Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Chapter Warning: none

We were never welcome here

We were never welcome here at all

No

It's who we are

Doesn't matter if we've gone too far

Doesn't matter if it's all okay

Doesn't matter if it's not our day

"You need to whip that boy in shape," Abraxas Malfoy commented. "He's a wimp."

"Whipping is for muggles," Cygnus Black spat.

Draco Malfoy pushed his fork through his food. It was stupid his grandfathers had to come to his birthday dinners. He could only imagine what it would be like if his grandmothers were still around—more arguing probably.

"It's a figure of speech, Cygnus. It doesn't surprise me that you wouldn't know it. Too much inbreeding in the family."

Cygnus whipped his wand out and pointed it at Abraxas, who did the same just as quickly. Draco watched his mother push her father's wand down. "Enough, father." She said in a low tone.

"But you heard what he said," grandfather Black whined.

"It's Draco's birthday. Lucius, call for Dobby to bring in the cake."

"Cake? Have you too gone soft, Lucius?" Abraxas asked. "You didn't have cake at your parties, which why doesn't the boy have one of those? This pathetic family dinner is just pathetic."

"Only because you're here," Cygnus sneered.

The wands were out again. Draco watched his parents yell at their fathers and vice versa. Draco pushed his chair out and walked out of the dining room. Nobody came after him. He shivered as he went up the stairs. The Manor was cold for it being June. Granted it was always cold inside the ancient house.

This was the life he was destined for, a cold house, a lonely life, and an equally cold and lonely family. This was was his destiny as the Malfoy heir.

Draco grabbed a book lying on his bedside table and sat under his window. The Tales of Beedle the Bard was Draco's favorite book so far, with "The Fountain of Fair Fortune" being his favorite story within, but if anyone asked him he would say "The Warlock's Hairy Heart". Draco love the fountain story because it made him realize that perhaps he would have a choice some day.

"Draco, darling. Are you alright?" He heard his mother ask as she entered his room.

Today was not the day Draco would have his choice.

He set the book down and met his mother's saddened yet cold face. "I'm fine, mother."

Narcissa only nodded. "Your father made both of them leave." Like he does every year, Draco thought. "Come eat cake and open your gifts, dragon." Draco followed his mother down the stairs.

Draco yawned and sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his clock. It was close to midnight but Draco felt wide awake. "Dobby!" Draco shouted quietly. He didn't want to wake his parents up.

Unfortunately for him, the house-elf did not appear. Draco huffed and got out of bed. He wanted a glass of milk. Hopefully, he'd find the crazy elf on the way to the kitchen and wouldn't have to do it himself.

The Manor was always colder at night, and even more eery. His feet were cold as he padded along the hardwood floor. He kept his arms wrapped around his body to try and keep warm. Draco stepped around a board he knew was creaky in front of his parents' room. Up ahead he saw his father's office door slightly open, the glow of a light creeping through the cracks.

Draco started to step away from that side of the hall when he heard his father talking about him. "Perhaps our father's are right, Cissa," he heard his father sigh. "Maybe Draco…"

"Don't bother finishing that sentence, Lucius," his mother snapped. "He's only seven."

"At seven I was going to work with my father every other week with the other weeks being spent with a tutor. The weekends were reserved social affairs."

Draco slowly peaked through the crack. His father was behind his desk, a glass of what looked to be firewhiskey in his hand, and his mother was sitting across from him.

"Admit it, Cissa, Draco needs to be shaped into a Malfoy. He's pathetic boy who whimpers for things to be done for him. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Malfoys have people do things for them without them realizing. Malfoys demand respect when walking into the room. People are aware when Malfoys are close by. Malfoys don't let people know how they feel or what they are thinking with a simple look."

"He will shape up to be a good man, Lucius," Narcissa answered. "People only look at you when you walk into the room because they are scared you'll blackmail them or they want to see if they can see your mark. It's not for respect."

Draco saw his father down the rest of firewhiskey. Smoke came out of his ears. "I'm sending Draco to spend a week with my father and a week with yours. Once he gets back, he'll start going to work with me some weeks and see a tutor the others."

"Is this necessary, Lucius?"

"I will not have this family's name stained by my heir being a pathetic brat," Lucius said sternly. "All I've seen from Draco is him heading down that path. What has he shown that can prove he will do great things?"

Draco didn't wait for an answer from either parent as he raced back to his bedroom feeling himself break. He jumped into his bed and burrowed under his blankets, clutching the stuffed dragon, named Ladon, that was his since birth. The tears streamed down his face.

Draco felt broken by his father's words. He sniffed and wiped his tears away. "Stop it, Draco," he whispered to himself. "You are a Malfoy and Malfoys do not have feelings."

Draco took a deep breath and peeked above his covers and into the cold darkness of his room. Perhaps he should start to embody his house and then he will make his family proud.

Hermione Granger spent her time under the willow tree in her backyard. She read, wrote, and drew under that tree. Today she was drawing. A small flower garden was on the opposite side of the tree. Her aunt told her her mother had planted those flowers. In fact, her parents had planted the willow tree when they first started going out their last year in secondary school.

The September wind blew her hair around. "Hello Hermione," The small girl glanced up to see her neighbor standing there. Even though he was only in his fifties, he used a cane. "How are you doing?"

"Did my aunt call you, Mr. Marvel?"

The older man sat next to her. "Monica did call. They got the surprise of being the keynote speakers at their conference in Brussels after the original ones cancelled last minute. She called Mrs. Newton first but she said something about flying pigs."

Hermione blushed, remembering the incident from the night before when the piggie banks flew. No wonder she hadn't seen Mrs. Newton this morning. She hoped Mr. Marvel didn't notice this. He seemed to notice everything.

"So that left me to watch you."

"It always seems that way," Hermione agreed. "Why doesn't Aunt Mon just ask you first since it always gets handed to you eventually, Mr. Marvel?"

"I've told you before, Hermione, please call me Thomas. I've lived next to you since you were two years old."

"That's only five or six years," Thomas shrugged. "I wish you lived here when my parents were here so you could tell me about them."

"But I can't. You remind me a lot of myself."

"How?" Hermione questioned.

"Well, we're both orphans and only children. I, like you, was alone most of the time. Children found me odd and left me alone. It was how I became an avid reader. My books and thoughts kept me company, along with the ambition to prove to everyone that I could do and be anything," he informed her.

Hermione nodded. "That sounds like me. What happened to your parents? If you don't mind me asking that is."

"My mother died after having me, and my father was killed by a crazy man down the way from his home," Thomas answered.

"We are alike." Hermione finally agreed.

Thomas nodded. "At least you have your aunt and uncle to take care of you. I had to live in an orphanage until I went to boarding school."

Hermione nodded as a response and continued to draw. Thomas watched her draw. "What are you drawing?" She could hear his voice shake slightly. He must be getting cold, she thought.

"I don't really know what it is. It's burned into the floor of my room. I keep it hidden under a rug so Aunt Mon and Uncle Wendell don't freak out," The two stared at the picture of the the snake skull. "Would you like to go inside, Thomas?"

"That would be lovely, Hermione. I have some new books you can read while I make dinner and cake."

"Why cake?"

Thomas smiled and helped the girl off the ground. "It is your birthday. Don't tell me you forgot? Your aunt told me on the phone. Let's go celebrate."

Sometimes Hermione wished she lived with Thomas. He treated her like family, and his house was practically a library. Her aunt and uncle only let her read books that were written for children her age. Thomas, on the other hand, let her read whatever she wanted so long as she was able to read and understand the words on the page.

Hermione sat at the table in Thomas's kitchen. "Am I like your family, Mr. Thomas?"

The peppered hair man glanced back at the little girl, who still focused on her book. "Why do you ask that, Hermione?"

She shrugged. "I feel like you are more family to me than my aunt and uncle."

"Take it these two ways, child: 'When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family' and 'All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way'."

"I didn't recognize the first quote but the last one is from Tolstoy."

Thomas chuckled. "Very good Hermione. The first one is from an American author you have definitely never heard of. Do you understand what I mean by them?"

"There is no such thing as a perfect family. A real one is the people who stick by you and admits their sadness?" She ended it sounding like a question.

Thomas only nodded. "Family isn't made by blood, Hermione. Those who stick with you are your family."

Thomas set plates of fish and chips in front of them. "That makes us family."

Thomas smiled. "I guess it does."