A slight breeze came in from the open door of Malfoy Manor for the first time in many months. "Do you have your bags?" Narcissa asked.

His mother was standing, waiting expectantly in opulent navy robes and a fresh face of carefully applied makeup despite the fact that it was six in the morning.

"Yes, mother," Draco said.

"Mr. Malfoy, I'll be escorting you to Hogwarts and I'll be with you throughout your stay," an Auror said. This man's face looked familiar, but all Draco could muster up the energy to call him in his head was Mustache, due to the coarse, scraggly hairs that decorated the man's upper lip.

"Where will I sleep at Hogwarts?" he drawled at the Auror.

"Dunno," Mustache shrugged, scratching at his square jaw, translation for Not my problem.

"Wonderful."

Though he was stressed for his exams, he yearned for the dungeons, for being quilted in emerald-colored sheets, cocooned in the familiar smells and noises of the Slytherin common room.

His mother gave a small smile, one that she reserved only for her son. "It'll be good for you, getting out of the house."

"Yes, who knows when I'll get another opportunity," he responded. His mother's face snapped back into place and he immediately felt awful.

She sniffed. "Concentrate on your studies. Your father and I are proud that you've decided to take your schooling so seriously, especially with...all of this."

"Thank you," Draco had to stifle a sad little laugh. It was so like her to refer to the fact that his family's never-ending house arrest as "all of this". Yes, he was sure that his peers often had to read statements about their criminal parents. Of course.

He reminded himself that it was he who had decided to take his exams. Nobody had expected him to finish his schooling, though his mother had been the happiest he had seen her in years when he'd told her.

"I know you'll do well. I'll see you soon," she wrapped her arms around Draco. He hugged her back. Nowadays his mother held him longer than she ever had.


Draco Apparated with the Auror in a daze. The thestral-drawn carriage that waited for them at the front gates of the Hogwarts grounds had served as a grim reminder of the three years that had passed since he had last truly felt free.

The thestral stared ahead, as still and as dark as the windless evening. He shivered, recalling how he had marveled at the carriages when he had first arrived at Hogwarts. But there was no boat ride this time, no trolley full of sweets. He quickly let himself into the carriage and sat across from Mustache, who was idly twirling at his facial hair.

"Haven't been back here since I was in school," the Auror remarked, looking out the window at the castle that loomed ahead.

He scrutinized the Auror. Despite the man's poor choices in grooming, he was quite young, no older than thirty.

"Not even during the battle?" Draco asked.

"Well, yes," he said, not seeming to take offense. "But it wasn't really the same. All Malfoys are Slytherins, aren't they?" the Auror asked conversationally.

Draco felt his back stiffen, waiting for the verbal attack. Ever since the Dark Lord had fallen, Slytherins were not doing themselves any favors by, well, simply existing.

"Yes."

"I was almost put into Slytherin," the man went on mildly, a twinkle in his eye. Draco attempted not to roll his eyes with the force of a rogue bludger. It was the very same line he used to hear at the social events he was dragged to. He would hear it from proud adults as they clinked glasses with his parents. And after a certain age, it was whispered to him by pureblood girls who were told, no doubt by their own doting mothers and fathers, that there were certain ways to a Malfoy heart.

"I'm shocked," Draco said, his tone dry.

"But the Hat said I was too much of a troublemaker to be in Slytherin!" Mustache chuckled.

"Let me guess then, Gryffindor?" Draco said, making no attempt to mask the disdain that dripped from his tone. Mustache's unflappable demeanor only irritated him more.

"Hufflepuff," he said softly, lost in a thought. Mustache's mustache wiggled. "Hadn't thought of that in years, to be honest." A grin. Stupid git, Draco thought.

Draco did not justify this with a response. He looked out the window for the rest of the trip, stomach growling. He thought about the pumpkin juice. He wondered if the house elves in the kitchens would still feed him, even though he was a Slytherin, marked with green.


"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall came striding out of the castle to greet him and Mustache as Draco stepped out of the carriage. "How was your journey?" she nodded at the Auror.

"Fine, Headmistress," Draco said stiffly. He hated these kinds of pleasantries. He wished people would just come out and say it. Oh, Mr. Malfoy! Welcome. So looking forward to seeing your father get what he deserves. Indeed, I do seem to recall that you were involved in a plot to kill Professor Dumbledore a few years ago. How have your studies been?

"Leave your things here, if you please. The official is already here to administer the exam." McGonagall continued, leading them inside the castle. Draco breathed in the familiar smells. He could hear the clamoring in the Great Hall—breakfast time. For this at least, he was thankful. There would be no students milling about.

Draco's eyes darted about the entrance hall. Everything was exactly the same. If he stood still for a second, he could almost trick himself into believing that he was a child—twelve years old again. He felt a tugging at the back of his eyes, and he scowled. Not here. Not now.

"Professor, I can show myself to the dungeons."

"The dungeons?" McGonagall asked. "I'm afraid I have to escort you and your," she paused, looking at the Auror, "security detail up, Mr. Malfoy. You'll be staying in one of the vacant rooms attached to the infirmary."

That's right, Draco reminded himself. I'm not twelve anymore, and now I have a fucking Auror who follows me around. Just in case I make a run for it or curse any blood traitors.

The three of them turned down a hall he used to take as a shortcut to History of Magic class. McGonagall led the way to a room. It was a standard classroom for specialized subjects, small and skinny with three blackboards and no windows. There were two cauldrons set up in the middle of the room, and a plump, middle-aged witch with cropped red hair and large purple spectacles peered inside of them.

"Draco Malfoy," he introduced himself. "Thank you for accommodating me."

"The name's York," the woman nodded, returning to her work. Whether she was simply reticent or believed that the Malfoy name should rot in Azkaban, he couldn't be sure.

"Hello, Malfoy," someone else stepped into the light and Draco felt as though he was daydreaming again. He recognized the voice.

Oh, right. Malfoy thought, This is the Hogwarts I remember.