Chapter One - Two Years Later
If I Find My Way
The clock was broken. It had to be.
Time always passed unbearably slowly for Draco Malfoy. The minutes took hours to tick away, and the hours—well, he didn't like to even think about the hours. Hours were murderous. It was a constant reminder of who was really in charge…not himself, not his father, not that creature that Muggles referred to as God, in whom Draco could never believe…but time.
And this clock was moving too bloody slow to be functioning properly. He must have been standing here for days. How was it possible that the clock claimed he'd only been here two hours? It had to, had to be broken.
Time existed but at the same time was remarkably unreal. It seemed to slow or quicken at the most inopportune times, and it could make or break your entire past, present, and future in one short instant.
He didn't like time.
Draco stared at the carpeted floor of the shop where he worked, completely idle. He wasn't moving, wasn't interacting—but time was still passing just the same. How inconsiderate, he thought.
He loathed the vague concept that had so many Unspeakables studying its significance, its power, and its mechanics. He loathed the rules when it came to time. Draco often liked to think that time didn't exist at all, and that with each passing moment he wasn't heading closer and closer to the end.
Broken from his thoughts as his co-worker, Mart, waved a pudgy hand in front of his face, Draco scowled.
Mart only raised his eyebrows, his bushy brows disappearing behind his straight brown bangs. "Oy, Drake, just got a new shipment of Unfogging the Future for them unlucky third years. Do me a favor and set 'em up, will ya?"
Draco Malfoy exhaled deeply, pushing his hatred for Mart's nickname to the very pit of his stomach, and headed toward the back table where the new shipments were kept. For nineteen-year-old Draco, a job was never really something he'd considered; he'd always thought he'd go into the Ministry and donate a large sum of money in exchange for some intimidating title like his father had and slowly climb his way up the ranks, eventually receiving double the amount of galleons in salary for doing very little, but a job? Malfoys never really held "real" jobs, only positions that involved lots of charisma and connections. Malfoys were too clever to work for their money; instead they sought power, and if that wasn't enough they would occasionally use their connections to advise some smart investments . Despite the out-of-character nature of it all, after Hogwarts Draco had applied for a job at Flourish and Blotts. Everyone had been shocked at the choice in occupation, but no one as much as Draco. His father had eventually given his (albeit hesitant) approbation, saying that the bookstore was actually doing fairly well and with any luck Draco could buy it later.
"We'll start a franchise, son," Lucius had suggested over breakfast one morning with his usual air of madness. He stretched his hands out in front of him as if framing a canvas. "Malfoy and Malfoy instead of Flourish and Blotts. Just picture the lettering on the sign out front—solid gold. Huge, exclusive shops. Great bookstores. They'll never know what hit them."
But as wonderful as that all sounded, Draco didn't want to open a huge and exclusive shop. For Merlin's sake, all he wanted was a job so he could get out of the house and keep his sanity intact…which was something his father had apparently failed at doing. Lucius Malfoy had regressed, certainly—his house arrest meant that he was confined to stalking the halls out his enormous mansion day after day. Draco, after listening to his father chatter ceaselessly about the hidden benefits of working a low-tier occupation, had decided that he was going to avoid going insane at all costs. Not that stacking bookshelves all day was going to keep him sane, but it was better than sitting on his arse in Malfoy Manor listening to his father talk about the "good old days" when he ran around in a mask torturing people for recreational purposes.
So the young Malfoy took a deep breath and reached into the cardboard box. Out came an armful of Divination books that were headed straight for the shelves. It was nearly August, after all, and those third years would need their books. School would be starting soon…and with September 1st would end Draco's second year of freedom. Then again, Draco used the term "freedom" very loosely. As said before, being stuck between work and Malfoy Manor all day wasn't exactly his idea of freedom.
Then, suddenly, just as Draco had placed the last copy of Unfogging the Future onto the dark mahogany bookshelf, a familiar voice floated through the air and broke him from his thoughts.
"Do you happen to have any copies of Hogwarts, A History? I heard there was a new special edition cover printed just last week."
He knew that voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mart talking with a head of brown curls.
Oh, right.
It had been two years since Hogwarts, but Draco still remembered the unfortunate girl that tagged along Potter and Weasley for those seven years of boarding school. He remembered the assorted insults, too—such colorful conversations he had had with the Golden Trio. They weren't exactly conversations, per se, more like threats outlining possibilities of his head on a platter, but the three Gryffindors certainly kept Draco sane while Goyle and Crabbe drained him of his intellect (but he reminded himself not to think bad things about Crabbe, remember). When he thought about it, everything Draco knew or relied on boiled down to keeping him sane. In the end, it had always been about sanity.
That was probably why he remembered her voice. He was sure he could pick out Potter and Weasley's, too, but he hadn't seen them since graduating. In fact, all he'd really heard of the Boy Hero and his faithful sidekick was of their "absolutely inspired and total defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," as all the newspapers in the Wizarding World seemed to call it—but he'd been present for that, so it wasn't as if it was anything interesting. Sure, he'd seen their faces and names emblazoned on magazines and newspaper headlines for a good three months after the war, but he hadn't really gone out of his way to actually read the articles about them. As far as he knew, Potter and Weasley didn't exist anymore. But if he had to venture an educated guess, he'd say that Potter probably was undergoing training to become an Auror and was too busy to bother to come out in public anymore, and that Weasley had finally taken up on the extremely publicized offer to join the Chudley Cannons and hoist the team off the bottom of the charts. Draco hated himself for knowing these things, but he couldn't help that the article about Weasley's blossoming Quidditch career had been right next to the crossword in the Daily Prophet…and besides, everyone knew that Potter wanted to be an Auror.
But anyway, he kind of liked how the three friends threw insults at him, because it was like a game, and he liked to think about the insults afterwards. It could be some sort of sick disease, but Draco always loved a good fight…but only when he was actually involved. He hated watching from the outside. He wanted to be the one throwing insults and throwing curses. Draco tensed as he remembered one pathetic attempt to pick a fight with Granger. When she had insulted his Quidditch-playing abilities in second year, he had retaliated with a smooth "Mudblood" that he had expected her to return with another quick slur. She didn't, though. She had been upset. Draco hadn't expected that. For the love of Merlin, all he had wanted was a good argument.
He placed another book atop the mahogany shelf. Granger had probably been the one who loathed him the least out of the three, but that didn't stop her from slapping him in third year. But ever since that slap, he'd always held a bit of a soft spot for her, as strange as it sounded. He wasn't sure if it was a grudging respect or a reluctant fear of continuing the abuse, but Draco had turned down the taunting to a minimum. It didn't help that Granger had entered the Yule ball looking like a thousand galleons, or that she beat him in every examination – except Potions, but only sometimes.
And now she was standing in the store where he worked. But then again, it was a bookstore. He could hardly be surprised. His pale fingers slid over to a copy of Unfogging the Future and moved it so as to hide his face. Though her words had kept him sane before, Draco really didn't feel like being insulted or slapped today, possibly both.
"They haven't edited the text, of course," continued Hermione Granger with almost a tone of bitterness to her voice. "But the cover's different, and it is limited edition. Do you know where I could find it?"
Mart shrugged stupidly, once again clueless. "I dunno, Miss. We've got quite a few copies o' Unfogging the Future, though."
The corners of Draco's mouth twitched upward in amusement as he watched Hermione raise her eyebrows indignantly. Her tone of voice indicated that she, unlike Draco, was certainly not amused. "I dropped out of Divination in my third year. I don't mean to be rude, but is there anyone here who might be able to help me, seeing as you can't?"
"Right here." Draco was surprised to hear his own voice coming from his mouth. Getting up from the table that housed the books he was dealing with, he turned to his former classmate and longtime enemy.
She looked at him, surprised.
"The new Hogwarts, A History?" he asked her, and she nodded. Draco led her to the very back of the store, where a small section was dedicated to all things having to do with Hogwarts. He pointed at each book as he spoke. "We've got The Chamber of Secrets: A Comprehensive Account—it's fairly new, your friend Potter's in here; Famous Names in Hufflepuff History—the shortest book in existence, I'd say; and I believe this is what you're looking for?"
He held up the newest hardbound edition of Hogwarts, A History. The cover was magnificent russet with black and gold décor lining the sides; the title was printed in plain yet somehow majestic script in the middle of the cover, and the edges were reinforced with high-quality leather. Draco had only skimmed the book a few times, and he had to admit that the extremely tasteful packaging might actually one day convince him to read the thing in its entirety.
"Wow," she breathed, completely taken in by its magnificence. "It's beautiful."
"Have a nice day," he said shortly, not wanting to engage in conversation.
Too late. Hermione made a move to stop him, then thought better of it and let her arm hang loosely at her side, the book clutched in the other.
"Thanks, Malf—Draco," she managed, though somewhat hesitant. "It was, um…good to see you."
Draco turned to her and curled his mouth into an amused smirk. "Granger, you're a lot of things—not all of them are pleasant, mind—but I never took you for a liar."
She didn't answer.
He turned away again, heading for the back shelf where he had yet to finish unpacking even more books—he thought he'd seen some copies of A History of Magic waiting to be properly sorted. "You can pay for that at the counter," he told her, jerking a thumb toward the cashier like she'd never even set foot in Flourish and Blotts before. "It's buy one, get one half off. We've got a no return policy."
Hermione bit her lip and thanked him, her steady voice proving she was undeterred by Draco's obvious rebuff. She made her way toward the counter, and Draco made his way back to Bathilda Bagshot. He kept his face hidden behind a large stack of books until she had paid and left—only then did he come out from behind his hiding spot. He checked the clock hanging up behind the counter. It was nearly four o'clock.
Time. It really was a cocky, meddling bastard, wasn't it? But it meant only one hour until the end of his shift. Scowling, Draco lifted another textbook from the box and rested it on the shelf.
He distantly wondered where she'd been for the past few years. Not like he cared, really, but he was a bit curious. He only had a vague idea of where Potter and Weasel were because he kept an interest in the paper and read it at breakfast every morning, and their names had appeared once or twice, though Draco always made it a point not to read those particular articles too closely. But her name had never appeared in any columns, and Draco knew this because he always combed the Prophet cover to cover. To be honest, he found this a bit strange; Granger had obviously been the brightest of the lot, and he was surprised that she hadn't made any significant discoveries to benefit wizardkind in the two years post-Hogwarts that had already passed.
"Drah-co?" the shopkeeper called. Draco's employer was an old man named Cyrus with graying hair, his misty eyes shielded by gold-rimmed oval frames. Draco didn't really like him, mostly because, after nearly two years, the man had never taken the time to properly learn how to say Draco's name. He still pronounced it with a short 'a' sound. After a while, Draco had stopped reminding him.
"What is it?" called back Draco, pretending to be adjusting the books on the shelves so he didn't look like he was just standing idly.
"Your father just Flooed," the shopkeeper croaked, the corners of his eyes crinkling into a smile. "Nice man. He said it was urgent…."
Draco followed the shopkeeper stiffly into his office, where a raging fire showed Lucius Malfoy's head glowering down at them. The shopkeeper's poor eyesight must have prevented him from realizing that this was the man who had been in the Prophet a lot in recent months—information about Lucius' upcoming trial and whatnot.
"Not too long, Draco. I'll leave you two at it, then," beamed Draco's boss, and he shut the door behind him.
"Hey, Dad," Draco greeted his father sarcastically, staring into the greenish flames where his father's head bobbed up and down like some sort of holiday decoration.
Lucius ignored the greeting: it was clear he wanted to get straight to the reason for calling. Clearly he'd had his morning coffee this morning, as he was acting more like the old Lucius Malfoy than the new, slightly mad one. "Draco," said Lucius with a tone of urgency in his voice, "I need to you go to the Nott's this evening for me to pick up some important business forms. You know the address, yes?"
"Yes," answered Draco in slight irritation. His father was always asking him to run errands for him since his house arrest. This wasn't the first time Lucius had asked him to get forms, and Draco sincerely doubted they were for business. "Can't you just have him Floo the forms over? Or owl them to you?"
Lucius flared his nostrils as if this idea were incredibly preposterous. "These forms are more important than you realize, Draco. Owls can be intercepted, and I expect you know that the Floo Network is closely monitored by the Ministry, especially at our manor because of my house arrest. I am sure the both of us would feel much more reassured if they were handled in person."
"There's no one else who can do it?" Draco instantly regretted asking the question. His father's cinder eyebrows scrunched together in pain and calm annoyance.
"Of course there isn't," Lucius answered, a bit harshly. "You're the only one."
Lucius didn't mention that if only Narcissa was still alive, she would most likely be the one picking up the documents. He didn't have to say it. Draco knew. But ever since she had died five months ago, they never mentioned her name anymore.
"Alright then," agreed Draco reluctantly, knowing that he had no other option. "What do I have to do?"
"Go to the Nott's, and Theseus will hand you the business forms. There will be a small forest outside, some distance away from their house. Apparate from there; it will look less suspicious since Theseus is under house arrest as well and Theodore never got his license."
Draco smirked at this. He hadn't spoken to Theodore, or Theo, in months, but he was aware that he'd never taken the Apparation test out of sheer laziness. "Why would I waste my time learning to do something I can already accomplish another way?" he'd said to Draco in sixth year. "Haven't you heard of the broomstick? The Portkey? Floo powder? Besides, bloody Apparation is like getting sucked into a tube, I've heard."
If he had to choose a word to describe Theo, he would use the words "close acquaintance." Friend was a relative term. He wasn't really sure what true friendship was like, because he sincerely doubted his relationship with Theo was anything close to the one between Potter and Weasley, as much as he hated to admit it. But he and Theo were sort of friends. He wasn't really like Crabbe and Goyle, who had been more like bodyguards—Theo had offered his own opinions and ideas when the two of them were conversing. Theo had kept Draco sane during the seven turbulent years of Hogwarts. Though, he supposed despite all that he was a bit of a git.
"When should I leave?" Draco asked his father dully.
"Whenever your shift ends."
Draco nodded and moved his left foot backwards, signaling to his father that this conversation was over. "I don't know when I'll be back. I might stay awhile and chat with Theo."
His father's face in the fire nodded in reluctant agreement. "Fine. I'll see you then, Draco. Bitsy will have dinner on the table by seven as per usual. I'll have her keep it warm."
Draco's back was turned, so he did not see the somewhat weakened expression on Lucius Malfoy's face as he disappeared from the green fire. Draco could sense it, though, the longing for the family the Malfoys had once been. Respectable, dignified, and relatively close.
It had all gone to pieces along with Narcissa.
Draco gripped the wooden doorframe to steady himself. His boss smiled again at him from behind the counter, which he was polishing with a damp rag. Draco wished Cyrus would stop smiling so damn much. And he really hated times like these, when that unforgivable wave of nostalgia flooded over him and reminded him that, yes, he did once have a family, a perfect family….one that graced the many halls of Malfoy Manor by means of portraits and paintings. A tall, intelligent father who worked in the Ministry; a Slytherin prefect with outstanding N.E.W.T.s for a son; and a beautiful, caring mother with a nymph-like voice and soft hands.
They'd been perfect, the Malfoy family. Not everyone thought so, but that was because they couldn't see what the family was really like, not just what they were like in public. The Malfoys cared about each other, of course they did. They passed the salt across the table like normal families and wished each other goodnight. They discussed the morning paper over eggs and biscuits and went on vacation. But nobody saw that.
And now it was too late. No one would be able to hear Narcissa Malfoy sing lullabies to Draco when he was just a small child. No one would ever stumble upon those quiet, stolen moments in the library when Narcissa and Lucius would curl up on the loveseat and read wizarding classics to each other. No one would remember how Lucius had taught Draco the proper way to throw a Quaffle, which had been among the best moments of Draco's childhood memories, even if his father had gotten angry halfway because Draco couldn't keep a firm grip on the ball.
They weren't really the most intimate family, Draco could certainly admit. They were refined and dignified though, so what could you expect? Those tender moments were fast and fleeting, but they mattered more than anything.
"You alright, Drake?" mumbled Mart as he walked past, levitating a large crate of books. He didn't stop long enough to hear Draco's answer, because he didn't care.
Draco watched as Mart exited through the wooden doors into the worker's lounge. "Sure," he said simply to nobody but himself. "I'm alright."
He was a Malfoy. He was always alright. Even when one-third of the Malfoy family was missing, he still had a reputation to uphold.
