His life was perfectly planned out for him.
They say that you should be careful what you wish for. Draco Malfoy has always wanted some unpredictability in his life. It's Hermione Granger who gets entangled in his badly aged wish.
M Rating: Mentions of child abuse, graphic images of child abuse, graphic images of violence, topics of mental health, topics of neglect and abuse. The rating is for a reason. It stands throughout the story. Reader discretion is advised.
Tags: Nonchronological order fic, Hogwarts era, Adulthood era, Coming of Age, Canon Divergence, EWE, POV Hermione Granger, POV Draco Malfoy, Angst, Mystery, Crime, Ministry of Magic, post-war world.
|Prologue|
Draco - April 22 1998
The first potions lesson of the year ended predictably: Potter by some miracle achieved the best Draught of Living Death, so he got the vial of Felix Felicis.
Draco didn't care. He did not have time to dwell on predictable events, if he already knew they were coming. When Nott asked where he was going for free period, Draco muttered something about meeting him in the common room; he ignored his furrowed brow, and watched him leave with Davies. Weasley looked like an awestruck fool by the door, and Potter casted one smug look over his shoulder at Draco before they, too, left. Face stoic, his eyes shifted to her — she had her back to him, but he could tell she was clutching a book to her chest. She didn't turn back when the door shut behind her.
"I wondered when you'd notice," Zabini's smooth voice in his ear had him starting violently.
Glaring over his shoulder at the smirking boy, he snapped, "What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Zabini merely shrugged, before brushing past him and exiting the classroom.
Draco clenched his jaw, loitering where the Slytherins had been sitting minutes ago. At his desk, Slughorn was swishing his wand over the bubbling cauldrons, eyes trained carefully on the contents within. He suspected the professor was perfectly aware of his presence.
"Sir," he prompted, drawing the eyes of the man with expectantly raised brows, "I was wondering—" for a brief second, something dark passed over Slughorn's face "—if you could tell me more about Amortentia." The Professor's expression brightened considerably. Draco blinked. He wondered if he'd imagined it.
"Of course, m'boy!" he boomed, beckoning him forward. As Draco slithered towards him, Slughorn began, "It was first brewed in the third century. A very ancient piece of work."
"Has it had many variations?"
"But of course! Some are far more dangerous than the one from this lesson." Draco glanced at the now empty cauldron.
"I don't understand… how is love—" he sneered derisively, "—dangerous?"
For a few seconds, Slughorn scrutinized him. He smiled gravely and shook his head. "When I was your age, I had very similar views, Mr Malfoy, do you know that?" He wasn't exactly sure what the man was referring to, so he merely shrugged. "You have a sharp mind, I can tell. But it doesn't matter how much you think you know; once your heart seizes you, you lose all control." Mulling over this, Draco furrowed his brows.
"And when Amortentia smells differently to each according to what attracts us, can this be based on something we're not aware of?" Slughorn frowned as he pondered the question.
"Perhaps… One could argue that you are aware of it, deep down, but either consciously or unconsciously you choose not to dwell on it."
"Right." Draco's throat was suddenly very dry. He pointed to the Amortentia cauldron sitting on the desk between them. "And you're sure that was real Amortentia? That it was brewed correctly?"
When Slughorn drew his head back to study him more thoroughly, Draco was stuck between the verge of changing the subject into something which involved sucking up to the teacher or just sprinting out of the classroom. It took a span of ten seconds — where Draco's feet were tensed in preparation of a brisk escape — until Slughorn's great walrus moustache tipped upwards and he started chortling, clutching his great belly.
Draco's jaw clenched, but before he could walk away, Slughorn boomed, "You smelled something you really didn't like, did you, Mr Malfoy?" He could feel his cheeks stain pink. "Quite often, m'boy, that can result in a far more interesting type of love..."
It's a strange memory to bring forward with his occlumency walls, when he's watching her screaming on his drawing room floor. Aunt Bellatrix has whipped out the knife. The knife means she's too incorrigibly enraged to perform magic; Draco has several scars to attest to it. She's carving into Granger like she's a turkey dinner. His eyes are pinned onto the ruby droplets of blood already clambering down her arm.
For a moment, he wonders what would have happened if he had chosen to act on the secret Amortentia revealed. Maybe he would figure out a subtle way to slip her from his aunt's clutches. Maybe she wouldn't even be in his Manor. Maybe he wouldn't be in his Manor. Perhaps he would be reckless and foolish enough to defy the Dark Lord, cooped up wherever Granger, Potter and Weasley had been. After all, he had been afraid of what he'd end up doing if his heart seized him. Slughorn had said love was dangerous, and Draco had gradually learned why.
Upon his freedom from Azkaban, his father's every move had been strictly monitored by the Dark Lord; Lucius Malfoy had killed men, women and children of all blood statuses without hesitation, because Narcissa Malfoy could get swallowed by the Dark Lord's snake if he so wished. As a result of the obvious turmoil it's been having on his father, his mother had offered to take her own life several times so that he would be free from his new prison. Both had risked planning methods to escape from the Dark Lord — but with the Dark Mark on his arm, Lucius would have no hope.
Draco only knows this because Dotty the House Elf likes to snoop and gossip, and he had wanted the secret to how they were so unaffected by the current state of their lives.
There was no secret. Predictably so. His parents are humans, not emotionless servants to Dark Magic.
What's not predictable is Granger being as fucking stupid as Potter and Weasley and landing herself right into the heart of the Dark Lord's favourite inn.
If he were to act against his crazed relative now, he would get himself killed. Aunt Bellatrix would make sure of it. And if his parents managed to hold her off long enough, then the Dark Lord certainly would make sure of it for her.
Draco can't remove his snarling Aunt from where she has Granger pinned to the ground.
For a second, Granger stiffens. Aunt Bellatrix notices, shrieking, "Was I right about that, Mudblood?" Rapidly, she starts shaking her head again.
"No," Granger moans for the umpteenth time. "I don't know." Not liking the answer, Aunt Bellatrix starts slicing her skin with the knife again.
The screaming that echoes across the drawing room doesn't raise gooseflesh against Draco's arm anymore. The pitch isn't piercing. It's almost strained.
Faintly, Draco smirks. He surreptitiously slides his wand back into his robe. Even if his Aunt decides to throw Crucio — which he knows she'll get panicked enough to do at some point — Granger won't feel it. Snape had taught him this spell. He has never appreciated his godfather more.
Aunt Bellatrix obliviously continues her interrogation, but Draco knows that giant brain in that great bushy head of Granger's is whirring for answers. He knows that one day, she'll figure it out.
And he knows that there will be a 'one day', because she's going to get out of this with Saint Potter and Weaselbee. They're predictable like that.