Saturday — August 1st, 1998.
Draco should have felt worse about the shattered clock. But as the gears bounced across the floor and the flecks of wood skidded across the pristine white tiles, he felt nothing but relief. It flooded his chest and rested in his fingertips. The sound echoed through the mansion, the explosion then the silence.
The clock ticked too loud.
It always had.
He hadn't noticed it as a child. Hadn't thought to notice it, as it was such an innocuous relic from his grandfather. Blood seeped through the grout of the tiles like geometric spiderwebs. He traced the shapes with his eyes, empty silver drawn along the red.
"Mister," Tripley said as she popped into existence by his knee. Her great bat-like ears flared with surprise as she took in the splayed mechanism. "Oh no."
"Leave it," Draco said, his tone thin. "I meant to do that."
"But - "
Draco shot the elf a look, to which she stayed quiet. It was the sparse benefit of his father's eyes and brow, it drew obedience from the elves with no direct action on his part. She worried on the spot as if her feet were on fire. He watched as the blood began to dry into the grout, the thud of the clock drawn to a natural end.
"Master will be upset," she said, her hands bunched into knots.
"My father can speak to me if he has an issue with it," Draco raised his wand to banish the fragments of the clock. The hissed and bubbled as they turned white, sparks and bright edges drawn from the latent magic. The clock disappeared into nothing, enchanted heart and all.
Tripley had thick tears down her cheeks, her head dropped.
"Get out, Tripley."
And she did, no words. She obeyed him but she loved his mother most of all. Tripley loved dresses and parties. She was always the one to appear first at the slightest problem, a spilled drink or a broken quill. House pride drove her to perform, as she feared her newfound dresses and sweet trinkets would be taken from her if she did otherwise.
But everyone was on edge as if it were possible to be any other way.
He wouldn't linger in the war and the shapeless shadows. The house reeked of bodies and of blood, though the elves they had left had worked to clean it in their absence. They had gone to France for several months as they negotiated with the Ministry and they'd struck their plea bargain. That, coupled with the reassurance they would subsidize the repairs at Hogwarts, left them in a stable position.
Financially, at least.
Draco's throat tensed as he passed the drawing-room, still charred and fragmented from his aunt's breakdown. She had torn it apart when their prisoners had left. He didn't linger. He was so sick of lingering.
The curtains remained drawn through the entire mansion. It kept the heat out which lightened the load on the elves. They sustained numerous wards with their presence alone, like helpful parasites. They clutched to the magic of the Malfoy name, and in turn, they provided their unique strain of magic.
Which meant a new thread of twelve or so elves had arrived when they had, excited to replace the tiny dead bodies outside in the shallow graves.
Draco hissed through his teeth as he heard his mother scream somewhere in the distance.
He was with her in seconds. Apparition through the house was far easier than running, and she'd not left her parlor since they'd arrived back from France last month. As he expected, she was on her swooped settee in a bundle of her robes. Her hands were tiny clenched fists and her teeth cut a firm line as she thrashed.
He waved a hand and summoned a Calming Draught from their stores downstairs.
It took some maneuvering, but he woke her and worked the potion into her mouth. She buried her face into his neck and sobbed, shapeless words against his neck, apologies, a mixture he'd heard enough times to repeat if he needed to. She blamed herself for how things had shaped up, but Draco had been given much time to think about whose fault it was.
It was his grandfather's fault, initially. His pureblooded tilt saw him involved with the Dark Lord before the First Wizarding War, as they tore apart the government. He could go to great lengths about how the shortsighted dependence on blood as a point of pride led them into financial ruin and social isolation.
His father, of course, deepened that trench. A path walked on repeat through a valley provided the route. The path of least resistance, as it were. And when his father hadn't been good enough, Draco had been pulled into line, and his mother -
But he wouldn't lose himself to the cycle of blame.
This was the best they were going to get; traumatized but alive.
He tucked his chin atop his mother's head, his arms wrapped around her as she straddled the line between wine and a Calming Draught.
"I thought you were dead," she said, her voice thin.
"I wouldn't leave you."
She cuddled closer, her knees drawn closer, her head bent down so he couldn't see her cry. But he felt it, the shake in her shoulders and the shiver in her spine. She softened into him once the potion took and he sat with her.
"I can't go back," he said for the hundredth time.
"Oh Draco," she swallowed phlegm, a clumsy sound from a refined woman. "You're very sharp, very clever - but you must finish... You..." Her voice waned, her eyes drooped. "You must finish your schooling."
Draco didn't have the heart to explain to her that it was a ridiculous request; that school was useless and that even with the best grades in England, no one would want to hire him. He was hated high and low, he was reviled. He didn't want to pick apart his image for her sake, as she worried enough on his behalf.
"I'll visit if you want."
"Mother," Draco chuckled as the tension broke. "You may if it will make you feel better."
The corners of her lips flickered, a smile she wanted to share stuck behind torn muscles. She had been such a wonderful dancer before, but so much of her subtle grace and private charm had been stolen from her. His father had sought treatment for her from all sorts, but they weren't sure where to begin with her.
When she was asleep in her seat, he took his leave. It was a short walk to his bedroom from her favored parlor, as it was one of the few rooms that remained unused during the Dark Lord's stay. She had warded it and disguised the door, with all her most precious belongings crammed inside. Paintings of her parents, her favorite dresses, her jewelry. She kept her material possessions secret for that year as if it might make it easier to become who she had been before.
Draco had moved his bedroom since they returned to England to a smaller one nearer the Library. The view was obscured by large willow trees and it looked the least like his old bedroom. His parents had taken to a separate room, one each, and he left that for them. It wasn't for him to question or to examine.
If they wanted his input, they'd ask.
His Head Boy pin sat beside his supplies list for Hogwarts.
He picked up the monochrome pin, silver framed with black enamel indentations. He didn't deserve this. He didn't. It was a joke or a mistake or both, and he refused to accept it. He hadn't opened his supplies letter either as he hadn't thought he'd attend. He wanted to leave the place behind, to leave everything - but he couldn't.
Not after his Sixth year, where he'd failed at a task and suffered his mother's suffering for it.
And now, not after his Seventh year, where he'd tortured students for the amusement of teachers.
He could have pulled punches. He could have been brave and worked alongside Dumbledore's Army to resist, but his family was too close to the Dark Lord. If he misstepped, if his loyalty wavered, his parents would be dead. It wasn't as simple as Longbottom whose parents were shacked up at St. Mungo's or the Weasley girl whose father was already a target.
The Dark Lord was in his house, his family was at his mercy.
But there it was again, that cycle of blame.
It was his fault, he decided.
All his fault.
Draco dug his nails into the wood of his dresser, head dipped and shoulders tense.
How did they expect him to return with a fucking Head Boy pin on his chest?
Monday - August 3rd, 1998.
It was a month before school returned and yet people bustled all over Diagon Alley as if it were Christmas. They had been in hiding, he imagined, short on supplies or just eager to exist in the world they'd lost. He fought the urge to stare at the ground as he walked; he had been trained to walk with his head held high, shoulders back, chest out, confidence, confidence, always confidence.
And in part, he was grateful that he kept his head high, as it allowed him the foresight to avoid the Weasley mob. They were so loud and bright, as if unaware of how much space they took up. The mother especially was so wide and loud, how she'd shout at her children, no control. Draco hadn't had his mother yell at him in years, not since before Hogwarts. And yet they rolled like a pack of dogs, one over the other, laughter, slopping, with Potter and Granger in their midst.
It's difficult to pick out details given their pace. They seemed to be in a rush, wherever they were going. Granger looked quiet, withdrawn, which was strange given how loud she had been in school. But she'd looked like a bird when she'd turned up to the Manor several months ago, her collarbone sharp and her eyes bright. Perhaps his aunt carved that part of her away, he couldn't be sure. Potter was holding hands with the girl Weasley, smiles, laughter as if life had begun for them.
If they noticed him, they hid it well. The wide group vanished into that joke store the Weasley twins owned, though he had heard one of them died. He operated under the assumption people died unless he heard otherwise, it made it easier. If you hoped people had lived, you were let down on repeat.
Even as he sat with his mother at this small cafe, he remained straight-backed and proud.
"I hope your father is well enough to come out with us, at least once," Narcissa clacked her teacup down, a flash of dread as it made a sound. She'd never made a sound with her teacup in the past.
"I'm sure he will," Draco reached across to soothe her forearm, which was too thin beneath his grasp. She had started eating again at least, but not much. "It'll just take time for him to feel comfortable in public. I'm sure he misses you dearly."
Narcissa gave a tight-lipped smile, her fingers dancing against the tabletop.
Their lunch was a step towards society, which Narcissa had been so entrenched in several years ago. He didn't linger in the dark circles beneath her eyes or the way her lips twitched like she'd had a shock sent through her. She covered it most times, with a shift or a smile, but the fragmentation was easy to detect for him. He admired both his parents, in spite of everything. He still admired them.
He reached out to catch her hand, to thumb her knuckles and ease her shakes.
"Thought I saw him."
Draco fought the urge to duck his chin. He turned, head then torso, as he saw the ragtag trio approach. He'd spent enough years with them to pick their voice by ear alone, and he felt no great relief in his cleverness. It was a matter of time before he crossed their path, though he had anticipated their wide berth rather than a direct approach. He had underestimated the red they wore as scarves and blood, the act of bravery above all else.
Though he failed to see the bravery in a three-on-one approach while he coaxed his sick mother out of her agoraphobia.
"Expected you to be halfway to Bulgaria — not in Diagon Alley," Weasley laughed as if it were funny, though Draco failed to identify the joke.
"I live to disappoint," Draco said, a smirk spread across his thin lips.
"You can say that again," Weasley mumbled though he meant it with all of his chest.
"Ron," Granger said, her tone sharp.
"However, one can live in Bulgaria and still come to Diagon Alley," Draco's brow twitched with anticipation. "If one can Apparate — though if I recall, you failed the test, didn't you Weasley?"
"Actually," Potter cut in, as Ron made a few sounds of frustration. "I wanted to come over to say thank you."
Narcissa and Draco wore veiled confusion like it was hereditary, their lips both drawn down to fine lines while their brows raised.
"Just, for not calling us out at your house," Potter gestured to Draco, to then pivot his attention to Narcissa. "And for you, lying about me… About, me being dead. Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. You were very brave." He smiled clumsy, red nose and ruffled hair. He always looked like he'd stepped off the Quidditch pitch as if he'd never learned any other way to be.
Draco felt his throat click as he watched his mother burst into tears. It wasn't uncommon, but she usually kept it for when she arrived home. But she broke like a porcelain doll dropped from a window as she landed against Potter.
No one knew what to say, least of all Potter.
"It's okay, I — uh — " Potter patted her, again and again, rough hands against fine silks.
Draco's jaw tensed as he watched Potter pat her mother on the back several times, shy and unsure. He might just finish what the Dark Lord started.
When Narcissa drew back, she caught Potter's cheeks in her palms, to babble thanks over and over, to whisper how pleased she was that he was alive, for all that he'd done. It was too quick and messy to be words that anyone understood, but Potter seemed to follow her thread. Perhaps he was used to it, being the savior of the wizarding world. He no doubt had people rush to touch or hug him in the months that followed. The ever-popular Potter, who could never do wrong, who shot sunshine from his fingertips.
Draco stood, to catch his mother's elbow.
Weasley and Granger remained quiet, a small slice of relief amidst his mother's frantic words. She stilled and stepped away, to allow Harry his space back. Draco tugged her closer, to tuck her head beneath his chin. She gathered into him, a small work of art in how she folded so small.
The cafe felt suffocating, even as they sat on the small ornate terrace with black iron fences. All the furniture matched, either frosted glass or black iron. It felt the closest to home without being at home, as a nice midway point for his mother. And yet the three of them had stomped over to panic her — then to imply their gratitude meant anything. Draco held back the contempt, his gaze fixed on his mother's scalp rather than the three of them.
She unwound herself from him to sit, a crimped smile pushed at her cheeks as if she wanted to be anywhere else.
"You gonna pick up work at the Ministry?" Potter asked, unable to take a hint.
"No," Draco said, his tone long and bored. He rolled his gaze over the three of them, though Granger had the most bags. "I'll be returning to Hogwarts."
"They're letting you back in?" Weasley said, thick disbelief in his tone.
"They're insisting I return," Draco smirked as if he were pleased about it.
He watched them pivot, an immovable wall of sweaters and denim as if they had no clue that cotton or silk or even wool — as if they were still eleven, about to trip onto the Hogwarts Express.
Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.
Draco was on the train in seconds, to secure a carriage on his own. He hadn't let his parents attend with him, hadn't wanted them to. They instead opted for a drawn-out goodbye at their home in the foyer, wide staircases split up into the upper floors. He hugged them both, so tight that he could still smell the mix of their scents, rich perfume, and thick cologne.
But he didn't want them to come here, not with all the families, the faces. With their thin sentence, which wasn't a punishment really, Draco didn't trust people to withhold. They might speak of peace and forward-thinking, but people were vindictive and exacting. He didn't want to turn up to a mob, out for his family's blood.
It wasn't much of a choice; his parents refused to let him move on from Hogwarts without a certificate and he had missed the latter half of Seventh year. The first half hadn't been much of anything, not unless he was required to perform Unforgivable Curses on repeat through the rest of his life.
Draco had arrived far earlier than was required, which left dozens of compartments to choose from.
He walked to the midpoint of the train, given it usually sat closest to the exit at Hogsmeade.
He hadn't planned this far ahead.
He had thought the train would sling him out of the window or that Azkaban guards would be waiting by the train. He hadn't expected to be asked to return, or to be given the title of Head Boy. His life hadn't ever had a point beyond the Dark Lord. Even if he succeeded, he didn't expect to survive. Death and despair, he could navigate.
This warm spot of optimism — he felt like he was lined up for execution.
Waiting for the blade to drop.
A person didn't die immediately when decapitated. They had a few seconds, where their gaze would flicker or their face would contort.
The door to his compartment slid open as the cavalcade of Slytherins poured in.
Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne — none had been spared from the return trip to Hogwarts, it seemed. He hadn't spoken to any of them but they didn't seem to care. They took to their seats as if it were any other year, as if they'd not lived through a nightmare several months ago.
" — which is why I refused to go with them!"
"You should have gone for the food," Theo said with a wave of his hand, his elbows set on his knees.
"I'm not going to Italy for food — what food do they even have there?" Pansy scrunched her face, her lips pouted and her gaze lost to the roof.
"It's Italy Pug, there's pizza, pasta, all sorts of wine," Blaise rubbed his forehead, a smile dug into his dark brown skin. It made his teeth flash like starlight as he wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulders. She'd been busy with her cat, which had whined the whole way in.
"Lucius," she cooed as she pried the cat out of the cage.
"I can't believe you named your cat after my father — "
"I've always named my cats Lucius, don't make it about your daddy issues," Daphne cuddled the black cat to her chest. He burrowed into her as if she were a great wide blanket, warm and comfortable. "Yes, I know Lou, he's very mean."
Draco rolled his eyes to the door.
No one would mention last year, though it sat between them unspoken. Lucius had been the target for countless attacks by the Gryffindors, as pets were the easiest way to get revenge on each other. Draco couldn't count the number of pets that went missing last year. The Carrows had a hand in most of them, as tasks or as punishment. If you got too many detentions in a row, your pet was confiscated —
Draco never had a pet, per se. Just an owl, which didn't stay at Hogwarts any longer than he needed to.
The trip began, with the slow rock of the carriage and the conversation turned to Italy, about food, light things. Draco didn't weigh-in, he didn't have anything to add. He was still sure he had gotten away with something, that he wasn't meant to be here. It was all about to break, he could feel it.
The door slid open, to which the compartment turned.
"Malfoy, you're needed," a Hufflepuff girl said. She had blonde hair and big eyes like she was surprised she'd spoken.
"We aren't even at school yet," Blaise shot Draco a scandalized look.
"Needed for what?" Draco stood, his brow set.
"The Prefect meeting — "
"They let you stay a Prefect?" Pansy gasped, loud and throaty. "What the fuck, Draco! I got kicked out 'cause they said they didn't need Eighth year Prefects."
"I'm not a Prefect," Draco dug a pin out of his pocket. "I'm Head Boy."
The Prefect compartment had once been a place of absolute joy for him. It was like a dinner cart, designed for people to schmooze and roll between one another, to chat and to socialize, as if their position was a privilege. And it was in, part. They sacrificed their nights several times a week to do patrols and could alter house points. But Draco felt none of that excitement as he stepped inside, his school robes draped over his arm.
He hadn't had the space to change in his compartment and hadn't intended to change until they got to school.
And yet, here he was, Head Boy.
Bone tired and dark circles around his eyes, Head Boy, when he was quite sure his badge should read "Dead Boy" given the sprawl of glares.
And Granger, red-faced, red lined robes, brown hair, brown eyes — she's a slash of warmth in a sea of black.
"You knew you had to come here," she said, her voice level.
"I assumed the badge was a mistake."
Granger narrowed her eyes at him through the dim light of the carriage. The curtains were drawn low as if this were some secret meeting.
"Are you going to change?" She asked, her voice clipped.
"What, right in front of you?" He asked, a smirk smeared cheek to cheek. The room broke into thin giggles as she slapped down several pieces of parchment.
She's still too thin. He could see it in the strain of her neck or in her hands. They were bony and slim, too much like his mother's. He couldn't look at them for long, but there wasn't much else to look at. She had taken to the center of the aisle with her hands wildly in the air. She demanded attention, even if he was reluctant to give it.
"Now," Granger said as if she hadn't gathered their attention like candy in her greedy little hands. "While you have your elected Head Boy and Head Girl," she gestured to a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff beside her, their chests matched with the same pins that he had, the same pin that Granger had. "Headmistress McGonagall thought that given the Eighth year, it would be best to have four Heads; a balance of power, a show of solidarity. Two from Seventh year, and two from…" Her voice trailed off as she met his eye.
"It won't affect much," she continued. "There's no Eighth year Prefects, as there's not many left of them anyway — but the double Head Pupil role will provide a means for each house to be represented as the school is pieced back together."
Draco rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, his finger and thumb framed against his cheek.
She noticed. He didn't have to read her to know she had, with how her hair bristled and how her shoulders squared.
By the time she ran through Prefect expectations and responsibilities, Draco had checked out altogether. He'd slackened back into his booth, long legs sprawled beneath the table as he picked at his cuticles.
"Could you pretend to care at least?"
"Oh, you're done," he said with a sneer. He stood, though he stood between him and the exit to his booth.
"Draco," she said, her voice as sharp as ever as if she expected to break through to him with strength. There was nothing to break through. He was just so tired.
"Hermione," he said, in a perfect imitation of her tone.
"You were chosen as Head Boy, and it comes with responsibilities."
Draco blinked down at her, lips parted with grim amusement.
"You have to try at least, to work with me."
"I don't, actually," Draco expression pinched around the corners. "I was chosen to be Head Boy, I didn't choose to be Head Boy. Even less, I didn't choose to come back here, I didn't choose to be responsible — "
"But you came back," Hermione cut over him, her little red face all the redder.
"I came back to finish my education, not play moral pillar in the school," he gathered himself before he pushed past her. It was too easy to do, she was so small, even with her firm stance and squared posture. He didn't linger in the flash of fear behind her eyes, in how she processed his size compared to hers, how he was a threat in that split second, back in the war, back to the way things were.
But she had forced his hand.
"There's a reason you were picked to be Head Boy," Hermione cut back, to rush beside him before he left the compartment.
"Just because there's a reason doesn't mean it's a good reason," he said, his voice thin. "Fuck off Granger."
And she did, though he wished she hadn't.
He didn't go back to the compartment he'd been in with the Slytherins, or to a new compartment. Instead, he went all the way to the back of the train, to stand in the last gap between the carriages. The slim space of exposed mechanisms provided a low chatter of sound, over and over.
He fished a cigarette out of a small box, black packaging with black paper, though the tobacco was bright purple. He snapped his fingers to light it, a sneer stuck to his lips.
There's a reason.
Sure.