The hall is empty and silent when Draco steps out of the fire and into the Manor's foyer. This house is always empty and silent and, after the vibrance of the Potter's, it jars; the silence too heavy to hold. It is the same way he'd felt after returning from London, as though he doesn't fit here anymore, as though he's changed his shape and can no longer be comfortable. Draco supposes he's always felt that way, it's just easy to get used to and ignore an uncomfortable situation when it becomes chronic.
He carries Scorpius through to the nursery, so impersonal with nothing in it to suggest that it belongs to his vivacious boy. It could be made for any child. There is nothing of Scorpius here except Scorpius himself. He remembers feeling similarly about his own rooms as a child. They were places to sleep and eat and work, and play if it was required of him, but they never felt like his. Draco thinks about their room at the Leaky Cauldron, with all the things they had needed to bring with him spilling out of the single suitcase they shared. Even that room had felt more like theirs than this house.
And that's what he wants again, Draco realises. A place that's theirs. Just theirs.
It's still attainable. It's still the plan. Even if he promised his mother that the plan was on hold for a while. She couldn't hold him here forever.
Draco wishes that he could believe that.
Scorpius stirs but does not wake as Draco gently set him down in the middle of the sprawling bed – far too big for a child so small. Draco remembers getting lost in his, waking up in a sweat and a panic, unable to find the way out of the darkness of the sheets smothering him – and carefully arranges the covers around him. There are so many because it's so cold, especially at the back of the house which gets so little light and in November when the stone of the house only serves to invite in the cold instead of containing the heat. It's impossible to warm. Once Scorpius is settled and snoring lightly, Draco sets a fire blazing in the hearth with a flick of his wand – certain to burn until morning – and reluctantly leaves. He considers, briefly, slipping away to his own rooms and closing the door and shutting out the world and his family, and all the problems they bring with them. He doesn't want to face it, and it would be so easy not to. It's not as though anyone would come seeking him out and pushing for the conversation, and if a vote was cast the results would be unanimously in favour of Pretending the Problem Doesn't Exist.
Draco wanders through the house, head bent as he thinks and frets and battles with himself. He's too tired for a fight. It isn't going to help anything. But ignoring it isn't the same as making it go away, and it will do nothing to ease the rising tightness in his chest. But he's good at pretending he's not in pain. Very good. So good he can almost convince himself. He could do it again. Go upstairs and shut the door and pretend that today never happened, and tomorrow it would be as though it were true.
And tomorrow something else will happen. And it will keep happening until he does something to stop it. Something to stop his father. Because today was only the beginning.
Draco bites the inside of his mouth, rubbing hard at his forehead with the heel of his palm and tries and tries and tries to think sensibly, but it's as though his head has ben filled with soot, quashing any hope of rationality until all he is are feelings that don't have words and the pain in his chest and the ache in his head.
Low, orange shadows flicker across the carpet from an open room. Draco stops
They are all together, Astoria and his mother. And Lucius.
And suddenly Draco's heart is racing, and all the anger and all the hurt that he'd been able to forget at Albus Potter's birthday party comes rushing back so hard and so fast sets him ablaze.
Because Scorpius did not and could not get that Floo Powder on his own. Someone gave it to him and that someone told him to keep secrets and sent him off on his own and he could've been lost and he could've dies, and that someone told him to lie.
Draco's wand is still in his hand.
He doesn't realise it until he's through the parlor door and magic is flashing through the air, from his hand to the wall, narrowly missing his father's head.
Narcissa stands up abruptly, staring from the scorch-mark on the wall to him. "Draco!"
He doesn't care. He barely even hears her. All he knows is the shock on his father's face and all the pleasure of putting it there. Draco hurls another spell, harder, lashing it through the room; magic burning as it rips through him and out his wand.
Lucius has to duck this time, and the shock turns to anger in the explosion of plaster. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What am I doing?" Draco casts again and again, each less effective than the last. Magic needs control and Draco has none. He doesn't care. He doesn't know what he wants or what he's trying to achieve. He just wants to feel better and make his father understand. "How dare you! How dare you go behind my back! How dare you send him off on his own! How dare you tell him to lie to me!"
Lucius stands to face him, face twisted in anger. "I don't know what you're talking about. Draco, control yourself!"
"You're a liar!" Draco's magic hits Lucius square in the chest, singeing his shirt. "You're an evil, bastarding liar and I wish you were still in Azkaban! I wish they had done what they said they were going to do and left you to rot there for the rest of your damned life! I wish they had given you to the dementors! I wish they had sucked the soul right out of you, if there is even any soul left in you to be had. If you even had one in the first place! I wish you were dead. I wish he had murdered you, just as he murdered Snape. Because he didn't deserve it and you did. You do! I wish you were dead. I wish... I wish..." But he's sobbing now. Horrible, aching sobs that wrack through his whole body, hitting him so hard and so suddenly he didn't even have time to realise what was happening, much less control it. And he doesn't care.
Draco's wand-hand falls to his side, and the wand slips from his fingers to the floor, burning the carpet as he burnt his father's shirt. And he doesn't care. He doesn't want to be here. He never wanted to be here.
"Why?" he asks, a rasp that hurts his throat. "Why did you do it? He's just a child. Anything could've happened to him. Anything."
Lucius sniffs. "You should have more faith in the boy, Draco. He has so much potential than you give him credit for. So much potential that he is wasting on you."
Draco raises his face.
On each side, Narcissa and Astoria are frozen and silent; caught in the middle of this inevitable, unavoidable war.
And his father is here. His father who shouldn't be here, who shouldn't exist, who shouldn't be alive, who has no right to be here, much less anywhere near Scorpius. His precious Scorpius. Scorpius who could've vanished today. Who could've died today. Who could've been lost forever—
Draco lunges for his wand, but Lucius is quicker, and he's right there before Draco can back up and the blow to the face sends him onto the ground.
And Narcissa and Astoria stay frozen and silent.
Draco can hear it through the pounding in his ears.
He tastes blood, can feel the graze of the ring on his jaw. A familiar taste and a familiar feeling.
Harmless, Harry Potter had called him. He's harmless now.
Draco laughs, wiping away the blood and tears, watching them stain his cuff. It's funny. Hilarious. Because they were all so certain, all were so quick to assure him with such unwavering authority that he was wrong. None of them had a clue and they're all fucking liars.
Head spinning with pain and dizziness, he staggers to his feet and faces his father. "Well. Haven't we just gone right round in a circle."
Lucius hisses through his teeth and turns away, as though Draco is disgusting to look at it. "Go to bed, Draco. You're out of your mind."
"I am?" Draco can't stop grinning, can't stop laughing, can feel the cut on his lip widening with every convulsion. "Don't you see how ridiculous it is? How ridiculous it all is? Do you know how long everyone has spent telling me how much you must've changed? Because Azkaban always changes people. Besides, it has to be different because I'm not a child and you can't control me, but look at you. Look at us! Nothing has changed and nothing ever will!" He looks between his mother and his wife, searching for the understanding that surely must be there now. And all he finds is perplexion. Irritation. Anger. Not at Lucius. Draco falters. "Can't you see?' he demands of them, desperate. "Can't you see what I've been trying to tell you?"
Lucius wipes blood from his hand on his trousers. "I'm not the one who came storming in, sending spells flying in all directions. I wasn't the one looking for a fight. You brought this on yourself, Draco." The faintest curl of a smirk appears, for Draco's eyes only. "Just as you always do. You're right – nothing has changed. But that isn't me. That is all you."
"You're joking." But he's not. Lucius Malfoy isn't capable of joking. He means it. And they believe it. Worst of all, he can feel himself starting to believe it too.
No.
And he's slipping.
Draco can feel himself doing it, tumbling back down into himself, into who he doesn't want to be, who he can't afford to be for his son's sake. Because he feels like a child and how can he raise a child of his own if he feels like one himself?
This isn't what I want. This isn't who I want to be.
Draco turns and runs.
Because that's what he does best.
And everyone knows it.
"Are you okay?" Astoria asks, breaking the silence that Draco left behind him.
Lucius glances to her and notices she's shaking. She isn't used to this. Narcissa is perfectly still, perfectly placid, unmoved. And he smiles at Astoria. "I'm fine. No serious damage. He was just throwing magic around. There was no substance to any of it. He's harmless, my dear, don't worry."
He catches Narcissa's eye. She's perfectly still, perfectly placid, unmoved, but furious. He can see it in her eyes even if he she keeps it hidden from her face. At Draco? No. She never blames Draco, even if she never says so out-loud, even if she never defends the boy. But Lucius can see it, can feel the blame radiating from her.
He can't stand it.
Lucius turns away, her guilt sparking something deep inside him, making his fingers itch. He doesn't have a wand, will never have a wand again. But he's never needed magic to punish Draco.
"Excuse me."
"Where are you going?"
He turns to Narcissa, surprised, and she glares back with a dangerous expression, saying through her teeth, "Don't."
But she's never been able to stop him. Not that she's ever tried.
"Don't," says Narcissa again. "You can't. They'll send you back, Lucius. You know this."
But he's forgotten. Of course. He exists on the finest, thinnest ice now, and any misdemeanor could send him right back to that frozen rock. And Draco isn't a child anymore, no matter how much he behaves like one. Legally, Lucius can no longer touch him. And he hates it. It makes him angrier, makes his curling fingers flex with pent-up energy. It felt good to strike Draco down and shut him up, as temporary as it was. It made him feel like himself again. Like they were finally approaching normality.
But Draco is not a child.
And Lucius has to be careful
He can do that. The boy ran, it will take time to find him, and that time can be used to calm down and breathe, so by the time Lucius finds him he will no longer out for blood. Just satisfaction. Satisfaction is legal.
"I'm sorry," he tells Narcissa, running a thumb over the back of her hand. "I forgot myself for a moment. It was self-defense." Technically that's true. Who knows what Draco might've done if he'd got to his wand first. "Let me find him. Let me apologise. I won't touch him. I promise. I promise," he repeats firmly when Narcissa arches an eyebrow.
"Swear it," she says.
"I swear it." And he kisses her to prove it. She still doesn't look as though she believes him, but she reluctantly steps back and lets him go. She has no choice but to trust him.
It is surprisingly easy to find Draco. The boy has never been terribly imaginative, especially when he's lost the ability to think. Lucius finds him where he found him the other night: holed up in the far corner of the library, though he's not even pretending to work now. He stands at the table, fingers curled around the edges, head bent as though sick to the stomach and trying not to vomit.
Lucius isn't pretending either. No niceties now. No pretense at pleasantness.
"You cannot behave that way towards me, Draco."
He raises his head, dragging it up as though it weighs too much. "Fuck you."
Draco is damn lucky his mother made him swear not to touch him. Because the threat of Azkaban is almost worth it. He almost doesn't care. It had felt good to hit him, and by Merlin, the boy deserves it.
But he had sworn. To Narcissa. He knows he cannot break such a promise.
Lucius stuffs his hands in his pockets.
"Do you see now how little that boy respects you?" he asks tilting his head and stepping up to Draco. "Do you see how easily he disobeys you? You have ruined him. You are incapable. Do you see now? You are a liability to him and yourself. It is your fault he was endangered. Your fault he has no sense of caution." Lucius moves closer, so close that Draco is forced to move, to backup. "He is so much better off without you. You weren't watching him and you have not trained him to mind you without your constant presence. He is incapable of functioning by himself. And that is your doing. You have ruined him. Do you see that now?"
Draco's voice comes ragged through a broken breath. "I didn't endanger him."
"You haven't taught him. He does exactly as he pleases with no regard for anyone else. I barely had to say anything, he was so ready to defy you. That isn't love, Draco. It's insubordination. He doesn't love you. And he doesn't deserve your devotion. No child does. They are selfish and disobedient by nature. And it is your job to train them. And you are failing." He spits the last word, right in Draco's face, taking great satisfaction when the boy flinches.
Lucius smiles. At least he can be assured than he has done a decent job with this one. "You have failed. And you do not get another chance. I will not stand by and let you ruin his future. Our future." Draco isn't looking at him, isn't listening. Lucius wants to grab him by the shirt and shake him and smack him until he looks at up. But he promised Narcissa. He promised Narcissa.
"That boy is our future," he continues more calmly. "And you are in no right mind to have responsibility of him. You have no idea how to be a father. No idea at all. Let me help you. I know what needs to be done. I can do what needs to be done. And that way our future is secured, you can rest easy knowing that Scorpius is okay, and you can have time to..." Lucius waves a vague hand at Draco's dismal form. "Do whatever you need to do. But listen to me and understand – I will not let you ruin that boy further. And nor will Astoria. You have bullied her for too long, Draco. She understands how to raise a Malfoy and I will not let you prevent her from doing so any further. Am I making myself clear?"
Draco says nothing. He's wavering on his feet like a drunk, shaking as though he's frozen; shirt stained with blood and crumpled from where he fell.
Lucius sniffs and steps away from him. "You are pathetic. And everyone saw. Everyone knows. You're not fooling anyone. And you've proven to them too that you are not fit to be a father. So don't think it's just me. Don't think this is just between us. You have done this all on your own, Draco. I simply... brought it to the light." He waits. For a moment. Tries to give the boy the time his mother insists he needs. But Lucius Malfoy has never been a patient man. He grabs Draco's arm – because that's legal, no-one's going to arrest him for holding his son's arm – and digs his fingers in until he feels Draco cringe. "Tell me you heard me."
"I heard you."
"And you understand?"
"Yessir."
Lucius believes him.
And he releases him.
Because he isn't an unfair man.
Lucius feels good when he leaves. He feels like he's achieved what he wanted to achieve today. And by doing so little. Draco brought this all down on himself. Lucius only cast a light over it and made the others see what they couldn't before.
He smiles to himself as he shuts the door to the library behind him.
Today has been a good day. And tomorrow will be better.
Draco doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe until he hears the click of the door and the fading footsteps as his father walks away and leaves him behind. And when it's silent – really truly silent – he falls. Into a chair. And puts his head down upon his arms.
It's all true. Every bit of it. This is all his own doing. He brought this on himself. He's out of control – has never been in control, has only ever pretended to be (and isn't that exactly what he tried to tell everyone?) – and incapable and a liability.
And not good for Scorpius.
Because Scorpius disobeyed him. Thought nothing of it. Went to Lucius instead of him, despite everything Draco's told him, despite how much he's tried to instill love and trust into their relationship. But how can he utilize love and trust when he barely knows what they are?
They are Theo and Snape and the friends who care about him. And Scorpius. Who worry and love him. They are Scorpius and Albus together. They are Harry Potter's hand grasped in his own and shaking and agreeing to a new start. They are his mother holding him and telling him she's sorry for everything that happened before, unable to protect someone she loves from someone she loves just as much. They are Scorpius. His precious Scorpius. And the confidence he has that he can fight with his dad and come out okay the other side. It's Scorpius who is always willing to come to him and comes without fear or hesitation. Scorpius who loves him, loves him unconditionally. Who he must protect–
Who he must protect.
Draco stands up abruptly, heart racing so heart he's sure he's going to be sick.
Love is protection.
And they can't be here.
They can't stay here. Scorpius is in danger.
And there is no choice. Just as there has never been a choice.
And, once again, for the last time, Draco Malfoy does what he does best and runs.
Scorpius sleeps deeply, dreaming of Albus and his father and chocolate cake that sticks to the backs of his teeth. Warm and safe and happy, tangled up in too many blankets. He could sleep forever. He wants to sleep forever.
But there's a hand on his head, stroking through his hair, bringing him out from under the kitchen table and back into bed in the Manor where he'd rather not be.
He scowls in protest.
"Hush. Ssh, I know."
He's lifted gently. Something cold presses to his lips. Scorpius grimaces and pulls away, but a hand on the back of his head holds him steady.
"Drink it Scorp," his dad murmurs. "It's okay. I promise it's okay. Trust me."
And he does. He always trusts his father.
It's just water. Just tastes like nothing. And he doesn't want it but he doesn't hate it and his dad wants him to, so he drinks until it's gone, and then he's the heaviest he's ever been, and is asleep before he hits the pillow again.
Draco takes a moment, watching his son's face slacken and his eyelids flutter, making sure he's asleep, making sure the potion worked. It was only a small dose, less than a child's dose of Dreamless Sleep, but he hopes – he prays – that it's enough to keep Scorpius still and sleeping and peaceful. At least until they're away from the Manor.
Wherever they're going.
