Greengrass Manor made a mockery of time. It loomed, unchanged by war or man, over a vast front lawn, lit only by a large floating lantern. The green flame within contorted into writhing humanoid shapes, reminiscent of everything and everyone he hoped to forget. Draco shivered and upped his warming charm.
But the manor wasn't his destination tonight. To the right, bathed in moonlight and ice, a flagstone pathway cut a glossy trail through the white snow. Voices rang out, echoing across centuries of forest and granite.
He didn't have to go. Didn't have to make small talk in front of Astoria's tomb. Didn't have to raise his Occlumency walls so high they'd stick out the top of his skull.
Draco resolved to go back the way he came when a black leather glove landed on his shoulder.
"Draco," Yaxley simpered. "My condolences. Your father was a great man."
Draco did his best not to be too rigid, instead adopting a haughty posture as he faced the man. He could do this. It would be easy to fall back on his old ways, if he had to.
"Yaxley, good to see you," he drawled. "Father would be pleased to know you are in attendance tonight."
In head to toe Death Eater regalia, Yaxley could have been the one floating outside his window a few nights ago. Draco gave nothing away, hoping the vile man would move on. There was no getting out of attending the vigil now that he'd been seen, but perhaps he could feign deep sadness and return to the flat early — although a different axe hung over his head there. He had no desire to talk to anyone, especially Granger, tonight.
His hopes were dashed when the Death Eater responded in a careful tone. "And are you pleased?" Yaxley's grip loosened, his eyes fastened on Draco's, searching.
Why the fuck would Yaxley care if he was pleased?
Before Draco could conjure a response, Goyle appeared out of nowhere, smelling of cheap liquor and iron. "Draco, Yaxley, good to see you both. We're about to begin."
Goyle led them to the mausoleum, an amphitheatre of stone cascading from the top of a hill down to a ravine. The crunch of ice beneath his boots made Draco's teeth clench as they approached. A swarm of Death Eaters buzzed, their loud conversation more appropriate for a raucous reunion than a sombre affair. When he glimpsed Astoria's likeness, immortalised in gold-veined marble, he broke off from them without a word. He walked delicately around the ancient grave markers and away from the swirling black hole of dark magic threatening below.
He found himself kneeling in front of her tomb. Snow seeped through his trousers, numbing his lower legs, but he made no move to rise. His tongue lay thick and useless in his mouth.
"Astoria," he shivered again. He thought he would feel her warm presence, or hear the tinkling of her laugh. "I should have come sooner."
He brushed fresh snow from the inscription underneath the giant statue. Her date of birth, and her date of death stared back at him, as did a large set of roman numerals, representing the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But the Greengrass family motto, antiquum assero decus, was strangely absent. Had they known the truth?
Before Draco could contemplate this revelation further, Daphne came into view. Her pale glow raised something from the well of his mind, but he released the rope and sent the bucket clattering down into the darkness. He stood and bowed.
"Draco," she said softly, joining him by her sister's tomb. She hesitated, and then hugged him as one might a patient just released from hospital. Her black robes smelled like cedar.
"Hello, Daph."
"It's been awhile." She weighed and measured him with a once-over.
This time, his mind didn't stop the bucket from rocketing up and sloshing its contents over the edge.
Daphne, a black veil covering her deep blue eyes. Daphne, laying a single red rose on his mother's coffin. Daphne, pulling Goyle away from him as they screamed obscenities at each other, wands out and primed to hex.
"How are you?" Fuck, that came out weaker than he'd intended.
But if anything, that drew her closer. "Not great. It'll be ten years next week."
"How could I forget?"
Goyle slithered past them and through the crowd. As Death Eaters let him pass, Draco recognised more than a few faces. Rowle, MacNair. He wasn't sure how they'd slipped through the Dementors' savage lips. But the real surprise was how many he didn't recognise. Many of them looked his age, or younger.
"Is Blaise with you? Greg asked him to come and show his support."
"No, he's actually helping Gra—" An elbow belonging to someone jockeying their way to the front of the gathering interrupted him before he said something stupid. Goyle had likely spread the word about his marriage to Granger, but he'd be damned if he discussed his wife in front of his onetime future sister-in-law.
Daphne didn't seem to notice the near misstep.
"How's London?"
Draco eyed her curiously. "How did you know I'm in London?"
She didn't bat an eye. "Greg told me. We're engaged. And I know what you're thinking, Draco — took him long enough. But I don't want a winter wedding, so he's agreed to wait until summer. I hope you'll be in attendance."
He ignored her invitation. "What else has Greg told you?" It was hard to tell in the dark, but Draco thought he saw a flicker of mistrust cross her face. Did she already know about Granger?
Just then, Goyle shot a burst of green sparks into the sky. They rearranged themselves to depict the face of Lucius Malfoy, glittering menacingly over the hooded figures below. The Death Eaters soon stopped milling about, some leaning onto headstones or statues. Their mutterings ceased as Goyle cleared his throat ceremoniously.
"It's been a long time since I've seen so many of the faithful in one place. Welcome, brothers and sisters. Tonight we honour the life of someone close to the Dark Lord and his mission. A man who spent his dying days in Azkaban, but never once succumbed to the horrors within those walls. Lucius Malfoy," he paused for effect. A few wands raised in the air in acknowledgement, sleeves receding down to shoulders. Draco stiffened at the sea of Dark Marks.
How were there still so many of them? What were those good-for-nothing Aurors doing? Why were they all here tonight, so openly remembering his father?
"Lucius Malfoy," Goyle repeated. "He was the best of us. Though we have no body to lay to rest, we do have his son here with us tonight to say a few words."
Heads swivelled, searching for Draco. His feet were like lead as he parted a black sea of cloaks and hoods towards a beaming, triumphant Goyle.
He had two choices. The first would sign his own death certificate. He could tell them all what he really thought about his father, the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord. Lambaste their ideas of magic and purity. Castigate them for their crimes. The Killing Curse would ring out from every direction.
It would be quick, and it looked easier than suffering under the Cruciatus. The old Draco Malfoy might have done that. He missed his mother more than anyone else in the world, and there had been many nights he'd contemplated joining her in death.
But he couldn't leave this astral plane without knowing who killed her and Astoria. It occupied his thoughts from the moment he woke each day to the moment he gave himself up to sleep and the tortuous, unending nightmares that ruled his nights.
And so he chose a second path. Deception.
Occlumency was his friend as he shook Goyle's outstretched paw with a grin.
Draco tipped his wand to his throat to broadcast his voice to the waiting Death Eaters. He twisted the hawthorn wood in his hand, testing his grip, applying unnecessary pressure to his carotid artery. Better to die by one's own hand, if it came to it. "Goyle, thank you for organising this. I share his sentiment — it's been far, far too long since I've seen so many of you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming out to show the Malfoy family your support.
"Our kind has lost so much these past few years. Family, friends, our homes, our money. My family has been particularly hard hit. My father was my last living family member that kept the old ways."
"The pure way!" A man yelled out in a hoarse voice.
Draco soldiered on. "He taught me everything I know. He's still teaching me, even now. Change is coming," he paused, hoping it looked like he was suggesting the Death Eaters would rise again instead of his true wish, which was that they'd all drop dead. "Remember Lucius, my father, who never gave up. He kept the faith, when others were lured away by promises of Galleons and glory. Even after the first war, he never let so much as a blemish of betrayal or illegitimacy stain the Malfoy name."
His stomach twisted as he forced the final words out in a shout. "He never gave up on the Dark Lord, and most importantly he never gave up on all of us!"
The applause was thunderous and instant. Death Eaters flocked to him from all sides, congratulating him on the speech, offering their condolences. It seemed like hours before they subsided, although it could only have been a few minutes. Draco remained composed, aloof, icy — like his father trained him.
After an interval, Goyle sent more sparks into the air, demanding the attention return to him.
"I'm proud to call Draco my longtime friend, and even more proud of the plans he has to restore us, and the Dark Lord, to our rightful places!"
"Hear, hear!" Shouts of agreement rang out.
Draco focused on retreating into the recesses of his mind. Plans? He had no plans. What was Goyle on about?
"You've all felt it. Our Marks," Goyle gestured to his own. "They've been burning, itching, writhing across your forearms, have they not? And those of you without Marks before, they etched themselves into your skin a few nights ago, yes? The night of Lucius's death. You know, he wrote to me often. He told me Draco had the power to lead us. And I believe he will. He's got the knowledge, the might, and the magic only Purebloods can wield. And he's got a secret weapon."
He caught the glint in Goyle's eye. No.
"He's got Potter's Mudblood."
Horrified cries echoed through the ravine, and one woman, whose dramatics reminded him of Aunt Bella, pretended to faint.
"The press will have you believe they're together. They'll tell you true love has redeemed the last living Malfoy. But we know the truth. Draco would never sully himself with that foul Mudblood bitch. A plan is in motion. I can't say more, but ready yourselves, brothers and sisters. Keep your wands close, and your wits about you. When Draco summons you, be prepared to meet the Dark Lord again, and account for all you have done in his name. Until then," he raised his wand to the sky. "Morsmordre."
The Dark Mark materialised above them, and Draco didn't look up along with the rest of the group. Instead he looked at Goyle, the Death Eater's eyes wide and his smile manic underneath the Mark's green glow. He stared straight back at him.
Draco melted past his wards, sapped of all energy. He shucked his greatcoat and scarf and tossed them onto the bench at the end of the bed. Exhaustion and cold lapped at his bones as he sat down to remove his boots.
It had been a huge mistake to go tonight.
Who'd have thought Goyle had it in him to be so cunning? He'd roped Draco into some diabolical plot he didn't understand under the guise of a vigil. Draco tightened his hands into fists. There was nothing he hated more than being made to look foolish. It had been so easy to lure him to Greengrass Manor, into the den of Death Eaters. Goyle must have known Draco couldn't resist seeing Astoria again, if only in stone. When had he become so predictable?
In the near decade since the murders of his mother and Astoria, how many visits had Goyle made to Lucius? Draco shunned his father, and never saw him after their last conversation. He'd asked not for permission to marry Astoria after their long courtship, which had been gleefully arranged by the Greengrasses and Narcissa, because he didn't need or desire Lucius's blessing. No, he needed access to the box of engagement rings in the family vault, the password to which was safely guarded by the eldest married Malfoy man.
At first, his father appeared thrilled, speaking of duty and continuing the family line. He provided the password but suddenly startled, as if remembering something long forgotten.
"Wait. The younger Greengrass, not the older one?"
"Astoria," he'd confirmed.
"Draco, my son, she is — you cannot marry her. I forbid it."
Draco scoffed. "You're not in a position to forbid me from anything."
"Don't walk away from me!" He rattled the bars of his cell as guards closed in, wands at the ready. "Draco, I won't let you do this! Draco!"
The next day, Draco had gone to the vault and extracted a ring for Astoria. He couldn't casually pop into one of the Diagon Alley jewellers and make a selection. Only the Malfoy family rings had the power to provide an heir. All Malfoy men, until they wed, were under a spell that rendered them infertile. While Pureblood men were encouraged to save their virginity for their wife, the spell was cast in the interest of keeping with the family motto, Toujours Pur, in case a man slipped up before marrying.
Draco could barely recall it now, but he'd been incandescently happy. Astoria, limpid-eyed like her sister, but otherwise nothing alike. She inspired wonder and joy wherever she went. She made his mother laugh for the first time in years, and that made the decision easier for him. He had to marry eventually, and why shouldn't it be her? He'd been skittish, but she spoke of bubbling springs and ribbons and children — and he convinced himself his platonic love for her would crescendo into desire.
When he'd arrived back at Malfoy Manor, he expected to hear Narcissa's smooth soprano reverberating through the kitchen, singing along to whatever music Astoria had playing in the dining room as she set the table. It had been their tradition ever since the courtship began. All three of them sat around a much smaller table, one that Nagini had never eaten anyone on, and served themselves, being that the Ministry had, after much wailing of the centuries-old creatures, transferred the Malfoy house elves to other homes. But they didn't talk about the war, or anyone's blood status. They smiled at each other and shared stories and intricate desserts.
Instead he was greeted with silence, and the horrifying scene that replayed itself in an unending loop each night when he finally fell asleep, if he slept at all.
It could only have been Lucius, but Draco didn't know how he'd done it. Had he hired someone? Asked a Death Eater? Performed a dark spell remotely? And why his mother, too? Lucius claimed to love her and Draco more than anything, and while he knew his father's version of love was corroded at the core, he never thought Lucius would kill his own wife.
Draco never answered one of his father's letters again, and eventually they stopped coming. He assumed the man's body and soul rotted away in Azkaban.
He should have never underestimated Lucius Malfoy.
Draco tried the door to the bathroom, but it was locked. Either Granger was in there, or she'd left it locked by accident. Or, he mused, to irk him. He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing from the other side.
"Granger? Are you in there?"
He received no response.
"I'm coming in," he warned. "Alohamora."
The bathroom lay empty. The only signs that his wife shared the space were a tube of the tooth goop she used, a pile of hair pins, and a hairbrush exploding with strands of curly brown hair. He picked it up and ran his hand against the bristles. The door to her bedroom, his former library, was shut.
Draco contemplated wandering in. After all, she'd invaded his space yesterday, and who knows what state she'd left the room in. He expected it would be as wild and unkempt as her hair — wrinkled sheets, piles of clothes. But before he could give it further consideration, he heard shouts from down the hall.
He set the hairbrush down, drew his wand and slowly moved back into his bedroom. Merlin, this night of surprises refused to end. He entered the dark corridor, flattening himself against the wall as he crept towards the source of the shouting.
Draco stopped inches from Granger's parents' room. Granger's father yelled something, Granger yelled back, and then he heard the sound of breaking glass. His heart nearly beat out of his chest as he pressed an ear to the door.
"I can't live like this, Hermione! I won't!" Granger's mother screamed. "You have to do something. Make me forget again, I don't care. You've always done whatever you wanted to, whatever your magical life requires. I'd rather die than be locked here like a prisoner another day!"
"Hermione, we just want to know what's going on," Granger's father implored.
"I don't. Maybe it's foolish to think you'd ever give me a choice, but if you ever loved me, make me forget again so I at least believe I have my husband back."
What the fuck?
"Mum, please believe me, I love you. I didn't want to do this! I didn't want any of this," Granger whimpered. Whatever she uttered next was too quiet for him to hear, but the bitter tang of magic filled the air and two large thumps followed.
A tense silence followed.
He'd promised Granger he wouldn't interfere with her parents, but fear and curiosity overwhelmed his better judgement. Before he could consider the ramifications of breaking a promise to his wife, he turned the doorknob and nearly fainted.
Granger bled from somewhere — he wasn't sure where. A sparkling spiral of glass shards, some tinged with red, encircled her where she kneeled. Her parents, in their nightclothes, lay stunned in their bed. Smears of blood were on her clothes and the floor, and it was all he could do to prop himself up against the doorframe and not pass out.
When he blinked, he saw his mother and Astoria laying in a pool of blood on the dining room floor, surrounded by bits of glass and broken porcelain like some sort of twisted mosaic. He blinked again and shook his head, calling upon his Occlumency.
"What are you doing here?" Granger hissed, wiping tears from her cheeks. "We had a deal!"
"You of all people should know deals can be broken," he said pointedly. "I heard the yelling and — Granger, did someone Obliviate your parents?"
She didn't meet his gaze.
"This is why you hid them from me, isn't it?"
"You and the entire wizarding world, yes." She shifted back on her heels and, observant of all the glass, stood to face him. She looked nervous, but he didn't know her well enough yet to decipher her emotions.
"How have you been caring for them alone?"
"I had to, it was the only way," she said, as if she was pleading with him.
Draco reminded himself he could be cool and unattached as long as he was behind his walls. He could keep her talking. "This explains why they needed all those expensive potions ingredients."
"You're quick, Malfoy. Though it pains me, I've always admitted that much," she said. Her voice had a hoarse and hollow quality to it.
"There's just one thing I can't figure out. My father and his merry band of murderers never found your parents during the war, and if they had, they would have killed them on sight. So if it wasn't Death Eaters, who did this to them, Granger?"
The question hung in the air for a long moment, as if Granger debated answering it.
"I did."
Her words hit him like an Unforgivable, and his walls came crashing down for the first time in nearly ten years.
"You're a monster." He staggered away from her, covering his mouth with a fist.
He was going to be sick right in the hallway.
Granger did this. Granger, who'd insisted she loved her parents. To think he'd felt sorry for her the other day, believing she was a dutiful daughter, when all this time he'd been bankrolling her depraved experiments. How had she Obliviated them to the point where they required constant care? It took extreme magic, maybe even dark magic, to reduce a human being to such a state. And she'd used it on Muggles. Her own family.
She lunged at him, grasping at the space he once occupied. "It isn't what you think — Malfoy!"
Draco didn't wait for her to explain. He ran straight for their bathroom and vomited directly into the porcelain sink.
