Chapter 1: Tired
I am tired.
Everyone's tired, you'll tell me. You are correct. But my tired is different than their tired. Their tired is the tired you feel at the end of a quidditch match, soaring on your broom with the wind whipping your robes and the snitch gleaming in your hand.
At our first ever session, my tutor told me to empty the pond in the formal garden. He gave me a bucket. I failed. I must have carried five hundred buckets of water out of that pond before I noticed that the water level wasn't getting lower. My tutor noticed too, and cursed me for my lack of progress.
I complained, of course. I worked hard. It wasn't my fault there was so much water. It wasn't fair. My tutor laughed. He took out his wand, vanished the water, and hexed me again. It was my first lesson in magic.
As I sit here in the great hall, watching others dance and sing and drink toasts over the corpse of the Dark Lord, I am reminded that my tired is the tired of those bloody buckets. The tired I learned while watching the golden scales of the koi darken as they flopped and gasped in the mud of their waterless pond. The tired of the meaningless. The tired that doesn't give you an 'O' for effort. The tired that your bones can only feel when they know to their marrow that their suffering has absolutely no fucking point.
Speaking of places, I'm not sure why I'm sitting in this one. Don't mistake me, gentle reader, I understand. I just don't understand. I understand I walked down the moving staircase, passed through the great hall doors, and sat myself down at the Slytherin table. I just don't understand how any of it was allowed to happen.
Potter won. That scrawny, scabby little runt somehow managed to slay the Dark Lord. I've seen grown wizards, powerful men who could kill a whole family with one wave of a wand, bow at the hem of the Dark Lord's robe and cower. But, as usual, Potter stupidly ventured where the fearless feared to tread, and the fates scrambled to pave a road of golden bricks in front of him.
I would have told you it was impossible. If the universe had a single red knut's worth of sense to it, it would have been impossible. But here I sit in a great hall full of Potter's cheerleaders, watching as they toast to the Dark Lord's demise.
An elf appears and sets a plate in front of me. Bacon and eggs, of all things. Fresh from the Hogwarts kitchen. I'm not sure if I can eat them. It's not that I'm not hungry. I am. But even the best bacon and eggs are hard to stomach when your favorite aunt is lying in the corner, dead.
As I contemplate my biteless bacon, my mother talks quietly. She is trying to get my father to agree to our next steps. To come to a decision. To plan for our survival.
It's pointless, of course. My father isn't my father anymore. He hasn't been since his release from Azkaban.
My father doesn't speak of that time. I asked once, shortly before I went back to Hogwarts for my last year. At first, he said nothing. Then he went pale. Then he started to shake.
I walked away.
It was the least I could do. I knew my father had come back a lesser wizard, but I did not know until that moment just how much lesser. I left, and I saved him from the embarrassment of crying in front of his son and heir.
It was a kindness.
But my mother whispers in his ear anyway, her brow furrowed in interest when he makes his murmurs of reply. She was always a dutiful witch, my mother. She watches my father carefully as he sits, staring, unseeing, at some point at the far end of the hall. His own untouched breakfast sits in front of him. I'm not even sure if he knows that my mother and I are here, huddled protectively at either side, buffering him from all the unfriendly, staring eyes.
Someone's come to move poor old Aunt Bella. I guess that the sight of death, even her death, is enough to put a gallant Gryffindor off his toast. Maybe her broken body gave the bloody Boy Wonder a queasy feeling in his little tum-tum. Merlin forbid.
Not that Aunt Bella wasn't crazy, of course. She was mad as mandrakes. Madder. But she's always had a bit of a soft spot for me. It was she who told me to feel honored, not afraid, when the Dark Lord chose me for his plan to kill Dumbledore. Everyone else thought I'd been given a death sentence. Aunt Bella knew I could succeed. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably have gone out of my fucking head myself.
I'm sorry, gentle reader – does my language upset you? Perhaps you think I can't possibly be me, because you've never ever heard Draco Malfoy utter an obscenity before?
Well, there are a lot of things you don't know about me, so let this be the first you learn: I swear. A lot. I could weave a profane tapestry in grandiose Slytherin green that is big enough and wide enough that you could throw it over the castle and cover the entirety of Hogwarts in a smothering blanket of filth. So yes, gentle reader, I swear like Uther fucking Pendragon.
I just never do it out loud.
Anyone with any sense thinks in obscenities. Life is obscene. To pretend otherwise is to lie. Unless, maybe, you're the precious Potter. Or his trusty mudblood sidekick. They don't think life is obscene. They probably think it's a bar of the purest alchemical gold, just waiting to have the shit washed off it so you can see how pretty it shines.
"What the fuck?!" asks Weasley angrily. His nose is inches from Potter's, and he's got a handful of Potter's ragged shirt clamped in his freckled fist.
Weasley knows better, you see. Weasley knows that life is obscene. The difference between him and me is that he speaks the fact baldly, dropping its trousers and putting it out there for the whole world to stare at. It's repulsive.
Obscenity becomes vulgarity when spoken out loud. And if there's anything a Malfoy detests, it's vulgarity. Weasley would too if he had an ounce of breeding.
As I watch Potter try to soothe the giant ginger eruption and Granger dances between them like a toddler in need of the toilet, I find my first smile of the morning. I've waited for ages for this, but I didn't dare hope I'd actually be there when it happened. Perhaps Merlin still loves me, just a little.
When the Dark Lord fell, there was a second when the world stopped. We all stood there, completely and utterly motionless, as Potter reached out his hand and caught the Wand of Destiny while the Dark Lord's body crumpled to the floor. Everyone was mesmerized. It was like, by uttering a first-year disarming charm, Potter had managed to petrify the entire great hall.
Then the spell broke. Granger and Weasley ran at him. Weasley picked him up, hugging him and twirling him around as though he were a small child. Though next to Weasley, Potter does rather look like an undersized house-elf. Weasley was always tall, but sometime during the past year he's thickened up like a bull graphorn. Merlin knows what Potter and Granger have been feeding him.
Weasley and Potter's awkward embrace wasn't what I'd waited for, though. Something else happened in that brief, shining moment of emotional incontinence.
When Weasley set him down, Potter landed in front of Granger. She was crying. I couldn't begin to guess why. I would have thought she'd have been happy. The Dark Lord, the "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" who no doubt visited her nightmares, was gone. But she didn't smile or shout or cheer. She wept as she stared into Potter's grime-smeared face. And then she kissed him.
It wasn't my great aunt Cassie's kiss, either. The way she wrapped her arms around his neck and clamped her mouth on his, you'd have thought she meant to suck out his soul. And it went on for way too long to have been an accident, a missed peck on the cheek delivered by a blushingly embarrassed cousin. She kissed him like he'd just come back from the dead.
Which, to be fair, I suppose he had.
Potter didn't exactly fight her off. Why would he? Even I can admit that Granger filled out rather nicely over the past seven years. And somewhere along the line, she fixed those repulsive teeth. If some daring witch ever teaches her to use a hairbrush, she might even pass for presentable.
If you're into that sort of thing, of course. Which, in that moment, Potter certainly seemed to be.
And that's how we get to this point, gentle reader. This sensationally satisfying, sumptuous moment of Weasley staring murder at his so-called best friend.
Everybody knew it would happen. Everybody could see that she could only pick one of them, and that their friendship couldn't survive it. Everybody, of course, but those three fools.
Weasley's punch should flatten Potter, but it doesn't. Potter staggers around for a bit, looking slightly more witless than usual, but he doesn't fall to the ground.
Weasley stares at him in disbelief. It's not clear if he's surprised that Potter's alive after being struck with that bludger of a fist of his or if he's surprised that he hit the golden boy and wasn't struck down by a bolt of lightning thrown by Merlin himself.
Granger's talking to them both. They seem to be losing the will for violence. What a shame. I was enjoying the show. At least Potter's lip is bloody.
"What's he doing here?" asks a voice.
I look up. Standing in front of me are Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. Finnegan's wand is smoking. It may even be a bit cracked. Typical. I'd probably be in more danger if he was trying to heal me than hex me.
"Can I help you, Finnegan?"
His eyes narrow. "We all know what you did now, Malfoy."
I'm sure that, in the eyes of Gryffindor, my sins are legion. Why not add a few imaginary ones to the pile? "Do you? Well, judging by how she yelled my name, your girlfriend didn't seem to mind."
"Say what you want, ferret face. You'll get yours." Finnegan looks smug as he walks away with Thomas. Disappointing. How low must one have fallen if Seamus fucking Finnegan is looking down at you?
The rest of the great hall is content to stare. The stares aren't friendly, but at least they're quiet. I decide to tuck in to my eggs. It seems like a satisfactory reply.
I don't get long to enjoy them, however, before another shadow falls over my plate.
"You've got some nerve, Malfoy."
I look up. Standing in front of me is a Weasley. I'm not sure which one. There are so many. No matter, though. They're all indigent and they're all ignorant. Sorting them by name serves no purpose and isn't worth the effort. They're basically interchangeable.
"Did you hear me, you bastard? How dare you sit here? How dare you –"
"Enough, George," says another Weasley. This one's got a face that looks like it was gnawed by an angry chimera. He wraps his arm around his brother and tries to lead him away. "Enough."
"He's got no right to be here, Bill," says George. "He's got no right!"
Bill wraps his arm around George's waist and physically pulls him away, tutting and shushing soothingly, the way one might comfort a small child.
"Fuck you, Malfoy!" shouts George as he finally allows himself to be led away.
It seems vulgarity is a family trait. I say nothing in response. Nothing is required. And even if it were, I'm not sure what sort of response I would offer to that void.
Ugh, I'm being approached yet again. It would seem that Merlin's remaining affection doesn't extend far enough to see me finishing my bacon while it's still warm.
"Lucius Malfoy." The speaker is a tall dark-skinned auror wearing blue robes. He's got an enormous gold hoop in his left ear. I'm not sure if it has a ruby set in it like a charm, or if that's just spattered blood. Next to him is a big, square-jawed wizard with bright blonde hair. Both of them have their wands in their hands.
My father looks up. His face isn't folded with worry or twisted with hate. It's simply confused. As though he's not quite sure why the dangerous wizard with the hoop earring might want a word. "Yes?" he manages finally.
"You are under arrest."
"Under whose authority?" my mother asks lightly.
It's not a bad point. Who the fuck is running the show these days? The Dark Lord is dead, Thicknesse is dead, Scrimgeour is dead. Who can claim that they're on the side of law and order? Law and order might as well be fucking dead, too.
"Under the authority of Harry Potter," replies the square-jawed wizard.
Figures. Saint Scarhead of the perpetual sap and suffering, now the answer to all the wizarding world's problems.
Father simply nods and stands up. Mother, ever the dutiful witch, stands with him. Hoop earring and square-jaw exchange a quick glance. I don't think they were expecting him to go quietly. The fuckers look a bit disappointed.
"We'll need to take your wand," says square-jaw. He folds his arms over his chest, his wand still clutched in his hand. From a dueling perspective, it's a dumb move. Too hard to get your wand back into hexing position before you're hit. But if you're just trying to look impressive, I suppose standing there with your meaty arms flexed and your jaw jutting forward like a neanderthal works for some.
Father looks confused, and mother explains that he hasn't got a wand. Hoop earring frowns and square-jaw gives a little cough of scorn. It's obvious they don't believe her.
"Expelliarmus!" cries hoop earring with a flick of his wand. Hoop earring is clearly the one with the sense. No posing. No posturing. Just wandwork, quick as a striking snake.
The spell is powerful enough to knock father on his arse, but of course nothing else happens. Because mother isn't lying. He's not had a wand since the Dark Lord took his off him months ago. Father looks a bit confused, and a bit afraid, but he slowly picks himself up off the flagstone floor.
The combination of the flash of a spellbolt and the thud of father's body hitting stone is enough to draw attention. Conversation gradually ebbs away. Most of the great hall is staring at us now. Mother straightens her spine and lifts her chin. Father shrinks into her side.
Square-jaw, who isn't the one with the sense, decides to pat him down anyway. Like his wand wouldn't have been ripped from a holster, or pocket, or boot, or wherever else. It's a stupid exercise. But father is made to stand there while the blundering blonde baboon rifles his pockets and examines his sleeves. Even his boots and belt are thoroughly examined. I hunch over my plate, though my appetite is gone. I won't be another set of staring eyes.
Square-jaw leads father away. Where, I'm not sure. Father doesn't look back. I'm not completely sure he's aware that we're no longer with him.
Mother stares after him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. I see a small glitter at the corner of her eye for a moment, refracted light off a gathering droplet. But it doesn't fall. When father disappears, her eyes quickly shift. And fix on me.
"We should be going, Draco," she says.
I've become a Death Eater. I've participated in a plan to infiltrate a school full of children. Hell, I helped kill one of the most beloved figures on the fucking planet. I'm a bit past being ordered about by my mother. But on this occasion, she gets no argument. I stand quickly.
"Not so fast." Hoop earring holds up a hand. It's not his wand hand, but it's clearly meant to give us pause.
It works, damn him. Mother and I both freeze with that calm face staring at us impassively.
"Draco, I will need to see your wand." Hoop earring holds his hand out slowly, palm up. But I can see his other hand has raised his wand just a fraction.
"Of course," says mother, as though this is the most natural thing in the world. She looks at me expectantly.
I have no illusions. There's no use fighting it. If I try to protest, I'll just end up on the floor like father after a disarming spell knocks me arse over teakettle.
"It's in my pocket," I say, looking down at my chest. I slowly raise my hands while taking care that hoop earring can see that they're empty. Slowly, I open my jacket and pull the wand out of the inside pocket, holding it only with my thumb and forefinger.
"This is your only wand?" asks Hoop-earring, eyeing my clothes.
"It's not mine." I feel my lip curl in a sneer. Potter told the entire great hall he'd taken my wand. Surely hoop earring had heard. "I found it on the ground."
It was true enough. After Greg and I fled the Room of Hidden Things, I found it lying in a corridor near a body. I am not sure whose. Whoever it was, their head looked like it had been kicked in by a giant. I was reasonably certain that they wouldn't notice that this little strip of walnut went missing.
Hoop-earring takes the wand and flicks a spell at it. Ghostly letters float out of it – Petrificus Totalis! Stupefy! Stupefy!
That wand must have belonged to one of the Order of the Fucking Fortunate. There's no way a Death Eater would have gone that long in battle without casting something lethal. Lucky for me, I suppose. Who would believe that Draco Malfoy was carrying a wand with a trail of Unforgivables purely by accident? Less lucky for the poor bugger with the smashed head. Maybe if they'd been a little more vicious, they'd be here enjoying the eggs and bacon.
"Everything alright, Kingsley?"
Chimera's chew-toy Weasley is back. He's brought the Weasel King with him. Over Weasel King's shoulder, I can see Potter looking on nervously. There's no sign of the mudblood.
The appearance of the Weasley wonder-duo distracts Hoop-earring, whose name must be Kingsley. The words stop floating out of the wand.
"Yes, Bill. Ron. All is well." Hoop-earring eyes me. His face is unreadable. "We will have to make a decision."
"What kind of decision?" asks Weasel King.
"What does his wand say?" asks Chew-toy Weasley.
"I was in the middle of that." Hoop-earring points his wand again. The floating letters restart – Incarcerous! Impedimenta! The wand then emits a bang, a crack that can only be an apparition.
"It looks clean enough," says Chew-toy. He looks at me suspiciously.
"He says the wand isn't his." Hoop-earring's mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, none of it has moved. It's like the man's face is a mask. All except his eyes. His eyes are moving. "Where is your wand, Draco?"
"Didn't you hear? Potter has it. Maybe, if you bow low enough, he'll let you have a peek." My sneer is back.
"He had a wand." Weasel King looks pleased that the day has arrived when he knows the answer to something. "He was using it to hex us in the Room of Requirement."
"I see." Hoop-earring turns back to me. "Whose wand was that, Draco?"
"It was mine," says mother. "I gave it to Draco after his own was lost."
"I see," says Shacklebolt. "Where is that wand now?"
"Gone." It's true. I never found it after I lost it in the Room of Hidden Things. And I can't imagine that anything that was in there survived. Not the wand, not the vanishing cabinet, not even poor Vince.
Hoop-earring and Chew-toy look at each other, communicating silently. It's clear that Hoop-earring is the one making the decisions, though, from the disgusted look on Chew-toy's face.
"You can go," says Hoop earring finally. "Leave this place. But this is not the end for you. There will be trials. One of them will be yours."
"I don't see the necessity of that." Mother's spine is still straight. Her head is high. "Draco was at school for the past year. He hasn't hurt anyone. His father, the Dark Lord, they made him –"
"Fuck that," says Weasel King. "Malfoy's about as innocent as –"
"There will be adequate time for Draco to answer questions." Hoop-earring scowls at Weasel King, who goes quiet. I don't know what kind of dark magic he's got in that ridiculous hoop earring, but if it's enough to shut Weasley up, it's fucking impressive.
They all look so smug. So sure in their power. "Oh yeah?" I ask. Mother winces. "What if I don't show up?" My sneer hasn't moved.
"Then we'll know, won't we?" says Hoop-earring simply.
"You're not stupid, Malfoy. You can see what's happening." Chew-toy Weasley gives me a look that's almost pitying. It makes me want to rip the rest of his face off. "You-Know-Who's time is over. The Ministry, the new one, won't have much patience for those who supported him. If you declare you're not with us, then you're against us."
"Please run for it, Malfoy." The grin on Weasel King's face is nauseating. "Dragging you back will be sweeter than a brick of Honeyduke's best."
"Draco will present himself to the Ministry when he is requested," answers mother quickly.
She takes my arm and starts walking. I follow along. As we walk toward the doors, I catch sight of the mudblood. She's crying in a corner. Alone.
The Dark Lord's dead. Potter's alive. She and the side of light and loveliness have won the day. Me and the rest of the dark demons are broken.
What does she want that she's not got? I guess there's just no happiness for some.
I'm going home. I hope they enjoy their fucking party.
I am Malfoy.
And this is my story.