Not going to lie to you chickadees, I'm nervous about this one. As always feedback and constructive criticism will be appreciated.

That being said, I'm fucking praying you enjoy it. On my knees. Praying.

All mistakes are mine.

TRIGGERS - Substance abuse, horror, panic attacks/ anxiety attacks, threat of violence, blood/injuries, claustrophobia. If you see anymore, let me know, but these ones are a definite chickadees. Much love.

With further ado, see you on the other side!

*reuploading because typos are the bane of my existence*

"Golden child,

Lion boy;

Tell me what it's like to conquer.

Fearless child,

Broken boy;

Tell me what it's like to burn."

- Gallixie, Oh Darling, even Rome fell.

Chapter 7 – Eleutheromania

12:45 pm, 10th of September, 1999 – Ministry Atrium, just left of Walding's Coffee Cart, Ministry of Magic, London, UK.

A woman sipped her coffee, savouring the bitter aftertaste on her tongue. Her eyes tracked over the atrium once again, why is he always late? She casted a tempus charm and tutted at the time. She tapped her foot impatiently and took another sip. Caffeine had become her lifeblood over the last few months; the strain of pulling extra hours on top of her already fulltime job was finally getting to her. She was tired of organising plans, checking manifests, greasing the right palms and ensuring the right people were in the right place at the right time. Politics was hard, attempting to smoothly execute a plan of this magnitude was harder.

And they were so close. The end was in sight. Just a few more chess pieces to manoeuvre and then there would be a new dawn.

The lunchtime crowd parted in front of her and she spied the familiar gait of the man she was waiting for.

"You're late," she said in greeting.

He grunted an acknowledgement and fell into step beside her as they made their way toward the elevators, their fine, plum-coloured robes billowing behind as they went.

"Is everything ready?" The man murmured under his breath as they shuffled into a carriage. The woman nodded her head in reply.

Weeks.

Months.

Her particular role in the grand plan would conclude today. It had been her responsibility to ensure that today would happen at the right time. It had been someone else's responsibility to make the necessary circumstances for it all to be possible.

Clockwork.

It had been a seamless transition, everyone doing their job perfectly and now they were nearing the end of this phase, only the home stretch would be left following this. All they had to do was make sure that the Queen was in the right place by the end of the day so that he could be removed from the board to join the two bishops they'd already secured.

They just had to get through this hurdle first.

Her nerves fluttered, her palms clammy against the folder she tightly held against her chest.

The woman and the man exited the elevator and stepped out into the black, sleek corridor.

"What room?" The man asked.

"Courtroom three," she replied, calling him back from where he'd gone ahead. He backtracked and joined her as they turned sharply to the left and walked shoulder-to-shoulder up to a heavy black door that lay at the end of the hall.

A bespectacled clerk levelled them with an imposing glare as he peered up from the parchment he held in his hands.

"Cutting it fine, you two," he jeered in smarmy voice, making a note of their arrival. The woman flashed him an insincere smile as she passed, while the man quietly told him where he could shove the quill.

Without a final glance, the woman and man split off to their respective ends of the room. The woman hustled along the rows of benches until she found her seat. She shuffled her folder in front of her, ensuring her reports were in order, straightened her robes and took a deep settling breath.

"This is all a bit exciting, isn't it? Emergency hearing an' all. Do you know what's going on?" The plump wizard who was sat next to her asked with a warm smile.

"I haven't got a clue," the woman replied emotionlessly, folding her hands in her lap, her heart aflutter with apprehension as she turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt take his seat and bang his gavel on the podium.

"Are we ready?" His rich voice questioned, examining the faces of the assembled Wizengamot. "Very well, bring in Prisoner Four Forty-Four. I hereby begin the proceedings of Draco Lucius Malfoy."

12:59 pm, 10th of September, 1999 – Holding room of Courtroom Three, Ministry of Magic, London UK.

Draco twisted his wrist in the shackle. He stretched his jaw forward, craning his neck from side to side as far as the steel collar would allow. He nodded to the guard who watched him apprehensively, who then heaved the heavy cage door closed. Draco tried to keep his breathing slow as the long spikes that lined the inside of the cage door loomed ever closer. Finally, the door was closed and the pointed tips rested millimetres from his taut body.

Cra-clunk. The locking mechanisms set into motion; the lines of enchanted gears that ran along the length of the door whirred to life. Inch by inch, the cage was covered in a thick warding, encasing his metal confines in a delicate golden glittery glow that flashed bright once, before fading away.

His shoulders ached; though the pain in his back had receded, the weight on his shoulders seemed to have doubled since the previous day.

His palms stung from where his claws had embedded into them as he clenched his fists; he had been fine until he'd seen the cage, then all of a sudden he'd had a pointy manicure. Hedgely had sternly cautioned him to try and keep that under control. "No fangs, no claws, no nothing. Creatures don't have rights. Don't give them an excuse to see you as one," had been the lawyer's parting shot before Draco had been escorted to the holding room.

Draco had no assumptions that this hearing would end in his favour. His heartbeat a solemn defeated thrum in his chest, marking each heavy step towards the gallows. The Wizengamot had exactly what they all needed for their post-war campaign – a Malfoy, a death-eater, without rights. His life was forfeit in the palms of their hands.

A dead man walking.

At thirteen, even he'd known that creatures were executed when they acted out of line.

An emergency hearing with less than a day's notice. The nihilist in him couldn't help but respect the cunning, cut-throat nature of it all. The Wizengamot were not playing games, this was their final move. The wizarding society were salivating for revenge and this was Check-Mate.

Hedgely knew it too, which is why he had desperately been trying to get hold of Narcissa whilst he had been coaching Draco for the last twenty hours. Lawyers in the wizarding world functioned more as legal advisors than the seraphic saviours of the muggle courtrooms. Defendants in the wizarding world were expected to defend themselves. Thus, Hedgely had spent the better part of the night, running through every possible scenario or play - from interrogation to execution. Regardless, he hadn't gotten a response from Narcissa and so he had rushed to the Manor in the few spare moments before the hearing began, under the assumption that this would be the last time that Draco would see her.

He swallowed thickly around a swell of grief and twisted his wrists in the shackles again.

The gears were still whirring, laying secondary locking enchantments on the bars now that the protections were in place. He felt his collar begin to tighten, the space that allowed for him to twist in his bonds disappeared. He was locked into place, the steel biting into his skin. And as he accepted that this was his final moments, the hollow place in his chest panged a sombre keel of pain.

Draco bit into his cheek, closed his eyes and leant again his occlumency walls.

Molten honey and nutmeg.

During the easier years, Draco had known he a flourish for dramatics, but he always refuted any criticism of this with the assertion that life was mundane without it. It was rather poetic, he mused as the caged shuddered around him and the guards stepped away, it was rather poetic that his penchant for drama had summoned her in his final moments. Her, a woman who would never think of him or know what she meant to him. Him, who did not truly understand and therefore would never utter the name of what she was to him. Not now. There was no point.

He couldn't decide if it was his wish or his Veela's, (and at this point, the differentiation didn't matter), but he longed for her to be happy after he was gone, all molten honey and nutmeg.

A groan of metal echoed around the room and Draco looked up to see a hole open in the ceiling above.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to empty air as the cage gave a final tremulous shudder before it began to rise toward the light that shone through. Draco closed his eyes, wincing at the pain in his corneas as they ached from the sudden exposure.

The cage clunked as it settled into place. Draco blinked repeatedly, soothing his assaulted eyes until he took one final shivered breath and looked upon the room.

His fists tightened and he felt a swell of blood seep through his knuckles.

The full Wizengamot sat high in their benches, their impassive stares looked down on him from all sides of his cage.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw a flushed Hedgely take a seat. Draco waited a moment and saw no further movement. When the lawyer was settled he minutely shook his head at Draco's silent question.

His mother wasn't coming.

Draco closed his eyes to savour as much privacy as the collar would allow, to trick himself that he was alone for a second more. He needed a moment to shore his walls. He knew that it wouldn't matter; his emotions were inconsequential at this point, but it was ingrained into him – "Malfoy's never show weakness," his father used to snap.

"Warlock Henway, proceed."

He felt another drop of blood loosen itself from between his fingers.

"Prisoner Four Forty-Four was charged with three accounts of conspiracy, three accounts of treason, one account of attempted murder, one account of lawful endangerment of minors, nine accounts of fighting as an enemy combatant, two accounts of successful use of an Unforgivable Curse, one account of attempted use of an Unforgivable Curse, and one use of a cursed item to cause grievous harm. What say you Four Forty-Four?" The clipped baritone echoed around the silent hall.

Draco swallowed, his dry throat constricting in its strangled hold. "Aye," he croaked, his voice cracking as he did.

"Prisoner Four Forty-Four's actions were found to warrant the mitigating factor that he was a minor at the time that these actions were committed. What say you Four Forty-Four?"

"Aye."

"Further mitigating circumstances were held that these actions were done under labour or duress. What say you Four Forty-Four?"

Draco's tongue flicked out to wet his lips as his walls convulsed violently under the strain. "Aye."

"Prisoner Four Forty-Four was sentenced to a two-year sentence at Azkaban and is due for release in ten months' time," the Warlock finished promptly and took his seat.

There was a pause, thick with tension. Draco looked up and met the Shacklebolt's gaze and waited in fear of what would come next. A witch with golden wireframe glasses and a sour expression stood, parchment raised aloft.

"It has come to the Ministry's attention that Four Forty-Four has undergone a full-creature inheritance," she announced haughtily. Whispers rippled throughout the room, the witch continued, unfazed by the noise. "This party raises the notion that Four Forty-Four's case is declassified under Section 9B of The Dangerous Creatures Act of 1463, therefore remanded to The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures."

The hissing murmurs rose to a roar as Draco's stomach dropped.

There it was.

Though he had been confident that they would move for execution, to hear the notion raised felt like hearing a nail in his coffin. Hedgely had suspected that due to the short time frame, not all members of the Wizengamot were going to be apprised of the details of the case. Draco suspected that those who were left out of the know were most likely those who held family seats. Politically, if he was to have any hope, it lay with them, their mercy and their quick thinking.

He wasn't hopeful.

"Order!" Shacklebolt barked over the calamitous noise. The voices petered out, leaving silence to ring through the chamber. Shacklebolt surveyed the gathered politicians with a severe look. "Any other notions?" He asked grimly.

A wizard who Draco vaguely recognised stood. "This party raises the notion that under Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment of 1301 of the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia-"

Shouts of outraged objections rose around the room like the swell of a tsunami. Draco struggled to maintain the passive look on his face. He had no idea what this Bylaw was, but anything other than the Dangerous Creatures Act was a welcome addition. He also doubted that it would work in his favour; an obscure law such as this would have required aforethought.

"This party-" The wizard tried to continue but his voice was drowned out by the anger coming from one portion of the room.

"Order!"

The quarry of voices grew louder.

"ORDER!" Shacklebolt's shout carried a menacing edge to it that immediately hushed the room into a hive of disgruntled buzzing.

"This party," the Wizard continued on unbothered, "raises the notion that the changed nature Four Forty-Four's being, means that he cannot be held to his previous convictions. Furthermore, his previous convictions cannot stand," he raised his voice to continue over the riotous noise that had escalated once again. "AND FURTHERMORE, TO RETRY FOUR FORTY-FOUR WOULD BE DOUBLE JEOPARDY…"

"I WILL HAVE ORDER IN THIS ROOM!" Shacklebolt boomed.

"To retry the prisoner for these charges, so as to be applicable under the Dangerous Creatures Act is double jeopardy. Therefore, this party's notion is for the immediate release of the creature Draco Lucius Malfoy."

Chaos exploded throughout the courtroom. Wizards and witches stood from their seats, their fingers pointing accusingly, spittle flying from their enraged mouths. Parchment reports were brandished as weapons with fierce looks of incensed fury. Draco tasted iron as he felt his teeth sharpen and bite into his cheek.

Freedom or death. All or nothing.

His chest bloomed with bitter hope. He knew he shouldn't believe. He knew that that kind of luck didn't happen to him; he was not to be rewarded for his choices in life. What were the chances that the families that he had been relying on to have mercy on him, just so happened to hold the knowledge of some obscure archaic law...Quite high probably. Still, he chided himself. That luck didn't happen to him, so this had to be something else. And so deep down he still believed that he would not see the sunrise another day.

And yet…

He shifted his shoulders; the dull ache that had been intensifying there now sliced down his shoulder blades like a red-hot knife. He jutted his jaw forward to try and ease the bite of the collar around his throat and felt a trickle of warmth meander its way down his neck.

The noise was so loud in the room, the turbulent wall of voices clamouring over one another was so disorganised that it was impossible for Draco to identify a singular argument in hope of ascertaining which way the tide was turning.

Movement close to his cage caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a tall, gaunt-looking man, dressed head-to-foot in wrapped black and soft boots, his complexion pale around his raven hair and piercingly dark eyes. He stood quietly next to the cage, his head bowed, his hands pocketed loosely like a grim sentinel. From where Draco was, he could make out the severe angles of a drawn expression on the haunted face of the man, his jaw popping from where he clenched it. He had never seen this man before, he didn't recognise the clothing either and so couldn't place him in amongst the Ministry.

The blossom of hope withered and died a death in his chest.

Whoever this man was, he wasn't Draco's white knight. He was a harbinger of Draco's inevitable fatal conclusion; his black attire and stern lines leant him the air of an executioner.

As the seconds drew on, one by one the voices faltered until the room was still, the audience waiting with held breath and shocked expressions as they too, noticed the new man who had appeared silently in the centre of the room.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat and twitched in his seat, his brow furrowed in, what Draco thought to be genuine confusion.

"Mr Willows?"

The man next to the cage sighed delicately and raised his head.

"I uh," Shacklebolt frowned, his eyes darting around the assembled court, "do you have a notion to raise?"

"What has been said thus far?" Mr Willows' voice was like brushed silk; he spoke with a gentle effect that held all the restrained fury of a storm.

Shacklebolt glanced to the witch who had stood first. "Two notions have been put forth: one is that Mr Malfoy is to declassified under Section 9B of The Dangerous Creatures Act of 1463."

Willows made a noise in the back of his throat so quietly that Draco was sure only he had heard it.

"The second notion is that the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia 1301, section…" Shacklebolt's narrowed gaze glanced down to the notes in front of him, "section 4a is it?" He said in askance in the direction of the wizard had stood.

"Correct - Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment." The wizard concurred.

"And that does what exactly?" Willows replied.

"Seeks Mr Malfoys release," said Shacklebolt, his head titled as he appraised the raven man.

Willows tutted quietly, his head bowed, eyes focused on the foot he scuffed along the floor.

"Do you…" Shacklebolt moved in his seat again and cleared his throat, his discomfort evident on his face. "Forgive me Willows, but why are you here?"

Willows locked eyes with Draco.

Fresh blood spilt across his tongue as he bit harder into his cheek.

"Mr Malfoy is under the protection of the Department of Mysteries."

The answering silence was deafening.

…WHAT?!

"So," Willows continued, breaking his gaze from Draco's to survey the shocked audience around them. "You can release him under the Bylaws if you wish, that will not affect our work. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to supersede your notion to execute him," he purred, a smooth grin stretching across his face, "due to the fact that Mr Malfoy cannot be declassified under the Dangerous Creatures Act for reasons that I am not at liberty to divulge. Thus if he is not heard under the Bylaws, well…" He raised shoulders in a disaffected shrug, his hands still pocketed. "I suggest we deliver Mr Malfoy back to Azkaban so he can peacefully serve the rest of his allotted sentence and forget that this ever happened."

Draco felt the tension in the room ratchet up a notch. The shrewd witch who had spoken initially peered over her glasses down at them, her face pinched in disgust.

"So just like that," her voice rang, "we're supposed to allow you to wipe our notion from the table? What makes you think you can do that Mr Willows?"

"Because I can," Willows' grin turned feral as he tilted his chin up to her.

The witch did not react, it was as though she had expected the response. "As the head of your department, I would have thought that you wouldn't have any direct involvement with cases Mr Willows," she left the rest of the statement hanging in the air between them, the implication and accusation obvious in her voice.

Willows chuckled. "I am the acting supervisor for this case. My lead investigator is currently indisposed elsewhere. I don't know how you run your department Madam, but in mine, everyone does their job and picks up the slack where they can."

The witch bristled, puffed her chest indignantly and opened her mouth to reply when –

"And who are you to criticise my work?" Willows interrupted. "Who are you, to question my actions?" He prowled closer to her corner of the room, his voice rising in agitation. "Who. Are. You." He finished with a barely contained growl that echoed throughout the chamber.

The witch remained silent, her unspoken words dying on her tongue, her eyes wide under the wireframes. Though she tried to maintain an impassive façade, her lips had thinned in contrition and the stillness of her ramrod-straight posture belayed her unease.

Nobody moved.

"Legally speaking," Shacklebolt began uneasily, "within the constitution of this Government, the Department of Mysteries does have a legal precedent for overhauling actions that may interfere with their work." He turned to the clerks who bustled behind him and took a thick stack of parchment that was offered to him. "I refer you too…" he scrutinised the document, "Ministry of Magic, DMLE verses Roodershot, 1548."

"This is preposterous!" A wizard shouted from somewhere off to the left.

"And yet it is the case. You can rally and tantrum all you wish, but it makes no difference to the words written in black and white." Willows sang, turning away from where he was staring down the witch, swinging his legs as he stepped around the front of Draco's cage as if nonchalantly guarding his territory.

Draco heard murmurs ripple through the benches of the Wizengamot. The tattered shreds of hope slithered together and feebly began to stitch themselves whole. His fists felt tacky with the blood that now flowed freely and dripped to the floor, his neck had gone numb where the collar pinched into it and his stomach turned from having to constantly swallow the blood that flowed from his cheeks.

But there was a chance.

Whoever this indomitable man who stalked the courtroom floor like a prowling grim was, was Draco's surest chance of survival. And now that he had a taste of promised freedom, Draco was ravenous. The cage, that he had willingly accepted to be his tomb when he had no hope, felt too claustrophobic; he looked around him in shock as if only just noticing the cocoon of spikes that contained him.

For the first time since Hedgely had delivered the news, the numbness of accepting despair washed away. From the recesses of his mind, Fear approach cautiously, wrapped in her blanket, awakened from her disassociative slumber. With hope blooming wild in Draco's chest, Fear felt justified in her presence. The promise of freedom was tangible. A life beyond four walls of a barren cell. A life where the sky was more than a hole in the wall, where the clouds rolled by in a snapshot frame. A life where the sun shone freely, her warmth and light spreading far and wide rather than existing in a single beam that moved a golden rectangle across the floor. Fear unwrapped her blanket with a matador's flourish and tenderly swathed Draco in it.

The level of noise in the room began to rise again, as politicians whose faces were a plum as their robes resumed their quarrelling. Draco looked to Willows and started when he realised the man had been watching him in turn. His cold, coal eyes raked over Draco's face, sending shivers of unease down his spine. The claustrophobia he felt from the cage was overwhelmed by the urge to hide from this man's scrutiny. He felt exposed and vulnerable.

Trapped.

Draco watched as Willows stepped closer to the cage, seemingly unperturbed by the anarchy he had caused around him. His gaze dipped and narrowed on Draco's hands. He raised a brow in askance, meeting Draco's eyes again. Draco swallowed heavily and tried to flex his wrist, the tight shackle chaffed painfully as it held him in place.

"Malfoy's never show weakness."

"Breathe," Willows commanded lowly, his black eyes bored into silver. Draco dragged cool air through his nose, his chest strained in an effort to keep his movement constricted from the menacing spike.

"Just breathe," Willows repeated with a final look before turning back to the still crowing Wizengamot.

Draco took another breath.

"ORDER!" Shacklebolt boomed once again, repeatedly hammering his gavel. Eventually, the room quietened. "I have heard your arguments. Even if I could, I would not override Mr Willows on this," a pit of angry vipers hissed their discontent. "Therefore, I rule to a vote. All those in favour of returning Mr Malfoy to Azkaban?"

Draco closed his eyes, unable to calm his hammering heart. He felt the prick of unshed tears. His knees shook with strain.

"And all those in favour of ruling under the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia of 1301, Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment…"

Draco couldn't breathe. His heart was in his throat.

Silence.

He heard the rustle of parchment.

"Very well. I hear by announce that on this day, Draco Lucius Malfoy, due to the inherent change in your nature, you are no longer the man you once were in presence, mind, stature and spirit."

Draco's eyes snapped open and he sought out Shacklebolt who stared down at him with an unforgiving glare.

"Therefore, as per the Bylaws, you cannot be held against the crimes you committed as when you were but once a man. You are therefore technically absolved of your previous self's crimes and are henceforth a free being. However," his deep rich timbre reverberated grandiosely throughout the deathly silent chamber, "if you are caught in such criminal ways, according to these very same Bylaws, you shall be afforded the treatment that your changed nature demands."

Draco blinked, the sound of his blood pulsing was deafening in his ears.

"Mr Malfoy if I may be frank, you have witnessed here today, the tip of the iceberg of the range of opinions and beliefs that are held concerning you and your family. You have one chance to make it right. I fear that if there is to be a next time, neither Mr Willows nor an antiquated Bylaw written for the express purposes of protecting the Sacred Twenty-Eight will be able to save you. Do you understand me Mr Malfoy? Your situation and standing is more precarious than it has ever been. Do not give us the excuse." He levelled Draco with a foreboding glower. Draco swallowed heavily in an attempt to clear his throat to answer him, but the combination of his bloodied mouth, pointed teeth, collar and the emotion that choked him, prohibited him from finding his voice. Instead, he nodded slowly and surely, whilst praying the non-verbal response would suffice.

Shacklebolt held him within his sights a breath longer before he nodded with finality in return. He picked up his wand from where it lay on the podium.

"I hereby pronounce the case of the Ministry Verses Prisoner Four Forty-Four closed. You are a free man." He hammered the gavel once and swished his wand before him.

Over the eruption of conversation around him, Draco heard the gears of his cage whir to life. An ominous pop sounded and golden glitter shimmered to the floor. With a final clunk, the cage door popped open.

Immediately Draco began to panic. The wards were down, he was still locked into the shackles and he was wandless in a room full of people who had just argued moments before as to whether or not he should be killed. Suddenly, Willows loomed into view, opening the heavy door with ease and crowding into the cage.

"Look at me," he ordered quietly, his wand appearing from his sleeve. "Focus on me, breathe. Just breathe."

Draco's senses were overwhelmed with the scent, taste, sound and feel of his blood; on his hands, on his tongue, in his ears and down his throat. He swallowed thickly focusing on Willow's face as the man muttered incantations under his breath, his wand pointing at the shackles. The roar of his pulse was deafening in his ears and he struggled to draw a steady breath as Fear pulled her blanket tightly around him, suffocating him in its cloth. Suddenly, he heard the shackle click open and both his wrists were released. He stretched them, fists still clenched, relishing the freedom.

"Just a moment more," Willows breathed as he pointed his wand to the collar and repeated the incantation. Draco's eyes darted to the movement around the room. Here and there, he could see groups with their heads bowed together, faces angry, their eyes flitting back to his exposed form.

"Eyes on me," Willows hissed, "focus on your breathing." He repeatedly sternly as he twisted his wrist in a final flourished and the collar popped its release.

Draco gulped a breath as his knees buckled. He felt strong hands catch his shoulders and drag him out from the cage. He blinked rapidly, clearing his vision that had blurred from the tears that had yet to drop. His fingers screamed as he finally loosened his fists to clasp onto the soft leather of Willows' uniform, smearing his bloodied palms across its warm surface. He felt a slice of fire shoot down his back as Willows manoeuvred himself to bare Draco's weight across his shoulders, an arm wrapped securely around his waist. Willows then proceeded to set a punishing pace as he half dragged him stumbling across the polished floors and from the room.

"Mr Malfoy!" he heard Hedgely exclaim from behind, followed by the breathless wheezes of the elder man as he caught up with them.

"You are?" He felt the words rumble through Willows' chest.

"Family lawyer, where are you taking him?"

"Away from here, where's home?"

There was a pause.

Home.

His pulse fluttered.

"Calm yourself," Willows murmured.

"The manor. Can he floo?" said Hedgely uneasily, answering the previous question.

"Probably, but let's not drag him through the atrium with all the press out there. I'll apparate him."

Press? He blinked his unfocused eyes. He saw flashes of lights reflected onto the black polished floor of the corridor. The stride of Willows' soft black boot. The wrap of his robes from where Draco's head lolled against the man's shoulder and chest.

"How did the press find out?" Came Hedgely's reply.

"I have no idea," Willows growled, pulling Draco down another corridor and through a door. The room beyond was carpeted with a dark thick plush, the comforting smell of sage and alcohol overwhelmed the irony tang that clung to his nose. He blinked, the room melding into focus briefly. The room was lit with a warm welcome glow, books and strange equipment littered every surface.

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries Mr Malfoy, please enjoy your stay," Willows muttered glibly. "Will you be coming with us lawyer-man?" He tacked on the end, halting his stride to look back at Hedgely. The sudden stop carried Draco's body forward with the left-over momentum before Willows iron grip pulled him back.

His head was swimming, his skin was burning, everything hurt.

He was free.

I've gone insane.

"Yes, I better had to explain some things." Hedgely bustled.

"Whatever you say, hold on. Mr Malfoy, deep breath in now," Willows ordered in a clipped tone. His grip tightened around Draco's waist before the familiar pull, deep in his navel, blinked him out of the carpeted room and delivered him onto grey gravel.

His feet scuffled across the uneven surface, skittering stones as he struggled to find purchase. He felt the cold press of an autumnal breeze on his face and froze.

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, the clean cool air clearing the airways that had had nothing but stale air for over a year.

Goosebumps rose on his skin as his hair swayed in the wind that kissed his cheek.

Leaning heavily against Willows, he lifted his head and looked up.

The sky.

Moving, rolling, soft grey clouds drifted like ghostly giants through the infinite open horizon. In the distance, the clouds touched the rich green slope of a hill. Upon that hill stood tall trees, their trunks bowed with age, their branches reaching toward the sky, their leaves rustling as the wind from the clouds danced playfully through them.

Draco gulped, the fresh air clearing his senses. His eyes tracked back and landed on the towering wrought-iron fences of his home. He stumbled away from Willows, his heart stubbornly beating a renewed rhythm of hope.

Home.

He landed heavily against the fences that creaked open at his touch, welcoming him onto the grounds. He stumbled on, his feet clumsy beneath him, his jaw set as he determinedly began to make his way down the long gravelled driveway. At the end of the drive stood the darkened windows of the ruins of his childhood home. Malfoy Manor stood as proud as it always had, creeping ivy cascaded down its imposing walls. The wings of the house were dark on all sides as Draco approach. Not a curtain twitch. Not a flicker of flame. No dancing shadows or echoed screams. It was a mausoleum. It was warmth. It was a tomb of nightmares. It was lazy Sunday's chasing peacocks.

Home.

The grounds were peaceful. The hedgerows manicured to perfection. In the distance, he heard the familiar caw that somewhat settled his nerves.

"Mr Malfoy, please you must-"

"I don't think he's listening right now," Willows' silken voice commented, in an attempt to placate the blustering elder man as they followed behind.

Home.

Unsteadily, Draco attempted to mount the steps that led to the heavy oak front doors. He teetered dangerously until he felt the secure grip of Willow's long fingers on his arm, anchoring him, and he began to heave himself up the shallow steps.

"Mr Malfoy I really must interject," Hedgely's stressed voice tittered as Draco slumped against the front door. He turned the handle and fell through the entryway as his weight forced the door to open.

Suddenly, Draco found himself pinned, an arm braced in front of him, his face pressed against the aged wood. He felt his claws pierce the frame in an effort to keep himself standing from the unexpected assault.

"Drop your wand," Willows growled from his protective position.

"You first sunshine."

A wave of emotion constricted around Draco's throat as Hedgely pushed through the remaining space of the entryway. "Now, now, everybody-"

"Blaise?" Draco's voice cracked as he peered over the arm barricading him in. He saw the shock register on Blaise's face, the tip of his wand falling slightly from where it was pointed at Willows. Willows looked questioningly over his shoulder down at Draco, who gave a brief nod before he moved to help him stand.

"Fuck me, it's true," Blaise breathed, his eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief as he swiped a hand over his mouth. "You're really here. You're really out of there?"

Draco nodded dumbly and before he could speak again, Blaise crossed the entryway and wrapped him into a tight embrace. Draco breathed in the mixed spices of the expensive cologne that Blaise had always worn and felt his body relax into the hold.

"What are you doing here?" He breathed the question, his voice lost.

"I read the paper, came here to see if it was true," Blaise replied. "Been here ever since 'cause y'know-"

"Mr Malfoy I…" Hedgely interrupted cautiously, "I'm sorry but I really do need to talk to you."

Draco lifted his head from Blaise's shoulder and spied the lawyer wringing his old hands, his face askew with worry.

"What is it?" he said, clasping a hand securely on to Blaise's shoulder while moving away, too afraid to let go incase he should wake from his dream.

"It's your Mother."

Draco froze, immediately tensioning. Blaise hissed and tried to pull away from him. The movement caught his attention and he saw where his clawed hands had begun to dig into the leather jacket covering his friend's shoulder. In horror, Draco snatched his hand away and clutched it to his chest. He avoided Blaise's alarmed look at his hands in favour of returning to Hedgely.

"Where is my mother?"

"Well, Mr Mal-"

"Where is she?" Draco's voice dropped, his resonance flirted with a sinister threat. He rolled his neck, the white-hot pain returning once again to his shoulders. Hedgely backed up a step, the whites of his eyes gleamed in the gloom of the entryway.

"Mr Lawyer-man, if I may, but it would be wise to stop pissing around and start talking," Willows intoned glibly from where he leant against the opposite door frame, still within reaching distance.

"She ordered me to keep it from you," Hedgely choked, bereft emotion evident on his face.

"Keep what?" said Draco taking a step towards the man.

Hedgely backed up another step, apologies and remorse streaming incoherently from his lips. Draco's vision narrowed to focus on the man, all the light drained away till the only thing he could see was the fear in the older man's eyes. He rolled his shoulders and craned his neck from side to side, stretching out the tight feeling.

"The potions Draco."

He stopped his advance.

His surprise immediately overwriting his cold fury.

"Pardon?" Draco asked, spinning back towards Blaise who had spoken.

"The potions, she's been on them since you and your Father went to away. She's developed something of a dependency on Calming draughts and whiskey. It's why I've been hanging around here all day. She's chasing the dragon as we speak," said Blaise warily, his hand brushing the back of his neck as he did.

Draco stumbled, his knees giving out suddenly; he reached out blindly for anything – a hand secured itself under his arm again and the now familiar scent of leather and smoke filled his senses as he took a shuddering breath.

"Show me," he whispered.

The entryway was a long hall, lined with suits of armour, whispering portraits and various chaise lounges for guests to perch whilst they waited for admittance or for their coats. At the end of the hall, the path split into two corridors and in the middle lay a grand staircase that, to the left led to the east and north wing, and the right to the west and south wing. Blaise took the lead and started up the stairs, Hedgeley followed close behind speaking to him in hurried hushed tones. Draco grounded himself with the grip that remained on his arm. He looked over his shoulder at Willows who was waiting patiently, watching him with curious regard.

"Why are you helping me?" Draco asked quietly once they had begun to make their way up the grand staircase. He felt, rather than heard, the vibrations of a chuckle in Willows' chest.

"Well it seemed to me like you were having a bit of a bad day so why not?" he grinned, placing an extra hand around Draco's waist when his knees buckled slightly. "Why'd you ask?"

"I can't figure out why you're still here. I don't know you. I can't give you anything and I know you said that I was under the Department of Mysteries protection but this is…" he searched for the word. Too nice? "I'm just assuming that everyone in the government wants me dead after today, so forgive me for second-guessing your intentions." Draco finished lamely, pausing his ascension to lean heavily against a bannister to catch is breath.

I need to lie down and sleep…for a decade… and shower…

Oh my Sweet glorious Salazar, a shower! Running water! He felt a smile spread across his lips at the realisation that this dream would now become a very plausible reality. Willows made a questioning noise and Draco looked up to see the gaunt man watching him with a lifted brow of bemusement at Draco's sudden change in demeanour.

"Nothing," he dismissed, making his way up the stairs again.

They were quiet a moment, focused on each step before Willows spoke again.

"I'm here because, as you said, you're under my protection and also, if I don't make sure you're safe and settled, I feel that it may reflect rather poorly on me in the future. I figured it would be irresponsible to leave you in such a vulnerable way, all things considered." He threw a smirk at Draco as they veered off the right, taking the exit for the west wing – his mother's wing.

Draco mulled on what Willows had said as they hobbled down the corridor toward the closed door that lay at the end of it, golden light glowing from beneath it. He assessed the man from the corner of his eye. From Draco's first impression within the cage, he had sensed something 'off' about the man; after having spent a little more than half an hour with him, he concluded that Willows was a man of juxtapositions. In one breath, he was as gentle as silk, with light grins and jovial glibness that reminded him keenly of Theo. In another, he was fierce movements, sharp-tongued and menacing growls that detracted from his humanity. But though both sides of this Janus man lay at opposite ends of the spectrum, Willows wore an aura of death like a perfume over it all. As a result, Draco got the impression that as the softer side of him helped him stumble around and waited for him patiently, the blackness of Willows' eyes told him that it really was by choice, and that should Willows see fit, that kindness could be taken as easily as it was given.

Draco simultaneously wanted to trust him and run from him.

At the end of the hall, Blaise waited until Draco was on the threshold before knocking twice, opening the door ajar and peeking his head in.

"All good?" Draco heard him say. He could hear a woman's voice reply but not the words she spoke.

Blaise pulled back out and pushed open the door, gesturing for Draco to step through.

The room beyond was cast in a warm low glow; the air, thick with a heady, filled with a sickly sweet scent that made Draco's nose burn. The fireplace was crackling merrily away, the flames dancing low on the logs. The cream antique French parlour chairs his mother had brought over from their estate in France, much to his Father's chagrin, were draped carelessly in a multitude of blankets and pashminas; the corner of one chair was stained with an aggressive red splash. The floor was littered pearls; an overturned carafe lay abandoned on the floor by the vanity.

A flash of lime green caught his attention and a healer rounded the bed, approaching the group with a warm smile on her round, cherubic face.

"Mr Malfoy I presume? I'm Healer Afton," she said in a lilting broguish accent, extending her hand towards Draco to shake. Numbly he nodded, gently clasping her small hand in his still clawed ones.

"My mother?" he croaked. The healer stepped back and led him around the bed. Between the gap in the pulled curtains of the four-poster, Draco spied Narcissa's unconscious form. He stumbled away from Willows and sunk to his knees next to her mattress. She looked worse than when she had visited him in his cell. She was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones nearly as sharp as his own. The sunken sockets of her eyes accentuated the shadows of exhaustion. Her chapped lips were pale and parted slightly, blowing shallow breaths over her unkempt hair.

"How long has she been like this?" Draco whispered, his eyes pricking once again.

"Since you and your father went away," Blaise answered, knowing what Draco was asking. "Pansy thought we'd better come around, to see if she needed anything. She was rather drunk that day, and while we were concerned, it wasn't completely unexpected. We started coming by more often to keep an eye on her. Pans suspected she was imbibing potions but we never saw any evidence of it. Then around Christmas, I think it all got a bit too much. She got careless and we caught her. Healer Afton is a friend of Theo; she's been coming by since February. A couple of times, Pans has managed to get her to stay sober, but then the Prophet runs a Post-War campaign article or whatever and she's gone again."

Draco ran a finger over the back of Narcissa's hand. The skin was so delicate and soft, the dark lines of spidery veins we stark against the dainty bones. Her eyelids fluttered, the dark lashes feathering against her ghostly complexion.

"She didn't want you or your father to know. She kept saying that you both had enough to worry about… I'm sorry Draco." Blaise finished, unease evident in his voice.

Draco wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream, cry, sleep, hurt something – break something. They had all suffered, not one of them was whole after the war. Narcissa had hidden it so well from him on her visits; sure he had thought she had looked a little peaky, a little under-weight for her already slight frame. But he'd had no idea it had gotten that bad. Potions.

A tear broke free from its prison, a silently tracked down his cheek. He swiped it clean away and looked up to the healer, where she stood off to the side.

"Healer… apologies, I-"

"Afton," she interjected with a patient smile.

Draco nodded in return. "Thank you for everything you have done for my mother," he said, his voice thick in his throat.

"You're most welcome, I've grown fond of Lady Malfoy over these months. She's quite a character," she said kindly, her smile warm with affection.

Another swell of emotion breached Draco's throat, his vision blurred with tears yet to fall. He blinked them away rapidly and cleared his throat with a gruff.

"Your kindness is becoming," he commented, his etiquette was rough after many months of disuse. "In your professional opinion, what is the best way forward for her?"

Afton's smile relaxed, her brows pitched in relief. "My opinion Mr Malfoy, is that after this most recent setback, she should be in St Mungo's for obs, until which time the potion and alcohol are clear from her system. I've been doing the best I can here, but she made me promise that I would only admit her to St Mungo's if it were a life and death situation. And though she's gone heavy at times, it hasn't necessarily put her life at immediate risk. With your permission though Sir, I could take her in today." She looked down at her hands that were clasped in front of her uniform before meeting his eyes again. "Respectfully, it's this place. She needs to be away from it."

Draco sucked on a tooth before nodding to himself, decision made. "She didn't make you sign anything did she?" He queried the healer.

"No sir," she replied, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Very well, if you take her in today, can you ensure her privacy?"

"Of course sir, patient confidentiality is imperative. If I can ask one of these gentlemen to assist me, we can apparate her in and I'll take care of her admittance, make sure she's away from prying eyes."

"Hedgely you go," said Blaise from where he leant against a chair. Hedgely jumped up, wiping his brow before stowing a handkerchief into his front pocket.

"Of course, at your service Healer Afton."

"Have one of the house-elves apparate you past the wards, otherwise you'll have to go down to the lane," Draco remarked. "Bispy," he commanded, relief filling him at the sound of a pop filling the room. Part of him hadn't been sure there were house-elves still at the Manor, let alone whether or not they'd respond to his call. A small house elf with comically large floppy ears appeared between the wizards. Bispy's large eyes settled on Draco and her hands shot to her mouth, barely covering a squeal so high pitched that Willows winced and turned away in an attempt to defend himself from the noise.

"Master is home! Bispy hoped it would be so when she saw the newspaper, Joply said it wouldn't be the case, but Bispy hoped sir!" She cried as one of her tiny hands pulled her ear in a comforting motion, while the other banged her clenched righteous fist.

"Thank you Bispy, I'm very glad to be here. Would you be so kind as to apparate Healer Afton, Mr Hedgely and Lady Malfoy to St Mungo's please?" Draco asked, falling easily back into the role he hadn't played for so long as if he were slipping on an old cloak.

"Yes sir, Bispy will help Lady Malfoy. We have been so worried, but Lady Malfoy ordered us to not interfere sir," she said.

Draco turned back to his mother and watched as her brow creased slightly before relaxing once more. He grasped her hand in his and pressed his lips to the fragile skin. Placing it tenderly back to her side, he leant heavily against the mattress and pushed himself standing, overshooting his momentum slightly, only to be caught by Willows again.

"Mr Malfoy, if I may, you look like you could also do with some medical assistance too," Afton broached tentatively as she rounded the bed to get his mother ready. "I can take a look if you like?"

"No, no, this one's looking after me," he gestured with a nod of his head to his grim guardian in more confidence than he felt. Willows flashed a toothy grin to the healer. "When will I be able to come and see her?" Draco continued.

"Visiting hours are between two and six. I'll send an owl in the morning to let you know what ward she's on," Afton replied. With a wave of her wand, the luxurious red quilt wrapped itself snuggly around Narcissa's sleeping form. Afton levitated her carefully from the bed with a sway of her wand and guided her out into the open. Draco leant against Willows. In his worldview, Narcissa Malfoy was many things: she was a socialite, a Lady of the Manor, a philanthropist, a caring mother, a loving wife. But above all, she was iron-willed and fierce, so her large and unforgiving presence had always commanded any room with grace. It was with bitter surprise that he viewed Narcissa's small figure, bundled in the thick quilt. She looked breakable.

She was glass.

"I'll send an owl as soon as she's settled and I'll keep an eye on her tonight. Thank you Mr Malfoy, she needs this," Afton smiled kindly, turning to the assembled group. The strange party clasped hold of each other; Hedgeley and Afton both securing Narcissa's floating form, while Bispy took hold of their free hands. With a click and a pop, they were gone, leaving Draco with Blaise and Willows.

The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. The air was laden with an exhausted atmosphere like one would expect after a high stress situation with no release.

"So… uh, can we talk about the -" Blaise said, gesturing up and down Draco's body, "your new look and the shady dude stood in the corner?"

Willows snorted indelicately from where he stood behind Draco.

"Not right now Blaise, tomorrow," Draco replied as he started to make his way out of the room. He heard footsteps follow. "I'm exhausted and I need a shower and I kinda want to just be alone right now."

"Draco-"

"Please," Draco begged sibilantly, spinning quickly to look at Blaise. "Both of you." He added, shifting his focus to Willows who was stood behind Blaise.

Blaise blanched, his mouth opening and closing before his shoulders dropped heavily in defeat.

"You want to stay here?" Blaise replied looking around with a sceptical look on his face.

"I need to sleep in my own bed," said Draco, turning to make his way slowly down the hall. They walked in silence until they reached the grand staircase. Draco leant against the balcony bannister that overlooked the steps down. Blaise paused on the first step of his descent and looked up to him.

"If you change your mind at any point, no matter the time, there's a room for you in London with us. I'll leave the address on the mantel for you to floo if you need it. But I'll come by tomorrow to check on you anyway alright?" Blaise eyed his friend with evident concern. "You su-"

"Positive," Draco interrupted with finality. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that Blaise began to meander down the stairs. Draco turned to Willows who was watching him quietly.

"Thank you for all you've done for me today," Draco said, "I'll be fine from here."

Willows tilted his head assessing, his black eyes roving over Draco's face.

"No you won't," he replied ominously.

"What?" A tingle of warning ran down Draco's spine.

Willows remained silent whilst he continued his assessment before he pocketed his hands and began to make his way down the stairs.

"Make sure you're calm before you floo later Mr Malfoy. Don't do anything too hastily otherwise you'll end up in Mungo's as well."

Draco's face crumpled in confusion, "I'm not go-"

Willows waved a flippant salute over his shoulder as he skipped passed Blaise down the stairs, who looked back up in question. Draco waved him off, still staring in confusion at Willows retreating form.

He watched until he saw their forms retreat into the drawing-room off to the right of the hall where the floo was before he turned and began to make his way carefully towards the east wing – his wing.

The long corridor was lined with a wall of windows that overlooked the grounds, and the mid-afternoon sun spilt onto the soft carpets. Draco shuffled along, step by cautious step, stopping often to admire the vista. Though his memory was eidetic, reliving a memory in a cell was not comparable to the real thing. In the distance, the sun shone on the grassy hills that rippled in waves as the breeze brushed through it. He had learned to fly on those hills, racing down the slope and into the trees that lined the bottom that hid the brook where he'd learnt to catch frogs. At the next window, he spied his mother's gardens; the paths, she'd instructed one time, were laid out accordingly to the astrological map, making the end of each path a point of convergence – it was apparently very good for her potion ingredients that grew there. At the next window, he saw the rose bush where he'd had his first kiss with Pansy on his thirteenth annual midsummer feast. At the next window, he saw the clearing amongst the hedgerow where Aunt Bella executed creatures who disobeyed the cause.

Draco turned his head as if struck, the flash of green light still burning behind his eyes. His walls shivered and his shoulders renewed their pain with vengeance. Fear stroked his spine with tender fingers, while she draped her blanket around his shoulders. He stumbled the rest of the way down the corridor, barrelled into his door heavily, falling gracelessly over the threshold and into the back of the sofa that lay in waiting.

He breathed deeply through his nose; the air in his room held the stale but familiar scent of him, his aftershave, his life. He looked down at his hands that were clutching the back of the sofa with white knuckles. Streaks and patches of coppery stains covered his already filthy hands. He barely recognised them; their diminished state was so opposite to the luxurious upholstery of the sofa that it was jarring. Draco looked around the room. His Slytherin scarf was wrapped around his bedpost; the book he had been reading still lay on the bedside table. The chairs by the fireplace were still arranged close together, facing each other, from the day he'd arrived back at the Manor and had lain across them and drunk himself unconscious in an attempt to forget Dumbledore's voice. The room was decorated in dark, rich tones of greys and blacks. His mother had said it was masculine was for a growing boy but as a man stood amongst his childhood bedroom, he found it too dark, too mournful like a funeral parlour.

His throat constricted as his eyes pricked once again. He drew a shuddering breath in, while Fear cooed lovingly in his ear.

This whole house was a tomb. A funeral home for many.

He pushed himself upright and stumbled around the chair. Wash it all away. Draco entered his bathroom with the renewed energy of a swan song and flicked on the shower. Divesting himself of his prison-rags, and without wasting another moment, he stepped into the spacious wet chamber and collapsed under the steaming water. His eyes closed in bliss as the hot water pounded onto his skin, soothing his aching bones. Draco titled his head back, allowing the water to run pure rivulets over his starving scalp. His mind went blank in the ecstasy of the moment. He dropped his head forward, allowing the deluge of water to cascade over his aching back. His eyes tracked the brown water that streamed from him and down the drain. It was constant. Besides the cuts he'd received in the courtroom, he mused that that was a year's worth of filth being washed away… just like that. He grabbed the nearest bottle of soap and set to work, massaging it into his hair and skin, removing the dirt and stench.

When the last of the lather scrubbed from his raw body, Draco brought his hands up, inspecting his palms and he saw perfectly unblemished skin. They were healed without a trace of where his claws had embedded in them earlier that day.

And that was a thing.

Draco inspected his claws properly for the first time. They hadn't receded all-day; he concluded that it must be a stress response. He ran a tongue over his teeth. The fangs were still there too.

He was a creature.

They had actually tried to hand him over to the executioners.

They had tried to kill him.

Draco gasped in a watery breath, his chest constricting suddenly, the first tear freed itself and joined the water that already ran over his face and Fear grinned a predatory smile.

I'm a creature.

He gasped another breath as the emotion that had been threatening all day, finally broke his banks.

I'm a fucking veela.

The sound of the next gasp was lost in the crash of water against granite tiles.

My mother…

Narcissa's tiny unconscious form bundled in a blanket flashed before his eyes, the touch of her papery skin on his fingertips. The white-hot knife cut across his shoulders once more.

My… nothing.

The hollow space in his chest expanded like a yawning chasm as he fought to suck in another breath. His vision narrowed.

They wanted to kill me.

Draco fell to his knees, his hands slapping the wet tiles before him. A sob wracking through his torso.

I'm sorry.

Suddenly, his vision whited-out as the pain in his shoulders exploded, searing through his torso.

It took a moment before the ringing in his ears receded enough for him to hear his hoarse cry echo off the walls around him. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, clearing the white flashes away. The sharp-edged pain had immediately dulled to a throbbing ache that was overlaid with a new awareness of the cold air that slipped between the steam. Draco remained still a moment, panting his shallow breaths, counting his awareness.

He heard movement behind him.

But that wasn't possible because he was facing the entrance of the sho-

Something heavy slapped the watery floor.

Draco had a sudden awareness of rough granite on sensitive skin and the gentle balm of pooling warm water.

In horror, he looked over his shoulder and hiccupped a sob at the sight.

Splayed out and crushed up against the wall of glass was a huge black sodden wing. Draco checked over his other shoulder and saw the same. Panic rose in his chest and as his heart rate spike, the wings scrabbled un-coordinated, slapping and banging against the confines of the walls.

Calm, Willows had told him all afternoon. Keep calm.

Draco closed his eyes and occluded, envisioning a frozen tundra, the snow pure and untouched. When his heart slowed slightly, he had the strange realisation that he was experiencing uncomfortable aches from well outside of where his body was. He looked back and saw that the wings were still mangled in the cramped space. Turning forward again, he drew upon the image of the pure snow, and consciously envisioned the wings folded neatly against him.

He pulled. He felt the drag of something to his right, like something getting caught. He looked back and saw that one of the joints was pointed with a spiked point, as black as his talons, and that this spike kept getting caught in the grout between the bricked tiles of the chamber walls. With shaking hands, Draco ducked awkwardly under the wing and lifted it to a different angle. As soon as it was free, the wing slowly folded and settled with the other against his back.

Draco stood on unsteady legs, his trembling fingers reaching out for the wall for balance. He felt, rather than heard, the wings slap out against the walls again, pulling him off balance and crashing him back under the spray of water. He lay there a moment, his chest heaving, relishing in the heat.

"Fuck this." He growled to himself, pulling himself up slowly, moving with each panicked wing flap, rather than fighting against it. He aggressively thought of the tundra, imposing his will over his frantic heart. Once he was stood, he flicked off the water, and carefully edged across the wet floor and out into the main room of his bathroom, his body growing more accustomed to the new weight distribution.

Grabbing a fluffy towel, Draco wrapped it around his waist and looked in the mirror above his sink. His eyes were bloodshot, making the grey stand out so starkly that they were a shocking sight. His cheekbones were sharp over his concave malnourished face. A hint of white peaked out over his lip. Draco lifted his top lip in a snarl and examined the fangs beneath. Half an inch-long canine and bicuspids, top and bottom, finishing in severe sharp tips. He closed his mouth and observed his face. The features were more pointed than usual; his eyes tighter, his nose slightly longer, his chin slightly pointier. And over his shoulder, framing his head in the reflection of the mirror were two huge folded wings. All of which leant to the overall image being not-quite-human.

He pulled away and ran a hand through his wet knotted hair.

What he wouldn't give for his wand.

Draco stepped into his bedroom and crossed it, headed straight for the chest-of-draws. Pulling on some joggers, he stepped away and eyed bed speculatively.

Then his wings.

Draco snorted bitterly and left the room to head back out into the house.

Now that his new appendages were folded snuggly against him, his shoulders no longer ached with the pain that had been bothering him and the soreness of his body had diminished notably, making him surer on his feet as he traversed the winding halls.

Over the hours, Draco had walked through most of the house. And still, his claws, fangs and wings remained. He had tried to calm the adrenaline that ran through his veins, but every time his breath settled, he'd hear the echoed memory of that soulless laugh ring down the corridor. Or the slither of a winding body across wooden floors. Or an anguished scream from the dungeon. By the time the evening sun was glowing through the windows, Draco had made a full circuit back to the main drawing room that he'd avoided his entire journey. It was the last room.

He paused before the closed doors and steeled himself; his heart rate spiked for the hundredth time. As if wary the pain beyond, Draco gingerly opened both the doors and pushed them open.

The room was silent.

The walls were the same unobtrusive cream. The carpet, the same antique pattern.

The red sky of the evening sun covered the west-facing room in a bloodied tinge.

Draco took one step in and stopped abruptly, the sound of her scream deafening him as it bounced around his skull.

Her.

His.

He careened back, the ghosts of the memory assaulting him. His wings flared wide in threat and a growl rumbled in his chest.

He stopped as suddenly as he started.

She wasn't here. She wasn't being attacked. Not anymore. He hadn't stepped in then and attacking an empty room two years later wasn't going to make a difference.

Draco reached for the doors, closed them tight locking the room away. He dropped his eyes to the floor in resignation, the hollow hunger in his chest yearning with renewed pain. He spotted the shadow he'd cast and looked over his shoulders at the wings that were still stretched out. They were huge! He 'guestimated' about twenty foot from tip-to-tip. He pushed and they shimmered in their stretch. The light from the light candelabras of the hall reflected off of the satiny feathers that lined the curve of the arches, and down each finger of the sections. The wing's structure was reminiscent of a bat's except there were two joints topped with noir horned tips. The lights of the candelabras were apparent through the thin membranes in the sections, that then tapered off into ephemeral trails.

Draco pulled and they slowly folded back into his body. He turned in his spot, taking in the hall he was stood in.

This had been his home. But everywhere he went, he felt the touch of them. He was strung out, waiting for a shadow to move, for Aunt Bella to appear or Yaxley, Dolohov, Rodolphus, Rabastan… him.

I can't… He swallowed heavily. He was a Malfoy. This was his estate. He had a duty to –

Fuck this.

His parents had a duty to keep him safe and look how that turned out. No, he didn't have any duty. Not right now. He set off in a determined march toward the entryway, his heart growing lighter with every step as if he were escaping another prison sentence.

Draco swooped in on the mantle above the floo and thumb the parchment with Blaise's cramped handwriting on.

Calm before you floo, Willows had said. How did he- Draco shook himself from the thought and occluded hard, again imposing his will upon his own system, forcing it into submission, the image of untouched snow clear in his mind. His racing thoughts slowed, boxing themselves away neatly behind walls. His hammering heart glided to a regular rhythm. The adrenaline that sang in his veins faded away. After some time, he felt a pinch at his back. Draco's eyes fluttered open to see his rounded fingertips clutching the parchment. He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but empty space. I need to work this out properly at some point, he thought as he reached for the pot of powder, pinched a healthy handful, and stepped into the green flames.

18:32 pm, 10th of September, 1999 - Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London UK.

Pansy flicked her tongue out to wet her thumb, her eyes scanning the spread of the Vogue magazine she held before her. She made a mental note to pop to Selfridges the next day after she visited Kleamono Bar on Oxford Street. She wasn't hopeful that it would come to anything with regard to Thyrra's whereabouts. She going more out of due diligence until the Mice returned with intel she could actually use. But a group of men, known to frequent Kleamono were sat front and centre of Thyrra's last dance, so it was worth a look.

She sighed in dismay at Vogue's style tips for autumn, how dreadfully dull. Emanating fall colour in cable knit, what will they think of next.

She added to the mental note to grab winter coats for the kids now that the weather was turning.

And socks.

Pansy reached out with her perfectly manicured hand and picked up the china cup. She brought it to her lips to sip –

The fireplace in front of her bloomed green flames and a half-naked man fell to the floor.

Bending the pages aside, Pansy peered around the magazine and saw a head of long messy platinum hair flick up and lock eyes with her. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the unmitigated joy from spreading across her face.

Instead, Pansy sniffed delicately and sipped from her teacup that was frozen in place. She lifted an arched brow at Draco and allowing herself a small smile she spoke.

"Welcome home dear, would you like some tea?"

I am nervously hiding behind my laptop. Let me know your thoughts and theories. Constructive criticism is welcome.