Draco's hand tensed around nothingness. Seconds prior, it had gripped an ancient, likely priceless, vase. That vase was now gone. He had chucked it with every ounce of his being out the equally ornate and likely priceless picture window— now only shattered glass on his bedroom floor.
Despite their value, he didn't give their destruction a second thought. In the magical world, only death was permanent.
At the edge of his awareness, Draco heard his bedroom door open and close.
"Draco." it was his mother, her voice hesitant but calm. Her control taunted his rickety resolve, normally steely and unshakable. Everything was so fucked.
"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.
Entering his line of sight, his mother stood before him, to anyone else, just as poised and composed as always. But Draco knew better. The minuscule creases at the edges of her eyes gave away her fear.
"We need to talk about how you plan to handle this…" she paused, her gaze straying to avoid his eyes, "...task."
He tried so hard to not lash out, but he couldn't help it.
"It's a fucking suicide mission," Draco cut in, his voice raspy.
His mother winced, but did not contradict him. She must believe as he did. He was going to be killed.
An hour ago, a likely death was not at the top of his list of concerns. Ever since his father's failure at the Ministry the year prior, a retaliation on the Malfoy family was expected, likely in the form of forcing Draco into taking the mark. It was the inevitable trajectory for the young Malfoy, but the reality of it happening, and his lack of choice in the matter, unsettled him. Now, merely taking the mark felt inconsequential to the greater existential threat he faced.
Upon answering the Dark Lord's summons, it was made clear: Draco would become a Death Eater. The ceremony would take place within the week.
Draco felt something awry when the Dark Lord commanded his mother's attendance at the meeting. The Dark Lord didn't seem like the sentimental type, like he would request Narcissa to be there just to witness her only son's call to a noble cause. No, the most powerful dark wizard always had an agenda. This time, it was to inflict punishment on them both.
In addition to becoming a Death Eater, explained the Dark Lord, Draco would be given a special task. One that he must accomplish before the year's end. The Dark Lord grinned, and Draco stilled his breath. He was ordered to kill Dumbledore.
Draco was practiced at maintaining a stoic disposition, one that would not betray an ounce of weakness or any insight into his feelings. Even so, he felt his mask waver as he flinched at the command. The Dark Lord sneered, lettinga glimmer of a smile reveal his satisfaction with Draco's discomfort.
His mother immediately cut in, asking, no, begging to be allowed to assume her son's mission. Draco's whole body tensed. That was the wrong thing to say, and she knew that damn well, but it couldn't be helped. It was a knee-jerk reaction to realizing her only child had been given his death warrant.
The rest of the meeting was a blur. Draco buried himself deep in the recesses of his mind, separating himself from the moment as best he could. The Dark Lord's instructions sounding far away.
As soon as the Dark Lord dismissed him, Draco spun on his heel, fleeing the now tarnished room that had once been his father's study.
Before he knew it, he was back in his room, his door shut, his hand on an ancient vase, every bit of him that wanted to rebel and scream burst to the surface as he hurled the ceramic vessel through his window.
"You must seek out Severus for help," his mother was saying. He wasn't sure how much of her speech he had missed during his recollection. His attention now focused, he noted his mother had already repaired and replaced the vase as well as made the window pane whole again.
Narcissa wouldn't be able to put Draco back together once the Dark Lord murdered him for failing to kill Dumbledore. Or perhaps his death would come at the hand of Dumbledore himself.
An odd ripple twisted through his gut, like dread and sorrow mingling together. He hadn't even considered the possibility that he might successfully murder Dumbledore.
There was no way a sixth-year wizard, albeit one very skilled for his age, could best the arguably most talented and accomplished wizard of their time. Odds aside, what if he was able to do it? Perhaps by some surprise or an unorthodox attack.
The dread and sorrow solidified when the reality sank in that the alternative to his own death was becoming a murderer.
Draco had keenly observed Death Eaters in his home over the years. Their sad, desperate dispositions were a leading deterent for the youngest Malfoy to not follow in his father's footsteps, but how they spoke about murder deeply chilled him. They regaled each other with stories about their kills as if they were no different than landing a stunner on an opponent. Draco paid close attention to their eyes when they spoke on the topic, their pupils dull, like something dead behind the curtains.
He knew his father had taken a life at least once. A Death Eater one night, drunk on Malfoy liquor, taunted young Draco asking when he'd make his first kill, to catch up to his father. Lucius never spoke to Draco about the matter, nor did Draco ever plan to broach the topic, but their eyes met that night, and the son could tell the act did something gruesome to the father.
The question then became: would he rather die or would he rather live to be a miserable murderer.
Not that he had a real choice in the matter. If the latter happened, it would undoubtedly be due to luck.
His mother stood in front of him, tears streaming down her cheeks. It startled him, he had never even seen her eyes watery.
"Mother," Draco breathed. He reached out to his Mother's shoulder.
"You cannot give up," she pleaded with him. "You can do this. We can make sure you have all the necessary tools to do this."
Draco didn't believe her, but didn't want to see her in pain.
The Dark Lord was really a master of punishment, he thought drolly. Not only was Draco tortured with his own likely death but also the knowledge of his mother's 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 had to try. He was intelligent and would likely be the brightest student at Hogwarts if it wasn't for that insufferable mudblood that managed to outperform him every year. He had to have faith though; he knew he was capable of coming up with something creative, creative enough that 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.
He was born a Malfoy, and Malfoys did what was 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 the pure waters of wizard-kind. 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 1997A fresh sob ripped through Hermione's lungs. She covered her mouth with her hand out of reflex.
Just minutes prior, Hermione had cast a memory charm on her parents, one that would likely mean they would never remember their daughter. If Hermione was being honest with herself, it was unlikely that the spell would ever be reversed, either because a spell like this would be near impossible to reverse, 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 turned to leave, perhaps for the last time. As she shifted her attention, her eye caught a wrapped box on the kitchen table. It occurred to her that her parents had likely planned to give her an early birthday gift, 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.
Hermione didn't think she could handle any more blows to her heart, and seeing a gift from her parents threatened to break her.
With a grounding breath, she resolved to unwrap it. She was strong, this Hermione knew to be absolutely true. How could she not be? A muggle-born witch at the top of her class was a target for many a pure-blood-hurled attack on her character. She had no choice but to be tough. Not to mention she had battled Death Eaters at the Ministry, established a resurgent army of students in the name of Dumbledore, and faced centaurs, all by the end of her fifth year. She was proven beyond a measure.
She stared at the gift like it was more dangerous than all of those things. Fighting was not the same as saying goodbye to her parents, alone in her childhood home, unwrapping the last present they were to likely ever give her.
A sense of deja vu passed over her, making her head woozy. She shook it away. She'd been getting that feeling more and more as of late.
With renewed strength, Hermione took hold of the gift and slowly let one side of the elegant box slide out from under the other.
Her eyes landed on a small, ornate oval charm that lay nestled on black velvet. Hermione plucked it from the box carefully, not 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 weight of it, despite its small size. She discarded the box to free her other hand, so she could analyze the pendent.
It was beautiful, Hermione thought as she let the pads of her fingers linger over the intricate carvings texturing the piece. Looking closer, she noticed the etchings 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. Anticipation rose up in 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 insistence. Hermione remembered how distraught she had been knowing there would be no white Christmas.
They drove until they finally found an old patch of snow two hours north of their home. Triumphant, the three of them celebrated their find with the creation of a mangy-looking snowman.
The picture inside even featured that mangy-looking snowman.
A tear bounced off of the locket, leaving splotches against the glass covering the picture.
The locket warmed to her hand, and a feeling of relief, or maybe even peace, coursed through her.
She would be able to take them with her in this small way.
Despite the circumstances, a smile quirked 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, letting the locket fall directly over her heart.
Holding the locket, Hermione let the scent of home wash over her: Earl Grey tea mixed with coffee. Her parents could never decide.
They would stay with her for as long as she needed them. It hurt that she would never be able to say thank you for the gift, and they would never know that it meant everything to her.