Away from the Rain
The rain hasn't stopped falling since the end of the war. Draco's father's legacy poisons even from afar, and forgiveness is undeserved. Late at night, Draco hides and listens to Hermione singing in the Room of Hidden Things because it's the only time he doesn't feel like he's drowning. It's fine for him to listen as long as she doesn't know he's there, isn't it?
Theme Song: Stand Against the Darkness by Shunsuke Tsuchiya
Cast (new characters will be introduced as they appear per chapter)
Draco Malfoy - Lucky Blue Smith
Hermione Granger - Emma Watson
Pansy Parkinson - Lily Collins
Auguste Bell - Robert Downey Jr.
Chapter One
Setlist for Chapter One: Less Blessed Memories by Dark Sanctuary, Midnight Love by Girl in Red, and Servants of the Mountain by Masashi Hamauzu
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It rained often in Scotland.
Sometimes, it felt like the sky wept onto the castle, forever mourning the deaths that marred the stones of Hogwarts castle. Scottish raindrops were heavy and persistent, neverending in the sort of way that a mother never stops grieving a lost child. The blood of innocent children had crept so far into the Earth that it had taken root, growing invisible trees made out of pure souls that stretched to the ceilings and left a chill all over the campus.
Hogwarts would forever be tainted with sorrow, and no amount of magic, nor good intentions, could restore it to its former glory. While the remaining Hogwarts students would live on, and the school would accept new students year after year, the sky continued to pour out its lamentation as if the rain could wash away the remnants of Hellfire and darkness.
The castle was restored over the course of the Summer, with the combined efforts of adults and children alike, and after a one month delay, the school year began in October. First Years crowded Platform 9 ¾, mingling with older students that hadn't chosen to take a gap year, and everyone walked with a cautious step. Cautious steps that spoke of trepidation and hope and sleepless nights and hunger for a normalcy that felt slippery from the rain. Trauma, in its most complicated, unavoidable form, that stretched across the entire student body like a blanket of February snow.
February snow, the bridge between the frozen waste of Winter and the fresh breath of Spring.
"The air feels different," Draco said as he stepped off of the Hogwarts Express and inhaled. He was one of the last to leave the train, and he could see the rest of the students filing towards the carriages. The night sky seemed oppressive, the rainclouds blocking out the stars. If it weren't for the Water Repellant charm woven into the fabric of his blazer and hovering in an aura along his entire body, he knew he'd be soaked.
Behind him, Pansy hopped off of the train steps with a loud thunk. She let out a sound - the sound she typically reserved for when her tea was too cold. She whispered a charm to keep the rain away from her body and stood beside Draco on the platform.
"Different?" she said. "Different how?"
Draco narrowed his eyes at the edges of the forest, which seemed darker than usual and smudged through the rain's onslaught. "It doesn't feel the same as it used to."
"As opposed to what?" Pansy tossed her black hair over her shoulder, and the ends of it grazed her back between her shoulder blades. "Air that you recognize? Air's air, Draco, and it's the same no matter where you go."
"No. Not here," he murmured, slipping one hand into the pocket of his trousers and wrapping his fingers around the object that lay hidden inside. The silver was cool to the touch. Familiar. Unlike the air.
Pansy turned to face him, her nose turning up even further as she looked up at him. Curiosity danced in her eyes, illuminated by the light spilling out from within the train. Beyond the intrigue, he saw her understanding. She felt the same way that he did; she just needed him to voice it.
"It doesn't feel like it used to," Draco said, searching her face. "It feels like it's air we've never breathed before. Like it's stale and void of anything we used to know."
"Dark," she whispered, and then she lowered her gaze.
"And empty," he said. He hung his head and looked off to the side, at a wooden plank that looked uncharacteristic in the way the raindrops were gathering in its divots. The rest of the platform looked pristine.
Just like the plank, Draco felt like he didn't belong on the grounds of Hogwarts anymore.
"What did the air used to feel like?" Pansy asked as they began to follow the rest of their peers. They were only a meter or so behind, but the rain fell so loud that no conversation could be heard save for their own.
Draco stared at the ground, at the mud and the grass that he'd traversed for years, and he felt like he had no idea where he was. He'd walked this same path since he was a First Year, yet he recognized nothing. It was as if Hogwarts had closed a door to him - some intangible gate made of betrayal that everyone was allowed to pass except for him. Him, the one who betrayed the very stones of the castle to let the Devil in.
As they joined the back of the crowd, waiting for their turn to take a carriage, Draco looked up. He scanned the sea of heads, boys and girls of all shapes, sizes, and heights chattering like squirrels as they tried to pretend June never happened. He studied them, even as he felt Pansy's gaze on the side of his face, and he wondered if they noticed how barren the air was.
Somewhere to the right, semi-hidden by the trees, stood the last person Draco thought would find refuge in shadows.
Hermione Granger.
Granger, with her curls hanging in dripping wet strands past her chest, looking as though she didn't care if she drowned. She stared into the nothingness, at the ground, at her feet. She wore the war like a cloak on her shoulders, just like she had when he'd seen her speak for him and his mother at his trial. Just like she had when she accepted her Order of Merlin at the end of war festivities, and shook Kingsley's hand with the smile of an actress.
Then, her gaze lifted. It met Draco's across meters that felt like lightyears. It was there that he saw it.
Whether the air felt different or the same, Granger wasn't breathing.
Pansy cleared her throat, but she said nothing to indicate that she could see him staring.
"Draco?" she said instead. "What did the air used to feel like?"
Draco wanted to look away from Granger, the person he once despised the existence of, but it felt like tearing his eyes away from a mirror. A mirror that was cracked, splintering with a spiderweb of more and more cracks each day. The fact that she hadn't chosen to use any sort of repellant for the rain felt like proof to Draco that whether she knew how to swim or not, whether she knew how to open her lungs and breathe, she couldn't.
Or perhaps like him, she didn't want to.
"Like home, Pansy," he said in a soft voice as he gripped the silver in his pocket even tighter. "It used to feel like home."
Even though the typical pattern was followed, Draco could tell that things were different.
McGonagall, Hogwarts new Headmaster, was obviously well-suited to the position. She gave a speech, just like Dumbledore used to do. She introduced the professors, and no one except the Eight Years seemed to notice that there were more new professors than was typical. Draco in particular felt the guilt like a heavy lead in the pit of his stomach. He kept his gaze trained upon the table in front of him. He feared that if he looked up, right across the way at other tables, he'd meet the glares of the students he'd fought against in the war.
McGonagall held the Sorting Ceremony after the meal, and then dessert was served. Draco spent the meal talking sporadically with Pansy, the only friend he had remaining. It seemed that even in the House of Slytherin, the Malfoy family was despised. Fortunately, no one seemed keen on picking any rows with him, so he ate in peace.
He glanced across the room one time at the Gryffindor table. Granger was sitting on the opposite side, facing him, and the girl in the shadows seemed to have vanished. She was talking in an amiable manner, laughing and carrying on with gusto. The haunted look that Draco had seen in her eyes seemed to have been snuffed out by the light that now shone in her face. Outside, she'd looked like she hadn't slept in weeks. Now, she looked like herself. Chipper, bright, and ready to learn.
For some reason, he felt disappointed.
"Are you going to apologize to her?" Pansy asked from her spot across from him.
Draco felt an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck. Apparently, she wasn't going to let him get away with staring this time. He was quick to tuck into his pudding, but slow to stop his cheeks from heating up.
"As if she would accept an apology from the likes of me," he muttered, and then he took a bite. The flavor had been his favorite since he was in his nappies - chocolate with cherry coulis - but he felt like he couldn't taste it. Like the air in the castle, it was empty.
"You never know," Pansy replied, setting her fork down on her empty pie plate. She folded her arms on the table and arched one sculpted brow. "She spoke for you and your mum at your trials. If it weren't for her, you'd be in Azkaban. If she could do that, then perhaps she could accept an apology from you for being such a prat when we were younger."
Draco shot her a look, which she smirked in response to. A sour expression fixed itself upon his face as he finished his pudding. He didn't like to think about the trials. His mother's Azkaban sentence had been reduced to three years thanks to Potter's testimony of what happened in the forest. Because of Granger's testimony as to Draco's actions at the Manor, Draco had been given probation when not at Hogwarts for the next ten years. Any other Slytherin would happily pay a life debt to both Potter and Granger for what they had done.
After years and years of turmoil between them, however, Draco would settle for small steps. For starters, he would call them by their surnames, and not childish nicknames. Potter was no longer "Potty." Weasley was Weasley. "Mudblood" was no longer a word that held a place in Draco's vocabulary.
Draco now knew that Muggleborns had the same color blood running through their veins as a pure blooded witch or wizard. Granger's blood was thicker and stronger than anyone else. Draco had seen her take on adult Death Eaters during the final battle with the most feral snarl on her face. He'd seen her take them on and win. He'd seen her skin carved into like a slab of meat by his own bloody aunt while keeping the lid shut tight on her secrets. She was braver than any Gryffindor he'd ever heard of or read about. Any witch braver than Godric Gryffindor himself was as genuine as diamond.
Life debt or not, apologizing to Granger was a completely different situation. Draco felt like apologizing to her would be like serving Thestral shit on a silver platter. Granger was a war heroine. She didn't deserve his insolence, let alone his self-serving apologies. She didn't need them or want them.
"I can see you brooding," Pansy said. "You wear the lines in your forehead like a mask."
Draco swallowed his final bite of pudding. "Come off it. Everything's always got to be a metaphor with you, doesn't it?"
Pansy sniffed, but her brow remained lifted. "Don't snip at me because you aren't capable of analyzing the things I say. What's the issue? Just talk to her."
"No."
"Why not? You feel guilty, don't you?"
"Of course I do." Draco felt his old tempers flaring. He fixed Pansy with as fiery a glare as he could muster, wary of the students around him picking up on the tension. "I issued a public apology for the Prophet for my family's part. I wouldn't have done that if I didn't feel at least some measure of guilt."
Pansy pursed her lips. "Somehow, I feel like a public apology meant to cover all your bases is not the same as personally apologizing for making her life a living -"
"I said, come off it!" Draco's voice lashed out across the table, drawing sharp looks from those around them. "This is the ten-thousandth time you've said this to me. I will apologize if and when I see fit, Pansy Parkinson. And I won't have anyone speaking to a Malfoy as though he owes anyone more than he's willing to give. Even you."
Feeling the anxiety warring with his irritation, Draco rose sharply to his feet. He was heading to the Slytherin common room and taking whichever room was available. McGonagall hadn't done the closing announcements, nor had she announced the new Slytherin Head of House, but he didn't care. His emotions were all over the place, spilling out all over the ground of his heart like a game of Exploding Snap.
Draco knew that Granger deserved a personal apology. If anyone deserved one from him, it was her. He'd bullied her with the intent of diminishing her spirit - of turning her into a reduction of the Hermione Granger that everyone had come to know in school. It hadn't worked, but Salazar, if he hadn't done his damnedest in the attempt.
How was he supposed to walk up to her and apologize for that without making himself look like a complete and utter fool?
"Draco, wait!" Pansy called after him, sounding worried and apologetic. "Shouldn't you wait for -"
"I know where the dungeons are," he snapped, cutting her off.
More gazes fell upon him as it became clear that Draco Malfoy was not staying for the end of dessert. He kept his back straight and chin leading forward, and tried his best not to look like he wore his father's family shame like clothing. He did not check to see if Granger watched him go, and he did not look over his shoulder.
Even if being a Malfoy was no longer an honor, he would never let a soul see him shed his crown.
Draco met the new Slytherin Head of House sooner than he thought he would.
The dungeon corridor was colder than he recalled it ever feeling, and he could hear water dripping in places that he couldn't see. The rain continued to fall outside, but this part of the castle remained below ground. Quiet and oppressive, the corridor was no longer a place that Draco felt he could recognize. Either he'd been naive as a boy, or he was jaded now, but it felt like a grave.
Outside the windows that lined the corridor, the murkiness of the lake was black as ink. The creatures that once glowed had grown dim. Draco wondered if they'd left, or if their desire to live had dissipated with Dumbledore's death. He supposed he hadn't even paid attention during his Seventh Year, the rare times he'd even come to the castle.
There were a lot of things about Hogwarts that Draco hadn't noticed before. Things that were long gone now.
Draco found the hidden entrance easily, descending the steps down further into the damp and cold. When he came to the blank stone wall that would open to none other than a Slytherin, the only portrait in the entire corridor was revealed to him like a ghost in the moonlight.
Surprised, he found himself staring into the calm, blinking eyes of Albus Dumbledore. He looked exactly as he had the day he died, complete with his blackened hand and luxurious silk robes. He wore no hat, and his beard was so long that it nearly reached his lap. He sat in an armchair by a lit fireplace, and he said nothing.
This portrait hadn't been there in the years before, so Draco didn't quite know what to do. He felt confused about it, and more than a little uncomfortable at having to look his old Headmaster in the eyes again. He'd had many nightmares about meeting with Dumbledore face-to-face since his Sixth Year, and the suddenness of this moment felt jarring, portrait or not.
"Hello," Draco said, his voice seeming flat in the small area. He lowered his gaze. It felt silly to say hello to the man his godfather had killed to protect him.
The portrait said nothing. It merely blinked.
Draco reached up to rub the back of his neck, keeping his other hand in his pocket. He couldn't lift his gaze from the ground. Rationally, he knew that this was merely a portrait of the previous Headmaster, and there was no guarantee it had emotions or could even speak. There were many portraits in the halls of Hogwarts that did little more than move from time to time.
Though it was strange to have a portrait of Dumbledore blocking the entrance to the common room when they'd never had a portrait before, he couldn't stand in front of a portrait feeling like a sap forever. Regardless of whether or not he felt sorry for his part in the man's death.
"Pureblood," he murmured, using the same password he'd been using since his First Year.
Silence.
Draco gulped. The portrait hadn't said a word, and yet by the expression in his oil-painted eyes, Dumbledore was waiting for him to say something different.
"H-Has it changed, then?" Draco said to the portrait, stammering.
Dumbledore's portrait stared at him, and then his gaze slid to the right. The moment it did, Draco heard the footsteps tapping down the stairs.
"It has, in fact."
Draco whirled around at the sudden voice, glancing behind himself.
An older man came out of the darkness of the steps and approached Draco. He wore dark robes that were either black or navy blue - Draco couldn't tell by the dim light of the lanterns - and his short dark brown hair swept back away from his forehead as though it were wind-blown. He had a shaped mustache and goatee, and his eyes pierced into Draco as though he were studying him.
He held out his hand and gave Draco a small smile, but his eyes remained devoid of warmth.
"Professor Auguste Bell," he said. "I'm the new Head of Slytherin House."
Draco blinked, his right hand automatically reaching out to grasp Auguste's. The name was familiar, and he'd seen McGonagall introduce this man at dinner. He'd been lost in thought at the time, but he recalled the introductions at least somewhat.
Had the professor followed him out of the Great Hall?
"Yes, you're also the . . . Defense Against the Darks Arts professor, correct?" Draco gave Auguste's hand a hearty shake. "Your name is familiar. Do you - er, did you work with my father?"
Something changed in the air as fast as a lightning strike.
Auguste tightened his hold on Draco's hand, much to Draco's perplexion, and he yanked on it. Draco stumbled forward, gritting his teeth against the pain of the vicelike grip. He glared down at their joined hands and then returned his gaze to Auguste's.
"What the -"
Auguste's voice was as cold as ice as he cut Draco off.
"My daughter's name is Katie," he said, tilting his head to the side and locking gazes with Draco. "I'm sure you two have met once or twice."
Katie Bell.
Draco's heart skipped a beat and he tried to take his hand back. Auguste did not loosen his hold. He held Draco's gaze.
"You have met, haven't you? Because she's told me so much about you, in fact, that you couldn't possibly be anything other than good friends."
Draco was sorry for his part in the war and the things that he'd done, but he was still himself. He wasn't one to be threatened by someone he barely knew. With a sharp movement, he ripped his hand away and moved back. He put into his eyes all of the Malfoy family disdain that he possessed in his core, and lifted his chin.
"Katie Bell and I are nothing more than acquaintances, sir," he said, his voice a quiet hiss. "And while I don't think we will ever be more than that, I will apologize to her formally if that's what you wish. I -"
"I don't wish for anything more than for you to stay away from my daughter." Auguste's tone sounded tight, stretched thin over hot coals. "These are new times. Times where the Malfoy name has the same worth as a half of a sickle. Your father has no power, and as long as you're a student in my class - in my House - you answer to me. And you will answer for what you did to my child."
Draco wanted to avert his eyes, feeling the shame pressing down on him, but his pride refused to allow it. He maintained his posture and his glare. He did not look away.
"So, what? A duel?" Draco adjusted the lapels of his blazer and looked down his nose at Auguste. They were the same height at a little over six feet tall, but Draco felt like he was only an inch off the ground. He'd never been much more than a coward, and it wasn't lost on him that they were the only two wizards down here and dessert was not yet over. "You kill me and make it look like an accident?"
Auguste's eyes danced with mirth that Draco didn't understand and he crossed his arms over his chest.
"You have no idea what your father did to me last year, do you? You haven't the slightest clue what he did to my family."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "I didn't make it a point to keep tabs on him, no."
Auguste lunged forward, and Draco felt his own back hit the front of the portrait. The two men glared at one another as Auguste's hands clenched in the fabric of Draco's suit.
"Your weak excuse for a father nearly destroyed my family," the professor snarled, "and you turned my daughter into a ghost long before that. She can't even sleep a full night without seeing the end of your father's wand and dreaming of the Cruciatus she was subjected to during the war. D'you know what that's like? When your daughter comes home from school, and she spends her nights screaming and crying?"
Draco's heart sunk into his stomach as the guilt reared its head again, but he remained firm in his indignation. "I'm not responsible for his actions."
"No! But you're responsible for . . ." Auguste trailed off and inhaled deeply. He spoke softer, and he let go of Draco's blazer to move back from him. "You're responsible for your own. You will apologize to my daughter, yes, but that doesn't mean that I have to forgive you."
"And if I go to the Headmistress about your lack of . . ." Draco sneered as he smoothed out his clothing. "Professionalism?"
Auguste furrowed his brow and scoffed. "And who's she likely to believe? The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor whose wife and daughter were tortured by Death Eaters during the war? Or the son of a demon who let the Dark Lord in?"
Draco took a deep breath.
Auguste was right.
He looked away and clenched his teeth so hard that it hurt. McGonagall may have been a friend to the Golden trio, but she was no friend to Draco. Anything he had to say would likely be compared to an outright lie. There would be no more threatening to go to his father for Draco.
He was on his own.
"The password is 'Loyalty,' kid," Auguste said, crossing his arms over his chest. He gave Draco a once-over. "Something that your family has never understood about the Slytherin household. Something your father sold for power. Something you'll regret not understanding sooner by the time you graduate my class. Your room is the last one on the left in the righthand hallway."
Draco frowned. "That's a closet. It's always been a closet."
"It's been converted." Auguste smirked. "Enjoy your new quarters, kid. It's gonna be a long year. See you in class tomorrow."
With a sweep of his robes, he was gone, leaving Draco with a myriad of negative emotions. Guilt over every mistake he had made, anger in regards to the way he'd just been treated, and helplessness as to what he could do to help himself. He'd always regretted his Sixth Year, and he'd always regretted casting the Imperius curse on Katie. He'd known that his father was in Azkaban for life for his crimes, but had he really been dense enough to think that there would be no societal consequences for it all?
He hadn't fully grasped what his own future would look like when he crossed one of his father's victims.
The piper wants my family's payment, Draco thought, and I'm going to have to be the one to pay him.
When Draco finally saw the closet that had been "converted" into his new quarters for the year, he felt like crying. It was only big enough for a bed, a small circular window, and a one-person desk. Nothing else. In First Year, he'd heard a rumor that Potter lived in a cupboard under a stairwell at home. Now, Draco lived in a closet, and Potter was a Junior Auror at the Ministry of Magic. They'd come full circle, and Draco had finally cashed out on the karma he'd earned for himself with his poor choices.
Draco attempted an extension charm, but it didn't work no matter how many times he cast the spell. He tried for a solid ten minutes before accepting his fate. With a heavy sigh, he curled up on a rock-hard bed that was much too short for him, and he acquiesced.
This was what he deserved.
It was going to be a long year indeed.
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