Wake up, your dreams have come undone
The nightmares plague us until the morning comes
All is said and done, but ghosts still haunt us in the sun
Valiant Hearts - "Medusa"
This was this first year Draco Malfoy didn't have a birthday party. Normally, Draco spent exorbitant amounts of his father's money throwing an elaborate party in the Slytherin common room. He hadn't been at his best last year, granted, but he'd still wasted no expense on liquor if nothing else. He'd also coerced the baking club to cater it since his mother hadn't sent her usual care package. Theo, the absolute prick, always tried to throw the best bash, but Draco, being richer and more popular always won out with his parties. Nothing endears you to a group of teenagers like free liquor and a cake buffet. Theo never had the spread right, was the thing. That, and his birthday was in November whereas Draco's birthday was in June and therefore doubled as a sort of end-of-the-year blowout. It had been the most anticipated party of his year for six years running.
Before he attended Hogwarts, his parents practically threw a festival on the manor grounds for his birthday. He distinctly remembered having a junior Quidditch pitch set up for his tenth birthday, complete with a professional Quidditch instructor to assist the children. For his eighth birthday, they'd had ponies. His mother had also made a point to always have live music.
Even if hardly any of the attendees were his actual friends, his parties were always an event to look forward to.
This year, however, it was just him, his mother, and the house-elves. The elves made Draco apple stuffed brasillé for breakfast, a fluffy, decadent hazelnut-almond dacquoise awaiting him after dinner. Draco could taste the dark chocolate ganache and espresso meringue already. Honestly, it was the only thing he was looking forward to that day.
As they breakfasted in the second-floor drawing room, Narcissa handed Draco a small, thin, daintily wrapped gift box. Draco pushed his plate and his coffee aside and carelessly tore into the wrapping paper, opening the box to reveal an intricately carved, silver cigarette case.
Draco gaped at the - granted, absolutely stunning - piece of tobacco paraphernalia in vaguely uncomfortable bewilderment.
Narcissa smiled wryly at him. "You're an adult, Draco. It's time your fa-" she cut herself off here, unable to even refer to her husband so soon after everything. "It's time I learned to respect that. We've made so many of your choices for you. So many mistakes. This was a choice you made yourself, however, and you're entitled to it. I may not approve but I recognise that I have no right to pass judgement. You are my son, but now we must work together as equals if we are to weather this storm. Welcome to adulthood, my dearest boy. May we endure however we can."
Honestly, Draco wasn't sure if the display was the worst or the best parenting he'd ever seen.
"Thank you, Maman," Draco said softly, reaching his hand out to hers. She took it and gripped tight, each giving strength to the other. They stayed like that, holding each other like a lifeline before Narcissa pulled away, visibly pulling herself back together.
"That said, you'll need to oversee the elves in the guest wing today. I'll trust you to decide what stays and what goes. I will be going through what remains of the library.
It was almost two hours later that Draco left the guest wing, having dictated to the elves every item of furniture and décor worth keeping, watching them vanish each one into a trunk for storage. Draco wasn't entirely sure why they were even bothering keeping any of the guest furniture. Ostensibly, everything that wouldn't be going with them to their new, horrible, muggle flat would be packed away in trunks and sent to the family's château in Normandy. The château had been in the family longer than the Manor had, even if by only a few decades, having been built in the 10th century by the Malfoy founder, Robert Malfoy, grandson of Hedwig of Saxony; one of the greatest witches of the middle ages, and one of the initial investors in the establishment of Hogwarts.
The château was considerably smaller than the Manor, however, and being fully furnished already, there would be a great deal of sorting to go through once their probation ended in five years time. Presumably, what they used now would go to the château, their bedroom furniture from the château would be moved to the guest rooms, and all of the guest furniture, from there and from the manor would be sold, so Draco really couldn't see the point. Except, perhaps for the Queen's bedroom which remained unchanged from the way it had been after a visit from Queen Elizabeth I, before she so cruelly spurred his ancestor Lucius I and the family turned against the monarchy for good. That room ought to be preserved, but Draco doubted the ministry intended to convert the manor into a museum of Wizarding history. Still, not even the Queens bedroom was going to be moving with them, so what did any of it really matter. Let the ministry auction it all off. If it was worthless enough to warrant being placed in the guest wing instead of in the main halls where people could rightly appreciate them, then why bother with it at all?
So, exhausted and bored, Draco wandered downstairs to the front hall, intending to make for the opposite staircase and head up to the family's quarters in the east wing, when he was stopped by the imposing figure of Bill Weasley.
"Draco, good, I've caught you. I was meaning to come find you. The potions room is all yours again. My team didn't find anything there apart from the cabinet, and the aurors have already been and gone with everything in there, so what's left is all yours. You and your mother are free to do what you want with them. And uh, happy birthday." With a heavy pat on the shoulder, Bill handed him a chocolate bon bon.
"Thanks…" Draco said distractedly in response to both the news and the well-wishes, staring at the confection in his palm. "How did you know it was my birthday?" he asked curiously.
Bill shrugged. "My sister told me the other day."
Ginevra Weasley knew Draco's birthday? Why? While the event was practically a holiday in Slytherin house, it wasn't like there was a public save-the-date that got sent out each year, and, to his chagrin, he wasn't Harry Potter; nobody was writing about his birthday in the papers.
So either the Weaslette paid him considerably more attention than he had ever noticed, or her boyfriend had actually drilled the significance of the day into each and every one of his friends' minds, obsessive stalker that he was.
Draco couldn't quite tell which was worse, but he knew which possibility was more likely.
While he was slightly embarrassed, mostly on Potter's behalf, the oblivious twat, feeling a bit of that embarrassment extend to his own past cringeworthy behaviour, the larger part of him felt deeply satisfied at the knowledge of Harry's apparent preoccupation with him. That was the part of him that had always wanted nothing more than Harry's attention, and he had received confirmation of that attention at long last.
The two parted ways, Bill going on to whatever other parts of Draco's house needed searching, leaving Draco on his way back up to his bedroom. On the second-floor landing, however, Draco heard a voice from the drawing-room. Curious, he entered the room to find Greg speaking with Mimsy, his personal elf.
"Oh, there you are Draco," Greg greeted as Mimsy popped out of the room, his voice deep but words softly spoken, belying the sensitive nature behind his tough exterior. In full alignment with his appearance, however, he followed up this greeting with a sound punch to the face.
"Fuck!" Draco swore, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the coffee table. He prodded at the tender flesh, and yes, his fingertips came back red with blood. "You've split my cheek open! What the hell was that for?!"
"That," Greg said solemnly, "was for being a cock for the past eighteen years. Happy birthday, by the way. I've brought firewhiskey. D'you want to go get day drunk?"
Draco's head spun with the mental whiplash. Also with the recent punch to the front of it. "If I'm such a cock then why are you even here?"
Greg shrugged helplessly. "I don't' have anyone else."
Draco felt the comment like another punch, forcing the breath out of him. "Right. Yeah, all right. Come on then." He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, holding his handkerchief to his bloodied cheekbone. He could go find the potions to heal it, still wandless as he was, but honestly, this might as well have happened. His day was going too smoothly anyway. He also had the thought that he might actually look rather roguish and sexy once the bruise blossomed. (Of course, he would be healing it once it turned that awful greenish-yellow colour that wasn't attractive on anyone.)
He led the way through the familiar hallways to the haven of his rooms, leaving Greg to close the door behind them.
They sat on one of the sofas, making themselves comfortable before Greg opened the bottle, taking a fortifying swig before passing it to Draco. Draco didn't bother to wipe the rim or even to summon glasses, instead taking a healthy swig himself.
For several minutes the boys sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth.
"This morning I asked my mum if Vince had got anything for your birthday."
"Circe," Draco muttered, leaning forward, forearms on his thighs.
"Mum started crying. You know how she is, and with Father. You know…"
"I'm sorry about Vince. I wanted to go back for him, but he was already… I'm sorry." Greg nodded.
"I know," he said. "I was thinking about it and I don't think his mum knows he's dead."
"What? How?"
"She disappeared. Weeks before the battle, apparently. Mum says she hasn't heard from Aunt Jolita since early April. Says she knew what was coming and left before the fallout. She might have heard about Uncle Cornelius' suicide in the papers, but none of them mentioned Vince. She's probably out there right now, in America or Lithuania or wherever, and she doesn't even know her son is dead."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. So I thought: Father's in Azkaban. My cousin is dead. My aunt is missing. All I've got left is my mum and you. I'm not that close to Blaise or Pansy, and I don't have friends. Just you. And do you know the worst bit?" Greg asked, looking to Draco for a response.
"What?"
"If it came down to it, I'd rather have you than Vince. You were a shit friend but over the years… you got better, I think, as a person. Vince only ever got worse. You were an arsehole but Vince was mean. You didn't hear it cos he didn't talk much around you, but to me? He was awful. He treated me worse than you ever did. He was a Death Eater, through and through. Worse than Theo. You never really talked about the Dark Lord or about what the Death Eater's were doing, but Greg did. Scary stuff. Horrible stuff. Said he planned to take the mark as soon as he graduated. I miss my cousin, Draco, don't think I don't. But I'm glad he's gone."
"I understand," he said, and he did. He knew exactly how Greg felt because he felt the same way about his father. He missed him, but he was glad Lucius was in prison. Was glad to be free of him for the first time in his life.
"I thought you would."
Three hours later and they were well and truly pissed, having continued broken into the manor's supply of liquor after Greg's initial gift had gone.
"'ve you seen the flat yet?" Draco slurred, gesturing around them as if to manifest their ministry-approved living quarters, cigarette dangling dangerously from is fingers.
"Naah," Greg waved the idea away, "we've been too busy packin' an' all. An' scared, if'm honest. Rather not think about it, til we 'aven't got a choice. No sense makin' it real til then."
Draco nodded at the wisdom of this. "Us too. 're nervous. But'm gonna go tom'rrow. See the place a' least.
"But why?" Greg asked, puzzled. "Why bother now? 's still weeks off yet!"
"I know, but-" Draco was interrupted by the door to his rooms opening, revealing an unimpressed Narcissa.
"You're drunk," she observed.
"Mother," Draco acknowledged, making an effort not to sound as drunk as he was.
"Iss 'is birthday!" Greg interjected in his defense as if Narcissa was unaware.
"Yesss! Thank you, Greg. It'ss my birthday, Mother. 'm allowed to get drunk on my birthday."
"Perhaps," the older woman allowed. "But not generally at half two in the afternoon."
"Time is a construct," Greg supplied philosophically and Draco nodded in agreement. Narcissa merely gazed at them in vague concern and poorly disguised disapproval.
Before she could respond to this bit of wisdom, a loud pop announced the arrival of a house-elf.
To their surprise, however, it wasn't one of their own. Rather it was Kreature, the elf belonging to Narcissa's aunt looking visibly distressed, tugging at his own ears.
"Kreature is sorry for coming Mistress Narcissa but Kreature is having no place else to go!"
"That's quite all right, Kreature," Narcissa attempted to put the elf at ease. "Why don't you tell me what's going on? Why have you come here in such a state?"
Kreature twisted his rags in his gnarled hands. "Kreature cannot find Master Harry Potter! Master Harry Potter is not in the house but House says Master is dying! House says Mistress Narcissa is mistress of the house now! Kreature is begging Mistress Narcissa please help find Master Harry Potter!"
Draco had never sobered faster in his life. Fumblingly, without looking, he put out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray. "You said you can't find him? But he's definitely in the house?"
Kreature nods miserably. "House says Master is at home and is dying! But Kreature has not seen Master Harry Potter in days! Kreature thought he heard voices in the guest bedroom two days ago but no one was inside! Kreature would know, house-elves can see through disillusionments. The guest bedroom was empty!"
"When did you last see Mr. Potter?" Narcissa asked.
"Breakfast some… Kreature paused to count on his nobbly fingers, "four days ago, Mistress!"
"And he hasn't been down to take meals?" She pressed.
Kreature shrugged with his whole, tiny body. "Kreature is working at Hogwarts in the day. Kreature doesn't know where Master Harry has been eating, but the kitchen has not been touched by anybody but Kreature, Kreature is positive. And Kreature has not found plates anywhere in the house. Not in the drawing-room, or the sitting-rooms, or the library, or the bedrooms, or the office, or-"
"Yes all right. And you're sure he is still within the wards?"
"Positive, Mistress."
"Take me there," Draco demanded, standing. "I know how to find him when he's invisible."