The Hard Road
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Prologue
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Draco was huddled with his mother and father in Hogwarts great hall. Their invincible Dark Lord had fallen at the hands of a teenage boy. Stunned and sapped, the Death Eaters gaped as The Order of the Phoenix members surrounded them, wands crackling in anticipation of the slightest provocation.
It was done.
Over.
Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom scooped up Voldemort's corpse and nailed it to Hogwarts giant front door for all to see while The Golden Trio disappeared outside.
The Gryffindors were whooping and hollering, gloating alongside the cheering Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs while the defeated death eaters hunched low, licking their wounds beneath their captors, awaiting the inevitable.
Seamus Finnegan, snarling and spitting mad, charged in. He leveled his wand at Draco's father and shot a flash of fiery orange. The bolt missed and slammed a stunner straight into his mother's chest.
His mother's limp body sliding sideways through his arms awoke a fury. Power and rage poured through every speck of Draco's being. He shot up, dodged a red firebolt, and slammed a chair leg straight into Finnegan's jaw. The Irishman dropped like a stone and his wand shot into Draco's hand. He blasted bolt after furious bolt into The Order, charging straight at them as he fired.
The great hall erupted in screaming as the Order members dove for cover.
Buoyed by the sudden turn, the Death Eaters sprang into action, covering their retreat with a hail of fiery curses and jinxes.
His mother was limp, slung over his shoulder as he dragged his useless father towards the Forbidden Forest. They couldn't apparate off the grounds, and the Order was regrouping fast.
It came to him in a flash. He summoned every single broom on the entire grounds. Seconds ground past like hours as nothing but breeze answered. The pain of his mother hanging limp roared through him, and he summoned again with all his might. What seemed like an eon later, a rattling echoed across the grounds. The noise increased as the flock of brooms flashed towards them. They mounted the fastest of them, the Firebolts and the newest Nimbus models while commanding the remaining hodgepodge to follow.
They shot straight off the ground as hard as they would launch. The Firebolt under him lagged from the addition of his mother's dead weight, but he willed it to rocket off.
The inky night sky shrouded their retreat while the silver moon carried them, hurtling towards revenge.
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Chapter 1
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Two and a half years later...
The humming green light seared through Draco Malfoy's eyelids. White sparks floated across his vision as the first real light in nearly two years buffeted his transparent skin. He squinted and clawed, shielding the dizzying blur.
His fingers absentmindedly scratched at the frayed prison robe which hung like a potato sack over his bony frame, sending echoes pinging all over the dingy office. In front of him laid the dented and bruised hulk of a metal desk. Next came the scratching of a quill and the musty scent of India ink. A cough echoed off the painted cement block walls. His brain had already mapped the office. Behind the desk was a metal rolling chair ten years older than the desk, a bookshelf holding a few dozen books among a hodgepodge of mementos, and beside it an even more heavily dented filing cabinet. On the wall hung a dusty Union Jack beside an European Union flag. Next came picture frames without pictures. The paper was wrong, probably certificates of some sort. If he focused his senses, he would eventually cipher out the writing, but he didn't particularly care.
He returned to twiddling the coarse wool between his fingertips. I hope this robe doesn't stink. His rusty folding chair creaked again, like it did every time his body so much as twitched. He peered through the slit between his curled fingers. Junior Auror Harry Potter hunched over a pile of beige parchment with a tattered goose-feather quill scratching away. Dingy greenish light flickered from the ceiling and off of the chalky white walls, sending a kaleidoscope of sparkles through the disinfectant scented office.
Unlike the wizard sitting across the desk from him, there had been no public outcry over Draco's imprisonment or giant parades celebrating his release. An army of lawyers and a healthy chunk of the Malfoy family fortune had purchased his... Freedom wasn't the right word... Change of scenery was probably more accurate. You take a win where you get one.
Harry adjusted his wire rimmed glasses and pulled his nose out of the heap of parchment. "Sorry that they wouldn't honor the terms of the surrender agreement, but at least you're getting out. Two years is better than never."
Draco ran a pale hand over his freshly shorn head. "You're the one who didn't deserve to be in there."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, you did weed out a considerable number of turncoats and traitors from the ministry."
The corner of Draco's lip perked. "Ah, so that's why the Minister of Magic sent me the Christmas cards."
Potter snorted a spray of tea all over the growing heap of parchment. He was laughing as he wiped his face and then blotted the page with a wad of napkins. "Bastard. I should make you re-write this whole mess."
Draco winked. "I didn't like the clause about no shagging Weasleys anyway."
"I still don't know how Arthur got that in there. Why didn't your lawyers object?"
Draco let the mischief bloom. "Ron's not my type, Charlie is too old, Percy has a thing for vampires, and Bill is already taken."
"That still leaves George."
"I suppose that's why he put it in there."
Harry snorted his tea again. "Bastard."
The laughter died down, and Harry continued, "You know, they never got any further after the whole thing came off the rails. I thought you were such an arsehole, but we did make a lot of progress."
Draco nodded. "Well, at least you managed to get Granger and Weasley out ahead of the purges."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, well, they still blame me for that. Ron's second marriage is going even worse than his first one. That Markle girl, wow. Between the two of us, we're taking bets, but nobody has them past Christmas."
"Put me down for something in September. I thought Granger and Weasley were a thing."
"We all did. Arthur is always going on about how much Molly hates Meghan. His mother is still trying to set Ron up with Hermione."
"I'm hardly one to give marriage advice, but being already married seems like a good reason to leave off that sort of thing."
Harry shrugged. "Ron's mother is a Black."
"Ah, well, he's fucked then."
Potter nodded. "Yep. Between work and the university, Granger works like eighteen hours a day. No social life anymore. She was all set to marry Ron, but that fell apart. Then, she was getting hitched to Victor Krum, had the dress picked out and everything, but they split up."
Potter's Gryffindor gossip turned into buzzing. Draco's anticipation was getting the better of him, so he interrupted something about Hannah Abbot. "Do you still want to... You know.." He motioned with a swirl of his hand over his head.
Harry's smile bloomed. His bored eyes were now glittering. He glanced around and then nodded. "I thought you forgot."
"Not a chance."
Potter made eyes at the ceiling and shook his head.
Right. Not safe here.
His face felt strange and soft without the two years of accumulated beard and filth matted on his skin. The first hot bath since his imprisonment began was one of the few pleasures they had afforded him, probably so I wouldn't stink up his office. He had shaved it all off rather than fooling with the knots and crusted stench. "That place... You remember... I'm just thankful to be out. I can see how it drove Aunt Bella out of her mind."
His eyes drew shut as he savored the sweet silence punctuated only by the shuffling of papers. "I appreciate your testimony, as well as the letter you wrote to the ministry. Hermione as well."
Potter looked up for a moment then returned to the huge stack of documents. "Anyone else would have done the same."
"Except no one else did." Draco savored the paper cup of tea banishing the perpetual cold creeping through his limbs. "Thank you for this by the way."
"It's nothing."
"The porridge was frozen to the bowl this morning."
Harry's nose wrinkled as he shuffled the stack of paperwork. "Merlin, I hated that. And it always tasted like dirt. I swear, the smell of anything porridgey makes me gag. Well, on then, to the conditions of your parole. As you are aware, you are to report to Aubagne, Marselles, France for enlistment on June seventh. That gives you three months to get your affairs in order. The French Foreign Magical Legion has strict physical fitness requirements. You will be expected to meet these requirements upon arrival. We will meet on Crouch End Hill Bridge at half five Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday for readiness training. If you are unable to fulfill their five year minimum enlistment for any reason, you go back to Azkaban."
Draco and Harry had dragged their bodies out of Askaban's perpetual funk with endless pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups and running in place. There was basically nothing else to do in the darkness, and no other way to stay warm. His mind wandered a bit. "Did you ever go back for your seventh year?"
Harry pushed up from the stack of paperwork and nodded, the hand he pressed through his hair left it standing even more unruly than usual while his face slowly melted. "It... Wasn't the same. All of our friends were dead or gone by then, and they treated us like rock stars. I guess I never realized how much we looked like children. Of course, nobody would leave us alone. We got through, though."
"Did Hermione get her eight NEWTS?"
"Nine. You going to see if they'll let you finish?"
Draco's mind drifted back to the endless hours in the library and in Snape's potion lab clawing for his place as valedictorian. All gone. "After getting expelled for murder, leading the death eaters escape, and stealing every broom in Hogwarts? Sure, why not."
Harry snickered. "The bloody brooms. In hindsight, it was almost as funny as Fred's swamp. Nobody even knew you had retaken the ministry for a whole month. Especially with the parades and the big push to bring back muggles and half bloods. Nobody ever would have picked you as the one to sort out everything Riddle wrecked. Merlin, we made so much progress, and it all stopped dead. I have to admit that you are one hell of a manipulative bastard. Another month and The Order of the Phoenix would have disbanded."
Draco pushed his hands into his face. "And then my bastard of a father snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory. Speaking of shagging Weasleys, did anything happen between you and Ginny?"
The instant sadness flickered across Harry's face, he wished he had not asked. "Wow, I keep forgetting you were literally chained in a cave. That fell apart a couple months after I got out. I popped the question, but she turned me down. She's playing quidditch and dating a girl from the team in Luxembourg. I'm seeing a half blood witch from Bratislava. We run the floo every other weekend, at least when I'm not on duty."
Harry had talked endlessly about Ginny in prison, but, what are you going to do? He dipped the quill into ink and began scrawling as Harry enumerated each article of the life he was signing away. Soon, an ocean of beige parchment laid in three unruly heaps before him, complete.
Harry stuffed each stack into it's own manilla folder, handed him one, and racked the other two into the middle drawer of the file cabinet. "As you are aware, your parole will require a tracking device."
Draco nodded as Harry pulled a greenish box out of his shabby desk. It creaked open, revealing a long, silvery spaghetti noodle. "Arm or leg?"
He shrugged but Harry waited, so he stuck out his leg. Harry waved his wand, muttered a short incantation, and the noodle slithered off his desk.
Draco jerked and gritted his teeth as it bored through his skin and burrowed into the meat behind his thigh. His blue fingernails turned white, clawing into the rusty folding chair. He ground his jaws fighting back the urge to scream.
Harry slid a small phial of greenish liquid across the desk. "That went better than usual. Here."
Draco's hands shook as he fumbled with the cork. The herbal liquor burned like turpentine as it sloshed all over the inside of his mouth, but within seconds, the screaming rippling up his spine and into his skull dissipated into a dull ache.
Harry motioned. "Stand up. You need to walk it off."
Draco pushed up. At first, his leg wouldn't cooperate, but after a minute of stretching and bouncing, his knee no longer threatened to buckle. Three trips up and down the shabby hallway banished the feeling of ants chewing a nest into the back of his leg, and he could walk normally.
Twenty minutes later, the women serving the ministry cafeteria's lunch line gawked as Draco piled a hamburger on top of chips, a heap of spaghetti, broccoli, grilled asparagus, roasted mixed vegetables, mushy peas, and bread pudding. A small crowd ringed his table while he swallowed whole mouthfuls without even chewing. Hundreds of flavors exploded in his mouth. Herbs and spices caressed his palate as delicious aromas swarmed over his senses. He sopped up all the juices with bread before greedily licking his fingers, and finally the plate.
"Cor! Is that you? Draco?"
He was so enthralled with the ecstasy of his first meal outside of Azkaban that he barely noticed Blaise Zabini sidling into the chair beside him.
"Christ, it is you! You look like shite. What's with the rag over your eyes?"
He chased the last mouthful of bread with a gulp of hot tea, and wiped his greasy mouth across the scratchy sleeve. "Good to see you too. It's the light. I haven't seen any in two years. Got used to life without it... Sort of."
Blaise had Draco's sleeve pulled up and was handling his wiry arm. "Didn't they feed you in there?"
"Everything tasted like dirt, except the water, which stank of piss. So, what brings you to my neck 'o the woods?"
"Yeah, well, I've got my weekly check in with Potter. You know, parole and all."
"Did you get the silver worm thing?"
Blaise rubbed his arm warily. "You got one too?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, well, follow your paperwork to the letter or it'll turn your brain to mush. I snuck out of the manor once, and it zapped me so hard, I shit myself. Does it make everything you eat taste metallic?"
Draco's shrug made Blaise laugh out loud. "Yeah, how would you know, right? Did you hear about Pans?"
"No, why?"
"She hasn't been the same since she got out. Squirrelly. Cries all the time. Can't leave off the firewhiskey. Arms are covered in slash marks where she slit her wrists and she OD'd on Dreamless Sleep at least twice since she came home."
He beat back the fury welling up. The frustration drove his drawl thicker and heavier. "It wasn't right. She didn't deserve... They stuck her down in that hole for six months. Let those madmen use her. And those things had at her."
"The dementors?"
He nodded. "They tossed a seventeen year old girl in with those inmates. The place was like getting poured into hell every minute of every day. You're lucky you got off with parole."
Blaise nodded then changed the subject. "I bet you're ready to see Daphne, wink wink, nod nod, know what I mean, know what I mean. Mmm! That's one smoking hot witch your parents set up with."
His face lit. Dreams of Daphne's breasts had been one thing that kept him sane. Sure, he had been to prison, but he was Sacred Twenty-eight. At least that still meant something in the wizard community.
They talked some more. Blaise promised to bring Pansy over for a visit before he shipped out, but his face showed some doubt.
Apparition was on the list of things strictly forbidden, so he jumped a Floo. His mother greeted him at the manor. By the look of her black rimmed eyes and rumpled robe, she had been waiting all night.
Draco had spent the last twenty four hours steeling himself against this moment. He wasn't expecting her to be so small, or so old. The war must have taken a harder toll than he remembered. Her blonde hair was now streaked with gray. Creases etched her porcelain smooth face, and her sparkling blue eyes were ringed with red.
Everything was going to plan until the light scent of her French perfume filled his nostrils. Tears dribbled down her manicured cheeks as he towered over her tiny frame. She was rubbing her hand over the white stubble on his scabby head and her fingertips over the veins telegraphing on his arms, and it came out.
Half an hour later, the itch had overwhelmed him. He needed to be outside. Unfettered.
Cool rain sheeted his body as he ran the manor grounds. He always loved splashing through the mud, but it disgusted his father. The smell of green leaves floating in the fresh air intoxicated him and helped quell the burn in his side. Next he dropped into pushups. Icy rain soaked his body, numbing his limbs to the exercise.
The world waned as he continued to grind. He barely noticed the gray daylight disappearing into darkness until a loud crack sent him straight to his feet. A shriveled elf decked in the carefully manicured remains of a pillow case stood before him. Its gruff croaking beckoned. "Master Malfoy. Lady Malfoy requests your presence at dinner."
"Thank you Maltby. I suppose I ought to get cleaned up. Do you mind finding me some clothes?"
The shrivelled elf peered at him in a sideways glance. "Is Master Malfoy feelin quite alright?"
"Yes, why?"
"Ye's nary loafered in the rain like this, nor said a polite word to us before."
Apparently, Potter had worn off on him. "I had a lot of time to think. Please tell mother I'll be there as soon as I wash and change clothes."
The old elf nodded and disapparated with a crack, leaving him to sprint the mile and a half home through the soaked manor grounds.
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Draco scowled at the reflection shining back at him. In his place stood a lanky vampire in a stolen suit. His muscles showed through the transparent skin. Hands dangling six inches past his shirtsleeves left him looking like a bum. His argyle socks were prominently displayed thanks to pants which stopped halfway past his calves. Worse, the jacket was drum tight across his shoulders, but hung like an empty potato sack everywhere else. And the shiny black dress shoes, bespoken Italian - there was no chance. His feet were boat paddles beside them.
He summoned the house elves.
Maltby appeared with a crack, and then stood, hand over his lips, concealing his chagrin. "Mmm. Looks like 'ye's grown a mite."
His mother quirked an eyebrow when he wandered out, barefoot, and clad in sweats that barely covered his calves. She eyed him up and down then chattered on about Italian suits and custom fitted shoes. He cut her off. "I'm not permitted to leave the grounds."
His mother sniffed. "Well, then, we'll just have to have a tailor and a cobbler drop by."
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Draco arrived half an hour early for his first physical fitness meeting, expecting a horde of Aurors scrutinizing his every movement. Instead, he got Potter.
"Couldn't get anyone else interested in a run with a war criminal?"
Harry shrugged. His cheeks were flushed and his face filled with a lazy smile, undoubtedly courtesy of his weekend with the girlfriend.
Draco chuckled and they headed off into the pre-dawn fog. He kept the pace with Potter for twenty minutes while they chatted about a visit to the manor. While Potter was fantastically good at the typical "Defense against Dark Arts" stuff you find in a book, he had not really seen much actual dark magic beyond the war. They had talked about it for hours: Really understanding Dark Magic so you could deal with it effectively. Potter's year in Auror training only intensified his belief that wizards were being lied to. The stigma attached to dark magic's very name ensured they could not mount an adequate defense. Even now, Barty Crouch's tutorial during their third year was Harry's only formal training in the matter.
After a while, he bored of their slow pace and pressed Potter to speed things up. They flew across the wet grass and past the hedges lining the asphalt path. The burn in his side was like a drug, it's kiss of life pushed him even harder. He had gotten used to grinding himself past the point of pain and past the point of stupor just to keep his mind alive in that hellhole. Just himself and Potter, in the eternal blackness.
He was pushing squat thrusts as hard as he could, dropping into the push up, kicking his legs out, and jumping to his feet over and over in the cool morning. He didn't feel the hand jerking his shoulder or the voice over the buzz in his ears. The cool air had long since disappeared. His mind was back in the pitch black cell, totally unaware of the time or even the day. Buzzing coalesced into Potter's voice. "This was fun, but I've got to leave off... Work and all."
"When do you want to come to the manor?"
"Run it by your mother. Let's talk it over some more on Wednesday."
