Madam Malkin's / Flourish and Blotts / Borgin and Burkes
Granger has a black eye. That's the first thing Draco notices when their gazes meet in the mirror. He wonders if she got it from a classmate at her new school, or if problems with her parents have gotten so bad that one of them hit her.
According to the Hogwarts rumor mill, Mr. and Mrs. Granger don't like their daughter very much. They haven't since they found out she could do magic. To save themselves the trouble of seeing her each summer, they made her transfer schools a while back, to one that's open all year long. A small, unconventional school. Project-based, or interest-based, or something like that.
Or was it research-based? Granger loves research, enough that she wants to work in the Department of Mysteries someday. That is, she used to want to. Draco recalls having to peer edit an essay in which she wrote about it. Hard to say if that's still her career goal, though, given that so much time has passed.
Anyway, whatever kind of school she now attends, it differs from most others in that it operates during the summer. Well, not all summer, apparently, or she wouldn't be here in Diagon Alley, shopping with her friends. Perhaps her school has short breaks here and there, but campus remains open for those who have nowhere else to go. Or, perhaps they have a more lenient weekend travel policy than Hogwarts. Or —
Fuck. Whatever, it's not important. And Draco doesn't care. Honestly, he doesn't. What he wants to know is —
"Who gave you that black eye, Granger? I'd like to send them flowers."
She opens her mouth to reply but before she can, Potter and Weasley distract her with protective movements. Potter grabs her by her wrist. Weasley steps forward, reaching for his wand.
Merlin, they're obnoxious.
"No wands! Not in my shop!" Madam Malkin shouts.
Weasley drops his hand and looks at Granger. Granger looks at Potter. And Potter looks at — Draco's mother? Why would he do that? It's not as if he cares about retribution from adults, especially not adults he dislikes. He freed the Mafloys' house-elf right under Father's nose, for crying out loud.
As Draco watches in the mirror, several more suspicious, silent looks are exchanged. Looks with hidden meaning. They cause an eerie sensation to flood his senses. What the hell is going on? And what, if anything, does it have to do with Granger's black eye?
She lifts her fingers to her bruised skin and touches it lightly. "Not a who, Malfoy. A what," she says. "A punching telescope. A Weasley twins' invention gone wrong."
Draco grimaces, not because he feels bad for Granger — he swears — but because her response, their interaction, is too civil. All wrong. But he can think of nothing to say back, so he busies himself with adjusting the robe Madam Malkin helped him try on before the others arrived.
That seems to please her. Not Granger, Madam Malkin. She smiles and pats Draco's shoulder before moving away. "If you're buying off the rack, have at it," she says to Granger and her friends, gesturing towards the rows of hanging robes. "But if you need tailoring or custom work, you'll have to wait. I won't rush the Malfoys on your account."
"Oh, Lorna, no. That's alright. We should be going anyway."
Draco snaps his head to the side to scrutinize Mother, that eerie sensation twisting into something new. What possible reason could there be for allowing Potter, Weasley, and Granger to skip ahead of them in line? For wanting to leave the shop so quickly after they've shown up?
What does Mother know that Draco doesn't?
"You've taken Draco's measurements already," she continues. "Now, keep them handy, and I'll send an order later this week. I can come back for the robes whenever they're ready."
Madam Malkin shakes her head, unsure. "If — if that's what you prefer, Mrs. Malfoy. But it's not a problem if —"
"I'll send an owl," Mother says. She tugs the unpurchased robe off of Draco's shoulders, tosses it on a nearby chair, grabs his arm, and leads him outside. Back on the street, she resumes her unconcerned act. "To Flourish and Blotts?" she asks.
Release all emotion.
"Sure," Draco answers.
He needs a moment to think everything through, to weigh his options for what else he can say or do. It's not as if he can blurt out the obvious: what the hell was all that? If he did, it would only backfire — make Mother lean further into her act — and he'd never uncover the meaning of those dodgy looks.
In his uncertainty, Draco thinks, oddly enough, of Potions experiments and the importance of formulating hypotheses. If he suspects x, then he'll respond with y.
If he suspects Mother is a full-fledged blood traitor —
Wait, does he suspect that? There's her sympathy towards the Greengrass sisters to consider, plus her middle-of-the-night meeting with Professor Snape. Sure, he has the Mark on his arm, same as Draco, and he claims to serve the Dark Lord. But he's worked for Dumbledore all these years and might have switched sides at some point, right?
So is it possible that Mother's working with them, Snape and Dumbledore, in some capacity? Them and Harry Potter and the Greengrasses?
But if that's the case — if Mother is a secret blood traitor, committed to seeing the Dark Lord fall — why go through the trouble of pretending to care if Draco and Astoria marry someday?
Hang on. That's not the right question, is it? That could be about keeping up appearances. Nothing more.
Why try to make the Wizarding World believe Blaise Zabini is a pureblood? That's the right question, Draco thinks. Because surely Mother had a hand in that. A backdoor deal with another woman or two? An article that's guaranteed to get people gossiping? It reeks of her doing.
But the thing is, there's simply no reason for it unless she's serious about her betrothal plans. Unless she truly means for Draco and Astoria to end up together. Because Mother's always been ashamed of the burns on the Black family tapestry; she wouldn't give her son the Greengrasses for in-laws if they've got burns on their tapestry too.
So not a blood traitor. But what else is there? If Draco suspects x —
If he suspects Mother wishes to escape the war as Cecilia Nott attempted last summer? Well, if that's the case, what's to be done other than fear for her life? And his own life. And Father's life.
More than he already does.
This half-formed hypothesis makes more sense than the other one, though. Mother might wish to escape the war regardless of her devotion to blood purity. She might believe that, with help from the Dark Lord's enemies, an attempt might actually work.
A new life in a new country with new pureblood names. Survival.
And the Greengrasses will join them wherever they go? Is that it? Even though they aren't involved in the war. Even though they have no significant consequences to fear regardless of who wins. Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass will do as Mother bids because she can give them what they want most: endless wealth and pureblood husbands for their daughters.
All speculation, and it sounds absurd. But not impossible.
As they arrive at Flourish and Blotts, Draco drags his hand through his hair, frustrated with Mother and the day in general. It started terribly, with a new ending to that otherwise familiar dream. And it's only only gotten worse since then.
Draco comes to an abrupt stop near the bookshop's doors. "Mum," he says.
Mother stops too and takes his hand in hers. She knows Draco only calls her that — Mum — when he's feeling — what's the word for it? Hurt? Vulnerable? Needy? Alone?
Broken.
Draco only calls her Mum when he's feeling broken and wants her to make him whole again. Sadly, he already knows her best efforts won't pay off. This frail attempt he's about to make to get her to explain herself? It's futurel. But he has to try something.
"What is it, darling?" Mother asks.
"Why were you in such a rush to leave Madam Malkin's?" Draco whimpers.
Her eyes, full of sympathy, flutter across his face. But after a beat, she glances at his forearm, and that sympathy disappears. It's replaced with something grim. Something more like judgment.
"You can't risk bringing negative attention to yourself any longer," Mother says. "Which means you can't risk getting into silly squabbles with Harry Potter and his friends. You have to leave those days in the past, Draco. Do you understand me?"
It might be an honest answer. Draco hopes that it is. Either way, he allowed himself a moment of weakness — of brokenness — and now it's time to pull himself together.
Release all emotion.
He nods, strides further into the bookstore, and notices a display table full of Hogwarts-related books. That's when it happens, another one of those flashes. One second, there's no one near that table but him and his mother. The next, there's a small girl with dark skin, enormous hair, and a hideous Muggle outfit.
Granger. But when she was younger.
Perhaps it should upset Draco. Everything else about Mudbloods does, that one in particular. But not this. This only makes him curious. Why was the flash different than all the rest, extremely short but perfectly clear? Why was it about a person more than a feeling, or a setting, or a few choice words?
If Draco had answers to those questions, he might be able to determine why the flashes started in the first place.
For most of the summer, he assumed they were a side effect of receiving the Mark. Pumping that much dark magic into his arm had to result in more than a snake and skull tattoo, right? No one warned him about the flashes — as far as he can remember, anyway — and no one ever asked him about them. But that didn't make Draco stop and reconsider his assumption. He figured it was one of those unwritten rules among Death Eaters: don't talk about the flashes.
As the flashes continued, though, as he noticed patterns surrounding them, Draco began to wonder if they weren't related to the Dark Mark at all. What if they were related to that terrible illness he had back in late June?
What if he had a blood curse? What if he has a blood curse?
If Draco's being completely honest, part of him has started to worry that's the case. He has no idea how he would have contracted one, but it seems possible because, in addition to the flashes, he still gets frequent headaches and inexplicable fatigue from time to time.
Like right now, after seeing a young Hermione Granger near the display table of books, there's a dull pain forming behind his eyes and a yawn waiting to escape his mouth. Realizing this makes him act on impulse.
"Can we go home?" Draco asks his mother. "I don't feel well, and we already have to come back on a different day for the robes."
Mother purses her lips. She lifts a hand to his forehead. "You aren't feeling well?"
"Not really."
"Since when?"
"What? Oh, uh —"
"When did it start? Back at Madam Malkins? You didn't seem to notice her when she offered you that robe to try on, but that was before —" Mother pauses and clears her throat. She flips her hand so that the other side touches Draco's forehead. "You're warm," she says. "I think we should visit Severus."
That suggestion, however unpleasant, isn't totally unexpected. Death Eaters can't let their Dark Marks be seen, which means they can't go to St. Mungo's. But Snape is a Potions Master. He has most cures for most ailments stored in his cupboards, and if not he can usually whip one up.
Draco has no desire to see Snape, though. It's the primary reason he hasn't told Mother about the flashes. He'd considered it. Was warming up to the idea, even. But with Granger appearing in the latest one? Yeah, not a chance of that now.
"That isn't necessary," Draco says. "I'm sure we have Pepperup at home. We always do."
"You need something stronger than Pepperup," Mother insists.
Draco shakes his head. He'd rather finish shopping in Diagon Alley than be in Snape's house, wondering if Mother has visited him there in secret. Besides — "I just remembered about Borgin and Burkes. We can't leave yet. Let's get my books since we're here already, then head to Knockturn Alley. We can visit Snape after that."
Or, they can get lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. By that time it will be midday and Draco will suggest it. And after lunch, he'll miraculously feel better. Needed a little something in his stomach is all. That's what he'll say.
Mother agrees to the spoken part of Draco's plan, so they make their way through Flourish and Blotts, collecting a stack of books as they go. A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration. Confronting the Faceless. Flesh-Eating Trees of the World —
For ten minutes, the day isn't so bad. But as they wait in line at the register, Mother asks a question that is so awful, it's as if she set fiendfyre loose in Flourish and Blotts.
"What do you think of that Granger girl?"
Though he's raging inside, Draco answers with passable disinterest. "I don't think of her," he says. "I mean, she's a swotty Mudblood, and I'm glad I don't have to see regularly anymore. But other than that, I don't think of her. Why do you ask?"
"You see her regularly anymore? What do you mean by that?"
"She transferred schools a while back."
Mother adjusts the shopping bags she's been carrying all this time and places a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Darling, Hermione Granger didn't transfer schools. She's always been at Hogwarts."
"No, she left fourth year. Shortly after the Yule Ball."
Draco figures that's why in the dreams — fuck, he doesn't want to think about them. But acceptance brings peace and peace brings control, he's been told. So here goes: in the dreams, Granger's knickers are always the same color. Periwinkle. Which isn't a color he would know if not for a conversation he overheard at the Yule Ball.
So, so stupid, his subconscious.
There they were, Granger and Weasley sitting at a table near his between dances. "That's a nice shade of blue," Weasley said, referring to her dress robes.
"It's called periwinkle," Granger replied, sounding like — well, a swot.
Weasley snorted. "That's a color? That sounds like something we'd learn about in Herbology."
"Yes, well it is also the name of a flower."
It spun out of control from there. In another minute, Granger and Weasley were arguing about Rita Skeeter's articles, and her date for the ball being Viktor Kurm, and how that meant she wasn't supporting Potter in the Triwizard Tournament as she should.
The argument was loud, overheard and later discussed by many. But for whatever reason, it was the prelude that got stuck in Draco's head. Periwinkle. A lovely color with a ridiculous name, he thought.
Mother digs her fingernails into his shoulder. "Hermione Granger didn't transfer schools," she repeats. "You must be getting her confused with someone else."
Draco isn't. But he doesn't want to fight about it. He doesn't want to discuss Granger for a second longer than he has to. "I guess that's possible," he lies.
Why is Mother acting strange about this on top of everything else? Why does she think she knows the Hogwarts roster better than he does?
The line in front of them clears out, and they step up to the register. As the shop worker tallies their expenses and bags their items, Draco gets a momentary reprieve. But once they're outside again, Mother resumes the madness.
"I'm worried about you, darling," she says. "Can't Borgin and Burkes wait until another day?"
"I don't want to see Snape!" Draco snaps.
"Why not? He can help. You'll feel better in no time, you'll see." Mother grabs Draco's arm and turns towards Diagon Alley's entrance and exit point, but he yanks away at once.
"It's not a potion I need," he says. "Just — just some sleep. I didn't get much last night. That's why my thoughts are all fuzzy. You know, I — I think you're right about Granger. I got her confused with um — um — I can't think of her name. But she used to run with Potter and the Weasleys too."
"Angelina Johnson," Mother offers.
Draco squints to hide his satisfaction. He's pleased with himself. And impressed with Mother, he must admit. Of course, he knew the name of the person he was alluding to, but he hadn't expected her to.
"How did you come up with that?" he asks.
Mother smiles. "Angelina played Quidditch, and I've been to most of your Quidditch matches, haven't I?"
Draco smiles too, fairly confident he's in the clear now. "Let's go to Borgin and Burkes," he says, "then home for a nap. If I don't feel better by tomorrow, we can visit Snape."
He'll definitely feel better by tomorrow.
Mother nods, links their arms together, and leads them towards Knockturn Alley. Once they're close, however, she surprises Draco by suggesting he visit the shop without her.
"I've just realized I could use the time to pick up a few more items from your supply list," she explains. "Let's meet back at the Leaky Cauldron when we're both done."
She kisses his cheek, then she sets off, still smiling. As he watches her go, Draco breathes a sigh of relief. Soon, he finds that he has Borgin and Burkes all to himself, and that brings some relief too.
He tells the shop owner he is in possession of the Vanishing Cabinet that was thrown from the White Cliffs of Dover, that it has been repaired and is almost as good as new, and that if he can fix it completely, he'd like to purchase the cabinet's match.
"But can it be fixed completely? That's my first question for you, old man. And my second is this: if so, how?"
Borgin shuffles some papers on the counter, avoiding eye contact. "It's possible," he says, "but I'd need to see it to know for sure. Why don't you bring it into the shop?"
"I can't. It has to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."
"Well, without seeing it, it will be a very difficult job. Perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything."
Draco can't waste time on the Vanishing Cabinet if the plan doesn't have as much merit as he'd like to think. Meaning, he needs a straight answer from Borgin. Right away. Fortunately, he has an idea about how to get it. He lifts the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his Dark Mark.
"No? Perhaps this will make you more confident," Draco says, sneering. "Tell anyone," he adds, "and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."
Not exactly true, but close enough. Bellatrix says Greyback is on their side and can be used for situations where intimidation needs to be applied. This could be one of those situations.
"There will be no need for —"
"I'll decide that," Draco cuts in.
Merlin, it feels good to be an arse after such a frustrating morning. Forget what Mother said about leaving silly squabbles in the past. When Draco gets back to Hogwarts, he's going to raise hell, if only for an outlet.
"We'll, I'd better be off." He points at the shop's Vanishing Cabinet. "Don't forget to keep that one safe. I'll need it."
"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?" Borgin asks.
"No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid old man. How would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it."
"Of course not, sir."
Borgin bows deeply, a sign of reverence Draco hadn't expected. Over the years, he's seen a few Halfbloods bow to Father like this, but never to him. With Father in Azkaban and a Dark Mark of his own, though, Draco supposes it makes sense. He's the man of Malfoy Manor now.
"Not a word to anyone, Borgin," he commands, "and that includes my mother. Got it?"
"Naturally, naturally," murmurs Borgin, bowing again.
Draco could get used to that. He leaves the shop feeling better than when he arrived.
Malfoy Manor
After Draco's trip to Diagon Alley, the hours spent in lessons with Bellatrix increase fivefold. Though he'd prefer to read about Vanishing Cabinets and practice repairing charms, the rest of August is filled with the Unforgivable Curses — all three of them — and then, during the last six days of the month, another bout of illness.
The illness keeps Draco in bed, saving him from advancing beyond killing animals to killing people. He'd rather not kill at all, truth be told, but he'll take a win anywhere he can. He's thankful to be bedridden all over again, even if it means an increased likelihood of having a blood curse.
This time around, Draco has the same symptoms as before, but they aren't as strong. Perhaps that's why he dozes in and out of sleep more frequently, and why he remembers more of his dreams too. Not dreams of Hermione Granger. Dreams that are, to his dismay, even worse.
They're worse because they're true; they're retellings of events which have occurred recently — his lessons with Bellatrix, haunting him as he sleeps.
Bellatrix had started with the Imperius, which Draco enjoyed at first. His lessons were moved from Malfoy Manor to the nearby Muggle village of Tisbury, and he relished the hours spent under the sun making people shout nonsense, give hugs and high-fives, cross the street for no real reason, and pop in and out of shops for random purchases.
But a week into practicing the Imperius, Bellatrix's instructions took a dark turn. Draco was told to make people insult and fight one another. To steal, cheat, and lie. To break up with their loved ones. To kiss strangers and flash their private parts —
To wreak havoc, basically.
He grew increasingly uncomfortable. It crossed his mind to point out that he'd mastered the Imperius, that he needn't continue to force people to embarrass themselves just to prove he could. But he knew that after the Imperius Curse would be the Cruciatus Curse. And after the Cruciatus Curse, the Killing Curse. So Draco bit his tongue and bided his time, in no rush for either.
On one Saturday afternoon, Bellatrix took him to a park and pointed to a man across the way. "He looks like a wanker," she said. "Make him masturbate."
Draco answered without thinking. "No fucking way."
But that was a mistake. Bellatrix cast the curse herself and her version of the curse turned out to be much worse than his would have been.
The man shoved a hand down his pants and began to stroke himself. He was far enough away from others that the action went unnoticed. But before long, Bellatrix made him walk up behind a woman on a bench. Once he was close, he pulled himself out of his pants, then grabbed her roughly by her hair.
The woman screamed and managed to break free, but not without some struggle. And not before Bellatrix made the man yell that he wanted to finish on her face. She cackled. The curse broke. The man slumped to the ground, confused and disgusted with himself.
Draco stormed off. Later, when Bellatrix found him near the swings, they got into a short but fiery screaming match. "Do anything like that again, and I'll break your fucking wand!" Draco shouted.
Bellatrix snatched him by his shirt and leaned in close. He could smell breakfast jam on her breath when she spoke, "Threaten me again, little boy," she said, "and I'll break your fucking neck."
Draco worried that would be the end of practicing the Imperius, that he'd be punished by having to move to worse curses the next day. But Bellatrix wasn't quite finished forcing him to embarrass others. They spent the rest of week on the Imperius, each instance of the curse increasingly sexual in nature. He got through it only by reminding himself that if he didn't, Bellatrix would make his and his victims' lives even worse.
When they did advance to the Cruciatus and Killing Curses, the change happened abruptly. Bellatrix marched up to a house a few blocks from Tisbury's main square, tried the door knob and found it unlocked. She entered. Draco had no choice but to follow.
Bellatrix called out, confident. "Hello?"
A girl answered, confused. "Mum?"
She came around a corner into the living room wearing athletic clothes and holding a tennis racket in one hand. When she saw strangers in her home, she lifted the racket, ready to strike.
Bellatrix flicked her wand. "Don't move," she hissed. The girl went completely still. The tennis racket clattered against the floor.
As always, Draco did his best to justify what he had to do. At least the girl was around his age, not younger, he thought. At least his torture curse wouldn't leave any lasting damage the way Bellatrix's might.
"Crucio," he whispered. The girl dropped to the floor and writhed in pain. After three seconds, she stopped, and Draco turned to leave.
"Ah ah ah. You can do better than that," Bellatrix challenged.
Draco lifted his wand, facing the girl once more. She screamed.
In his dreams, she sometimes screams until he wakes up. But that day in her house, her scream lasted only three seconds as well, then she was back to withering in silence. Draco counted to ten before breaking the curse and looking at Bellatrix.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
Bellatrix ignored him. "Mudblood! Do you have any pets?"
Draco's stomach lurched.
The girl sobbed, hard enough that he was sure the answer was yes and that she understood, as he did, what was going to happen next.
"A cat? A dog? How many? Where are they?" Bellatrix hollered.
The girl shook her head, still sobbing. Bellatrix raised her wand, but Draco stepped in the way. He knelt down.
"That's my aunt," he admitted, not lowering his voice, not caring if Bellatrix heard. "She was in prison for most of my life, so I don't know her very well. But I do know she likes to have her way, and she usually gets it. I'm sorry, but if she wants your pets dead, they'll be dead. Just be thankful it's not your siblings, or your parents, or you, alright?"
Draco paused to give the girl a moment to react. She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks, sucked in shaky breath, then gave the tiniest of nods.
"That's it. You'll be fine," Draco said, brushing a strand of hair out of the girl's face. "All you have to do is tell me where to find Pongo or Princess or whatever their names are. You can do that, can't you?"
Before the question was finished, the girl started sobbing uncontrollably all over again. She didn't answer. But Draco had noticed a sliding glass door on the other side of the room and a fenced in yard out back. He figured since he hadn't heard any animal sounds, this girl and her family were probably dog owners and the dogs were probably outside.
Draco stood upright and stepped over the girl. He glanced over his shoulder at Bellatrix. "You're coming with me, aren't you? To make sure I really do it?" It wasn't that he fancied having an audience, but he didn't want to leave Bellatrix alone with the girl.
Bellatrix shrugged, then followed him out the door. "You have an interesting style," she said once they reached the patio. "I don't hate it."
Draco shook his head at that, frustrated, then walked across the yard towards two dogs he'd spotted by the fence. Despite knowing little about animal breeds, he figured these two were the same. Both strong and muscular with friendly faces. One brown, the other gray.
The poor things weren't even bothered when Draco got close to them, so he squatted and stuck out a hand as if offering a treat. The brown dog moved towards him. Gus, his name tag said.
Fuck. Release all emotion.
Draco fired off the first curse, and a jet of green light hit Gus. He fell to the ground. The gray dog seemed to think it's some kind of game. He pounced around the yard a few times before coming over to sniff at his friend. Jaq was the name on his tag.
"I'm so sorry, Jaq," Draco said, his voice quiet. He fired off the second curse, and Jaq fell on top of Gus.
He cried then. Only a little, only what he couldn't manage to fight back and hide from Bellatrix. In the privacy of his room, however, as he shifts between dreams, he cries as hard as the girl he tortured. He cries for her, and Jaq, and Gus, and all who followed.
He cries for an elderly man, a middle-aged woman, and a young married couple, all hit with the Cruciatus. He cries for their collective pets: a trio of birds, a blind cat, and a tank full of fish, all hit with Avada Kedavra. And selfishly, he cries for himself, for the boy who wants to believe he has no choice, and who wants to tell himself that not having a choice means he deserves absolution.
But not so deep down, Draco knows that isn't true. He's guilty of what he's done. He'll always be guilty.
He's inside yet another round of haunting dreams when the fever breaks. It's evening, already past supper, though the summer sun hasn't set. Just enough time to ready himself for Hogwarts.
Draco spends an hour packing his trunk, then goes over his plans with Bellatrix one last time. After that, he grabs a snack from the kitchens, kisses Mother goodnight, and heads back to his room. No longer tired, he stays awake for hours reading his Charms textbook. Why not? There could be something useful in there.
Finally, around a quarter to four, Draco begins to doze off again, his forehead resting on the pages of his book. A light outside the window startles him. He lifts his head and — what in the world? The light leaps through the window!
Somewhat worried and enormously confused, Draco scurries to sit upright, to see the light better. It's white and wispy thing. An animal? For a split second, he thinks it's the ghost of the cat he killed. But, no, this light is in the shape of a fox.
Bloody hell, a Patornus! But whose? And why is it here? Why now?
The fox takes a second leap, this time onto Draco's bed. It sits in front of him and stares. That's all it does. It stares, and stares, and stares until Draco loses his patience. "Well, what is it?" he snaps. "What do you have to say?"
The fox vanishes.
Fucking hell. Draco throws off his blankets and heads for the door, planning to tell Mother and Bellatrix what he's seen. Address it proactively. The last thing he needs is to be accused of secretly communicating with one of Dumbledore's allies. But as soon as both feet hit the floor, he feels that familiar dull pain forming behind his eyes. That gives him pause.
Does the Patronus has something to do with the flashes he's been seeing all summer? With the blood curse he thinks he might have?
Draco flops back onto his bed, covers his face with a pillow, and groans into it. He's so tired of being confused, of nothing making sense. Merlin, he can hardly wait to get back to Hogwarts.
Wait, that's a stupid thing to think, isn't it? It's not as if his problems will disappear once he steps inside the castle. But perhaps there he'll find it easier to focus on the problem that matters most: how to kill Albus Dumbledore and get away with it?
Despite being tired when the fox arrived, Draco now finds it difficult to close his eyes. His head is spinning once again. Nothing new, though. Nothing useful. Just the same warn out thoughts about his Mother, Snape, the Greengrasses —
As the sun begins to rise over the Manor, he finally falls asleep. Fortunately, the Hogwarts Express doesn't depart until late morning, so he fits in a few hours of rest before Mother summons him to the dining room.
Draco shuffles in wearing his silk pajamas. He immediately regrets it. Because sitting next to Mother is the Dark Lord himself, his bony figure and bald head taking up Father's old chair at the top of the table.
Merlin, Mother could have at least warned him!
"Sit," the Dark Lord commands.
Fuck. Is this about the Patronus? Or about his dreams? If the Dark Lord finds out he sometimes dreams of Hermione fucking Granger —
Release all emotion.
Draco sits.
"Sign this," says the Dark Lord.
He slides an ink jar, quill, and piece of parchment across the table, all of which Draco had scarcely noticed before. Too worked up. Now, he sees the parchment is embossed with the official Bank of Gringotts logo and written across the top in large letters are the words Transfer on Death.
"My Lord?"
Mother places her hand on top of Draco's. "Darling, it's only —"
"Let the boy speak for himself, Narcissa."
Mother removes her hand and nods. Draco glances between her and the Dark Lord, then takes a closer look at the parchment. He's searching for a clue, something to indicate whether the lack of concern he heard in Mother's voice is genuine, or if she's back to play acting.
As Draco searches the parchment, he considers the context as well. Purebloods and Death Eaters like to have their finances in order, meaning it isn't problematic, in and of itself, that the Dark Lord has presented this form.
But there isn't much gold in Draco's vault at Gringotts, not yet. In about nine months, when he comes of age, a portion of the Black family fortune will be deposited automatically. But that's far enough away that he hadn't thought to get his documents in order just yet. Why the rush?
Well, if Father should die in Azkaban, Draco and his mother would split the Malfoy fortune evenly. The magic to make it happen is already in the vaults. A terrible, but practical consideration, then. The Dark Lord wants to be prepared for a situation in which multiple Malfoys lose their lives at once or in quick succession.
"You don't expect us to survive," Draco says, his eyes still on the parchment.
Should that scare him? It doesn't. It offends him. Why does the Dark Lord have so little faith in his servants?
"It's only a precaution," the Dark Lord says. "Go on, sign."
Draco reaches for the quill but does so slowly, giving himself a chance to read further down the parchment. He comes to the part which specifies to whom his wealth would be transferred. What the —
Snape? That fucking slimbeball? If the Malfoys should die, their fortune goes to him? Why?
Draco snaps his head up, ready to demand an explanation. But the Dark Lord does not notice, his attention on a pastry dish served by one of the house-elves. Mother notices, though. She notices and clearly does not approve. With wide, worried eyes, she shakes her head. She opens her mouth and gives a silent command. Sign.
Draco scribbles his name across the parchment and pushes it across the table, back to the Dark Lord.
"Very good," he says. "Now, let's discuss the Vanishing Cabinets I've heard you're so fond of."
It's less of a discussion and more of a monologue. For ten minutes, the Dark Lord weighs the pros and cons of Draco's plan, never saying anything which he hasn't heard from Bellatrix before.
"My point is," the Dark Lord says at last, "you may ultimately find that there simply isn't a way to kill Albus Dumbledore and get away with it too. You may have to do the deed and suffer the consequences." He gives a pointed look. "And just so we're clear, Draco?"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"That is the level of devotion I expect from you."
Draco swallows his nerves. "I understand, my Lord. I'd prefer to serve you well into old age, but it's an honor to serve nonetheless. I'll do whatever is necessary. You can count on me."
The Dark Lord dusts his fingers off, letting pastry crumbles fall to the table, then stands to leave. "We shall see," he says.
After he's gone, Mother grabs Draco's hand and squeezes it firmly. "Not a word until we're beyond the gates," she whispers. "Get your school trunk, it's time to leave."
The walk from Malfoy Manor to the gates, which is perhaps about fifty yards in length, seems to last forever. Draco wonders if, at their destination, Mother will contradict herself by refusing to discuss what happened in the dining room. Perhaps she'll link their arms together and Apparent them to King's Cross Station without a word. Because that's her pattern lately, isn't it?
Instead, Mother stops beyond the gates and quickly explains some finer points about being a Death Eater which had previously escaped Draco. She says that for this Second Wizarding War, the Dark Lord has insisted that everyone in his inner circle sign a Transfer on Death document which will leave no less than half of their fortune to a fellow Death Eater.
"As such, we'll never run out of funding for the war," says Mother. "Your document was actually supposed to be signed at the beginning of summer, but was overlooked because the Dark Lord has been traveling so much. We're lucky he didn't blame us for the oversight."
Wait, hold on. "He's been traveling?" Draco asks.
This is news to him. He hadn't seen much of the Dark Lord over the summer, but he figured that was because he lives, not in the main house of the property, but in the cottage near the creek which used to belong to Draco's grandparents.
Bellatrix explained it at one point: not only does the cottage provide the Dark Lord with some privacy, it also allows him easy access to both Malfoy Manor and Nott Estate.
"What does he want with Nott Estate?" Draco had wanted to know.
"The Dark Lord's inner circle stays at the Manor. New recruits stay at the Estate," Bellatrix answered.
Right. Simple enough. But apparently he hasn't been at the cottage much because he's been — traveling.
What, like on holiday?
"He's been searching for something," Mother explains. "Something to give himself an advantage, I suppose. But when it comes to dark magic, that could be anything."
That part isn't important, her tone seems to say. Fine. But what about —
"What about Snape?" Draco asks. "Why must our fortune go to him should something happen to us?"
"Why not him? He's an old family friend and your favorite professor. Besides, it's not as if we can leave our fortune to Bellatrix. She escaped from Azkaban; she wasn't released. Who knows how long it will be before the Dark Lord has enough control that she can walk into Gringotts safely again."
Draco hates this.. All of it. Snape might want Father's spot as second-in-command. Or, he might be having an affair with Mother. Or, he might be helping her plot an escape. Whatever it is, he's up to something. He can't be trusted.
But just as Bellatrix can't waltz into Gringotts, he can't say what he'd like about Snape. "I see," he replies simply.
With that out of the way, Mother's demeanor changes. "Darling, I have something for you," she chirps. She pulls a small, gift wrapped box from her pocket. "Do you remember that day in Diagon Alley, when I sent you to Borgin and Burkes without me? Well, I picked up a few items from your list, as I said, but I stopped by the jewelers to place an order as well. I know it's early, but — well, here."
She sets the box in Draco's hand. If, while in the dining room, he hadn't thought of his family's traditions surrounding seventeenth birthdays, he wouldn't now understand what's inside. But he did think of traditions, and so he knows exactly what it is.
"It arrived by owl just the other day," Mother explains as Draco begins unwrapping the box. "I planned to give it to you at the train station. I thought that would make for a lovely send off. But considering the morning we've had — Oh, never mind that. I didn't want to wait any longer, that's all. It's your signet ring, of course!"
Draco opens the box just as Mother says these last few words and, sure enough, the silver ring inside is precisely what he pictured. It matches the one Father always wore on his pinky, the one Draco's been told matches two dozen others owned by Malfoy men who lived before them.
The ring bears the family crest and a large, sophisticated letter M. Across the bottom are the Latin words Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Purity Will Always Conquer.
Mother takes the ring and slides it on Draco's finger.
"But Father's meant to give me this," he protests. "And not until I'm of age."
"Yes, that is the tradition, darling," Mother agrees. "But you have a difficult year ahead of you at Hogwarts. While there, you may find yourself in need of a reminder of your values." She cups her hand around his and fiddles with the ring. "Let this serve as that reminder," she says.
It's just a ring, Draco thinks.
But when he peers down at it, he can't help but smirk. He likes the way it looks. He likes the way it makes him feel: like he's sure of himself and like the Malfoys have it right: purity will always conquer.