seated when he enters the dining hall. As one, they look up at him expectantly. Proper Lord and Lady Malfoy that they are, their food remains untouched as they await their wayward heir.
Draco feels more than sees his father's gaze on the bruises that are visible. He can predict almost to the second the disapproving look that follows but Draco just keeps his head down, pulls out his chair and sits.
Picking up his fork and spearing a lettuce, he doesn't bother to check if his parents have started. There is a long moment of silence, ostentatiously punctuated with the sounds of his chewing, before the clinking of cutlery is heard and dinner officially begins.
Lucius clears his throat loudly when Draco reaches out for the glass of wine. For a moment, he freezes, fingers twitching, though he recovers soon enough, wrapping long fingers around the stem of the glass.
"Haven't you had enough, Draco?" says Lucius, not pausing in the act of cutting meat. Once upon a time, Draco would have envied the way his father did everything with such grace, now he just struggles to hide the derisive snort that bubbles up.
"It's only my first glass, father," replies Draco immediately without batting an eye. He sips the wine and peers at his father lazily over the rim of the glass. Draco notes the subtle clenching of Lucius' jaw and smiles to himself.
"You're not a child anymore, Draco," says Lucius, his tone deceptively calm. "I've been indulgent for long enough. You will stay in tonight and tomorrow we will begin your lessons anew."
"I will not take over your roles, father," Draco spits the last word out like it's a mouthful of venom. "I don't want it. I never wanted any of this!"
"There is no one else," says Lucius who has thus far managed to maintain the infuriating tone. "You will do this. Whether you like it or not."
The chair scraps the floor noisily with the force Draco pushes it backwards with. He throws his napkin down on to the table and stalks out. A similar scraping noise comes from behind him and his father's shout of "Cissa! Leave him be!" is heard, but Draco doesn't break his stride and continues towards the grounds where the apparition point is located.
"Draco!" He hears his mother say. "Draco, please! Wait!"
He has no intention of stopping but the way his mother's voice nearly breaks towards the end makes his steps falter. He can hear her walking quickly — pureblood ladies don't run if they can help it — and she is breathing a little too quickly. Draco slows and eventually comes to a halt, though he does not turn to face her.
A hand catches his and he involuntarily tightens his fingers around hers.
"Draco..." Narcissa says and Draco tenses, ready to be lectured on how difficult it has been for his father and how hard the mandatory house arrest has treated him, but Narcissa gently cups her hand around his jaw and his eyes shudders shut at the gesture.
He slowly opens his eyes when he feels his mother smearing something on his face.
The first thing he sees is the jar of ointment from his bedside, held in his mother's left hand, the other occupied with applying it liberally over his face. Her face is as impassive and expressionless as ever, but there's worry etched clearly into her blue eyes. He turns his gaze away from her.
They stand in silence as he allows his mother to heal him. The smell of her flowery perfume, of roses and spice, makes his nose itch, but the familiarity of it seeps into him and he feels his shoulders sag a little.
"Be careful out there, Draco," says Narcissa without preamble. He blinks at her in confusion and surprise.
"I would give you the world if I could, my son," she continues. "I wish you had remained my happy little child."
"I wish I could give that back to you," she says and Draco leans down and hugs his mother tightly before he could see the watery sheen in her eyes slip down her cheeks.
He is reluctant to let go, but eventually he does. Still, a spark of warmth spreads in him when he smells the faint perfume clinging to his clothes before apparating away.
A/N: As always be kind to authors. Leave reviews, even a simple "I like it!" can brighten an author's day.
