June 5, 1998
Draco hated his birthday.
He sat in a chair. Chained to it, to be accurate. Oh, the sight he must make to the court and bystanders. The pale Malfoy heir in his best robes (Mother insisted) hauled into the Ministry from his stint of house arrest to answer for his crimes.
Curiously, though neither his lawyer nor Draco had asked, an intriguing group of witnesses showed up to testify. On his behalf.
McGonagall spoke.
"Coerced."
"Forced."
"Under duress."
"Bigoted yes, not a murderer."
"Raised by Lucius Malfoy."
"Azkaban is not the answer here."
"He was a child. He was used."
"You want a scapegoat and you've already locked up his father."
Potter spoke:
"Brainwashed."
"No, we were never considered friends."
"I never used the word 'brave.'"
"Just making the point that others tortured willingly. He didn't."
"Didn't murder Albus Dumbledore."
"Didn't murder anyone."
Weasley spoke:
"Didn't identify us."
She spoke:
"What choice did he really have?"
"Voldemort threatened both his life and his mother's life."
"Was a minor when he took the Mark and again, under duress."
"Deserves a second chance. We should be prioritizing rehabilitation over revenge here."
Draco did not speak for most of his own defence. He'd been advised to keep silent unless asked a direct question and only then to give the briefest answer possible.
So he answered "yes" or "no" depending on the question. He delivered a concise speech on his regrets, on his fears for his own life and his mother's life. Though he meant every contrite word, he wanted to say more. So much more. Especially to her.
Because they had met again.
She'd writhed and twitched on his drawing room floor covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He'd stood some feet away and looked anywhere but at her.
He still avoided looking at her.
At the end of the whole charade, the court handed down a laughably lenient sentence. Probation for two years, monthly wand checks and interviews with a parole Auror, and a paltry (for a Malfoy) fine.
The eventual summation of Draco Malfoy: a pathetic, misguided, naïve boy. Got in too deep and couldn't seek help. Tragic, really, but not much of a threat. The courts and hungry mobs had bigger fish to fry.
He'd been master of the Elder Wand for the better part of a year until Potter disarmed him. Potter had wielded Draco's own Hawthorn wand to fell the Dark Lord.
How fucking poetic.
May 2, 1999
Mother had made him attend the so-called "Victory Gala" held in the Ministry atrium. He'd heard rumours that some government committee requested to hold it on Hogwarts grounds; that ridiculous idea somehow gained enough steam until Potter himself had stepped in to kill it. Dancing and drinking and speech-making on the very spot where many had bled, suffered, or died only one year ago? How merry.
Mother held her head high and clutched Draco's arm most of the evening, perhaps hoping some of the goodwill afforded to her for saving Potter's life might then be extended to her son.
Draco wore a barely suppressed scowl and downed as much free champagne as possible. Cheap swill, of course. Mother would probably mentally catalogue every gauche detail of the event and report it all to Father at their next monthly family reunion in Azkaban. She always injected far too much levity into these visits, as if Father was generously giving them time together between business trips as opposed to serving a several-years sentence in a high-security prison.
"We should volunteer the Manor next year," his mother whispered, her critical eye roving over the bland trays of hors d'oeuvres: wilting vegetables and stale-looking crostini.
Draco frowned, polished off his glass, and immediately snagged another from a passing tray.
"I hardly think that would be appropriate," he murmured. "What with all the prisoners and torture and what not."
Narcissa pretended as if Draco hadn't mentioned the second bit.
"We could even open up the gardens if the weather cooperates. And if we held it in the main ballroom, we could receive guests in the Floos in the adjacent parlour, no need to traipse through the whole first floor."
"Yes, no need to pass the drawing room or entrance to the cellar."
She once again chose to ignore his surly commentary. Narcissa chose to ignore many things these days. She still went to every charity function, every gala, visited any shop or restaurant no matter the public opinion on her presence. Draco hated the stares and glares they received from the masses, but accompanied her when he could. Attempting to protect her still. Trying once again to succeed where Lucius continually failed.
"We've nothing to be ashamed of, Draco," she would say. "Your father is paying his dues and we helped end this war. I'll act as I please."
It inspired admiration and exasperation in equal measure.
Draco cast a bored and slightly intoxicated gaze around the room. It landed on a large group of people with red hair. He'd seen a few of them throw incredulous glares at himself and Narcissa for daring to exist, but otherwise seemed content to keep their distance and their silence for the duration of the gala.
Then he saw Granger.
It shouldn't have hurt. Draco shouldn't have felt a thing at all. He had no sane cause to watch her hold onto Weasley's arm and experience a sharp prick of envy. She looked rather lovely in her formal robes, a far cry from the waif of a thing he'd seen in the Room of Hidden Things during the battle. But she did not really resemble the woman in his dream either.
The dream that never left, the dream that liked to murmur to Draco in the night, the dream that spoke in a honeyed, lilting voice about a future of a happy life, now poured sinister thoughts into his head.
Thoughts of his many failings, of his cursed surname and how the combination of the two meant he had no hope of achieving what Weasley had fallen into through blind fucking luck.
Every time Draco closed his eyes he hoped to go back. Hoped his dream would be a kind respite from the occupation of his family home and now his nightmares' grip of his subconscious. He spurned every offer of Dreamless Sleep Potion from his mother or the house-elves. He put up stronger Silencing Charms around his bedchambers instead to ward their ears against his shouts.
Sometimes his dream-state rewarded him. Some nights he fell back into a distorted version of Theo's creation. Possibly because during his waking hours, filled with nothing but idle indolence in his family's home, he had nothing to distract him from drifting to the fantasy realm in his conscious state either. His fixation during the day could sometimes force a return trip to that impossible existence.
Draco finished his glass and grabbed another. Narcissa tutted softly but made no comment. They'd already had a screaming row over his drinking habits some months ago, Draco named the victor by virtue of bringing her to tears while he laid blame at her feet for his ruined adolescence. She apologised and they never spoke of it again, nor did she mention his self-destructive tendencies. Draco simply became better at hiding them.
On their way to their departure Floo that evening, Draco and his mother passed the world's most famous foursome. Potter gave an awkward bob of his head and a half-wave; She-Weasel inclined her head politely; the Weasel King averted his gaze.
Granger offered a tight, close-lipped smile of public propriety. A beautiful pantomime of civility.
Narcissa smiled her most charming smile and trilled "Good evening."
Draco had no idea what his own face bothered to do.
He saw his mother home, waited until she retired to her chambers, then immediately went to Pansy's. She would want to drink with him tonight. Over a bottle of disturbingly expensive scotch, Draco told her about the gala; about which pureblood families now felt comfortable enough in their avoidance of post-war retributive justice to once again rub elbows with Ministry elite.
Pansy hadn't been so lucky. She may not have received an Azkaban sentence, but her family's manor held her prisoner all the same.
"I can't leave," she whispered miserably, tugging on the ends of her black hair. "Mother and I… we can't show our faces. All because I—"
Draco didn't need her to finish her tearful sentence. All because I was a stupid, scared, naïve girl, willing to offer up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord.
They traded the bottle back and forth, not even bothering to summon tumblers. Then, per the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, started trading memories and fears too.
I don't want to end up like my father.
I hate being shut in all the time with my mother.
I received 18 Howlers today.
What will I do now?
What other options do I have?
My mother keeps trying to line up suitors for me and I want to scream.
One or both of them might have cried at some point and then per their habit of the last few months, fell into her feather-soft bed in a tangle of limbs born of their mutual loneliness.
Draco woke in the morning with a pounding head and a regretful Pansy reminding him, once again, that "we can't keep doing this, Draco."
He pretended not to hear her.
June 5, 1999
Draco really hated his birthday.
He'd started drinking on May 2nd and hadn't stopped since. Days-long benders where he didn't leave his chambers, supplementing his liquid diet with the meals that magically appeared three times a day.
And all the while, Draco warred with himself. At night, or at this rate, whenever he closed his eyes, he begged and pleaded with his mind to let him have just another taste, just one more fleeting glimpse of that happy scene.
He'd wake eventually, unsatisfied with his slumber and then subsequently ashamed of his desperate thoughts and wishes. He sometimes tried to picture Granger's adult life in contrast with his own pathetic state of reclusiveness. Did she cook breakfast for Weasley? Did their parents all get along? Would she soon bear Weasley a child and raise it in a safe, loving home? He pictured the woman from his dream wearing a different oversized shirt at a different stove receiving affection from a different man and wanted to be sick.
Because that's what he was: sick.
No rational person would beg their dreams to show them visions of a woman and a life he could never know. No sane human would then become so disappointed and enraged upon waking that they'd have to grab the nearest bottle of firewhisky to cope for the remainder of the day.
Draco tried everything to rid himself of the memory of the dream: he researched different potions, ones that would make him forgetful or numb, but these options carried dangers of screwing with his mind in other ways.
He invested in a Pensieve, which didn't work. His wand pulled out different wisps from his memories of little stray threads of his thoughts about the dream, but couldn't seem to extract the dream itself.
Self-Obliviation was unfortunately not a realistic option. But self-destruction always had a seat at the table.
He'd had more than enough to drink by then, and Floo'ed to Pansy, hoping she'd be willing to continue his solo birthday celebration.
He found her hunched over her writing desk, quill moving furiously along parchment and a stack of books tied neatly with string.
"What's all this?"
"What does it look like? I'm writing a letter and sending off some books."
"To whom?"
"None of your business."
Pansy rolled up the letter and sealed it. As she turned to face him, even through his sheen of drunkenness, Draco could see how wan and withdrawn she looked.
"What are you doing here?" she asked hollowly.
"It's my birthday."
"So? Go celebrate with your mother or Blaise and Theo."
"You're my friend too, Pansy—"
"Oh? Oh am I? You only come here for one reason, Draco, and it's to dump your problems all over me and then crawl into my bed—"
"As if you weren't willing to have me," he sneered.
"Of course I was, I haven't got anyone!" she yelled. As she shot out of her chair and advanced on him, Draco noticed even more tell-tale signs of Pansy's own unravelling. Lank hair that almost reached her shoulders as opposed to her usual sharp bob, purple beneath her eyes she hadn't bothered to Glamour, and an unpainted mouth twisted in a grimace of wretchedness.
"Theo and Blaise are too busy with their studies, no one else visits, I'm trapped here, and you only show up when you need something. I'm done, Draco," she hugged her arms around her middle, providing the comfort for herself that Draco failed to give.
"This is Seventh Year all over again," she whispered, dejected.
"How do you mean?"
Another hollow laugh. An unnatural sound from the vivacious and headstrong girl he'd known all his life. Bitterness did not suit Pansy.
"Back then… you were all too eager to accept that role of brooding outcast, you pushed away anyone that would have tried to help you. But did you really think you were alone in your suffering? You're not that special," she spat, tears brimming in her eyes.
"Pansy I'm sorry, I didn't know—"
"Just go," she choked out.
"Happy birthday darling," trilled the ghost of a voice.
He had no idea how much time had passed since he left an irate Pansy. Draco's ignorance of the passage of time also extended to the amount of alcohol he'd since imbibed.
"I love you Draco," cooed the voice again.
Draco glared at the package of Jelly Slugs that had arrived for him this morning. Fucking Theo. That stupid tosser had doomed Draco in such a hilariously pathetic fashion.
The great heir of two sacred lines, reduced to a hermit, drinking his life away and haunted by a fucking dream. It had reached a level of obsession that disturbed Draco on more than one occasion. He'd stopped receiving the Prophet, for fear of seeing her picture. He declined his mother's requests that he accompany her shopping or to lunch for fear of happening upon her in public again. He ignored Blaise and Theo's pub invitations for the same reason. He thought more about her breakfast habits or tea preferences than he should.
Each cycle of derangement conducted in his mind ended in the same devastating conclusion: he did not know her at all.
Fucking Theo.
Well if Draco had to suffer years of mental anguish because of Theo's mysterious power, then that arse deserved to hear just how much of a "gift" his dream thing had been.
Floo'ing in all his intoxicated glory to Theo's manor resulted in a dizzy, inelegant stumbling into a study. An occupied study. Blaise sat behind a stately desk, textbooks and parchments in neat stacks on either side; a fort of Blaise's healer studies.
He looked up with a frown at Draco's dishevelled form. When was the last time Draco had bothered to change his robes? Comb his hair? Eat a proper meal?
"Draco, what's wrong? It's late and—"
"Where's Theo?"
"Bed. He has work in the morning."
"Well get him up, this is all his fault!"
Blaise stood and came swiftly around the desk, cutting off Draco's determined path towards the door.
"Draco, calm down, you're drunk and—"
"YOUR BOYFRIEND TURNED ME INTO A BLOODY LUNATIC AND I WANT HIM TO ANSWER FOR IT!"
Blaise could physically block the way to the bedroom all he liked but Draco could yell loud enough to summon Theo.
"I'm here, Draco."
Like the creeping tendril of a Venomous Tentacula, Theo slid around the open doorway and into the parlour.
"Why hello Unspeakable Nott, how kind of you to join," sneered Draco, then staggered to his left and plopped ungracefully into an armchair.
Theo waited him out in silence. Blaise conjured a glass of water and summoned a vial of Sober-Up potion, Draco downing both without bothering to thank him.
"Why her?" Draco mumbled at the floor then whipped his head up to demand of Theo, "WHY HER?"
"Is this still about that dream from Sixth Year? I told you before, I have absolutely no idea who you're talking about."
"I've done—done—it all! Every—any—blasted thing to—to take it out of me—I even bought a damn Pensieve—"
"Well it wasn't a real memory, so of course that didn't work."
"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know it can never happen?"
He shot up from the chair and advanced on Theo.
"Obliviate me! Do it! Take this—this torture—this madness, take it back, I refuse it! Obliviate me!"
Theo shook his head in a calm refusal. "I'm not practiced in the art of memory modification, nor would I risk it on you."
Draco raked his hands through his pale locks, desperate for a reprieve and feeling like his options had run out. "How do I forget? Please, tell me… just make me forget them."
"Them?"
"Her… and a child. We had a child. We were… I was… happy. And it can't ever possibly happen."
He'd seemed to finally affect Theo. Draco's frenzied eyes begged his friend to perform some sort of miracle, but Theo's face only reflected a perturbed furrow of his brows and a worried frown.
"Draco… I'm sorry. I don't have as much control of the parameters as you think I do. I certainly wouldn't have done it if I knew you'd react like this. I just cast 'happiness' and thought maybe you'd dream of winning the Quidditch Cup or something. It's not future-telling in any way."
The apology, while welcome, could not soothe Draco's suffering.
Blaise cleared his throat to break the uneasy silence left in the wake of Draco's confession and Theo's remorse.
"Theo's already said he can't help you, but perhaps I can."
"You're not qualified," hedged Draco, reluctant to be a psychological test case.
"No, I'm not a practicing Mind Healer yet, but I've had some training in talking patients through dream interpretation. You said you're willing to try anything, right?"
A fair point.
"You will tell no one," warned Draco.
"As I told you in Sixth Year," Blaise countered. "The same goes for you. Not a word about Theo's ability."
Blaise sat in the armchair across from Draco and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
"Tell me about it then. Theo said he cast 'happiness' but you keep mentioning some witch and—"
"Granger. It was Granger."
Blaise gave one long blink and then shifted his posture to sit back in his seat, as if he needed to physically readjust so he could mentally retain the information provided by Draco.
Theo, still leaning against the door jamb, made no comment.
"Granger," Blaise repeated neutrally. "All right then. Take me through the dream, as much as you can remember."
Draco recounted it moment by moment, dredging up the delusion from the pit of his soul and the secret hiding places he'd crafted in his mind that only he could revisit. He spared no detail, finding it easier to unload this long-carried albatross the more he spoke.
Blaise didn't interrupt, giving Draco the opportunity to recall every imagined facet.
When Draco finished, Blaise leaned forward again, his keen eyes alight with an idea. "I want you to try and recall some more specifics from the dream."
"But I just told you every little detail," argued Draco.
"Not exactly," said Blaise. "You said it was your birthday, how old were you turning?"
"I… I don't know."
"How old was your son?"
"Four? Maybe 5?"
"Where did you live?"
"It was… a big house? I think? Somewhere with a lot of land."
"Not your manor?"
"No, definitely not. It was more open, but also less… grand? There was lots of sunlight and a cozy sort of kitchen with a table. Lots of lawn in the back."
"Wiltshire?"
"I… maybe?"
"Did you still have your Mark?"
"I… I don't know. I don't remember."
"How did your parents react to Granger?"
"They got along. Her parents were there too."
"What did they look like?"
"I can't… I don't know. I've never seen them before in real life, but I just knew they were my in-… I mean her parents."
"A pair of Muggles taking tea with your parents? And they all got along swimmingly?"
"Yes, they seemed familiar with one another. I can't recall specifics, just that they were friendly and chatting."
"You said there was a crowd of people, who was there?"
"I can't make out their faces. But I knew them as friends."
"That's dream logic," supplied Theo. Blaise silenced him with a quelling look and then resumed the interrogation.
"Why didn't Granger want your son to fly?"
"I… I don't know. It was just a fact. She wouldn't allow me to teach him to fly before that morning."
"You said you and Granger discussed articles in the paper. What did you chat about?"
A dull throbbing developed in his temples as he wracked his brain to try and recall anything specific and felt more foolish by the second with his lacking responses.
"I've no idea. It was just another fact of our—of my—life. A habit, or routine or something where she'd read the paper and want to discuss things with me."
"Dream logic," Theo asserted again. "You were obeying the rules of your dream universe, that's all. It makes sense while there, but when you wake up and have a proper think, it doesn't make sense at all."
Blaise raised an eyebrow at Theo. "Mind if I actually continue with my method?"
Theo threw his hands up in surrender and gave Blaise a lopsided grin. One of those smiles couples seemed to reserve for only each other.
"What did it feel like to fuck her?"
Draco pursed his lips in offense. "Are you this crude with real patients? Good, obviously."
"Anything notable from that encounter? What did she look like naked?"
"She looked like an attractive, naked woman for fuck's sake. It was… a shag. A good shag with a beautiful woman."
"How far along was she into her pregnancy?"
"No idea," said Draco bitterly. "Look, you've made your point. I can't let go of something I should and none of what I dreamed even makes sense."
Blaise shook his head in disagreement.
"Again, I'm not a full Mind Healer yet mate, but I think it makes perfect sense."
Draco stared back in disbelief. Which part of his delusions made any sense?
"You were wretched in our Sixth Year, you know that?" continued Blaise. "As for why Granger, well that's fairly simple, I reckon. Your brain filled in a partner for you but just used a familiar face and some of her known qualities. Your dream gave you a smart, kind, attractive wife and Granger ticks all those boxes."
"But," Draco interjected. "I'd never thought of her that way before."
Blaise shrugged. "Perhaps not consciously, but you always were a rather logical person and maybe even at school some part of you must have realised that all the blood purity ideologies were utter bullshit. Objectively, she's a good match if one does not put stock in your family's backwards rhetoric."
Draco sighed, a thousand regrets chained to his soul, trailing after him with their cumbersome and ever-present weight.
"Now, think for a moment about what a future with Hermione Granger would signify at that point in your life. It meant you survived your task, survived the war, then earned the love of someone so good, so pure, that it meant you'd been able to turn your whole sodding life around."
He leaned closer to Draco, earnest in this analysis of Draco's hopes and fear. "And think about why that felt so good. You didn't dream of a world where the Dark Lord ruled and you lorded over Muggleborns and blood traitors. You didn't dream of being your father with a pureblood heiress on your arm and a strained relationship with your child. You had a healthy marriage, a sweet kid who worshipped you for the right reasons, a group of friends, and a family. You had a genuine connection with your own child in a home that prioritised quality time together over wealth and status. Draco, I don't think it's too much of a leap to say you simply envisioned the ultimate future you would have wanted for yourself at a time in your life when you didn't think you even had a chance at any future. Your concept of happiness was one of a safe, loving home as an adult. Antithesis in almost every way to the way you yourself were brought up, but still with room in your life for a relationship with your parents."
Draco wanted to tell Blaise that his summary was disturbing for the resounding clarity, the starkness of sense presented against Draco's own murky mentality. Instead he could only sigh and tip his head back against the chair, a non-verbal surrender to his friend's accurate assessment.
"Do you want me to keep going? Because to be honest if we have to delve into why you wanted nothing more than to teach your son how to fly, we might be here awhile."
Draco huffed out a harsh laugh. "Oh? You don't want to unpack all my issues with the way my father raised me?"
Blaise scooted back in his chair with a low chuckle. "All your Lucius baggage will have to wait until I've got my license I think. But look at you having some self-awareness."
Talking everything through and the accompanying relief of finally allowing himself to give a voice to his secret fear, Draco felt some of the anxiety ebb. But identifying the source of his torment did not bring him any closer to ridding himself of it. He couldn't unsee it.
"What do I do with this? Please," Draco turned to his other friend. "Please Theo… take it back."
"Can't," clipped Theo. "But as for what you can do… you certainly don't spend your days moping about and getting sloshed. My dreams aren't peeks into a future, they're all emotion based, from what I can tell. It's just potential, Draco. It merely revealed a deeper truth about yourself and what you truly wanted in life. Nothing prophetic about it at all."
"It's in your hands now," added Blaise. "What do you want to do about it? Because this," he gestured a hand in Draco's direction and general air of unkemptness, "is clearly not working for you. The way I see it, you've got a choice: continue on as you are, a miserable drunk, haunted by a dream until you're branded insane. Or, clean up your act and become the man who could potentially secure the future you saw. And maybe it wouldn't be that exact future or with that exact witch, but fuck Draco, don't you even want to try?"
On that rhetorical end line, he stood and clapped Draco on the shoulder and stopped to peck Theo's lips before departing. "Don't stay up too late, please."
Theo stared thoughtfully at Blaise's retreating form.
"He's upset with me."
"What for?"
"I received the go-ahead for my private research project in the Department of Mysteries."
"And? Shouldn't he be proud?"
"Did you know Blaise has a wand made of Cedar?"
Gods, sometimes conversing with Theo was like trying to get a straight answer out of a centaur.
"No."
"It's a special wand-wood. According to Ollivander's text, the carrier usually has strength of character and unusual loyalty. The Cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. The wielder makes for a frightening adversary when challenged, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond."
Draco nodded absently, having already seen firsthand the manifestation of Blaise's willingness to defend Theo. The prickly weed of envy sprouted through the soil of his heart.
"I don't want to keep spiralling, Theo. Is it just me? Am I so… weak, as to be so affected by a dream?"
"You were never weak, Draco. Just misguided."
Draco let Theo's quiet kindness hang in the air between them for a moment, relishing in the soft sound of friendship.
"Do you mind if I ask… what would you do for your mother?"
"Safety," replied Theo bluntly. "She wanted to dream of safety. She'd dream of me and her on an island somewhere, far away from my father… from everything. Sometimes she dreamed of being a bird. Sometimes she was a child again, playing in the family garden. She kept a dream diary, I found it after she died."
"And for Blaise?"
Theo hesitated, and peered over his shoulder, but they were still alone. "Loved," he finally admitted. "Blaise just wanted to feel loved."
"When was the last time you had to use your ability for him?"
"Beginning of Sixth Year."
"Why did you stop?"
Theo smiled. A wistful expression of one's most pleasant memory. "He said the dreams no longer compared to reality."
The little weed of envy gained a few inches in height.
To know such enduring love. To live boldly in that love in spite of the expectations upon them from society. Draco needed to be set to rights if he wanted any hope of securing that for himself.
"I know I sound insane. I just need a way forward… how do I move past this?"
"You were pretty handy at Occlumency, block it out."
He felt like an addict being given a simple out and not taking it. When his thoughts turned too dark, when reality seemed too bleak, when the sounds of his night terrors pierced the silence of his bedchambers, he'd fallen into the dream. A wondrous respite, to see such scenes of happiness involving him, real or not.
Draco still couldn't give up the defence of holding onto the illusion, despite the urgent need to escape its malevolent clutches. "I know I've got to stop but it's the only thing… the only thing I have that's good. The only happy thought."
Theo shook his head. "Draco, that just isn't true. You have your mother, your family home, your freedom, your health, and if you pulled your head out of your arse every once in a while, you'd see that you have friends, too."
As Blaise had minutes earlier, so now Theo struck him dumb with simple truths. What was standing in his way now? There were no deadly ultimatums over his head, no wars to fight, no threats of capture or imprisonment.
If Theo and Blaise could thrive in a world that would often rather pretend two wizards in love was a thing that didn't exist at best and was something to root out at worst, then Draco could get over the public perception of the Malfoy family too. Rebuild his reputation in the way his two friends had, on their way in promising careers, while Draco existed in this sad imitation of life. He needed a sharp change or he'd sink into madness. All too familiar with his extended family's propensity for insanity, he'd rather not go down that path.
The dream had shown him some revelations, but he'd enslaved himself to nothing more than a pretty facsimile. If he wanted anything resembling that glimpse of happiness, he'd have to earn it somehow.
When he returned home, Draco vanished every bottle of alcohol in sight.
A/N: Thank you for reading! Next chapter on May 25.
And endless gratitude to the one and only mrsbutlertron for her alpha/beta/friendship skills.
Find me on tumblr: heyjude19-writing.