Quick note!

There are a fair amount of time jumps, so just keep an eye out for the headers!

I hope you enjoy!

Draco Malfoy

Malfoy Manor

July 1996

Draco's hand tensed around nothingness, although seconds prior it was gripped around an ancient, likely priceless vase. That was gone now. He had chucked it with every ounce of his being out the equally ornate and priceless picture window which now only existed as shattered glass on the floor of his bedroom.

He didn't give the destruction a second thought. Those broken things were not gone forever. When you live in the magical world, only one thing is permanent. And that is death.

Vaguely, Draco heard his bedroom door open and shut.

"Draco." It was the voice of his mother. The uncertainty of her tone nearly pushed him to act out violently again. This was all so fucked.

Even in his current state, he did his best to be respectful to her.

"I need to be alone," Draco said through gritted teeth. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, and the burning sensation of his skin breaking apart was a sweet relief.

Narcissa's form glided into his line of sight. She stood before him and to anyone else, she would have appeared just as poised and composed as she always was. But Draco knew better. The ways in which his mother masked her true emotions had all been passed down to him. She was a mirror of him, and him a mirror of her.

Minuscule creases formed at the edge of her eyes. She was trying to control her expression from revealing fear. But it wasn't working. At least not for Draco.

"We need to talk through how you plan to handle this…" she paused and let her gaze stray from him, "...task".

He tried so hard to not lash out at his mother, but he couldn't help it.

"It's a fucking suicide mission," Draco cut in, his voice raspy and cynical as he said it. His mother winced, and then paused.

It was too long of a pause. She didn't disagree with his summation of the situation. She believed what he did. She believed he was going to be killed.

An hour ago, Draco's likely death was not at the top of his list of concerns. Really, what concerned him most was the possibility of having his hand forced into becoming a Death Eater before he was ready. It's funny how something that was previously the worst case scenario is now nothing more than a footnote to the real existential threat, Draco thought with a sick sense of reflection.

Yes, he would need to become a Death Eater. That much was agreed to at the meeting he had just had with the Dark Lord. The ceremony would take place within the week.

Looking back, Draco knew something must be awry when the Dark Lord commanded that his mother be in attendance for their meeting. The Dark Lord didn't seem like the sentimental type; like he would want Narcissa to be there in order to witness her only son's rise to a noble calling. No, the most powerful dark wizard always had his agenda. And this time, it was to inflict punishment on both of them.

When the Dark Lord told Draco that in addition to becoming a Death Eater, he would be given a special task, one that he must accomplish, no later than year's end, Draco stilled with bated breath. When he spoke again, the Dark Lord gave the instructions that Draco was to kill Dumbledore.

Draco was practiced at maintaining a stoic disposition; one that would not give way to an ounce of weakness or insight to what he may be thinking of feeling. Even so, he felt himself betray his control and flinch at the command. The Dark Lord sneered and let the glimmer of a smile reveal that he was satisfied with Draco's discomfort.

His mother had immediately cut in, asking, no, begging for her to assume Draco's mission. Draco felt his whole body tense up. That was the wrong thing to say, and he knew damn well that his Mother knew as much. But she couldn't help herself. It was a knee jerk reaction to realizing that her son was likely just given his death warrant.

The rest of the meeting with the Dark Lord was a blur to Draco. More information was given to him about his mission, but Draco was buried deep in the recesses of his mind, separating himself from the current moment the best he could.

As soon as the Dark Lord indicated in some manner that he could go, Draco spun on his heel to get out of the now tarnished room that had once been his father's study, but now served as the Dark Lord's personal quarters.

Before he knew it, Draco was back in his room, his door shut, his hand on a two thousand year old vase, and every bit of him that wanted to rebel and scream came through him when he hurled the ceramic holder through his window.

"You must seek out Severus for help," his mother said. He wasn't sure how much of her speech he had missed while zoning out. When his attention focused, he saw that his mother had already retrieved and repaired the vase, and also made the window pane whole again.

Narcissa wouldn't be able to put Draco back together once the Dark Lord likely murders him for failing to kill Dumbledore, Draco thought. Or perhaps his death would be by the hand of Dumbledore himself.

An odd ripple twisted through his gut. It felt like dread and sorrow mingling together. He hadn't even considered the possiblity where he successfully murders Dumbledore.

There was no way a sixth year wizard, albeit very skilled for his age, could best the arguably most talented and accomplished wizard of their time. But what if he was able to do it? Perhaps by surprise, or an unorthodox attack.

That dread and sorrow solidified when the reality sank in that the alternative to death was becoming a murderer.

Other Death Eaters were flippant about taking a life. Often, when it would be brought up, the casters of the curse acted as if doing so was nothing at all, no different than a Stupefy spell. Draco watched them though, and he could see a deadness to their eyes as they said the words.

He saw it in his father, what taking a life did to him. He would never speak to Draco about the matter, nor would Draco broach the topic; but Draco knew it had happened: one could not live a life with any happiness after taking a life.

So the question then became: would he rather die, or live and never see happiness for the rest of his life?

Not as if he had a real choice in the matter. If he got to pick the latter, it would surely be because of luck.

His mother was in front of him, now with tears streaming down her cheeks. He must have unfocused his eyes again, gone deep within himself to numb the pain of the present. But his mother was crying now. He had never seen her eyes even look watery.

"Mother," Draco said in a hushed, pained way. He reached out to his Mother's shoulder and took hold of it.

"You cannot give up," she pleaded with him, having seen him go distant in thought. "You can do this, we can make sure you have all the necessary tools to do this."

Draco watched his mother sadly, and didn't believe her. But he didn't want to see her in pain.

The Dark Lord was really a master of punishment, he thought drolly. Draco mourned not only his likely death, but had to be tortured with his mother's pain. He had created a self sustaining mechanism of misery.

"I won't give up," Draco told her, squeezing her arm slightly, doing whatever he could to feign confidence.

And he really didn't have a choice; he did have to try. He was bright and would likely be the brightest witch or wizard at Hogwarts if it wasn't for that insufferable mudblood that seemed to outperform him every year. But he was capable of coming up with something creative, and maybe he could eke out surviving this thing.

There wasn't another option, another choice for him. He would take the mark, and he would try to kill Dumbledore.

Because when you are born a Malfoy, you do what is necessary to maintain the namesake and status that so many generations had fought and bled for.

This path was forged for him since birth. He would do what was necessary to forward the wizarding world and do away with the scum that muddied their superiority. Being a Malfoy was a responsibility, not a privilege.

He squeezed his Mother's arm once more. "I'll do whatever it takes to accomplish my task."

A year later

Hermione Granger

Granger residence

July 1997

A fresh sob ripped through Hermione's lungs. She covered her mouth with her hand out of reflex.

Just minutes prior, Hermione cast a memory charm on her parents, one that would ensure they never remembered their daughter. If Hermione was being honest with herself, she did not find it likely that the spell would ever be reversed; either because a spell like this would be near impossible to overturn, or because Hermione would not come out of this fight alive.

It was the last night she planned to stay with her parents before going off to the Burrow. There, she would join up with Harry and Ron to decide what they would do next in their plan to fight Voldemort.

Having made all the arrangements to ensure her parents could travel freely, and checking that nothing in the house could remind them of their lost daughter, she went to turn and leave, perhaps for the last time. But just as she shifted her attention, her eye had caught a wrapped box on the kitchen table. It occurred to her that her parents had likely planned to give her birthday gift early, before she left for the Burrow.

She approached the small box timidly as if it was a wild animal that would lash out and bite her.

By then, Hermione didn't think she could handle any more blows to her heart, and seeing the gift her parents had planned to give her threatened to break her.

But she was strong, she absolutely knew this to be true. How could she not be? A muggle born witch who is top of her class, therefore a target of any slimy pure blood attack on her character, had no choice but to be tough. Not to mention she had seen more battles, and a variety of them at that, to make her as seasoned in fighting as most of the order.

But those things weren't like saying goodbye to her parents, alone in her childhood home. Going into a fight was different than staring at the last birthday present her parents would likely ever give her.

Something painfully familiar, like deja vu, passed over her, making her head feel woozy. She shook it away. That feeling had been overtaking her more as of late, she thought warily.

With renewed strength, Hermione took hold of the box and slowly let one side of the elegant box slide out from under the other.

Her eyes landed on a small ornate oval locket that lay nestled on black velvet. Hermione plucked it from the box carefully, not being sure what to make of such an extravagant gift. It was well beyond what they had ever gifted her before.

In her hand, she felt the sheer weight of it, despite its small size. She discarded the box to free her other hand so she could analyze the piece of jewelry.

It was beautiful, Hermione thought as she let the pads of her fingers linger over the intricate carvings that left the entire piece textured. Looking closer, she noticed the designs covering the metal oval were that of ivy and roses.

She flipped it once more in her hand, and when she did, she saw there was a hinge on the side. A bloom of anticipation rose up to her chest. It was a locket.

Hermione positioned her fingernail in the ridge of the locket and pried it open.

A choking cry leapt out of her mouth before she could still herself.

Staring back at her from the locket was a picture of the three of them. Hermione was much younger, perhaps eight. It was the first time they had gone searching for snow on Christmas day at her mother's persistence. Hermione remembered how distraught she had been knowing there would be no white Christmas.

So they drove until they finally found an old patch of snow two hours north from their home. The three of them had triumphed in their find, and celebrated with the creation of a mangy looking snowman.

In the locket was a picture from that day, including that mangy snowman. A passerby had been kind enough to take it.

A tear ricocheted off of the locket, leaving splotches against the glass covering the picture.

The locket warmed to her hand, and a feeling seemed to course through her which stemmed from the locket. It was a sense of relief, or maybe even peace.

She would be able to take them with her in this small way.

Despite the circumstances, a quirk of a smile appeared at the corner of her lips as she finally shut the locket, for now at least.

Hermione knew good and well that she was about to step forth into the unknown. They did not know where the other horcruxes were, and the Death Eaters were positioned to take over the ministry within days.

The long chain of the locket slithered out of her hand. With care, she slipped the necklace around her head, and let the locket fall directly over her heart.

Hermione placed her hand over the locket, and her heart, and let her lungs fill with the scents of her home: earl grey tea mixed with coffee. Her parents could never decide.

They would stay with her, for as long as she needed them. And she would never be able to say thank you for the gift that they would never know meant everything to her.