Before Sixth-Year
When Hermione opened her eyes, the faintest hint of daylight filtered through the curtains. Ginny was still fast asleep in the other bed, breathing deeply. Hermione reached over to the nightstand and picked up her wristwatch.
Five o'clock.
A slight knock sounded from the window, and Hermione realised what had awoken her. She tiptoed across the room to open the window. A paper-owl sat on the window sill, today's Prophet in her beak. Hermione paid the owl and settled back onto her bed. It would be another hour until Mr and Mrs Weasley would get up, and another hour and a half at least until she'd fetch the boys for breakfast — if Fleur didn't get there first, as she tended to do these days. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen; he had probably already slipped out, hunting for his breakfast.
Hermione unfolded the newspaper. The first two pages were the usual mix of wild speculations about Harry and Voldemort, a run-down of recent attacks, and the general warnings the Ministry had been issuing since the Battle at the Department of Mysteries and "The Return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named". Hermione took great care to dissect every bit of information, acutely aware of the impact of half-truths, lies and conjectures the Prophet publicised.
There was an update on Minister Scrimgeour's plan for Hogwarts security on page two. Skimming the report, Hermione found it to be a significantly less detailed version of what Tonks had told them over dinner two days ago.
Page three featured a follow-up on the collapse of the Brockdale Bridge. The report focused almost entirely on any threats Voldemort might or might not have issued since, while there was barely any mention of the Muggles that were injured. Hermione read the story with a sense of dread knotting in her stomach. She was immensely glad that her parents were far, far away.
The same page mentioned that a fight had broken out about several of the vacant seats on Wizengamot. Apparently, there was some reluctance to appoint Pius Thicknesse who had succeeded the late Amelia Bones as a head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
A tiny column on the side made a note that none of the twelve Death Eaters apprehended in the Department of Mysteries knew anything about Bellatrix Lestrange's whereabouts or any of the other supposed Death Eaters still at large.
Hermione snorted. She'd bet her wand that the Malfoys knew exactly where she was, even if Lucius Malfoy pretended not to, and even if the raid of the Manor after his arrest had turned up no leads. Hermione briefly wondered whether Draco was also in on it… their entire family seemed so wrapped up in Death Eater business that it seemed highly unlikely that he wouldn't. On the other hand, he was only sixteen… Hermione could just imagine Narcissa Malfoy being much like Molly in that regard, fighting tooth and nail to keep the apple of her eye out of any danger.
Hermione scanned the names listed and realised for the first time that Bellatrix's husband had been sent to Azkaban as well. It appeared that their dedication to Voldemort superseded any familial loyalties. Then another name jumped out to her: Antonin Dolohov.
Absentmindedly, Hermione rubbed her chest. She'd been incredibly lucky. Because he'd cast it nonverbally, Dolohov's curse had not caused any lasting damage—though in a way, it did leave a lasting impression. For one, Hermione was now acutely aware of how dangerous things would inevitably become. Secondly, it had demonstrated how distinct Harry's scar was. It was not merely a scar but a bond between himself and Voldemort—which was extremely unsettling in and of itself. But then it led to other, even more worrisome questions; what kind of bond it was exactly, or how it had been created, for example. Professor Dumbledore seemed to have his suspicions, but aside from him nobody seemed either appropriately worried or informed, so she vowed to do her own inquiries. Preparing for all eventualities was quickly becoming just as important as her N.E.W.T. revision schedule.
Painfully unnecessary as their Department of Mysteries excursion had been, it had impressed upon her a clear view of her future: of the dangers, Harry, Ron, and her would inevitably encounter; of the fact that the Order would not always be around to help; but also that they could — and would — survive.
Sadly, Hermione had also learnt that Harry could not be reasoned with if people he loved were in danger. Harry was unlikely to take the necessary precautions if they were unsavoury or for some reason clashing with his morals, so it seemed to be her lot to go ahead and do what was required without him knowing.
After all, asking for forgiveness was a lot easier than asking for permission.
Hermione flipped another page of the Prophet and found herself staring at a large, bright orange advertisement of Weasley Wizard Wheezes . Chuckling at the many silly puns they had worked into it, she continued highlighting all the reports that stood out to her, making special note of the accounts that appeared to be underreported.
There was a lot.
Hermione sighed. It seemed it was time for another stroll into the village. If the Prophet didn't bother to report suspicious disappearances, the Muggle newspapers were sure to do so.
Hermione chewed her lower lip. She'd have to figure out a way to get the Muggle papers in Hogwarts, too. Asking her parents to send them would alert their suspicions, and she didn't want to let on that anything at all was amiss.
A gentle tapping sounded startled Hermione out of her perusal. Hedwig was perched outside the window, a large packet tied to her leg. Smiling, Hermione climbed out of bed to let her in. The owl swooped into the room, elegantly landing on Ginny's desk. She patiently waited until Hermione had untied the delivery from her leg, then hooted contentedly, stretched her white wings and flew off, probably to get some well-deserved rest after days of flying around half the globe.
The packet included two letters from her parents, an assortment of American tooth-friendly sweets and lots and lots of photos. Hermione laughed at her mum and dad making faces in front of the famous Disney World castle.
She opened the letters and started to read.
August 15, 1996
Dear Hermione,
I'm glad to hear that you're well and not missing us one bit. Are you quite sure the Weasleys didn't bewitch you? Instead of staying in the countryside you could be with us, amusing yourself at the most dreadfully boring conference in the world! Your Mum's presentation is tomorrow and she's pretending not to be nervous. Meanwhile, I'm doing my best to distract her with everything Florida has to offer (Disney World!). Unfortunately, just like you, she's immune to fun and games. So I really can't see why you didn't join us…
Hermione snorted. Teasing her was the only way her father was able to express his emotions. He did have a point though. Who'd actually enjoy visiting the most overcrowded, overpriced, touristy place on earth? Happiest place on earth her arse.
I was delighted to receive your pictures! I have to that admit, your compositions really have improved. They're not quite as wobbly as the pictures you sent from the Quidditch world cup! You really ought to be careful of the converging lines though. Those houses look dangerously crooked — or is that just how wizarding architecture works? Defying gravity and all other laws of physics?
We will be doing a road-trip to New York after the conference. If your mum keeps resisting Donald Duck, I'm looking to at least drag her to a museum or ten. You know, for some well-deserved rest. I do hope you're not stressing too much about the owl results. Four weeks is a perfectly reasonable waiting period. And anyway - don't we all know that you'll get OUTRAGEOUS on all of your classes?
Finally, here comes the part where I give you parental advice etc, so I must voice my sincere disappointment that I cannot reasonably admonish you to behave yourself. But since your mother likes to tell me how hard-headed I am, I will go ahead and do it anyway: do try and be good, dearest daughter!
Much Love,
Dad
p.s. Enclosed a picture of your Mum trying not to scowl at Mr Whatshisname and his new wife — you guessed it — his secretary! As it happens, him and his ex-wife didn't survive the seven year itch…
Hermione smiled fondly. Feeling warm and fuzzy all over, she opened the other letter.
15th of August 1996
My darling Hermione,
As your dad will have already said, we can hardly bear spending yet another summer without you. We've barely had you for two weeks, even though you knew you could have joined us for the conference! Your dad won't admit it but he's still smarting. Bringing you would have been the perfect excuse for him to skip the congress altogether. Now he keeps badgering me with one silly idea after the other, and I keep telling him that he's absolutely mad if he thinks you would've cared for any of that nonsense. You're too grown-up for Mickey Mouse, aren't you. You've always been. Aside from that, I don't know how he expects you to be fascinated by pretend-magic castles when you have actual magical castles in your life. Silly man.
Hermione giggled. She could just imagine her parents bickering about it.
Ginny moved in the other bed, and Hermione clamped her mouth shut.
You are right, of course. I will never truly understand how it is to spend an entire summer without magic. There's no question that I'm glad that the Weasleys are as delighted to take you in as they are. At times I just wonder… why can't you bring your friends to spend some time at ours? Is the non-magical world that difficult to grasp from a magical point of view? And if it was, is that a separation that ought to be continued, instead of bridged? I do wonder. When we went to see Independence Day together, don't you think that your boys would have enjoyed that, too?
You know that we wouldn't mind one bit having Harry and Ronald around. Any friend of yours will always be welcome. Please don't forget that, darling, all right?
How is Harry doing, by the way? That poor boy. Are you giving him enough space? You know he needs time to deal with his grief. And how's Ronald? Are you still very cross with him? You shouldn't blame him too much, you know. I will admit, behaving "like an idiot" towards his brother's fiancée does make him a little emotionally immature. But he is, after all, only fifteen, and if she is as beautiful as you say she is (I seem to remember her being part Nymph?), it's all quite expected. Yes, I agree, it would make Ronald a bit superficial, but all of this doesn't quite justify your being that cross with him. Wouldn't it be best to let him be?
The heart is a fickle thing, and it's hard not to judge people, even if they seem immature or out-of-character. However. The way in which you wrote about Bill and Fleur — them not being a suitable match — has me slightly worried. From the outside, one never quite knows how two people fit. I certainly would have never guessed that Ronald of all people would catch your fancy. I'd always imagine you going for someone like that lovely Bulgarian boy; someone who not only tolerates your wit, but enjoys it. Someone who can keep up with you. So do be careful when judging other people's relationships. You might not enjoy the same judgement applied to yourself.
In any case, be careful not to take your frustrations out on Fleur. I know you're not one to do it, but being your boring old mum, I'll say it anyway. She can hardly be faulted for a man — or boy — behaving silly. I would hate to think that my daughter went around blaming women for the defects of men. Don't be too cross with me for being this frank. You know I get far too few opportunities to scold you as it is. You must allow me to once every ten years.
Hermione lowered the letter. It was so out of character for her mum to be that… serious with her. Had she been truly that horrible to Fleur?
No, Hermione answered herself. Definitely not.
Ignoring the odd feeling at the pit of her stomach, she read on.
Is everything else quite all right? Even aside from the stories about the twins, Ron, and Fleur, you sounded rather— tense. Is it because of the O.W.L. results? Four weeks waiting for results is nothing, I can tell you. Try waiting for your university application. That's a whole different level of daily anxiety. Whatever your results, know that we will be even prouder of you than ever. You're truly a marvel, Hermione, navigating this strange world all on your own. I know that's something you tell me not to worry about, but how can a mother stop herself from worrying? It's never sat right with me that we can barely understand, much less participate. So many things seem dangerous to me—even though you can mend bones and shrink teeth in the blink of an eye… Don't tell your father, but I am glad he's been so tenacious about the arts. It's been such a delight receiving all these lovely photos. I bet he has teased you about them already, but he takes them out every day to look at them. Do try and get Harry to snap some more pictures of you, lest we forget what our favourite daughter looks like.
Lots and lots of love,
Mum
p.s. Remember Mr Whitaker? He went and got himself a new wife. You'll never guess who. His secretary. Yes, the one he publicly denigrated five years ago. Apparently, it was to keep up appearances; they were having an affair, if one can believe the chit chat…
'Are you reading already?' Hermione looked up. Ginny was stretching in her bed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She yawned loudly. 'It feels like the middle of the night.'
Somewhere downstairs a door banged. Hermione took another quick glance at her wristwatch. 'It's almost seven.'
'Seven?' Ginny groaned and pulled the pillow over her head. 'Give me another hour—or five.'
Hermione grinned. 'If you prefer to be woken by Fleur… shall I send her up?'
'Don't you dare!'
Hermione mock-listened attentively. 'It sounds like she's already coming up to wake Harry.'
'Leave me alone, Hermione,' Ginny's muffled voice came from underneath the bedding.
'Better hurry if you want to wake Harry yourself. You mustn't make way for Fleur too easily,' Hermione said teasingly.
The mop of untidy red hair reemerged from underneath the covers, framing a pale face. 'Good thing then that Harry cares as little for Phlegm as I do for Harry.' Her brown eyes sparkled defiantly. 'I'm with Dean, remember?'
Hermione folded the letters and shrunk them, putting them into a tiny leather pouch where she kept everything her parents sent her. 'Silly me,' she said, hiding a smile, 'except I didn't say anything about Dean, did I. I was merely talking about Phle— Fleur .'
'Well then I have no idea why you bring up that horrible woman first thing in the morning.' She stretched and yawned again. 'That's no way to wake up!'
Hermione glanced at her letters. 'Hm,' she hummed, flipping through the photos of her mum talking at the conference. As usual, she looked smart and professional in her trouser suit, standing confidently, despite the hundreds of people in front of people.
'You know what, Ginny?'
'Hm?'
'About Fleur—'
If Draco had ever felt miserable before, this summer definitely taught him he had actually not.
None of the instances he'd always thought of as "miseries" — the Hippogriff attack in third-year, being stranded with Granger in a god-forsaken book, detention in the Forbidden Forest, that time Potter was made seeker and he wasn't, his grandfather dying when he was three years old — compared to coming home to an empty home, and his father in Azkaban.
The first day back was probably the worst. The first humiliating experience was being found by his mother, transfigured into hideous slugs in the Hogwarts Express. Seeing her angrily cursing Potter, Dumbledore, the Ministry, almost made up for the fact that she would not leave his side, even guarding the door to his bathroom whilst he was trying to rid himself of the awful feeling of wet and slimy limbs. Breakfast the next morning was not much better. His mother sat opposite him, stiff and gloomy, making pathetic attempts at cheerfulness, while they both painstakingly ignored the vacant chair at the head of the table.
The Daily Prophet lay folded where it always did, next to where his father's plate usually was—barely noticeable between the mass of delicacies, extraordinary even by Malfoy standards.
His mother, firing away questions about inconsequential rot like exams, school and class-mates, levitated the teapot and filled his cup. Draco was not in the mood and gave her the curtest possible answers without being actually rude. He reached over and picked up the newspaper, unfolding today's edition of The Daily Prophet .
The headline screamed "The Chosen One?" Underneath was a photo of Potter together with Weasley and Granger leaving the Hogwarts Express the day before, their arms interlinked, smiling happily. The steam of the engine enveloped them, making Granger's hair flutter. Her skirt was flying in the breeze, too, and she had to push it down with both hands. This was set off by a picture of his father directly below. His face was haggard, his hair stringy, and he was frowning.
Draco froze in his seat. Never before had he thought of his father as old ; he was only forty-two. The headline below was as unkind as the photo itself. "Lucius Malfoy — From Riches to Rags".
Draco incendio 'ed the paper and stormed out of the room. The Daily Prophet didn't show up at the breakfast table again.
The following weeks were much of the same, and the summer was shaping up to be the worst of his memory. His mother grew more depressed and nervous by the day, following him constantly, wherever he went. It was almost as though he was ten years old again. He hadn't been out in the grounds like he used to — not that he had the time to anyway. Draco had more important things to do. Things to practise. Things to research.
If Draco had thought that his induction as a Death Eater would change anything about his situation, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, things got worse. His mother seemed constantly on the edge of tears, barely able to leave him out of his sight for even a second. She was jumpy and nervous, never putting her wand away, not even during meals or when they went to the part of the gardens where aunt Bella was hiding. Instead of letting him use his broom, she'd apparate him there, worried that anyone might follow them — on their own property!
The few times they had actually left the Manor to go outside were the visits to his father in Azkaban. These visits instantly made the list of most miserable events of his life.
Seeing his father gaunt and haggard, cowering in a corner of the tiny prison cell was—Draco couldn't quite identify what it was he was feeling. Was it pity? Shame? Rage? It all felt awfully muddled; as though he was drowning in a maelstrom of emotion. It got a lot better with every Occlumency session. Draco found that they made managing his situation a lot easier.
Still, he was secretly glad when his father's trial was over. From now on, only monthly visits were allowed, allowing him to better concentrate on his mission. As he and his mother stepped into the Atrium fireplaces to Floo home, Draco was consumed only by the desire to do better. He'd please his Lord.
In the following weeks, Draco's days were filled with Occlumency lessons with aunt Bella, and reading, reading, reading. He reached a break-through in early-August when he stumbled across a mention of twin cabinets in a tome about magical transportation. Remembering what Montague had told them at the end-of-year feast, Draco immediately realised the magnitude of his discovery. But he needed to make sure.
He sprinted into his room to change into his travel cloak and fetch his wand. He was back at the floo in no time — unfortunately, his mother was waiting for him.
'Where do you think you're going?'
'Urgent business, mother.'
His mother didn't move. 'All right. Where do we need to go?'
'We—' Draco choked '— I am going. Without you.'
'That is out of the question.'
'It's just Diagon Alley. Mother—'
'No!' His mother pursed her lips, her right hand twitching. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around her wand. 'How many times do I have to tell you. You can't go out on your own. It's much too dangerous.'
Draco scoffed. 'As if I was afraid of the Ministry.'
'And yet you ought to be,' his mother retorted coldly. 'It's foolish to underestimate them. They are just waiting for us to make a mistake.'
Draco shook his head in disbelief. 'I'm just going out for a stroll. They'll hardly notice me.'
'Hardly notice you?' his mother stared at him in disbelief. 'You're a Malfoy. Of course they will notice you!'
'It's not as if they're looking for me,' Draco retorted petulantly.
His mother glared at him. 'Don't you realise that it's more than a little suspicious if the son of one of the most prolific Death Eaters is running about on his own, at—' she glanced at the large grandfather clock on the mantelpiece '— half-five in the evening?'
'Mother, come on, it's not—'
'No, Draco.' His mother performed a complicated wave of her wand, and a clicking sound confirmed that she had sealed the fireplace. 'You'll not be leaving this house on your own. If you want to go to Diagon Alley, we can do so tomorrow. Together. Your book list arrived, and you grew so much you need an update of your wardrobe — and I need to get some shopping of my own done, of course.'
During breakfast the next morning, Draco tried again to reason with his mother, but she would not budge. Their argument continued well into Diagon Alley which was practically deserted — even as Draco sat on a stool while Madam Malkin's pinned needles into his new dinner robe.
'This is utterly ridiculous. Diagon Alley is practically empty. Who do you think will take me? It'll only be an hour!'
His mother pursed her lips. 'That is out of the question. You'll not be leaving my side. Wherever it is you need to go, I can come with you, surely.'
Draco clenched his jaw. 'This is utterly ridiculous. I'm not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.'
From his left elbow, Madam Malkin clucked. 'Now, dear, your mother's quite right. None of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own any more, it's nothing to do with being a child—' She gathered the fabric at his left arm and made to pull it up, exposing his skin.
'Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!' Draco spat and jerked his elbow out of the way.
Madam Malkin tutted and scuttled away, disappearing behind a clothes rack. His mother considered him with a blank expression and followed her. Draco clenched his jaw and stood up, to scrutinise his appearance in the mirror. Maybe shouldn't have overreacted. The mark wasn't visible anyway right now. But who was she to tell him what to do?
That was when he noticed a slight movement from the front of the shop. He turned his head and froze.
Granger, Potter and the Weasel.
On their own.
Without an adult shepherding them around.
Something hot jolted through Draco, spreading through his veins and twisting in his stomach like a knife.
Granger had a black eye and he instantly felt better. His father was gone, taken from him, humiliated and in prison, while he was having the most miserable summer of his life — while they just strolled about, unbothered and happy ? A sense of immense satisfaction swept through him that not everything was perfect in their world either.
Granger caught his gaze. Her dark eyes pierced right through him, and Draco felt exposed. It was not unlike when aunt Bella pulled his desires out of brain, laughing at him for being childish and petty.
But he had gotten better at it.
Draco visualised the heat in his veins turning into ice. He was cool, cutting, calm.
'If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,' he said, raising his chin. He quirked his lips into a smile.
'I don't think there's any need for language like that!' said Madam Malkin, who returned with a tape measure and a wand. She glanced towards the door. Potter and Weasley had moved in front of Granger and pulled out their wands. Draco almost smiled. Another taunt well placed and they'd be thrown out. 'And I don't want wands drawn in my shop, either!' Madam Malkin added hastily.
'No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it ...' Granger whispered, as though she didn't want him to hear.
'Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school,' he said. Granger didn't even bother to look at him. Something in his stomach burned. 'Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.'
'That's quite enough!' said Madam Malkin sharply, looking towards his mother. 'Madam—please—'
His mother strolled out from behind the clothes rack. 'Put those away,' she said coldly to Potter and Weasley. 'If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.'
Draco's face burned at the memory of his humiliating train ride home — and the face of his mother as she found him. He breathed deeply, remembering his aunt's lessons.
Cold. Calm. Like water rushing over a pebble stone beach.
'Really?' Potter took a step forward. 'Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?'
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. 'Really, you shouldn't accuse – dangerous thing to say – wands away, please!'
Potter kept his wand directed at his mother. She smiled dangerously. 'I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you.'
An immense sense of pride flooded Draco. His mother was confident in his ability after all.
Potter made a show of looking around the shop. 'Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!'
Something exploded inside his chest, raging through his body like Fiendfire. Draco shot up, preparing to lunge forward to get hold of Potter — unfortunately, the bloody robe was in the way, and he stumbled forward.
Draco's face burned as Weasley laughed loudly. Potter looked delighted. Granger didn't look at him at all. 'Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!' he snarled, fishing for his wand in the depths of the cloth covering him. His vision was clouded by red spots of fury.
'It's all right, Draco,' his mother said. Her gentle fingers rested on his shoulder, and he remembered to breathe. 'I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.'
Potter waved his wand menacingly.
'Harry, no!' Granger moaned, and the fire in Draco's veins blazed up. She grabbed Potter's wand hand, attempting to control him. 'Think ... you mustn't... you'll be in such trouble ...'
His eyes were fixed on them both, acutely aware of Potter's every move but equally alert to Granger's reactions. His hand still fumbled for his wand in his robes, the blood pounding in his ears.
Next to him, Madam Malkin fidgeted annoyingly. He ignored her and kept watching both Granger and Potter.
'I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just –' The silly woman tweaked the robes and something sharp and pointy buried into his left arm.
'Ouch!' Draco slapped her hand away, 'watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother – I don't think I want these any more –' He pulled the robes over his head and threw them on to the floor at Madam Malkin's feet. He was delighted at the blank expression of shock on her face. He breathed deeply.
'You're right, Draco,' his mother said and considered Granger with contempt, 'now I know the kind of scum that shops here ... we'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's.'
Draco didn't deign Granger with a second look as he followed his mother outside. He could just imagine that she'd be raising her eyebrows disapprovingly, and for some perverted reason that thrilled him, too. Weasley chuckled under his breath as he passed, so Draco took good care to jostle him. He grinned as Weasley stumbled backwards into a clothes rack. The door banged closed behind him, and Draco followed his mother with a spring in his step.
Draco stepped out of Borgin & Burkes, and his new dragon-hide boots gleamed in what little sunlight made it into the dingy streets of Knockturn Alley. A rush of power tingled down his spine and into his fingertips.
Borgin cowering before him, his eyes wide with terror fixed on Draco's forearm.
Draco grinned as he confidently strode down the street. If he hadn't given it up years ago, he felt like right now, he might conjure a corporeal Patronus.
Nobody had ever thought of what he had just put in action.
Not Granger.
Not Dumbledore.
He, Draco Malfoy .
Draco grinned triumphantly. He'd show them what it meant to underestimate a Malfoy. He'd show them the power of his house. The Dark Lord knew why he had asked him to perform this task; because nobody else would have thought to do what Draco was about to. When he'd succeed, all of them would look up to him. His Lord would reinstate his family's rightful status while all the other doubters would writhe in jealousy, utterly humiliated for underestimating him. His father would be out of Azkaban, appraising him with pride, telling him his grandfather would be proud. His mother would stand at his side, tall and elegant once more, not scared and teary-eyed.
Something within him twitched, but Draco shut it down easily, calming his mind with the ease of the swelling sea devouring a pebble stone beach.
Mother had no reason to be scared. He was the man of the Manor now, and he was perfectly up for the job.
Draco confidently marched down the road, hags and hooded figures jumping out of his way. He puffed up his chest. This was how he deserved to be treated. How he had always deserved to. He, the Malfoy heir, the sole offspring to not only one but two of the oldest, most distinguished Wizarding families in the country. The way his father was— used to be treated.
The taste in his mouth soured. He glowered at an old warlock who dared to walk too close to him, the latest edition of the Daily Prophet in his hands. Potter's face was plastered all over it again.
"The Chosen One"
'Watch where you're walking,' Draco snarled.
With an embarrassing squeal, the warlock jumped out of his way, dropping the newspaper. Draco grinned contentedly at having shown that degenerate his place. Several pages of the Prophet had fluttered to the floor, covering the dirty cobble stones.
Draco wanted to step on them—when his heart stopped.
One of the opened pages showed his father's face, paler than usual with sunken eyes and greasy hair.
"Lucius Malfoy's Fall From Grace—"
Draco's stomach dropped. He carefully stepped around the paper and stormed away.
His good mood had evaporated by the time he'd reached Diagon Alley again. He was acutely aware of all the people staring at him. Some were whispering, a few pointing, and a couple even dared to hiss as he passed.
Draco lifted his chin and twisted his lips as he passed them, ignoring the flashing headlines and moving photos. The streak of dirty blond he saw out of the corner of his eye was enough.
If only they knew . People would be licking his fucking boots, if they knew .
They ought to be licking his boots anyway! The Malfoys were the pride of Wizarding Britain. How dare they treat him like a Mudblood!
An elderly witch in a purple robe stepped into his way, shouting at him what a disgrace to wizardkind his family was.
Draco sneered back at her but otherwise didn't deign her with a response. He strutted away, imagining their faces crushing underneath his shoes. His thoughts jumped to his mother who he had escaped at Flourish & Blotts, hoping for all of their sakes that she had not been exposed to that kind of treatment. Clenching his fists, he quickened his step, the brand-new boots gleaming in the sun.
A bell tinkled when he reentered the shop. A couple of customers looked up from their books, and several faces darkened.
Draco clenched his jaw.
Not long until they'll be reminded of how to treat a Malfoy.
He walked around the shelves for school books, but his mother was nowhere to be seen.
What a happy coincidence. He was back, so his mother could find him if she wanted to. In the meantime, he might as well make the most of what little freedom he had.
Draco passed the literature section and moved into the more hidden parts of the shop where they kept books on magical theory. He needed something that covered elemental transfiguration, maybe even comprehensive charms. Vanishing Cabinets were extremely rare, so it was best to approach it from all possible angles.
He passed a section with house healing spells when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a familiar mop of brown hair. He turned around, squinting, scanning the aisle to his right.
Though he didn't see anyone, he knew she was there.
Without another thought, he wandered into the section. He found himself surrounded by books on curse healing and magical maladies, but there was no sight of Granger.
Draco pondered briefly whether to check the Squib Literature Section before he caught himself. Why was he following her to begin with?
Because they were always up to something, that's why. Gathering information was wise. Granger was usually in the middle of it, so the more he knew about her, the more he knew about Potter.
Draco turned around, looking up and down the next row. It was a section on Dark Arts. Pretty unlikely that she'd be there. He was about to turn around and abort this foolish mission when he spotted her curls peeking out between the bookcases in the row across from him.
Fancy that.
He quietly rounded the corner. She was standing with her back to him, absorbed in a tome as was usual with her.
'Well, well, well,' he said, sneering. She spun around, narrowing her eyes at him. 'Surprised to see that Mudbloods can still walk around unharmed. Although—' his eyes flickered over her injured eye that had developed a yellowish tint and scrutinised her appearance '—maybe in some places less than others.'
Granger closed the book with a snap. She crossed her arms and hid it behind her back. '"Mudblood." How very original,' she said, mockingly. She leaned against the shelf behind her. 'As if words could inflict any harm.'
Draco ground his jaw. 'No, you stupid bint. I obviously meant the curse you were hit with in the Ministry.' He glanced at the bookcases surrounding them. 'Magical curses. Dolohov got you good, I hope.'
Granger chuckled, and Draco's hackles rose. 'If that's the best Voldemort's got, then we truly have nothing to worry about.'
Draco almost winced at her saying His name. 'Watch it, Granger,' he said between clenched teeth, 'a Mudblood really shouldn't be too careless with these things.'
Granger snorted. 'As if my respect — or lack thereof — would make any difference. They'll kill me anyway.'
Draco was so taken aback by her candour that he momentarily forgot what he was about to say to her. She stood there utterly calm, her brown eyes sparkling with defiance.
'So. You're the man of the Manor now. How's that going for you?' Her expression wasn't hostile; she simply continued watching his face as though she was waiting for something. It made him profoundly uncomfortable.
'What's it to you?' he snarled. The tiniest sense of heat glimmered in his veins.
She made a strange face then, and Draco couldn't help but feel reminded of her when she was standing there, bossily trying to convince him to go right instead of left. 'I wanted to say—' she unfolded her arms and considered the book in her hands. Draco could finally read the title. "Magical Bonds and Enchanting Connections." 'I'm sorry,' she said.
'What?'
'I'm sorry you… your father's gone,' she said. Her expression was so bloody fucking soft it made Draco want to shove her.
'I don't need your pity, Mudblood.'
She sighed deeply. She turned her head, looking up and down the aisle they were standing in. They were still alone. 'What happened to you, Draco?' she asked after a pause.
Her voice was almost a whisper, but she might as well have shouted. Instinctively, he touched his left arm—but only for a second. He immediately folded his arms to mask his thoughtlessness. 'What's that supposed to mean,' he hissed.
Granger tipped her head and considered him for a second through deep eyes. Once again, Draco felt hot, exposed. His mind conjured a swelling sea, the tide rushing through his veins.
'What's happened to the curious boy I met six summers ago?' she pressed, 'where did he go?'
Her words spoken with so much sympathy hit him like a body-bind curse. He stiffened his back and looked down on her, focusing on her unruly hair, her clothes, the necklace he hadn't noticed before. Everything that made her heritage painfully obvious.
'He never existed,' he spat, turning up his chin.
Granger continued to watch him calmly, her eyes dragging all over his body. Her stare was like flames licking at his skin. Draco willed himself to remain stock-still. Finally, her eyes dropped to his feet. 'New shoes?' she asked abruptly.
Confused, Draco glanced downwards. He hadn't a clue where she was going with this. 'Yes,' he retorted aggressively, 'Why?'
'Pretty,' she said flippantly, looking up at him again. He caught her eye. There was a curious glint in her expression, and he immediately knew that following Granger had been a bad idea indeed. 'Though I'd say' — her lip curled into a smile— 'ruby is much more your colour.' She giggled quietly and sashayed out of the aisle, leaving Draco behind, drowning in an amalgam of contradicting emotions.