Ashes of Eden

by Sera Scrivenger

After a lengthy court trial, Draco has been pardoned from Azkaban, but as per the regulations of his Amnesty, he is required to finish his final year at Hogwarts and pass the new compulsory Muggle Studies class. When he finds himself struggling and almost failing, Slughorn finds it his responsibility to procure a tutor for one stubborn Slytherin, who just might be his salvation.

2. Chapter 2: Haunted

AN: Sooo, I have Chapter 3 ready and I'm almost finished with Chapter 4. I find myself writing these pieces whenever I have a moment and get so engrossed in writing it that I forget to actually publish it. I will try to do better. Considering the word count of these chapters, I had planned on posting on the 26th of every month, but considering that I've managed to write about 30 000 words since the last update, I think I can try to manage updating twice a month.

Anyhow, thank you for the reviews and feedback so far. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Our Golden Girl and the Slytherin Prince finally speak to each other. How do you think it's going to go down?

Enjoy the chapter, guys!

---

1

"For aren't memories the true ghosts of our lives?"

---

The definition of a disturbed mind has been given many names throughout the ages. Some were treated with experimental methods, others sought out salvation for themselves. The famous artist Van Gogh, who in his time, was one of the greatest Wizards that originated from the Netherlands. But alas, he was of a disturbed mental state. So much so, that he believed swallowing yellow paint would alter his psyche and make himself happier.

At least that's what Draco remembered his parents talking about one evening when the McNair family had come over for dinner. The man was on the verge of insanity, and lost an ear in the proces. But because he was a wizard, such words were not custom among the Pureblood circles. They insisted on describing men like Van Gogh as 'disturbed by his own thoughts' or 'a tortured soul'.

A tortured soul; plagued by the present and disturbed thoughts alike. His parents would have chosen such polite terms of description, but Draco had discovered a new word for it. There was a portrait of Van Gogh in one of the old Magical Art books in the common room, accompanied by a picture of his last art piece before he passed. It was a portrait of a man staring out across a quidditch field, while all fourteen brooms lay scattered around him, and faces were visible within the lonely silhouette. It never really made sense to Draco, but the painting's name caught his attention.

'Door Spoken Bezeten'

It was a Dutch phrase that would have slipped by his notice if it weren't scribbled all over the blasted portrait like some crazed message. Curiosity won out, and he sought out the translation all those weeks ago. Door Spoken Bezeten. Translation:

Haunted.

That little word cemented Draco's belief that, much like Van Gogh, he was haunted. But not by the dead quidditch players on a worn out field. Rather, by memories…

2

"A wolf in sheep's clothing is more than a warning…"

---

Draco sat in class that morning in early November with a bored expression. It was one thing being taught about something you had absolutely no interest in, it was another thing entirely being taught about something you already knew. History of Magic classes always had something interesting or cliche' to learn about, but for the past two weeks, the topic of each bloody class was about pureblood supremacy and how it came to be as such.

Draco didn't need someone to tell him about the context of what had happened all those years ago when he knew he was the bloody context. He and every other damned pureblood in that school. They were taught these things since they were old enough to speak, perhaps even before that. Hence his boredom on the subject right now. All the other students were making notes quite diligently, some even had the nerve to look interested. Draco merely scoffed, his piece of parchment still empty.

It was then that he caught the movement in the corner of his eye. His eyes drifted over to the mess of curls near the front of the classroom. Granger was scribbling away on her little notepad, glancing up at Professor Binns as he floated about the front of the classroom. It irritated him how attentive she was being, almost as if she were scrutinizing everything about his heritage. It was all deserved of course, but it didn't change the fact that it upset him.

"Now students, if you would, please turn to page 187, where we will begin the second part of today's lesson and the fourth chapter for the term," the hollow voice of the ghost professor echoed. Draco tore his scrutinizing glare away from the head of curls and began paging through the book until he had reached his target.

Chapter 4: Maladies and Massacres:

The Dunwich Horrors of 1904

Draco felt his stomach knot slightly as he read the title. The word 'masacres' stood out to him like a sore thumb, unyielding to the scrutiny of questioning.

"The early 1900's were indeed dark times for Wizard folk. The witch hunts might have ceased, but as people had yet to learn at the time, there is no victory in strength," Professor Binns stated ominously. "For the next few weeks, we will be focusing on these events, and why the Dunwich Horrors have become such an integral part of our heritage."

Draco swallowed thickly, a bitter taste in his mouth. Every pureblooded family knew of the Dunwich Horrors, as the Daily Prophet had so delicately worded. Many people had surmised that what had occurred during that year had ingrained themselves into the very essence of certain people. A generational curse of sorts.

By definition, generational curses describe the cumulative effect on a person because of things that their ancestors did. As a consequence, the price of their deeds are passed down through the generations. Unfortunately, such a curse was primarily passed down through pureblood family lines.

Draco felt his teeth clench at the thought.

"Firstly, can anyone tell me why the events of this chapter are referred to as the Dunwich Horrors?" Professor Binns asked. "Anyone?"

Out of the corner of Draco's eye, a distinct hand shot up in the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"The title was given due to the grotesque massacres that transpired within the town of Dunwich, which at the time, was inhabited by both Muggles and Wizardfolk. It wasn't called this particular name at the time, but reporters in the 1950's dubbed it so as a play on words in relation to the novel that was released nearly twenty years prior."

Draco heard a scoff sound behind him from one of the other Slytherins. Of course, she would delve into a thorough analysis of the blasted name; it was a typical swot thing to do.

"Wonderful, Miss Granger," he acknowledged and proceeded to float about the classroom. "Now, as Miss Granger has stated, the inhabitants of the village of Dunwich were both Muggle and Magic-folk, who were predominantly Pureblooded witches and wizards. However, their cohabitation wasn't without faults. The two opposing inhabitants lived in segregation. Certain houses and districts were reserved primarily for the Pureblooded families, while the Muggles had their own specific quarters." Professor Binns paused when he returned to his desk, having done a full lap around the classroom and leaving a few students quite disgruntled at the effects of passing through a ghost.

Draco never really paid attention in the History of Magic class, not only because it was common knowledge, but also because Professor Binns' voice was enough to put anyone to sleep. Today, however, he found himself listening intently. All Purebloods knew this story, thus, he felt apprehensive at how the history books had planned to retell it.

"Can anyone tell me what happened to have earned the hamlet such a grotesque title?"

Draco watched as Granger slowly raised her hand again, the Professor nodding at her to answer, when the hand of Theodore Nott shot into the air. Both Granger and the Professor must have been as surprised as he was, since neither said anything at first. There was a brief moment of silence, before Professor Binns cleared his throat.

"Mr Nott, correct?" he asked, floating forward.

"Yes, sir," he answered, lowering his hand. Draco remembered him from the very few occasions that he hung around his group and saw him at the Common Room. Nott was always a loner, and never really featured in any conversations, at least not conversations Draco was a part of. The wizard had curly dark brown hair and even darker eyes. He was the typical description of tall, dark and mysterious, apart from his lanky build. Draco eyed him quietly as the boy stared Professor Binns down.

"Well, then. This is a first. Would you care to share your thoughts with the class?"

All eyes were on Theodore now, waiting for the strange creature that had been silent most of his school career to say something.

"It's shameful," he answered.

"I beg your pardon?" Professor Binns asked, leaning forward as if he hadn't just heard what Nott had said.

"What happened all those years ago. Wizards, pureblood wizards, were murdered by a bunch of muggles. We pride ourselves on being the superior beings when the simplest of creatures managed to kill not only a few purebloods, but two of the best wizards of their time. That in and of itself, is nothing short of shameful."

The class remained silent after Nott had finished, bar a few other Slytherins who quietly worded their agreement. Professor Binns studied him for a moment, before addressing the class.

"What Mr Nott has shared with us is an oversimplification, and somewhat biased opinion of the events, but he had the facts partially correct. Let's start from the beginning to give you all a bit more context."

Professor Binns straightened himself out and addressed the class as two portraits appeared on the board. The one on the left depicted a wizard with a receding hairline that had faded to gray. There was a slight stubble on his chin and upper lip, his mouth pressed into a firm line. His eyes were dark and menacing, crow's feet appearing at the corners.

The second portrait was of a man of a similar age. He had a full head of hair, his face exceptionally pale, a deep set frown and dark blue eyes. He was clean shaven, yet the contours of his face emphasised the sharp angle of his jaw. Dark crescent moons hung deeply under his heavy eyes. The man looked like he hadn't slept in years.

"Percival McIntyre and Milton Buchanan were two of the most renowned wizards of their time. They were wealthy beyond measure and after years of service to the Ministry, they settled down in the small town of Dunwich. They, along with other Pureblood families formed the Village Council. It was a well-thought out plan and the government which was formed was successful in every part, except for the fact that they couldn't rid the village of the Muggles that had been residing there," Professor Binns explained.

"Instead, they resorted to another strategy. They revealed themselves, and their magical heritage, to the muggles in question, eliciting a myriad of responses. Fear, admiration..." he paused, eyeing some of the Slytherins. "Loyalty... They had taken hold of their beliefs and in doing so had become the superior denizens of the village."

At this point, all of the students were staring at the transparent professor, some in abject mortification, others in vague interest. The only two Muggle-borns in the classroom had unreadable expressions on their faces. Dean Thomas, who Draco remembered vaguely, seemed quite troubled by the tale they were being told. It would seem that he was unaware of the story until this very moment.

It made sense, considering a new curriculum was introduced when Snape had become Headmaster. Anything that denoted the failure of the pureblood lineage was scrapped from the syllabus completely. Purebloods were superior, and this story, this part of history, was the reason they weren't.

Draco then cast a cursory glance at Granger. She was staring straight ahead, however, her expression appeared nothing like Dean's had. It seemed focused, almost impatient. Draco let out a scoff before rolling his eyes and turning back to his blank page. Professor Binns continued.

"A status quo had been set, and so, the Muggles of Dunwich were treated accordingly. Many of the females became housemaids for the Wizarding families, taking the place of house-elves. It was the perfect show of wealth amongst the families. The male Muggles were brought in as workers, sent to tend to the gardens. They became the manual labourers of the village, to the point where they were sent off into the mines to bring back diamonds and minerals for their respective Pureblood families-"

"But Professor?"

All eyes darted towards the owner of the voice that had just interrupted the lesson. Dean Thomas stared at the professor almost desperately. It was as if he were pleading with him, begging him to say this was all some made up story.

"Why?" he started. "Why would they do all of that when they had magic right at their fingertips to do everything? Why force people; innocent people into subjugation?" A snicker or two could be heard from the back of the classroom, most probably some of the Slytherins. Draco didn't bother looking.

"Because it wasn't about innocence." Granger answered, her voice hard. The classroom fell silent again. "It was about ridding them of their independence. If you clip a bird's wings continuously, soon enough, they'll forget they were ever meant to fly."

"And what exactly would you know about flying, Granger?" the low voice of Blaise Zabini drawled.

"All right, that's enough. Silence in the classroom!" Professor Binns uttered, floating higher up so that he could view the entire class. If he saw the heated glares pass between Granger and Zabini, he didn't mention it. "Let's continue with the lesson. No more interruptions." Dean's question remained unanswered.

The next few minutes had elicited a strained atmosphere from the class, no one daring to speak as Professor Binns explained the various ways in which Muggles were used as slaves to the rich and enlightened pureblood society. Some well-off half-blood witches and wizards ended up moving into the small village, however, their treatment of the Muggles was by far the best treatment they had ever received. They were almost treated normally, apart from being considered 'the help'.

"The mishandeling of these muggles was never brought to the Ministry's attention, mainly due to the fact that the Village Council had all been former Ministry Officials. And respected ones at that. Add to the fact that most of the Ministry at the time were all purebloods and the matter is explained quite literally in all aspects. Which brings us to the case of the Mesrs McIntyre and Buchanan."

Professor Binns turned to face the two portraits once more.

"In 1904, the city council had devolved from its former eugenic bias and had become a rather well formed system complete with a relatively equal number of half-blood and pureblood wizards. This plays a part in the fates of these two gentlemen.

"The half-blood folk desired a sense of justice for some of the wrong doings between witches and wizards and thus created a court system in which the defendant was to be judged by a jury of selected magic folk.

"Mesrs McIntyre and Buchanan were arrested by the county sheriff, also a wizard I might add, for the assault and murder of a young girl and appeared before the court in March of 1904."

The portrait of a little girl appeared between the two men. She seemed to be no older than eight years old, a giddy smile on her face and a twinkle of something in her eye. Innocence.

"But that's only one person," a Gryffindor student, whose name Draco did not know, spoke up. "The title said it was a massacre."

"And it was," Professor Binns replied, staring out into nothingness, not appearing to see anything that was in front of him. "There wasn't enough evidence to prove that McIntyre and Buchanan had committed the murder, and so, they were destined to be freed of all charges. This of course, unsettled the girl's parents.

"The thing you need to remember, students, was that the muggles of Dunwich far outnumbered the pureblood population, which was why they were cordoned off to a secure part of the village. But I have learned over my many years that men alone are quite capable of every wickedness. When the two men arrived in the courthouse that fateful morning, restrained and guarded, the little girl's father had walked in with two other muggles, each armed with a firearm of sorts, and opened fire on the pair."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut at the graphic details that followed, his jaw clenched. Professor Binns explained that the Muggles had all banded together, firing from this strange contraption called a rifle and murdering many pureblood witches and wizards, before they themselves were swiftly executed. The population of the village decreased from well over 200 occupants to little more than 80 villagers in total. Neither side had won that day, but both had lost tremendously.

Draco hated the story. It was the tale his parents had told him in order to justify their mistrust of the Muggle world. They had warned him that you could never trust a Muggle. Wizards were born lucky. Muggles were merely lucky to be born. It surprised Draco how easily those little phrases came back to him.

He opened his eyes again, his gaze landing on his piece of parchment again. Only this time, it was no longer blank. Across the middle where his hand had been resting, was one word scrawled frantically.

Mudblood.

Draco looked up and found that most of his Slytherin classmates shared a similar look to his own. It was a mixture of anger and resentment. The one thing that caught his attention however, was how all of their gazes seemed focused on Dean Thomas.

The tension in the room was palpable. Draco's fist was clenching and unclenching sporadically, a tick he had adopted recently. It helped relieve some of the pressure that built up in his body, at least he liked to believe it did. He couldn't remember where or why he had committed to the gesture, but he knew it brought about a steadiness within him. And that wasn't something he would scoff at.

Draco's was brought out of his reverie when the gentle chime of the bell interrupted Professor Binns' lecture on how purebloods and muggleborns were in no way meant to be seen as opposing sides, but rather a united front. He stopped short and stared around him, quite bewildered for a moment, before addressing the class again.

"It appears we have run out of time for the rest of this lesson. We'll continue with this chapter after your term test. Rest assured that we will be focussing on these coming chapters next term. In the meantime, please revise the last chapter's work for next week and be sure to finish your homework on the -"

The ghostly professor's voice echoed through the classroom as the various students began to file out. Draco's gaze fell on Dean Thomas, who was looking down at his desk, avoiding eye contact with almost everyone. Draco had risen from his seat as well, waiting for Professor Binns to give him his so-called 'score' on today's lesson. Being a ghost, Professor Binns wasn't exactly capable of physically signing his Amendment Journal. He did, however, still have to give him a pass mark on the class, which Headmistress McGonagall always seemed aware of, even before Draco had the opportunity to relay the information. Draco surmised that she most likely had frequent meetings with the professor to ascertain whether Draco was being a 'good little boy'.

"Can you believe this?" Draco heard someone mutter behind him. "These mudbloods think they're so damned entitled." He wasn't sure whose voice it was that he had just heard, but he knew it must have been a Slytherin. The Gryffindors wouldn't dare use such a crass word in reference to one of their own. They must have spoken louder than Draco had previously thought, because the next thing he knew, Granger had spun around at her desk, her eyes scanning the back of the classroom.

How had she heard that?

Her eyes scanned the back of the classroom for a moment or two, before landing on his own. There was a flash of something there; scrutiny perhaps? And then she turned away hastily, almost exasperatedly and exited the classroom. There was a snicker behind him as the two Slytherins made to leave, however, their attention had never been on Granger. As they passed him, Draco saw their taunting sneers that were cast toward Dean Thomas and he was eerily reminded of himself a few years ago. Times certainly had changed, but it seemed the dark haired Gryffindor mudblood was in for one hell of a year.

3

"Everything is unsure when you've lost your sight."

---

When faced with failure, there are those who would seek to learn from it, those who attempt to improve on it and those who pave their way to ruin upon its foundations. And pride is an eager labourer.

The thing about pride is that, much like a disease, it festers and clings to the soul, unyielding in most every way and would sooner see its host die than give way to humility. And out of the spirit of pride is borne the spirit of arrogance. And from arrogance is born an unjustifiable hate, which will turn upon itself sooner or later. Pride is self-destructive, and conquering that demon will be one of the most difficult battles of your life.

It was a lesson hard learned and certainly showed signs thereof once it had been learned. Which is probably why the aged professor that was Horace Slughorn appeared decades older than he actually was.

It had been two weeks since Draco's last meeting with Professor Slughorn, and three days since his midterm exam for Muggle Studies. Draco was scheduled to meet with Slughorn at the end of each month, which meant this meeting concerned one of two things: either something exceptionally dreadful had happened during his father's trial, or something equally dreadful was about to happen to him.

Draco sat at the large mahogany desk, his hands on his thighs, his back rigid as he awaited professor Slughorn's arrival. When he had arrived at his office that evening, Slughorn was busy consulting with another professor and asked Draco to wait inside for him, saying that he would be with him in a moment. It felt as if a rock had settled into his stomach upon hearing the statement.

Slughorn was always prepared for Draco's arrival, meaning this meeting was more of a spur of the moment thing than Draco had originally thought. Draco's hand curled in on itself as his nervous tick set in. His throat suddenly felt unbearably tight as his forehead creased along with the furrow of his brow. What was taking the blasted old man so long?

A few more minutes passed by before Slughorn entered his office, shutting the door behind him as he walked over to his desk with a few pages in his hand. A weary sigh escaped him as he sat down across from Draco, fixing him with a saddened gaze.

"Draco, my boy," he started, setting Draco's teeth on edge. He hated it when Slughorn addressed him as such. His own father never had, what gave him the right to do so now? It maddened him how such a caring sentiment could be directed towards him when bad news was sure to follow. But if he were being completely honest with himself, it scared him more. When all you've known in life is callousness and indifference, you'll find yourself becoming afraid to leave it. It provides comfort in its familiarity, and as such, promotes itself vociferously.

But Draco would not admit this to himself. Not yet.

He stared at Slughorn's saddened expression. Was that a hint of disappointment? Or was it desperation? Draco surmised it might have been a bit of both. And that, in and of itself, was what frustrated him the most. Draco was cornered, and to a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Only this nail had the capacity to break him.

"You received my test scores, then?" Draco asked, his face contorted in a sneer of sorts. His tone held that sharp edge to it, a warning of sorts. When a snake feels threatened, it is in its nature to bite.

"I have," Slughorn intoned, holding Draco's gaze for a moment longer before dropping it to the pages in front of him. Professor Slughorn might have been a pushover in his former years at Hogwarts, but after the final battle, after seeing what his once prized student had turned into, his resolve had been strengthened. It was one thing to hear of all the Dark Lord's deeds, it was another to see it for himself.

There was nothing left of the boy he once knew. Cold, dead eyes stared from the place in which Slughorn had always seen a glimmer of life. They were the same, but somehow kept alive with something else entirely. Eyes that were both dead and alive. And he hated how they could be both.

Horace Slughorn made a vow that day and he would be damned if he saw another boy descend into the nothingness of tragedy. He would not stand down this time, even if it killed him.

"Well, then?" Draco goaded, his shoulders tense and his jaw locked in place. "Where's my expulsion letter? Or would you rather hand me over to Azkaban yourself?" Draco knew he was only making the situation worse by acting out, but it was the only thing he knew to do. It is in a snake's nature to bite.

"Is that really what you think of us?" Slughorn asked, incredulous. "My boy, we only have your best interests at heart. We want you to succeed as much as any other student."

A scoff escaped Draco's lips before he could stop it.

"Any other student, you say?" he retorted, a scathing tone to his voice. "And what do you think makes me anything like them, Professor?"

"You are more like them than you think, my boy," he replied, his tone quiet. "If you only-"

"Only what?" Draco exclaimed, his eyes ablaze, like lightning behind the darkened clouds. "I'm not like them; I made my choices, and while they weren't as good as anyone would like to believe, they were mine!"

"You believe the others to have made good choices?" Slughorn asked cautiously.

"Of course they did," Draco bit out. "They made all the right choices. I'm just one the ones paying for them." Draco's words were laced with venom, bitterness and a lot of anger. It seemed unreasonable, as his words so often did, to expect pity for not making the same choices as his peers, but a snake was born to bite. And bite he would.

Draco chanced a glance at his professor, who stared at him openly, almost sympathetically. Pityingly. Draco's face contorted into a sneer at the thought. No one pities him.

"Draco, my boy," Slughorn answered quietly, understanding in his voice. "Their choices certainly have defined who they are, as most of our choices do. But they didn't make good choices." His words were tender, quiet in the empty room and held the weight of the world within them. "They had good choices."

Draco felt his throat tighten ever so slightly, his mental walls trembling. He fought to keep them standing, and for once, he was grateful Slughorn hadn't tried to break through them. Draco swallowed thickly as he averted his gaze from his professor, not trusting himself to speak at that exact moment.

"No one blames you, my boy. Least of all the professors," the old man stared deeply at Draco. "In hard times, we do the best that we know how, with what we have been given. And you weren't given a whole lot to work with."

The words that were meant to provide comfort only reminded Draco of all the reasons he felt he didn't deserve it. The thing was, Draco had learnt over the years to associate comfort with pity. And with pity, more often than not, pain followed. The thing about pain was this: when it's all you've known, you start losing sight of what is true.

What was the truth about all of this anyway? Why were they trying so hard to redeem the son of a Death Eater who had taken up the mantle so easily? Questions swarmed in his mind, questions Draco wasn't sure would ever get answers. But in that moment, Draco desperately wanted to veer away from this topic of conversation. And so, he asked the question he knew would get the old wizard in front of him back on track.

"Why exactly am I here, Professor?" he asked sullenly. That seemed to jog Horace's memory, as his face returned to its former serious visage. He straightened up slightly and Draco knew the compassionate mood was over. The elderly wizard clasped his hands together on the desk and fixed Draco with a placid gaze.

"The test scores for your midterm exam were sent to me early this morning, and I trust you don't need me to tell you that they weren't good," he intoned, causing Draco to shut his eyes briefly in frustration. Not at the professor of course, but at himself. "Draco, you failed the midterm exam and not by a small margin either."

And Slughorn was not exaggerating. Dreadful was scrawled across the top of his paper where his scores were supposed to be written. It was even worse than his previous test. His grade for Muggle Studies was slipping faster than his resolve. It didn't matter that his grades were "Exceeds Expectations" in every other subject, it mattered that the reformed Death Eater wasn't passing the one subject that was agreed upon in his Amnesty hearing.

"Draco, I am going to ask you something, and as hard as it is, I'm going to need you to answer honestly," Horace ventured, his tone quiet. He waited a moment for Draco to meet his gaze, accepting that as his que, and continued. "Are you actively trying to fail this class?"

"Why would I do that?" Draco bit out, anger evident in his eyes.

"There are a great many reasons to do a great many things, my boy," he responded. "But that's not an answer, and you know it." Draco was quiet for a moment, holding the man's gaze in a stare down until finally, his last nerve gave in and he turned away.

"No," he muttered, so quietly he wasn't sure Slughorn had heard him. But he did.

"Alright then, we can work with that," he answered, and for the first time since he had walked into his office, that jolly little smile appeared on his face again.

4

"All I have is one last chance"

---

Draco stared out of the large circular window of the Clock Tower, mulling over the information that now occupied his mind. The secluded landing behind the ornate copper mechanism provided the perfect place for one to while away, in turn hiding from the world as well. It was quiet, something Draco was quite fond of as of late. It allowed him time to think.

Professor Slughorn had made one thing very clear. If Draco failed his Muggle Studies class this year, his amnesty would be revoked and he would stand trial once again, this time without such a happy outcome. He had also given Draco an ultimatum, one with which Draco was having a bit of difficulty. He had explained the situation quite thoroughly.

Each term had a set of tests, assignments, and two exams, of which there were three terms in total. The exams certainly counted more towards the final mark than the tests and assignments, but those two aspects could make or break the grand total. The manner in which Slughorn had explained it was that the exam made up 40%, the tests made up 35% and the assignments made up 25% of the total mark.

Draco had already failed two tests and his midterm exam. He still had to hand in his assignment, but that was proving to be another headache. The assignment in question was due in one week and was far more daunting than any test.

The assignment this term was an essay with the topic phrased as a statement.

The nature of Muggles

A 500 word essay on the topic of muggles and what you think of them based on what you have learned this term.

Draco remembered being handed the assignment during the first week of term, how the professor explained that it would give them more incentive to pay attention in class. But all Draco could think of was how unfair the assignment truly had been. It was as if it were set up as a trap for the blood-purists, created to make them fail. Draco hadn't intended on putting in the least bit of effort in it, however, after his second failed test came back, he started having second thoughts.

It was in a letter from his mother that she advised him to look into the book written by Eugenie Briarwood, and after much research that he realised how few of them were still in print. She had only ever written that one book. His mother had informed him that while Eugenie Briarwood was indeed a pureblood witch, it was frowned upon by all pureblood families to be in possession of the text due to the nature of their contents. It was the only reason she hadn't sent him a copy of the book from the library at the manor. No pureblood family had ever given into adding the abomination of a book to their collection, least of all the Malfoy family.

That was when Draco started doing research of his own, searching for any possible booktrader that might know where he could find it. Because his mother was right. Her book would indeed be able to help him, from the bits and pieces he picked up about the witch in question.

Eugenie Briarwood was a pureblooded witch that lived during the 1800's and was born into an aristocratic family with strict virtues that rivaled his own. She had a certain curiosity for Muggles and Muggleborns and so, after her studies, she visited a small town in Suffolk, a town that was almost entirely Muggle-populated at the time and proceeded to study them.

The book she wrote was a detailed field guide of what she had discovered, but due to her heritage and the time-period it was written in, the book had been discontinued. There were only a few copies left in the Wizarding World, and due to its controversy, not many people would admit to having been in possession of it.

But Draco was desperate enough to go asking around for it, and after zero success for almost three weeks, he had discovered that one of the last copies had been donated to Hogwarts in the early 1930's where it has remained ever since. It gave him a bit of hope, which was why he went to the library that day. It had certainly hurt his pride in doing so, but he did. And was sorely disappointed when Madam Pince informed him that the book had already been withdrawn.

He still remembered how she had called after him that day, informing him that he should seek aid from a tutor. A tutor of all things! Draco's pride would not allow him such luxuries. Which is why Slughorn's ultimatum had Draco reeling. His words echoed in his mind:

"I'm giving you the opportunity to finish your assignment however you want to, with whatever means you think you can find. If you still believe you have what it takes to make one last effort, then I encourage you to give it everything you have. But if you fail… you will be assigned a tutor of my choice."

Draco swallowed thickly at the implication. The last thing he wanted was a tutor, and knowing Slughorn, he was most likely going to choose the most insufferable tutor. Granger's name on the tutor list flashed in his mind. He racked his brain for the other names that had been below hers, but could only remember how quickly he had tried to forget the memory that seemed to bubble up from beneath him.

He shook his head free from his rapid thoughts and focused on the task at hand. He needed to get his hands on that book, and more importantly, he needed to find out who had it. It wouldn't have been a Slytherin, of that he was sure, and it was definitely not a pureblood either. Draco leaned against the window of the clocktower for a few more moments, mulling over who could have it as he watched the Whomping Willow sway in the wind.

5

"Take a long look around before you step. 'Cause the tide is coming."

---

Draco was furious. Why was he furious? There were a number of reasons for his anger lately, but this day in particular, his anger was directed at a certain little bookworm who went by the name of Hermione Granger. One would think that his anger was unjustified, given that she hadn't truly done anything to him, but that wasn't how Draco had seen it.

The reason for his anger was quite simple really. After nearly three weeks of searching for one of the only remaining copies of The Wizard's Field Guide, and only five days left before he had to hand in his assignment, he finally found the owner of the blasted book. It was during Defense Against the Dark Arts, where for one brief moment, his gaze landed on the mudblood and her stack of books, only to glimpse the name Briarwood on the spine of one of the texts before she shifted it out of sight.

It had Draco fuming, so much so that he couldn't concentrate on the lesson at hand, continuously glaring at Granger and her little stack of damaged books. Damaged? Yes, that's right. Draco saw them only for a moment, however they appeared to be in need of repair as indicated by the singed edges and bent spines. That didn't matter however. Draco was only interested in the contents. And with only three days left to finish his essay, he was becoming desperate.

Draco watched her carefully during the classes that they shared, waiting for an opportunity to arise. He most certainly wasn't going to approach her when she was surrounded by her friends, especially not the Weasel's sister. Which brought about another point that was rather noteworthy. Potter and the Weasel hadn't returned this year.

Draco had heard the rumours that the two of them had been offered full time careers at the Ministry, most probably in the Auror division. Not that he believed the Weasel was fit to be an Auror, but that wasn't his concern. They were living the life of honour and glory, while their female counterpart was lurking in the halls of their alma mater. Draco wasn't surprised that she had returned, in fact, he would have been more surprised if she didn't return at all. The swot would never give up a year of studies, even if it killed her.

Muggle Studies was the last class of the day, and while Draco loathed it with every fiber in his being, he was slightly relieved. It meant he wouldn't have to go scour the castle in search of Granger as it was one of the few classes they had together. His gaze would fall on her small frame every now and again, between the pauses in the professor's lecture when everyone's attention was on the projected images in front of them, making sure she was still there.

Was he really going to approach her? It wasn't like he had much of a choice - but the thought of avoiding her was very appealing. If only she would hand in that blasted book, then he wouldn't have to speak to her at all and this entire ordeal would be a thing of the past.

Draco grunted in frustration as the tip of his quill broke. He hadn't realised how much pressure he was placing on it as the thoughts had swirled about in his mind. He cast another furtive glance at Granger, who studiously wrote down all of the things the professor was saying. He felt a derogatory sneer start to form on his features. What in Merlin's name does she have to write down, she bloody knows this! He would never admit that what he was actually feeling at the time was frustration.

Before long, the bell chimed, signaling the end of their class. It elicited a relieved sigh from quite a few pureblooded witches and wizards, who hurriedly packed up and left, ignoring the professor's exclaims to remember their homework that was due the next day. Draco fixed his eyes on Granger once more as he walked up to professor Sallow's desk to retrieve his Amendment Journal.

"I had a feeling you weren't all there today, Mr Malfoy," she said quietly, scribbling away in his book. "Nevertheless, I'm giving you a pass on today's lesson. Merlin knows you'll need it."

Draco scowled down at the book she had just handed back to him. The contempt he could feel coming from this witch was setting his teeth on edge. He fixed her with a slight glare before he turned on his heel and searched for Granger, only to find her nowhere in sight. She had probably slipped out of the classroom while he was speaking with the professor. He sighed inwardly as he made his way out of the classroom, his eyes searching for the familiar curls he had always made fun of in his formative years.

Without looking conspicuous, he walked along the corridor pretending to know exactly where he was heading. He thought it over in his head, listing the number of places he had seen her over the past week, and the various places he knew she would go. It didn't matter where it was that she had chosen to hide out, he needed that book. That was when he saw it. His eyes suddenly fixed on the movement further down the corridor. A bunch of tamed curls stood out, a stack of books under one arm.

The library.

The tension seeped out of Draco's shoulders as he settled into a brisk pace toward his destination.

It wasn't long before he arrived at the studious, if not slightly disorganised, vault of books. The smell inside was rather strange, quite possibly due to the singed books that still awaited repair. He knew sooner or later he would be tasked to aid in that particular chore, but for now, that particular worry was placed on the backburner of his mind.

Draco could feel Madam Pince stare pointedly at him. Living with the Dark Lord and his followers made one blissfully aware when you were being watched. He brushed off her questioning look nonchalantly as he made his way through the library, scouring the various isles in his search for not a book, but rather a very intelligent little muggleborn.

He had begun to doubt his speculation that she had indeed come to the library, when his eyes finally landed on the figure sitting by the desk in the far back of the archives. He swallowed thickly and let out a huff through his nose, before he slowly approached the desk scattered with scrolls. This would be the first time they spoke after the war. He wondered how exactly she would react to his presence, but didn't allow it to deter him as he came to a stop in front of the table.

"Granger."

Draco watched as her eyes snapped up to meet him.

He was taken by surprise for a moment. They weren't the eyes of an overzealous school girl that had been caught reading in class, but rather eyes that were sharp and alert, expecting danger around every corner. Because perhaps at a time, there was. He knew there was. As there so often was in the Manor. Nowhere was safe. And some things are impossible to forget.

"Malfoy?"

Draco felt a sharp pain run down his spine as he recalled the thousand times he had heard her say that, and none quite seemed to measure up to the slightly startled and cautious greeting by means of his name. The moment his eyes connected with her brown hues, he felt himself being pulled back into the dark pit of memories he had been avoiding up until now. The screams seemed to echo in the hollow confines of his mind suddenly, followed by the throaty, maniacal cackle of his aunt. The bile rose up into his throat and he was forced to break eye contact, his gaze landing on the desk instead.

"Did you need something?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers he wasn't sure he could ever give. "If you're here to start anything-"

"I'm not," he bit out harshly, watching her flinch at his sudden animosity. He swore he saw her reach inside her robe.

"He said defensively," she replied, not taking her eyes off him. She studied him like he was a dangerous creature that would lash out any moment, and it set his teeth on edge. Draco bit back the sharp retort that was on the tip of his tongue, his head still ringing with the memories of that night that he was forcing down aggressively. His aunt's teachings about occlumency repeated themselves in his head; how one had to submerge the emotion you wanted to protect and replace it with a faux one, one that would be believable, one that was it's opposite.

Draco felt the initial tug of emotions slip away quietly to the reserves of his mind as a slightly more composed aura took over. He was finally able to glance back at Granger, fixing her with steel grey hues. Now was not the time to be a coward. There had been enough of that during the war.

"I'm not here to start an altercation, Granger," he breathed out, however the scowl didn't seem to leave his face.

"Experience has taught me otherwise," she quipped, her eyes narrowed.

"How quant," Draco replied, a sense of arrogance returning. "You are enraged when others make assumptions about your capabilities due to your heritage, and yet you still have the audacity to speak without giving it an ounce of thought. Contradiction is a slow and insidious ally, Granger. Try not to make a habit out of befriending it," he sneered.

"I speak from experience, Malfoy. You speak from prejudice. We are not the same," she declared, her eyes ablaze and swirling with emotions Draco could not comprehend. Draco thought for a moment that she would punch him again; but then she breathed out a small sigh. "Nevertheless, I suppose I should not have jumped to that immediate conclusion. I'm sorry."

Draco raised his brow slightly at her apology. This witch is barking mad.

"You're sorry? Merlin, Granger, you really are the definition of a bleeding heart," he muttered, now leaning his hip against the table.

"I don't see you complaining," she rebutted, fixing him with a pointed stare. Her hand had finally slipped out from beneath her robe and was now resting on the table. He knew she had reached for her wand. Draco surmised the action was because he had slightly relaxed his posture to earn him such a grace as no longer being viewed as a threat. His gaze then flitted back up to her expectant eyes, her last quip still ringing in his head.

Of course he wasn't going to complain. It was her bloody bleeding heart that convinced Potter and the Weasel to stand trial for him. He remembered seeing them that day at the Ministry before he entered the Atrium. The Weasel looked about ready to kill him. Potter was slightly indifferent to the matter and would most likely have testified, because much like his female counterpart, he also has a damn bleeding heart. And yet, Draco knew their testimony wouldn't have been enough if it hadn't been a united front. Three testimonies, one account and a sorry sod for a Death Eater who couldn't complete a simple task. He was surprised how quickly the memory stitched itself together from the fragments of the last one.

The clearing of a throat broke Draco out of his reverie. His angry eyes met Granger's again and he knew she had caught him spiraling down the staircases of his mind. He grit his teeth at being caught unaware.

"Let's get down to the real reason you're here, Malfoy. You and I have never been what one would call acquaintances, much less friends, so you wouldn't be here for any other reason than to inflict some form of emotional pain… or because you need something."

Draco felt his jaw lock as he fixed Hermione with a scrutinizing glare.

"After all these years, you still have to be a bloody know-it-all," he bit out. Hermione's eyes widened for a second or two, shocked by his retort, before her brown eyes flashed angrily at his own, her face contrite with thinly veiled rage.

Draco watched the emotions on her face with subtle curiosity if not a bit of anxiety as well. The deep furrow of her brows caught his attention and he was half anticipating a scathing remark. It was quite surprising that one never came. He was quite sure he deserved plenty of them at this point.

The thing that always seemed to complicate things however, was his pride. Draco knew what he deserved and didn't deserve at this point. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be an arsehole about the entire ordeal. It was easy now, with his occlumency shields up. It was his one saving grace during the war and the one thing he had his lovely aunt Bella to thank for.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Hermione ground out.

Now was the moment in which Draco had to stuff his prideful attitude away with everything else he found useless to him. He worked his jaw for a moment, before finding the words he wanted to say.

"You have a book in your possession, Briarwood being the author in question," he paused, holding her gaze intently. "I need it."

Granger's brows furrowed in confusion, her gaze analytical. Draco felt as if he were being examined like one of her Ancient Runes problems, which caused his stomach to twist ever so slightly.

"You need it?" she stated more than asked, her one brow quirking up slightly. "That's it then?" she inquired, retrieving the piece of parchment and giving it a cursory glance. "And I suppose you just want me to hand it over, no questions asked?"

"I thought that was fairly obvious from the start?" Draco offered, scowling at the incredulous expression that formed on her face.

"I'm sorry, it must've gotten lost in translation since I don't recall hearing 'please' or 'thank you'," she retorted, her eyes showing signs of disbelief at his perfectly reasonable request. Draco sneered at her snarky remark.

"You have absolutely no need for it!" he hissed. "What would someone like you want with a book like that in any case? It's of no benefit to you."

"And what exactly do you mean by 'someone like me', Malfoy?" she asked suddenly, her tone rigid and controlled. Draco bit back the sharp retort that was on the tip of his tongue, the one word that would ruin all of his chances. His jaw was clenched so tightly, he could feel his teeth straining under the pressure. Granger obviously saw this and probed him further.

"No answer for that question?" she asked, her eyes rooting him to the spot. There wasn't a malignant tone behind in her voice, but rather a daring intent. It was a test of sorts, Draco knew that much from those quizzical brown eyes. She was looking to see if their testimony had been worth something.

Draco's eyes shut momentarily as he took a steadying breath. He was losing ground, he needed to direct the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"No," he replied, finally looking her in the eyes again. He was quiet for a moment, his stormy grey eyes locked in a staring contest with her brown ones. "I'm not going to beg you," he stated.

"I'm not expecting you to," she responded in kind. "But I am expecting some form of human decency. I'm not a house-elf or servant you can just demand something from, Malfoy." Her face was filled with slight exasperation. At him of all people.

"I wasn't demanding it," Draco denied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You weren't asking for it either."

"Granger," Malfoy warned through clenched teeth. His patience, what little of it he had at this point, was at war with his need to lash out. A snake was born to bite.

"Malfoy," she retorted, a similar ferocity flickering across her features. Her brow was set in a deep, stern frown, like she was reprimanding a child. A child of all things! He was a grown bloody man. Then start acting like one, a voice whispered in his mind. His gaze hadn't broken from Granger's yet, a turret of emotions swirling within those brown pools of honey. They were intense, and warm. So unlike the last time he had seen her this close. The last time when…

A sudden scream ripped through his mind. Louder and more violent than before. And he was back at the Manor. Back to that night. And despite every ounce of his pride screaming at him not to, he looked away. His gaze landed on the wooden floors at his feet, his face contorted in a frown. He blinked a few times as he felt the walls in his mind start trembling again. In the end, he surmised, it would always be easier to be an arsehole.

"Tch," he scoffed, pushing off from the desk, leaving the muggleborn confused and slightly shocked.

As he sauntered away, he heard Granger's small intake of breath as he muttered lowly.

'Filthy Mudblood…'

6

"After all your tears have turned to rage."

---

It had been four days since his confrontation with Granger, and since then, his sleep schedule had been suffering even more than before. He wouldn't go as far as to say he was losing sleep over the mudblood, but speaking with her that day had certainly jogged some memories he would rather forget. Which in turn made it even harder to focus on the task at hand.

500 words on the nature of Muggles. The empty page stared back at him, taunting him with its blank canvas. He had rifled through his Muggle Studies textbook, pausing on certain chapters as he searched for something that would be able to aid him in this conquest, however, in the six chapters that had been covered this term, all he knew of the nature of Muggles was this: they were a barbaric species.

The first few chapters had been all about the first two World Wars as they had been dubbed, the third chapter focussing mainly on an event they referred to as the Holocaust. It cemented his belief on why they were inferior beings and why, as most pureblood families had been indoctrinated, they could not be trusted. Chapters four to six however, detailed many other incidents that had occurred within the mid 1900's, ranging from the bombing of a docking station somewhere near America, to the assasination of a man called John Kennedy, to the fall of what was dubbed the Berlin Wall. Draco found himself getting the latter confused quite often with something they referred to as the Iron Curtain, which apparently wasn't even a real structure to begin with.

He had slammed the book shut in frustration. One would have thought that Muggle Studies would center around the behavioral qualities and characteristics of these so-called creatures, and not a bloody history lesson on all the reasons they should be considered less than equal to the Wizarding World.

He was certainly capable of writing an essay on that front alone, but Draco wasn't naive enough to believe he was immune to detention by proxy of a school assignment. It was the main reason he had been after that book. And then, his anger flared up again.

Images of Granger filled his mind again, and his fist clenched involuntarily. It seemed she always seemed to be just one or two steps ahead of him. It frustrated him to no end, especially in their former years. He could hear his father's words of disapproval even now when he was locked in his cell in Azkaban at how he couldn't believe his son had been bested by a mudblood of all things. The words lingered above his head for such a long time, until he had started gaining his father's approval in other ways, ways that he knew Granger would never be able to best him in. But then there was Potter, and it all came crashing down.

He loathed the trio of misfits with every fiber of his being. They had never intentionally gone out of their way to make his life difficult, and that made him detest them even more. It seems illogical to hate someone for their mere existence, but when their existence alone is able to cause such strife in your life, you cannot be blamed for not taking kindly to them, right?

Draco had never delved too deeply into that topic. The fact of the matter was this: he didn't like them, and they didn't like him. There didn't need to be any other explanation. Which is why the day of his trial brought about these conflicting emotions. Why had they testified on his behalf? A question for another day, he surmised.

It didn't matter why they did the things they did, it didn't change who they were, or more importantly, who he was. He was Draco Lucius Malfoy, and he was about to fail this bloody assignment if he didn't find something worth writing about!

He grasped his quil firmly and began writing the opening passage, hoping some form of inspiration would hit him as he did so.

"Human nature comprises of the infantile necessity for unity and the primal urge to display dominance. There is no victory within strength, but within strength there is survival. Survival is integrated into a wizard's being as much as an Occomy requires a Demiguise's protection. The following essay-"

A frustrated growl escaped Draco as he grumbled up the offending page and shoved it across to the ever growing pile of rejected parchment. Draco leaned back into the chair and rubbed a hand down his face, leaving it in place over his eyes, shielding him from the little monument of his failures.

This was his sixth attempt at starting the essay in the hour or so that he had been sitting at the desk in the far back of the Library, and each time he ended up crumpling the page into a ball due to one small detail. Every single opening included a bloody wizard and not a muggle. It was an essay on the nature of Muggles and he couldn't even write an opening paragraph on them!

His thoughts wandered back to the Wizard's Field Guide, his brows setting into a deep frown under the palm that rested over his face, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. He hadn't caught sight of Granger alone after that day, but then again, he wasn't really looking for her either. He did however feel her gaze on him during odd little moments in the classes they shared. She was probably glaring daggers at him for calling her a mudblood again, after everything they did. And yet, whenever he would glance in her direction, a scowl in place, she wouldn't even be facing his direction.

If anything, he was sure she was trying to go out of her way to make him fail this bloody class. Over the past three days, he had exhausted every option and owled every retailer he knew in regards to information on a second copy or even a manuscript of the book in question, all of which came back with not so much as an inkling of good news.

Madam Pince had ordered him out of her Library two days ago due to his small fit of rage and subsequent damage to the bookcase he was perusing. Draco had spent more time in the Library these four days than he had throughout his years at Hogwarts, which in and of itself was quite strange for the elderly librarian. Draco's mutters and grunts of frustration fell upon her ears more times than she could recall. She found herself feeling quite sorry for the boy, however, her compassion quickly diminished when the loud commotion caught her attention.

Draco had received an owl from an old family friend, advising him to look at the Wizard's Penmanship Directory to see when the last copy was published. It would have seemed like an inkling of hope had been dangled before him, yet, when he pulled the book from the rickety shelf in the Library, the dusty pages crackling in his grip, his hope was torn away upon viewing the few small printed words:

Eugenie Briarwood - Out of Print

Date of last publication: 21st September 1924

What followed was less an outburst of rage and more of helpless desperation as Draco threw the book across the aisle with such force, the lopsided bookcase at the end toppled over and spewed all of the books on its shelves onto the floor at his feet.

Madam Pince had been there in an instant, obscenities erupting from her thin lipped scowl as she valiantly explained that it was a Library and not a circus for rif rafs. She had barely finished her myriad of disapproving gestures, when Draco had simply grabbed his book bag and walked out without another word.

The old librarian remembered the look of defeat on the boy's face that day. And it haunted her dreams that evening. For it reminded her of a very old, but very real promise that all librarians make. A teacher is there to guide, a librarian is there to nourish. And while she might not have been able to give the Malfoy heir what he had asked for, she was capable of giving him what he needed. The next day, Madam Pince had set out to do just that. And in so doing, had acquired something that might just help the boy.

Two days was a long wait for a miracle when you were facing a monstrous task, and in Draco's case, he wasn't so sure that miracle would arrive. After his outburst a few days ago, he was surprised Madam Pince had even allowed him to enter the library the next day. But she did. He hadn't spoken to her at all since then, which is probably why he was caught so off guard today.

Draco was so engrossed in his ever growing well of self-pity that he didn't realise the soft clicking of heels were heading his way until they had stopped right in front of his desk. He didn't meet the gaze of the person immediately, which was why he was quite surprised when a manilla folder was pushed under his nose.

He fixed the offending object with a scrutinizing look before meeting the eyes of the short-tempered Librarian, a question hidden in his silver-grey hues.

"Those are memoirs of a student that had faced a similar predicament as yourself. Considering which book you were after, I find these notes to be most appropriate. I only ask that you ensure it finds its way back to the Library by year's end, or in the event of expulsion," she said stiffly, the last quip joined with a disdainful look his way. Draco knew how to read between the lines. And those lines were clearly telling him; don't make me regret this.

With that being said, the Librarian turned on her heel and left him in his little corner of the Library. It took only a few moments for her shrill voice to permeate the air once again, berating a student for the condition he had returned his book in. And while Draco didn't mean to take pleasure out of the boy's misfortune, he couldn't deny the very Slytherin thought that crossed his mind:

Thank Merlin it's not me this time.

7

"The lament of a stranger…"

---

"In a world where there are countless souls begging for unity, there are thousands more striving for segregation. And perhaps that is the true downfall of man. We exalt ourselves for making the best possible decisions, but never take the time to discern if what's best is what is right.

In the end, I suppose what defines humans, muggles and magic folk alike, is the sheer duality that exists within every living thing. We refuse to believe in the capability of love, knowing full well of the pain and sorrow that makes such an emotion necessary. Men of peace create engines of war, under the mere pretense of protecting said peace.

The truth of the matter is, there isn't always good or bad in the world. We all want to believe that all the world's evils are because of a single person, but one man isn't powerful enough to do all of that. In the war, there was a clear distinction between good and evil, in what they chose to believe. But our beliefs aren't what make us better people. It is our actions that define us.

Because in the end, there isn't always a good person. Nor will there always be a bad person. Most of us are somewhere in between. How else would you explain a tyrant capable of murder still being capable of love for his son. A coward being able to surrender himself for the life of his friend instead of running away. A man who lives on belief, but sacrifices it at the first test of his faith. A boy who wishes for pain to end, even if it means losing those dear to him.

Pain does not distinguish between muggles and wizards, and perhaps the duality of it all is why we are so prone to hating that which we do not understand. Our hearts will tell us painful truths while our minds construct brilliant lies that mask these truths from our eyes.

Pain is the one thing that unites us. The one thing that makes us so very similar to those we would otherwise view as our enemies. We all feel pain. And we all want it to end.

If that can be the reason we call for a ceasefire, then the pain and sorrow endured would be worth the risk of losing ourselves."

Draco clutched the piece of parchment in his hand as his eyes traveled over the words on the page once more. After Madam Pince had left the folder with him, he had perused the various pages, skimming over them briefly for information that would be useful. There were numerous pieces of parchment scattered throughout the folder, so much so that when the bell chimed signaling the start of the next period, he had to take a few moments to gather them all up. This page in question was one of the last ones he had returned to the folder. He had been about to add it to the thick stack of pages when his eyes fell on the opening sentence of the page in question. Students shuffled out of the Library in tandem, while he remained standing by his desk, seemingly captivated by the writings presented to him.

It was the abrupt clearing of the throat from Madam Pince that finally tore Draco's attention away. She gave him a stern once over, which Draco dutifully returned before closing the file and pocketing the parchment in his hand.

Now, sitting on his bed with the curtains drawn and a few blank pieces of parchment in front of him, Draco pinned the note next to him as he began writing his essay.

Draco would never admit that the words on those pages spoke to him on more levels than a desperate man seeking answers. Certain words repeated themselves over in his head, as his quil darted across the page.

'A boy who wishes for pain to end, even if it means losing those dear to him.'

And while he found himself believing most of what was said on the page, his heart wouldn't let him believe the last part. If pain is what unites people… then why did he feel so alone? He wished he could ask this stranger that exact question. Whoever it was certainly had experienced the dark side of the war. Which meant this memoir he was using was added quite recently.

Could it be that there was another student at Hogwarts, who like him, had not yet been able to put the past behind them? The thought would plague him in his sleep that night, long after he had completed his essay and tucked it into his textbook.

The essay in and of itself was nothing to write home about, but the memoir had provided a fresh perspective. He had wondered how he would be able to write something about the Muggle Wars without including their barbaric nature, but this stranger's lament had shown him a different route. Rather than explaining away their nature as primitive, he had written about it from the perspective of someone who had been part of the war unwillingly.

'There isn't always a good person. Nor will there always be a bad person. Most of us are somewhere in between.'

His essay had centered around the focal point of choice. How sometimes it wasn't possible to regret a decision, because in the end, there really wasn't a decision to make. When what you care about is at stake, you will do anything to preserve it. Even if it means going to war. Slughorn's words had found him at that moment, as he scribbled away furiously.

"They didn't make good choices. They had good choices."

And while Draco knew in his heart he didn't believe any of these things changed how he viewed Muggles, it had indeed planted a seed of doubt in what he had been taught. And much like a snake is born to bite, a seed is planted to grow.

8

"As he begins to raise his voice, you lower yours and grant him one last choice."

---

Draco sat in Slughorn's office that evening, his expression unreadable as the foggy lens shrouded his eyes. Three weeks had come and gone by in a flurry of tests and examinations for all subjects and now was the time for the final verdict.

Slughorn had called him in after receiving his report card for the term, and asked for his Amendment Journal to be delivered to his office that morning. Draco had done exactly that, however a sense of trepidation had come over him. Everyone else had received their reports with the Owl Post at breakfast, but when Draco hadn't received his, he knew something was wrong. One look at the teacher's table had confirmed his suspicions.

"They're probably just keeping it aside to go over it with you later?" Pansy had suggested. "Maybe they want to offer you that Potions Apprenticeship you've been looking into? You've been after it since sixth year-"

Her words however were drowned out as a knowing look appeared across Slughorn's face. And with that one look, Draco's Occlumency shields went up stronger than before.

He was sitting in the same chair he had before, facing the desk that encircled his professor. Draco's gaze never wavered. His yellow Amendment Journal was placed in front of Slughorn and a folded envelope sat atop its hard cover. It had already been opened.

"Draco, my boy," Slughorn began, his voice calm and steady. "You don't need me to tell you that you have done brilliantly in your subjects, specifically potions. With your scores, I have no doubt you could become quite a masterful Alchemist, should you choose to pursue such a career of course," he added at the end, always giving him a choice. Choice. He felt the bile rise up in his throat at the word. Slughorn must have seen the scowl form on his face, as he quickly diverted his attention to the envelope on his desk.

"Professor Sallow tells me she was quite intrigued by your assignment for Muggle Studies," he ventured, turning the envelope between his hands. "So much so that she had marked it as Acceptable. However, as a Head of House, I am privy to moderating certain tests within a reasonable range of my abilities. It just so happens that Muggle Studies is one of the subjects I am allowed to moderate." Slughorn sounded almost proud of himself as he said the last part.

"Which is why my request to moderate your assignment was met and upon a thorough evaluation and consultation with Professor Sallow, we have agreed to adjust your score accordingly." Slughorn pulled out Draco's essay from so many weeks ago and slid it across the table. It was the one time where Draco's eyes left his professor to gaze down at the piece of parchment. The word 'Acceptable' had a strikethrough and below was written in bold red letters: Exceeds Expectations.

"It is a remarkable improvement on your final mark, as I'm sure you know that assignments carry a larger weight in the year mark than the term's score," Slughorn's voice echoed. And yet, Draco simply stared down at the offending page, his scowl forming into a sneer.

"But?" he bit out, meeting his professor's steady gaze. Slughorn's once placid look seemed to dissolve into one of sad intent. Draco knew what was coming.

"However, I wasn't able to do the same with your other tests this term," he answered solemnly. "Your accumulated test scores… didn't meet the required standard for passing the subject this term. And while it is only one class, it is the one required subject to pass for your Amnesty."

There was a heavy pause in the darkened classroom as Draco anticipated Slughorn's next words.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, my boy?"

Of course he understood. It was impossible not to. But that wasn't the problem. Draco was starting to feel things again, things that echoed in the hollows of his mind, things that reminded him of what he had buried. And when the dead come creeping out, you do everything you can to stop their escape.

The walls in his mind turned to steel, cages of wrought iron slamming shut on what he had hoped would keep him safe. Compassion, hope, pain, agony, they were all submerged within this prison of his mind. And in its stead was a warden of anger and spite.

"How could I not?" Draco started bitterly. "When you dance around the entire subject on your way to the bloody point." He was seething at this point, the steely glint in his eye flickering dangerously.

"You know I am just trying to make this easier for you," Slughorn answered, his gaze very wary of Draco at that moment. "I've seen the things you write in here," he said, tapping the yellow book on the table. "And you have indeed come a long way. Do you remember when you started with this journal? You couldn't even put down one honest thought!" Slughorn let out a small laugh. "I see you, my boy, and I see how you've been trying. And while I don't entirely agree with some of the things you've written, I am pleased that you are showing a bit more honesty toward yourself."

"Because honesty is going to get me everywhere, is it?" Draco retorted. "What good is honesty if I do my best to set things right and it still doesn't work?!"

"These sorts of things don't come easy. Experience is one of the most brutal of teachers. But you learn, Merlin, do you learn," Slughorn eyed Draco curiously for a moment before a look of contemplation settled over his features. "I have seen the effort you have made to do just that; to learn. But effort isn't always enough. And sometimes… we all need a little help."

Draco wasn't liking where this conversation was heading.

"What do you mean 'help'?" he bit out.

"I mean, that we had an agreement," Slughorn's voice settled over the room. "I said I would give you one more chance to try and do this your way, a chance for you to do your utmost best. But if that didn't work, certain measures would need to be taken to ensure that you pass this year."

Draco's jaw locked in place. He remembered Slughorn's words quite clearly in his mind.

"But if you fail… you will be assigned a tutor of my choice."

A tutor. The idea itself made Draco scoff. In all his years, he had never needed a tutor. Even when he was a young boy. His mother had taught him all there was to learn about being a pureblood and proper etiquette, while his father had ingrained in him the fear of Merlin himself if he were to get something wrong. It was never about what he stood to gain, but rather that he couldn't afford to lose.

And this… felt an awful lot like losing.

Slughorn stared at the boy in front of him with a careful expression as a rather derisive sneer appeared on Draco's features. But he remained silent. These three months working with Draco had taught him one thing: he wasn't Tom. Draco wouldn't butter him up with sweet words and comforting lies to get his way. He wasn't that kind of snake. Tom would persuade with false promises and admiration; whereas Draco was fueled by anger and arrogance, and more importantly… fear.

Fear could make you do terrible things. The man Horace had become during the war was most certainly not one to be proud of. And for one brief moment all those months ago and despite Draco's best efforts to keep Slughorn out of his mind, it was the one thing that slipped through his walls. And Slughorn knew the Dark Lord had seen it too. It was the fear of a young boy that was forced to grow up far too quickly.

Horace knew the fear. And he also knew the loss that accompanied it. This was more than just helping a lost student. This was Horace's attempt at redemption. A chance to right the wrongs. A chance to save a life. And if he had to face the brunt of the boy's anger, then so be it.

"Draco, I've been giving you a lot of leeway, but you have to trust that what I am choosing for you now is the best-"

"I have to trust you?" Draco's voice cut through the words of comfort Slughorn had attempted to string together. His eyes were steely and his jaw was set. "What about me makes you think I would do that, Professor?"

"Because deep down, I know you understand that despite everything you've been taught to believe and more importantly, want to believe, you know that you need help." Horace's words were quiet and gentle, but it felt as if an earthquake was forming in his mind. The prodding in his mind was subtle, but the crumbling of his walls were not.

Not this again…

Draco found himself struggling. His hand was clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. And with a suddenness that he was almost grateful for, he recalled a memory. He was in his sixth year. Still young and impressionable. Still a boy. And there was his aunt. And the Occlumency lessons.

Draco had practiced day in and out, and had become skilled enough to repel even Severus' attempts at Legilimency. His success however, wasn't due to his aunt's excellent teaching skills. No, his success was due to one thing only. His mother's words echoed in his head.

"This type of Occlumency that you are learning involves suppressing thoughts, emotions and memories that would contradict whatever it is that you wish a Legilimens to believe. You create a false layer of mentality so real, they believe it to be the real one. But it requires a great deal of willpower, Draco…"

And it did. But Draco had learned the technique and shut out the one thing that prevented him from acting according to the Dark Lord's wishes: his compassion. One would argue it was the most human part of him, and by shutting it out, he was able to become the tyrant everyone seemed to believe he was. It made it so incredibly easy to close his mind. But now, after the war, his walls were breaking faster than he could repair them. No matter how much ground he gained, it seemed he was losing twice the number when faced with the brutal honesty of the man in front of him. And when one's defenses are crumbling, retaliation is bound to happen.

"In many ways, you are still just a boy, Draco. And there's nothing wrong with-"

There was no warning for what followed. Slughorn's words had started something, and with his defenses down, the storm clouds that swirled about in Draco's eyes cleared… and the thunder finally let itself be heard.

"You think I care about any of this?" Draco sneered, leaning forward in his chair. "You think I care that any of this is still real? Because it doesn't bloody feel like it! You think you can go on after a man's attempt at genocide and pretend that nothing happened? I was chosen! Not you, not Potter, ME. And these silly classroom exercises and this damned amnesty is a pathetic excuse to try and cover up what happened. Nothing changes! And as soon as you and everyone else at this damned school realises that, the better off we'd all be. I own what I did, and nothing will take it from me. I did those things, and if you think this is going to make me regret any of it, then you and this whole bloody school can damn themselves to this pathetic excuse of normal bloody life."

A heavy silence followed as Draco's strangled breathing filled the room. His eyes were pools of molten silver, yet they were already starting to coagulate back to the steely wall that had resided there before. It was a small slip in his defenses and if Slughorn had been lurking in his mind before, Merlin knew he would have felt the knockback. Because unlike his Aunt Bella, he had learned another variant of Occlumency. A failsafe to be exact.

There were things that Draco knew, things that would have jeopardized his entire family if they ever got out. And if anyone had reached past that first layer of his walls, they met the full force of the repressed emotions within his mind. When something was concealed for too long, it became quite combustible. And with any emotion, anger mixed with pain, were the most volatile.

The force in question was meant to produce a surge of magical energy that sent the legilimens reeling and thus gave Malfoy enough time to reconstruct his shield. It was violent, indeed, but it did the job.

The glass vials in the classroom rattled slightly in the aftermath of Draco's outburst. It took him a moment or two before he finally faced his professor, and suddenly, he was grateful his shields were shifting in place once again.

The old man before him, who seemed so meek and jolly at first, slipped into a state that reminded Draco oddly of his father when he had mouthed off. He swallowed thickly. Professor Slughorn was a pushover most of the time, but what Draco seemed to have forgotten during his little outburst was that he was also a Slytherin.

"Now that, my boy, is quite enough," Slughorn said curtly, strictly, his voice cutting and powerful. "I'm going to make something very clear to you; you are not doing yourself any favours by behaving like an insolent child. This defiant streak of yours is going to lead you down a road where there is no coming back from! Do you really want to end up like your father?" he exclaimed, his hand coming down on the desk.

Draco stared back, his eyes slightly widened, his face a bit paler than it normally was. There was something that flickered in his eyes for a brief moment, before the storm clouds drifted over them, concealing it with his occlumency. Fear.

And in that moment, Slughorn knew he had finally found himself on equal footing with the boy. He had obviously disturbed a memory secured away deep in the confines of Draco's mind. Horace could only imagine what memory arose at that moment. He would never know that for the briefest of moments, he had reminded the boy of his father. And even the briefest of reminders were enough.

The tension in Draco's shoulders settled slightly as he forced the memory down, a solemn scowl forming on his features as he averted his gaze to the side. A tired sigh escaped the professor behind the desk, as he relaxed into his chair, the stern lines from his stern reproach now replaced by the laughter lines that have formed on his face over the years.

"I am not your enemy in this, my boy. I'm just trying to help you," he said gently. "And once you're ready, we can start doing just that." There was a moment of silence, in which he pressed further. "I know the kind of man you are-"

"What do you know about what I am," Draco muttered, not meeting the eyes of the man who had silenced him so quickly.

"I know quite a lot," he answered wisely. "In fact, I might even say, a few decades ago, I was a lot like you." Draco scoffed in disbelief. "It's the truth. Do you want to know how I know?" Slughorn asked, the atmosphere in the room now laced with a somber undertone. Draco didn't answer or meet his gaze, but Horace could tell he was listening. "Desperate souls are easily recognised by one of their own."

This peaked the boy's attention, and not in a good way.

"You think I'm desperate?" Draco bit out, sneering in disgust at the prospect.

"Not desperate in the way you're thinking of, but yes," he answered. "Desperation has a way of making you do desperate things. And I think you might be on the verge of such things. I know I once was."

Surprisingly, Draco remained silent, simply staring at the strange man in front of him.

"I was a lot like you," Horace reiterated. "The only difference between you and I is, I've been given time. Time does wonders in the right circumstances."

Draco had a murderous glare on his features. How dare this oaf of a man compare himself to him? It was positively absurd. Draco's expression must have given him away, considering the little chuckle that escaped the elderly man. Draco breathed in deeply through his nose, grounding his thoughts and decided to steer the situation to the matter at hand.

The help. Slughorn was going to assign him a tutor then. And knowing the barmy oaf, it would probably be an insufferable Ravenclaw or even worse, a Gryffindor. The thought made him shudder internally. But Slughorn was right. Merlin, that phrase tasted bitter in his mouth. But Draco was no fool. He knew he needed the help. He was just too ashamed to admit it. A heavy, almost desperate sigh escaped him.

"What makes you think any of them will want to put up with me?" Draco bit out, his eyes flashing angrily in his stare off with the floor. If he had taken a moment to glance up at his Professor, he would have noticed the kind smile that had appeared on his face.

"That, my boy, you can leave up to me."

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AN: Annnnd that's chapter 2. Hope you guys liked it. Let me know what you'd like to see happen or what you think might still happen. :)

Also, Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to JK Rowling.