Author's Note:
Three things!
1. This is the sequel to my story called Between the Lines. If interested in this story, you'll want to read that one first in order to not be confused.
2. I'm sorry in advance, but updates are going to be quite infrequent. But for those who read Between the Lines and have been anxiously awaiting the sequel, I figure it's better to publish slowly than not at all.
3. I'm on Archive of Our Own under the same name. If I need to make edits, I tend to do it only on that website because it's much more user friendly. Therefore, I'd prefer readers venture over to that website, but I publish it here too, just in case.
That's it! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
-x-o-x-
Malfoy Manor
Draco Malfoy doesn't dream all that often, but when he does, his dreams are lucid. In this particular one, he's flying high above the Quidditch pitch, the cheering crowd a blur beneath him as he and Potter race from opposite directions. Who will be the first to reach the snitch? Who will win the Cup for his team?
Neither let's up as they zoom towards the center of the pitch, and then — CRASH!
Draco barrels towards the ground but with a smile on his face. He caught it. He won! And surely someone — a teammate, or his Head of House, or Madam Hooch, or someone — will cast a spell to save him from an impact which would shatter all his bones.
He feels the pull of magic, and then his feet are planted firmly on the ground. Snitch still in hand, he punches the air victoriously as the Slytherins rush towards him. They attempt to lift him above their heads, a demonstration of their collective excitement, but their attempt lasts all of three seconds. Draco, though flattered, though smirking, resists them.
This lucid dreamer is suddenly eager to move on to something better.
He finds his captain, hands over the snitch, receives an appreciative slap on the back, then escapes the crowd by heading into the changing rooms. The dream jumps forward. Now, Draco is somehow aware that his teammates have already come and gone, already hooped and hollered and snuck swigs of firewhisky with him.
There's a stillness beyond the changing rooms. It suggests the pitch has cleared out too. For the next little while — until Draco returns to Slytherin's common room and joins a party already in full swing — he can count on peace and quiet. Or so he thinks.
A second later, something else changes about the dream. Not a jump in time, but the undertone, perhaps. It was exciting, then briefly peaceful, and now it is buzzing with anticipation.
The girl arrives.
The girl Draco's been pining for, the one he's certain sees past his confident façade, who knows his secret insecurities and long list of weaknesses. The one who, without trying, understands him better than he understands himself. She reads him like one of her well-worn books, which he's always found intimidating.
The girl whose very existence reminds him he can't have everything he wants, despite being a Malfoy.
But fuck it all, she's brilliant, and principled, and forgiving, and gorgeous, and — and Draco can't help but want her. Even though he sincerely believes that wanting her is a waste of time. Sure, she's shown him small kindnesses. But they both know he doesn't deserve them. They both know she would never actually choose him, especially not when other blokes give her such positive attention. No, Draco doesn't stand a chance with this girl.
This ambiguous, indistinguishable girl. No one in particular. Just an idea of someone he would want so desperately that his entire body aches when she enters a room. She exists only in the dream, in the Quidditch changing room where the sound of her steps captures Draco's attention.
He looks up and their eyes meet. His widened with wonder. Hers twinkle with expectations.
"I can't stand it any longer," she says. "Why do you resist me? Why do you refuse to take what you want?"
Before Draco can think of a reply — before he can even process what she's said, really — the girl kicks off her shoes, slides her hands under her skirt, and shimmies out of her knickers. Stepping away, she leaves a delicate piece of fabric on the floor. Lace and light blue.
The girl crosses the changing room and puts her hands against the lockers. She bends at the waist, letting her arse stick out at a ridiculous angle. "You should have what you want, Draco," she insists. "Here. Now."
It's all very sultry. Her posture, her words, her meaning. But her tone — there's something unexpected in her tone. It's vulnerable. It's begging to be validated. It wants to know, 'Have I read the signs correctly? Do you want me as much as I want you? Will I get what I came for?'
It makes Draco want her even more. He closes the distance between himself and the girl, unfastening his trousers as he walks. He stops close behind her, and realizes only then that he's still wearing his Quidditch gloves. He uses his teeth to yank them off, and the action takes just long enough for him to realize he needs to slow this down. He needs to savor this.
He wants to caress and kiss her. He wants to massage the inside of her thigh and taste the nape of her neck. And when he enters her, he wants to do so with small thrusts. Bit by bit by bit.
With one hand, Draco grips her hip. With the other, he skims several inches of her leg. He drags his fingertips down, towards her knee, then up, up, up, losing sight of his hand under her skirt.
"Don't tease me," the girl whimpers.
Draco looks up, hoping to see her face, but the frame of the dream stops at her back. Her jumper has vanished, revealing a light blue bra that matches her discarded knickers. No, not light blue. Periwinkle.
Draco presses gentle kisses across her skin. "I thought you wanted to wait until next term," he murmurs.
The girl shakes her head. Her dark, wild hair sways. "No, we've waited long enough," she says. "I want you inside of me. More than your hand this time."
It's a dream. It doesn't have to make sense. Draco ignores the inconsistencies and how, in the next moment, it's probably unrealistic that she's sopping wet and he's rock hard. Fuck savoring this, he decides. Fuck entering her bit by bit. She's right, they have waited long enough. Draco buries himself deep inside the girl with a one, strong thrust.
It must be the rush of adrenaline that wakes Draco. He rolls onto his back, slips a hand inside his briefs, and pumps his hand rhythmically. He imagines hair swaying, lockers rattling, fingers clutching —
It doesn't take long to finish.
Afterwards, he sighs with relief, and then several thoughts strike him in rapid succession.
First thought. He doesn't feel sick. He'd been plagued by fever and fatigue for — what, over a week? Maybe two? The illness started during those last few days at Hogwarts after exams, then followed him into the summer holiday. The exact timeline, though, is an incoherent mess thanks to all the sleeping he's done. All he knows for sure is that he was sick but now, after a delightful sex dream, he is not. His symptoms have disappeared without a trace, gone in an instant, as if by magic.
Second thought. Was that — did that other thing, the terrible one, really happen? Draco looks down at his left arm, hoping it was a proper fever dream. They're meant to be bad, after all. But no, the skull and snake are truly there, seared into his skin, red, swollen, and chafing. The Dark Lord's Mark, not yet healed.
Bloody hell.
Draco remembers snippets of the night he received it. Mother introduced him to her older sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, who he'd heard plenty about over the years but never actually met. After a few minutes of knowing her, Bellatrix escorted him to the Manor's drawing room to meet the Dark Lord. He was assigned a mission to complete, and he was branded.
With his fever gone, Draco will be expected to begin training with Bellatrix. She has checked on him several times recently to see if he's ready, he recalls now. After brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead, she has whispered with vigor about Occlumency and the Unforgivable Curses.
Bloody fucking hell.
Third thought. Can Veela travel through dreams? Can they heal through seduction? Merlin, that dream. Draco wishes he could live inside of it. Or, at the very least, that he could play it on repeat for the rest of the night, until the sun rises over Malfoy Manor. Instead, he has to start planning for his mission. Bellatrix won't be happy if she thinks he isn't taking it seriously. Draco barely knows her, but he knows that much is true.
How is he going to kill Albus Dumbledore? That's the summer's million galleon question. Obviously, Avada Kedavra is an option. Quick and painless. Though he'll have to really mean it in order to use a curse like that. Be perfectly willing to commit murder. But that's not a problem, is it? Draco tells himself he's willing. For this particular cause, anyway.
He has to be.
Because killing Dumbledore is a necessity. An absolute must if he wants to prove himself to the Dark Lord as well as undo the damage his Father caused by failing at the Department of Mysteries. So when the time comes, he'll be ready. He'll get the job done.
But how to escape from Hogwarts once he does? That's the tricky part. Might it be better to use a cursed artifact or poisoned beverage? Something harder to trace?
Draco plays out these scenarios in his mind. Unfortunately, they fail to end as he'd like. Too great a chance that Dumbledore will only end up injured, not dead. Because another Hogwarts staff member, someone familiar with the correct counter-curse or someone who always has a bezoar handy, could be close by and thwart his plans.
Back to Avada Kedavra, then.
If only there was an easy way to flee the castle. Perhaps if Draco got Dumbledore somewhere outside, near the gates. Or anywhere he could stash his Quidditch broom.
Quidditch. That dream. That girl.
Fuck.
The thing is, she seemed a lot like a Veela. But they never have dark hair, do they?
Every girl Draco has ever liked has had dark hair, not that that's a large number. Three girls total. The first two, he can admit now that he's older, were nowhere near tempting enough to be confused with a Veela. But the third —
No, he doesn't want to think about the third. That filthy blood traitor.
Draco tries to turn his thoughts back to his mission, but quickly finds he's too restless for it. Blame the undetermined number of days spent sick in bed, or blame that wicked dream. Whatever the reason, he's suddenly full of pent up energy. He climbs out of bed to look out his window, wondering if he might take a stroll under the moon, or if the guards he's heard are stationed around the Manor would take issue with that.
Draco pulls the curtains aside, hoping to spot a clue which will help him assess his options, but what he sees instead makes his jaw drop.
At the center of the garden, near the largest of the Manor's ornate fountains, stands Mother and Professor Snape, so close to one another that they might have just finished embracing. Her face is etched with sadness, his with concern. They speak briefly, seemingly in whispers, and then Mother lifts a hand to Snape's cheek, smiles appreciatively, and utters two more words.
Draco reads her lips. Thank you.
Snape nods before stepping away, wand out, ready to Disapparate. Fearing he'll be caught watching from the window, Draco hurries back to his bed and climbs under his covers. He spends the next hour replaying what he saw, arguing with himself about what it means, and cringing at the thought of a secret affair.
He misses his father.
Finally, a clock down the hall chimes for daybreak. With his trance-like worry interrupted, Draco wants to look out the window once more, perhaps in an effort to steady his nerves. He watches the sun rise over the Manor, covering it in spectacular shades of pink and orange. And then a funny thing happens, a flash of some sort. Another day. Another sunrise. Or, perhaps — perhaps it was a sunset?
Not at the Manor. At Hogwarts.
Draco remembers the moment vaguely. He looked up and saw his friends — or was it his enemies — moving across the colorful sky, perched on top of — of something. They moved so fast he had decided brooms couldn't be involved. They must have been riding —
Thestrals? The second the word occurs to Draco, the flash, or memory, or whatever the fuck it is — was — disappears.
Had it happened during class? Draco knows he learned about thestrals this past year, but, no, surely this sunset and the specs moving across it had nothing to do with his lessons. For one, the timing made no sense. His Care of Magical Creatures class had been scheduled in the afternoon. And for another — Well, it never happened, did it?
It couldn't have. If Draco had, at any point, actually seen a small crowd of people flying through the air and guessed they were riding thestrals, he'd remember that clearly.
He must still be sick, at least a little.
Thestrals, though. There's an idea. If Draco could get himself such a beast, he could use it to his advantage, make a quick getaway after killing Dumbledore. Right, back to that. How to escape without getting caught? Floo Network? Unauthorized portkey?
Every idea Draco has leads to a million what ifs. Frustrated, he slips out of bed and makes for the loo. He relieves himself, brushes his teeth, and showers all while continuing to brainstorm. Then, as he runs a towel over his wet hair, one interesting idea begins to percolate.
What about that hidden room at Hogwarts, the one Potter and his fellow Muggle lovers used for their anti-Umbridge club? There'd been rumors after they'd been caught, all sorts of talk about the incredible magic held in that place. Could it provide a safe escape route for Draco?
He mulls it over as he finishes getting dressed, takes breakfast with his Mother for the first time since the summer holiday began, and waits to meet Bellatrix in the dining room so their lessons can begin.
After she arrives, Draco's quick to tell her of his half-formed idea. Unfortunately, she makes a face as if to say she's not impressed but, 'Hey, at least you're trying.' Not one to give up easily, though, he explains that the room is supposedly unplottable, that he knows its location — across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy — and that getting inside requires little more than pacing in front of the hidden door.
"That's it?" Bellatrix asks. "That's not much to go on."
Draco shrugs, faking confidence. "I was thinking I might be able to form a tunnel between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts," he says. "It could help me escape after the deed is done."
At that, Bellatrix's mouth curls into a devious smile. "Or a tunnel to help others sneak in," she suggests. "Well, well, well. You are a tad clever, aren't you?" she adds. "Alright, then. We'll practice the Undetectable Extension Charm, the Disillusionment Charm, the — Well, we'll get to all of it eventually, won't we? We have all summer."
An hour of goal setting follows. Draco spends most of it acting as enthused to learn to kill as Bellatrix is to train him to do it. Finally, she announces it's time for some magic.
"We need to test your aptitude for Occlumency," she says. "Now, you may be a Malfoy by name, but you're a Black as well, aren't you? And Blacks tend to have a talent for one or the other, Occlumency or Legillimency. Let's see about you."
Draco hadn't ever heard that about the Blacks. But before he can inquire, Bellatrix flicks her wand, and he's struck by her spell. It doesn't do much. The room blurs, sort of seems to meld with a few nearby rooms for a second, then reverts back to normal.
A few more attempts are made, but it turns out that Draco is a natural Occlumens. Which is fortunate, of course, because he'll need to keep his plans hidden from Professor Dumbledore. Bellatrix is over the moon about it until, out of nowhere, her demeanor changes. Poking Draco in the chest with her wand, snarling so that her yellow teeth show, she demands to know about his fantasies.
"My — I'm sorry, my what?"
"Your fantasies, boy! Let's see them! Legilimens!"
The dining room blurs again, then vanishes. A second later, it's replaced by the quidditch changing rooms, and Draco's stomach churns. There's no doubt in his mind about what he and his aunt will witness.
The girl enters, takes off her knickers, crosses the room, and leans against the lockers.
As Draco approaches her, he feels embarrassment and hot rage all the way to his bones. How dare Bellatrix violate his privacy this way. What a sick, twisted —
The dining room comes back into view.
"Who is she?" Bellatrix hollers.
"No one! She's — she's just an idea!"
"Liar! She must be someone! Tell me! Tell me this instant!"
Bellatrix paces like a madwoman, her wand hand shaking. Her eyes bulge and she pulls at her hair. It's the most unhinged Draco has seen her so far, which is why he decides to come up with a quick lie, something to appease her.
"It's Astoria Greengrass. But uh — an idealized version. Older. Curvier. And uh —"
Fuck. He'll have to say this next part. If he doesn't, it might come back to bite him in the arse.
"And not a blood traitor," Draco finishes.
Bellatrix whirls around to face him. "What did you say?" she snaps.
Draco rushes to explain that he used to fancy Astoria but doesn't anymore, not really. Not since finding out she's dating a Muggleborn boy from Gryffindor. The conversation is murky, just like everything else from his week or two of being sick, but he's positive about the bottom line: Astoria Greengrass is a blood traitor.
"I was furious when I found out," Draco goes on. "I knew her sister dated that Halfblood off and on, Blaise Zabini, but I thought Astoria was better than that. I — I thought I was going to marry her someday. She's the one mother wanted for me, you know."
Draco thinks of mentioning the trip to Monte Blanc, but in the next instant his thoughts become too empty. What happened in Mont Blanc? Why can't he remember any details? And worst of all, why does it now seem as if his lie is somehow true, as if the girl in his dream is an idealized version of Astoria?
Draco feels feverish all over again.
"What's wrong with you, anyway?" he demands. He seethes at Bellatrix, placing his confusion and frustration on her. "You're my aunt and you think it's appropriate for you to have a look at my fantasies? For Merlin's sake! If that's what Azkaban does to people, I'm even more worried for my father."
For an instant, Bellatrix stares at Draco as if she'd like to murder him where he stands, but then her mouth twitches and she bursts into laughter. "Oh, have I got a story for you, lad," she says. "But I think your mummy should be here for it too. Cissy! Cissy, come to the dining room!"
The Manor's enormous, so of course Mother doesn't hear Bellatrix calling for her, despite the madwoman's continued efforts for another minute or so. Losing patience, Draco leaves the room and fetches Mother himself. When they return together, Bellatrix has taken up the seat at the head of the table, her legs crossed and her hands placed primly on her knees.
Madwoman, indeed, that Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Cissy, I want us to tell Draco all about Andromeda."
Mother's face pales, and Draco wonders if he should be worried.
"What about Andromeda?" he drawls.
"Well, for starters, she was the best of us all when it came to both Occlumency and Legillimency. A true prodigy, wasn't she, Cissy?"
Mother ignores the question. She asks a few of her own instead. "What is the meaning of this? How does it further Draco's lessons, and why in Merlin's name am I here?"
Bellatrix looks pointedly at Draco. "Fantasies —" she says, "— are, by their very nature, too malleable to conceal consistently. It was by searching through Andromeda's fantasies that I was able to confirm what she really was. Not merely a blood traitor, interested in the politics of purity. But an actual Mudblood lover, sneaking around with that filth, Ted Tonks."
"But I told you already —" Draco begins.
Bellatrix cuts him off. "What happened after I found out, Cissy? Go on, tell him."
Mother crosses her arms over her chest, her lips form a flat line, and then she stares at her sister with such ferocity that Draco can't help but wonder if it's happening right then, a battle for navigating each other's minds.
Which of the two spells does Mother have a talent for, Legilimency or Occlumency? Draco's never been told.
The Black sisters break eye contact, and Mother turns to him. "I'm not having an affair with Severus Snape," she says sharply.
"What?"
Wait. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. When did it happen? Draco thought he would see everything Bellatrix saw, that he would know what she had gleaned. But apparently —
"My dear sister hoped to embarrass me in front of you," Mother explains. "And to — what, exactly, Bella? Threaten to use that terrible curse you invented so long ago? What good would it do against me?"
Bellatrix crosses the dining room, chuckling to herself as she nears. She comes to a stop in front of Mother, then jabs a finger at her stomach two or three times. "So sensitive. Always have been," she says in a teasing voice. She reaches over and pats Draco's cheek. "And you, boy. You worry too much. Get that under control before tomorrow's lesson."
She exits the room without another word, and all too quickly Mother follows. Draco is left with only his spinning thoughts for company.