Hello, my lovely readers! I'm back with yet another chapter of Wilfully. Thank you all for the continued support you've shown to this story and I do hope you will enjoy this chapter.
Disclaimer: I'm not J.K Rowling so the Wizarding World is not mine. Sigh.
WILFULLY: CHAPTER 22
The time had come for Draco Malfoy to take back control.
He was done sitting silently while things happened to him. He was done hoping that the nerve-racking elements in his life would just back off on their own. No. He would be damned if he let anyone dissuade him from living his life the way he wanted.
He was his own master.
xx
"Justin says that he will send you the Seville plans before the end of the day."
"He better."
"Your meeting with Mr. Bordley starts in thirty minutes. I asked his PA to make sure that he is on time."
"Good."
"Oh, and these arrived for you."
It was the sympathetic tone that caused Draco to look up at his assistant. Sure enough, she smiled at him kindly as she deposited a small stack of envelopes onto his desk. "Thank you, Greta," he said, dismissing her with a slight jerk of his head.
He waited until she had left before reaching for the letters. Two of them were Howlers, which he charmed to fly into the roaring hearth before they could open, then quickly cast a silencing charm over the fireplace so that he would not have to endure the loud shrieks as they burned. He did not have the time or the patience to deal with hate mail.
It was safe to say that the rumours about him being one of the perpetrators of the Azkaban attack had become something of a nuisance at this point. People were wary, and because they were terrified that they could be right, the only way they felt it safe to express their hatred was to send him letters filled with venomous words. His public relations team had initially suggested releasing a statement to the press, but Draco felt that to address these rumours would be to acknowledge them. In the end, they had decided that it would be best if he kept his head down. He would partake in his usual charity, work hard like he always did, go out with his girlfriend and move about life as if he was not affected by what people thought; all of this would blow over eventually.
Draco idly discarded most of the letters without even opening them (the bin by his desk chewed them away very happily) until he came upon a plain grey envelope. The moment he touched it, he felt an odd twinge on his left forearm, and the blank wax seal shimmered until it formed the Dark Mark.
He froze. He had not seen such a seal in over six years. The Death Eaters had used it to communicate with each other and the Dark Lord during the war; only someone with the Dark Mark branded into his or her arm would be able to access the contents of the envelope.
He glanced at the door, well aware that no one but Ginevra would ever barge in without his permission, and she was at Quidditch practice. Her big match was only four days away. After a moment's thought, he picked up his letter opener. It was a sharp steel blade, about five inches long, with a leather hilt that had his initials engraved onto it. Pansy had gifted it to him on his birthday years ago; after their breakup, he had contemplated throwing it away in a fit of anger but found that he couldn't. He had grown fond of the object.
Draco pulled up his left sleeve and slashed the blade over the brand etched onto his skin. It was a small cut, barely an inch long, and he held it over the envelope. Warm blood trickled down his arm and onto the seal, where it took the shape of the Dark Mark. It glowed for a moment, then the seal broke with a crack – of course, Death Eater correspondence would demand blood.
He healed the cut with a simple spell, then pulled out the letter inside. His Dark Mark twitched once again, piercing a ward that had been placed on the parchment, and black ink started formed a brief note:
Malfoy,
I shall wait for you at dawn at the same place as our last meeting.
It is time we finished our conversation.
A.D.
His heart sank, though in all honesty he could not claim to be surprised. In fact, a part of him had been waiting to be contacted again. He set the parchment on fire and tossed it into the bin as well, deep in thought. Dolohov was getting bolder. Sending a letter to demand a meeting was not something he would have done before, but he was not known for being patient after all. No doubt, this was his way of forcing Draco to act.
The flames in the fireplace turned green all of a sudden, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Blaise Zabini step into his office.
"Good morning, Drake," he said cheerily. "How do you do?"
"Will it kill you to come to my office the proper way, by making an appointment and walking through the door?"
"Probably not, but why take the risk."
Draco eyed his best friend, noting how relaxed he looked for the first time in weeks. It was not difficult to guess why. "Someone is obnoxiously happy to have moved back to his house."
"Someone is," Blaise agreed with a grin as he slipped into a chair across from him and picked up Draco's mug of coffee without even asking for permission. Wanker. "As much as I love staying at the Malfoy Manor, there are certain perks that my own home provides me."
"Such as?"
"Sex with my wife."
Draco quirked his lips. He was a man too, so he could very much understand the effects that good sex had on one's mood. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be appropriate to rain on his best friend's parade, but it was because they were friends (more like brothers, really) that he felt the need to make sure that the correct decision had been made. "I have to ask, mate: are you sure about this? I mean, you were adamant that you did not want a child, and while it is not necessarily a bad thing to compromise in a relationship, this seems quite a big one to make."
Blaise did not seem offended, rather he looked like he had been expecting this question. "I've thought long and hard about this, Drake," he said slowly. "I can't lose Daphne."
"And the baby?"
"The idea terrifies me, to be honest. I don't know the first thing about being a father, but I'll figure it out."
Draco pressed his lips together. The answer was not at all satisfactory. "You once told me that a child is not an experiment."
"I stand by that," Blaise told him. "But I'm no longer averse to the idea of being a father. I will love my child, and I will raise it well."
"It?"
He shrugged. "Daph says we shouldn't project a gender of our liking onto our child, so until we know whether it is a boy or a girl, the baby shall remain an 'it'."
"How touching," Draco muttered sarcastically. "So, you're sure?" Asking this question reminded him of another instance he had asked his best friend the same question, and his lips twitched.
Blaise must have been thinking of the same thing, for he grinned. "Yes."
"Then, I am happy for you." He reached into his drawer and pulled out a diary. "I presume this is what you came for." He tossed it to his friend, who caught it.
"Yeah. Can't believe I forgot to pack it." He looked sheepish. "You didn't read it, did you?"
"I have better things to do than read the stupid love poems you write for Daphne." Blaise had developed a habit of writing a diary during their fourth year at Hogwarts, and though Draco had often teased him about it and pretended to pry, he never would. He was a gentleman, after all, and knew that a man's correspondence and journals were both sacred.
"Come now, Drake. You're the poet here," Blaise smirked. "Don't think for a second that I've forgotten what you and Pansy were often up to."
"Well, 'Weasley is Our King' was rather a masterpiece, if I could say so myself."
"So was 'Oh my Poor Heart!'."
Draco flushed. "Montague wrote that song."
"Montague told his girlfriend that he wrote that song. Everyone knows they're your lyrics."
"I'd say they are more Pansy's, really. I only helping with the rhyming." And that was the truth; he could not help it if his vocabulary was strong and that finding the correct rhymes came easy to him. He saw Blaise was trying to hold back his laughter. "I have a meeting to attend, and you should be healing your patients instead of being a general arsehole."
"Is there such a thing as a specific arsehole, I wonder?"
"Fuck off, Zabini."
Blaise set down his now finished coffee with a laugh. "As always, it was a pleasure," he said as he sauntered over to the hearth. With a poof of emerald flames, he was gone.
Draco shook his head, his lips curving into an inadvertent smirk, and then headed for his meeting.
xx
The conservatory was one of Draco's most favourite places in the Malfoy Manor. Candles in the crystal chandeliers flared to life as the sky outside the glass ceiling slowly grew darker from the warm sunset hues. The brick floors were covered with oriental rugs and countless pots, in which the plants swayed merrily. An antique fish tank stood in the middle of the room, filled with colourful guppies and water snails.
Dressed in his striped silk pajama bottoms and a loose t-shirt, Draco was sitting on the cane sofa with a dossier open on his lap. So engrossed he was in his work that he did not hear the footsteps behind him and only became aware of his visitor when she jumped rather unceremoniously onto the other end of the sofa.
"What are you doing?" Ginevra asked. She was wearing plain tights and the biggest, ugliest yellow hoodie that he had ever seen. Her beautiful face and luscious red hair compensated quite nicely for that though.
"Looking at renovation plans for our hotel in Seville." he replied. The Malfoy Corporation owned a number of luxury hotels and resorts across Europe and he had decided to renovate and expand, wherever necessary, each of the buildings systematically over the next three years.
"I've never been."
"It's beautiful." The first time he had visited the place was when he was twelve years old. He had gone back a few times since, finding the culture and the history that Seville offered to be quite alluring. The Malfoy hotel (though it was not called that; his father and grandfather both saw the wisdom in not fashioning everything after their family name) was a 17th century palacio with azulejo tilework, intricate marble pillars and Moorish arches. "I could take you there. After the renovations are done, of course."
She smiled, clearly pleased with the idea. "Quidditch season will be over by then, too."
He returned the smile, already feeling the excitement building at the prospect of a vacation. He did not get many days off due to his demanding work, nor did she, but he was certain he would be able to whisk her off to Spain for a couple of weeks in late summer. He could already picture themselves sitting in the Andalusian patio, tasting wine. But he was getting ahead of himself. Summer was months away, and there was something else that he needed to address right now.
"Speaking of Quidditch." He leaned forward to pick up a magazine from a small pile that lay on the table. "Guess what I saw at the newsstand today."
It was the Quidditch Times: Holyhead Harpies edition. The entire team was in the cover photo, standing in a 'V' formation, brooms in hand and laughter on their faces. Draco flipped the magazine open and continued to turn pages, past the more Quidditch related interviews and pictures until he reached the fancy solo shots of the team members. He stopped when he found Ginevra's, and his stomach did a funny little twist.
The photograph had been bewitched to move in slow motion. Ginevra was sitting in a high-backed armchair, garbed in a mud gold gown that made her red wavy hair seem even more brighter than usual. The skirts of her dress were hitched up to her thighs, and she lazily kicked off her sequined stiletto heels and stretched out her ridiculously long legs, a small smile playing on her lips. Then, she raised her gaze slowly to stare straight at the camera – at the audience – in such a sultry way that Draco felt his mouth go dry.
"What do you think?" she asked eagerly.
"This is– Salazar, I can't even. I mean, this is–" he stopped talking when he realised that he was beginning to babble like a fool, and Malfoys did not babble. "Do you have any idea how many men are going to touch themselves while looking at your photograph?"
"What?" Ginevra wrenched the magazine from his grasp. No doubt she found his feedback on the photoshoot startling. "No, they're not!"
"Yes, they are. This is beyond sexy," he informed her. "I bet you half the boys at Hogwarts will have pinned this above their headboards by now."
"You're exaggerating."
"You really don't understand how the male mind works, love."
She shifted slightly, as if she was trying to wrap her head around what he was saying. For a moment it looked like she was going to deny his claims and say that it was just the angle or the photographer's talent that made her look so attractive. Instead, she shrugged with feigned indifference. "So, men will like my picture. Big deal!"
It was a big deal, wasn't it? Draco knew she was hot – and that she was a celebrity, a talented Quidditch star. There had been a few instances of people interrupting their dates to tell her that they were a fan, or children asking for her autograph. The idea of men leering at his girlfriend was a whole different territory, though. He could not decide what he felt about that. "Why didn't you wear this dress when you came to the Manor the other day?" he demanded.
"It's not mine," Ginevra said with a laugh. "They just gave it to me for the shoot."
He took the magazine back from her and stared at the photograph. The name of the designer was written in a small script on the corner of the page. "Well, I'm buying you this dress. I've got a few fantasies that I'd like to enact."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I'd be willing?"
"They'll pay off, I assure you." He allowed his gaze to sweep over her, and he wondered how he had never noticed her beauty in all the years before. Her bright brown eyes that somehow always reminded him of molten chocolate and autumn forests were twinkling with amusement, her cheeks were pink and her lips – those perfect, soft lips were curved into a smile. By Salazar, she was magnificent, and she knew it. She owned her body with a confidence that impressed him more than perhaps even her looks did.
"Stop it," she mumbled, all of a sudden looking very fascinated with the small decoration pieces on the table. Her fingers brushed over the scented candles, then moved on to a tiny hourglass that contained black petals instead of sand.
"Stop what?"
She touched the small stack of envelopes, refusing to look at him. "Staring at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like that." She picked up a small green box with a ribbon tied around it. Her cheeks were getting redder; it was interesting how easily she had brushed off the idea of other men desiring her, but she seemed to tremble under the weight of his gaze. He liked it.
"I don't know what you mean, Ginevra."
She huffed, then tugged at the ribbon. "Like, like I'm some sort of… whatever." She pulled out a small purple stone out of the box, then dropped it with a cry. The pads of her forefinger and thumb looked like they had been burnt.
Alarmed, Draco grabbed her hand and examined the wound before calling out for Yugo. "Fetch me the Burn-Healing Paste. Quickly!" He waited until the house-elf vanished with a pop, before looking at Ginevra. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," she winced. "I-I don't understand."
Neither did he. His eyes moved from the fallen stone to the box to the table. It had been lying next to the unopened letters, which meant that it had been sent via mail. Someone had tried to send him a cursed stone. Merde. He glanced at the box once again and noticed that a small scrap of parchment had fallen out of it. He reached for it, but Ginevra was faster. She turned it over.
Death Eater Scum, it said.
Merde, indeed.
Draco snatched the paper from Ginevra and used it to scoop up the stone and toss it into the box, careful not to touch it. He handed the box to Yugo, who had just appeared with the paste. "Discard this," he growled. "And all those letters too."
"Yes, Master Sir." The house-elf picked up the offending objects and vanished once again.
A cursed stone. This was too much. What if it had been something that could cause more harm, like the necklace he had once tried to smuggle to Dumbledore? Salazar. Draco made a mental note to meet with his security team; it would be best to have his mail screened from now on. Dolohov won't be writing to him anymore either, he was going to make sure of it, so he would have nothing to hide.
He smeared some of the paste over Ginevra's burns, keeping his touch tender so as not to inflict any unnecessary pain.
"Draco?" she said softly after a few moments.
"Hmm?"
"That note–"
"Forget about it."
"You know I can't."
He sighed as he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, then bent down to pick up his dossier. It had fallen to the floor when he had moved to attend to her earlier. "What do you want me to say, Ginevra? You are aware of the rumours circulating about me," he said. "The world isn't really kind to you if you are under the suspicion of whatever it is that Potter thinks I'm up to."
Silence followed his words, and he could not bring himself to look at her. A minute or two passed, and he felt her fingers brush over his branded forearm.
"Do you really not know why it is active?" she asked.
Where did this question come from? But now that it had been asked, he saw no reason not to answer it. "It's because of the Curse. The Dark Mark was bestowed upon me by the Dark Lord himself. Blaise and I believe it somehow powers the scar of the Curse, or vice versa," he told her. It did not help that the damn brand was permanent; it was imbued with ancient Dark Magic, so even if he were to lose his arm, the Mark would remain branded on his soul. Or so his Aunt Bellatrix had said when she had told him what an honour it was to receive it. "It's almost a pity the Dark Lord died before I had the chance to win his favour and ask him what exactly he did to me."
"So, your Mark has been active all this time?"
"I know it is supposed to fade away, but it didn't. And I don't think it ever will." The Curse was the only reason why it would remain so; the Dark Lord was dead and Dolohov had only learned to use the Mark a couple of months ago.
"And you did not answer Harry's questions because you don't want anyone finding out about the Curse."
"Yes."
"And what about what Ron said. Did your Dark Mark really hurt at Azkaban?"
"I don't know." Well, maybe he did not have to be entirely honest with her just yet. Salazar. He was going to the deepest pit of hell for lying to the woman he loved. But then again, the fact that he had the Mark on his arm in the first place meant that he already belonged there. "I mean, maybe it did hurt, or perhaps it was just my imagination. I can't be sure." He saw her frown and hurried to elaborate. "My skull was fractured in two places, and I thought they had killed my father. I was half out of my mind, Ginevra."
She nodded slowly, but her eyes bore into his as if she were searching for something. "So, you know nothing about this new Death Eater movement, then?"
Draco felt an odd stab of hurt in his chest. He could bring himself to not care what the world thought of him, convince himself that it was mere background noise. But if the woman that he was in love with was questioning him like this, then what was the point of this relationship? "Not you too," he snarled as he got up and walked over to the glass windows that overlooked the vast Malfoy gardens. He could see the tall hedges of the maze; he used to love getting lost in there when he was little and finding his way out of it. If only it was as simple to find a way out of troubles in real life.
"I'm just asking," Ginevra said slowly.
A snide voice in his head reminded him that he had no right to act so betrayed at her questioning. He had just lied to her about his Dark Mark hurting. And he was, after all, hiding the fact that he had been asked by Dolohov twice to join this new Death Eater movement. He could not, would not, tell her that, but there were some things that he could let her know. "It is not difficult to surmise that the aim of this movement is more or less what the Dark Lord had wanted. What I do know is that it is being led by Antonin Dolohov."
"And how do you know that?" Her voice was strained.
"One hears things."
He heard her footsteps approaching, and within a few seconds, she was standing next to him. "Hear where?"
Fuck. Ginevra Weasley was the brave Gryffindor who had resisted the Dark Lord at every turn during that wretched war. She had lost a brother and countless friends in the Battle of Hogwarts. If she found out that he was in touch with Dolohov, she would walk away. And he dare not imagine what he would do without her; it was alarming how much he had come to rely on her presence in his life over the past few months. She was indeed his solitude, but she was also a flower that had bloomed in his otherwise barren life, bringing him joy and beauty that he had long given up on. He could not lose her.
But what was he to do? In a few hours, Dolohov would be waiting in the woods to meet him, and he had every intention of going there. He could not tell her that. He could not risk losing her.
"The whispers are everywhere. One only has to pay attention." He turned to face her, letting his inner turmoil and exhaustion flitter on his face. He did not know how she would perceive it. "I am not the hero. Potter is." That self-righteous fool would always try to fix the world, but Draco had no such dreams. He knew better anyway. The idea of total peace was an illusion; If one evil fell, another would rise up to take its place in this ever-going conflict between light and dark. It was, after all, basic human nature to commit crime, just as it was the demand of basic humanity to seek justice. "I don't want to be a part of another war, Ginevra. I am just a businessman now."
"You are not just that," she told him. "There are things in your past that you haven't atoned for."
He bristled. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? "I was cleared of all charges."
"Doesn't mean you are innocent."
For the life of him, Draco could not understand what she meant by these accusations. And why, in the name of Merlin's tit, was she saying these things now? "What do you want me to do, repent?"
"Yes."
"I have."
"Have you?"
"I am done apologising for my mistakes."
"But my love, you never apologised. Not once."
The fact that Ginevra would suggest that after he told her everything about his suffering angered him. "I've paid dearly for my past decisions and I will continue to do so till the day I die," he reminded her icily. The Dark Lord's Curse hovered over him, waiting to strike, to drown him in unspeakable agony until he begged for relief that would not be granted. He was forever going to be a slave to the Curse, and she knew that. Hell, she had been by his side as he lay in the hospital bed, his body wracking with pain. "Is that not enough?"
Ginevra looked at him for a long moment, her eyes blazing with frustration. Or was it disappointment? No. It was neither of those, but rather a cloud of memories that she seemed to be reliving. "You do know that your actions nearly killed two of my brothers," she spoke up slowly. "Ron drank the mead that you poisoned in hopes of killing Dumbledore, and Bill was attacked by Fenrir Greyback when you let the Death Eaters inside Hogwarts." She paused when Draco flinched at the mention of what he had done during his sixth year at school. Reaching out, she placed a hand over his chest to steady him. Or perhaps to steady herself. It was difficult to tell. "I forgive you for what you did because I know you're not that person anymore. But it wasn't me that you hurt, so it's not my forgiveness that matters the most, is it?"
Draco refrained from pointing out that Potter had nearly killed him with the slashing curse in the bathroom at Hogwarts, and no one expected the Git Who Lived Twice to come and apologise. "Hell will freeze over the day I say sorry to Weaselbee!" he growled.
"Then don't. But don't pretend that you're the victim here."
"But I am!" He glared at her incredulously, wondering if he should reiterate the damn story of his Curse.
It was as if Ginevra knew what he was thinking. "You're a victim of Voldemort's cruelty. That does not erase your own, Draco." He staggered as if she had hit him, her expression softened. "I'm not here to make you feel guilty."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered hotly.
"Draco."
"I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"I'm not asking you to apologise, but you have to acknowledge." Her voice was angry, but also almost pleading. "Not to Ron or Bill. Not even to me, but to yourself."
"I thought we agreed not to force each other to change," he said quietly. "I thought you loved me the way I am."
"I do. I do love you!" Ginevra grabbed his face in her hands, her touch awfully soft. "But that does not mean that I have to turn a blind eye to your flaws, or you to mine. My love for you is true, which is why I will always encourage you to be better, because I know that you can be. In so many ways, you already are." Her lips brushed against his in a chaste kiss, and he knew it was to assure him that this argument would not lead to a breakup. Not this time.
Draco found himself wondering for the millionth time what he had done to deserve this perfect woman. She had appeared out of the blue in his life and she would not leave – in fact, he would not, could not, let her leave because she had forced him to question a lot of things he thought he understood and elicited in him emotions that he did not think himself capable of feeling.
Sure, he would have preferred not being reminded of his past deeds, but it wouldn't be Ginevra Weasley if she did not challenge him.
What he had done to Weaselbee, Bill Weasley and Katie Bill was an accident, an act committed out of necessity. The Dark Lord would have killed him and his family otherwise, and though that did not justify ruining the lives of others, Draco was a Slytherin through and through; he would always protect himself and his own before others.
Besides, he had been convicted during the trial, put in probation, and fined heavily. He had faced the constant scorn of the wizarding community since then. What more did they want, a formal apology written in blood? Ha! As if his Malfoy ego would ever allow that.
He did feel an unexpected pang of guilt as the memory of finding out that Ron Weasley had been poisoned flashed across his mind. He remembered rushing into the nearest bathroom and vomiting the contents of his stomach. Myrtle had found him then, and she turned out to be a surprisingly good listener; he could not share his real problems with her, but it felt good to voice some of his fears to someone who would not give them away. And even if she did, who would have really believed that Draco Malfoy talked to Moaning Myrtle?
He pushed those dark memories away; there would be time to reminisce, but it was not now. "Ginevra," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "I swear to you, I am not one of those Death Eaters and I will never be. Please, trust me."
Ginevra looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I trust you, Draco. With all my heart."
xx
"I am so relieved to see you well, father."
"Oh?" Lucius raised an eyebrow, his hoarse voice dripping with iciness. "I thought my death would have suited you well. You would have no need to be ashamed of me anymore."
Draco lowered his gaze, once again feeling guilty about the argument he had had with his father. Well, it was never too late to make amends. His father was in the hospital, on the mend and that was all that mattered. "I did not mean what I said."
"Yes, you did."
"Father, please–"
"Look me in the eye, Draco. You seemed to have no trouble doing that when you told me how I've been a failure of a father."
"You slapped me, banished me from your presence, and yet were quick to jump in to save me from that curse," Draco coolly reminded him. Two could play at this game. "Why would you do that for a son who has disappointed you so much?" His father's grey eyes, so very much like his own, blazed dangerously. It was a glare that would have had him mumbling apologies and scuttering away when he was younger. He was not that boy anymore. He would not flee in fear of his father's fury. And he was going to show some sense where his father would not. Reaching out, he placed his hand over his. A truce. "I think we love each other too much to let an argument ruin our bond."
Lucius pressed his lips tight in distaste, though his eyes flickered bright only for a moment, an indication that the words were not entirely unwelcome. "Malfoys don't wear their hearts on a sleeve."
"Malfoys speak the truth to one another, even if they have to lie to the whole world."
"You have been brutal with your truth, Draco."
"Do you mean to tell me that you find my words of endearment brutal, father?"
"I still don't approve of that Weasley girl, especially after the stunt she pulled the other day." Lucius' lips curled into a sneer. "As if I would ever need forgiveness from a member of that foolishly self-righteous, destitute, blood-traitor family."
Draco did not say anything. He knew that the Malfoy ego had flared up in his father like a volcano ready to burst, and no amount of logical reasoning would work until his anger dies away. It would take a while, and then perhaps it would be time to make another attempt at a conversation about his romantic life.
"Your mother was right, of course," Lucius went on. "She is an impertinent, classless witch who has managed to seduce you using her rather mediocre looks."
"Hardly mediocre, father," Draco could not help but interject, though he did it lightly, not with the intention of starting an argument. "Hers is a beauty that would put Veelas to shame. In another century, men would have crossed oceans and fought duels just to look into her bright brown eyes."
His father looked like he was going to be sick. "So, you admit it then, that whatever foolish notions of love she may think she harbours towards you, your reason for being with her is solely to sate your lust?"
"I admit no such thing."
"I may yet convince you to end it."
"You may," he said with a sigh as he stood up and adjusted his father's blankets. It was not true, of course, but his father was still healing and perhaps it was best to humour him. Draco knew with certainty at this point that he was in love with Ginevra; he had whispered it into her ear as they slept, though she had not brought it up the morning after, much to his dismay. Well, he would ask her about it eventually. "Now, get some sleep."
The dark Eastern sky was slowly breaking into rosy pinks and shimmery yellows, but the light was blocked by the tall birch and chestnut trees in the woods. Draco slowly made his way to the familiar spot where he had parried the hex that Dolohov had shot at him weeks ago. Not this time. He would be damned if he was caught unawares again.
A few minutes passed by in eerie silence, then his senses prickled. He allowed his gaze to flitter about the place and his fingers curled around his wand in his pocket; he had always been an exceptional duellist, and once he had been graced with the Dark Mark, he had actively trained in combat, stealth and tracking, as well as advanced charms and curses. A man had appeared out of thin air not far away, and because his appearance was not accompanied by the usual crack sound, it meant that he had used a Portkey. Though the man was cloaked, the gait was definitely Dolohov's.
Draco remained concealed behind a large tree trunk, observing the surroundings for any further sign of movement. After the Azkaban attack, there was no telling if this was a trap or a genuine invitation to converse. He had come prepared for both possibilities.
A minute passed.
Another.
And he became certain that Dolohov had indeed come alone. Rolling his shoulders, Draco stepped out from behind the tree and shot a curse at him this time.
The cloaked man deflected it easily, then pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, twisted smile. "You're learning, Malfoy."
He had no patience to spar with words like before, for as he looked at Dolohov, another memory surfaced.
Draco kneeling by the dead body of a fat Auror in the half-blown visitor room of Azkaban, looking up at a Death Eater who had his wand pointed at him. "Wait, I'm not an Auror!" he said in panic, then reached to pull out his own wand from the corpse's robes, but it was too late.
The Death Eater had already made a slashing motion with his arm. A bright purple jet of light streamed out of the tip of his wand– And something, or rather someone, shoved Draco hard. He tumbled sideways and looked up to see the curse hit Lucius Malfoy squarely in the chest.
In three long strides, Draco made his way over to Dolohov, grabbing him by the front of his robes and shoving him against a tree. "Who is he?" he demanded, his wand pointed at the man threateningly. "The man who nearly killed my father."
Surprise flashed across Dolohov's face before he masked it. "Hands off me, Malfoy."
"Who is he?"
"I completely understand that you're angry–"
"I am beyond that, Dolohov. No one, no one, hurts my family and gets away with it."
"He was a dolt. New recruit, first mission." The Death Eater rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "You know how they can be so eager to impress." Draco shot him a look, making it clear that he was not at all amused. In return, Dolohov's eyes darkened. "I said I'm understanding, Malfoy, but you're pushing it now."
Draco let go of him at that and took a step back, though he kept his wand and his glare both pointed at the older man.
"Wise choice." Dolohov straightened his robes. "Now, let us talk about–"
"How about I talk, and you listen?" Draco said in a low voice that his father used whenever he wanted to intimidate anyone. It worked, of course, for all Death Eaters knew that this tone was often followed by an attack – not necessarily physical, for not all battles were fought in a duel, and curses were not the only way to shatter a person to defeat. The Malfoys were dangerous people, always had been. The reason the Dark Lord had kept them around even after their apparent fall from grace was because they could be very much capable when they wanted to be. "You are here because you want me to join your Cause. How about you give me that man's name, his location – hell, give me his head on a spike and I will consider supporting you."
All traces of amusement left Dolohov's face. He pulled out his wand and casually twirled it in his fingers. "You are in no place to make demands of me, boy! I have been patient towards you because you were one of the Dark Lord's chosen, but even my kindness has its limits."
"Don't try to threaten me," he said with an indifferent shake of his head. "I could bring down your precious Cause if I put my mind to it." The words hung in the air for a moment before he continued in a calmer tone. "But I won't. I don't want to. You and I are not enemies, Dolohov."
"You will join me, then?"
"Will you give me the bastard who put my father in St. Mungo's?"
"You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both. I will not allow you to exercise your revenge on someone who is loyal to our Cause," Dolohov said, then added with a terrifying smile. "Rest assured, Malfoy, that I was not pleased with what he did to your father. He has been reprimanded for his actions accordingly."
Draco knew that 'reprimand' was Death Eater code for 'tortured brutally for the appropriate amount of time required for the lesson to settle in'. He himself had been on both the giving and receiving end of such reprimanding quite a few times during the war. To hear that his father's attacker had been punished so did not sway him in the slightest. "Well then, I am afraid our correspondence has come to an end."
"You swore to follow the Dark Lord–"
"And I followed him till his last breath. I will not follow you."
Dolohov's face twisted. He was offended and it did not bode well for anyone. "Then you choose them, Malfoy."
"No. I will not oppose you either, my old friend." Draco lowered his wand and forced a smile. He was good at pretending, at putting up a mask and he had no trouble making himself look sincere. "I wish you all the best for your Cause. Truly, I do." He did not. He hoped that the ground would open up and swallow Dolohov and his pathetic miscreants whole, but he dare not say that. There were necessary risks and then there was mere recklessness; it was imperative that Draco avoided the latter. He nodded at the Death Eater, like they used to after their missions back during the war, and then disapparated.
Draco appeared outside the Manor gates and smoothly walked forward, wand held tight in his hand. It was only when he was inside the wards did he let out a shaky breath.
He was no longer dangling over the border of being or not being a member of the Death Eater cause. He had just rejected the old ways, more verbally than ever before, and he felt relieved. Which was odd. He had only expected to feel some form of accomplishment because by declining Dolohov's offer, he was living up to Ginevra's expectations of him, but turning his back on that wretched human being actually felt good.
For the first time, he felt that he had done something to redeem himself – not that he needed redemption, mind. His life since the war had been a struggle: he had had to come to terms with his shattering world views and accept that ideologies that he had been blind to may actually have some meaning. He was content with who he was now, but this felt better.
With a sigh, he sat down on the front steps of the Manor, not ready to go inside just yet. The air was chilly, the sky lighting up slowly but surely. His father's albino peacocks strutted about the hedge, their feathers gleaming; the pair had been a gift from his grand-mère.
His father was one of the most intelligent man he knew, and yet he had made terrible mistakes. Draco was adamant not to repeat those. He would not be seduced by the promise of glory and power. He had enough means to gain those himself, and without hurting the innocent. The muggle-borns, those half-bloods – they had never been a threat to the Malfoys. "We did not need to persecute them to maintain our position, father," he whispered. His breath rose into the chilly air and vanished into nothing.
The Aurors and the Death Eaters could fight this bloody war, could rip each other apart but he would not be a part of it. Hell, he'll get himself some popcorn and enjoy the show from the sidelines.
Dolohov would not be able to incriminate him, because even if Draco had voiced a desire to join him, it could very much easily be argued that he had done so to buy some time because he was in fear of his life. Which is almost true. Besides, Draco had information too, and more than that, he knew the old methods very well – which meant that he had the means and the knowledge to get more information about this Cause. But he wouldn't. He had no interest in playing the hero. As for Potter's suspicions, well they would die down eventually because there was no evidence linking Draco to any of these activities.
Draco had simply walked off the chessboard.
Though getting incriminated seemed unlikely, he did know that rebuffing Dolohov could have consequences. Hopefully, he had imbued enough diplomacy in his words to keep the Death Eater from becoming vengeful. But this was Dolohov. Half-mad, sadistic, vindictive, power-hungry Antonin Dolohov.
Draco decided to speak to his mother and pull her into the loop first thing in the morning. It would also be wise to strengthen the wards around her villa and the Manor. The time had come to be constantly vigilant, as Mad-Eye Moody would say… Or was it the fake Mad-Eye Moody who had said that? Not important.
The important thing was that he will deal with whatever comes his way now. He had been the Dark Lord's servant. He was not going to be anyone else's, be it Dolohov or even Potter. Fuck them all. And though his conversation with Ginevra had left him mildly unsettled, as if he now had much to think about, he knew with absolute certainty that she trusted him.
The mere thought of her strengthened his resolve. He would do what needs to be done. He would do anything to not lose her. Ginevra was his solitude, his love – and that love made him invincible.
xx
"That bad?"
"Yeah. McGonagall's received dozens of letters from concerned parents," Longbottom told him. "The muggle ones are worried about the Death Eater threat and the purebloods want to know if their children will be safe, considering what happened to the Chaucers in France."
"Surely, they don't think Hogwarts will be attacked." Draco could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. The idea alone seemed preposterous to him.
"It has happened before. And there's no Dumbledore to protect it this time." Longbottom took a swig of his Butterbeer, then shot him a look. "You saw to that, mate."
"Cheers," He muttered sourly.
It was the next day and he was having his fourth meeting with the Herbologist. Their research was going smooth. Longbottom had turned out to be an enthusiastic work partner; his knowledge of the latest innovative techniques being tried out in the field of Herbology across the globe was certainly helping Draco theorise how exactly human cells were left with permanent, residue damage because of Dark Curses. After this, they would be drafting ingredients for a number of potions that could be used to heal said damage, before trying out a single 'master' potion that will heal all. It was a long road ahead, but they were adamant on travelling through it.
What had been the most surprising discovery was the fact that the two of them seemed to get along quite well. Yes, there were snide comments thrown about – mostly by Draco, though this time it had been Longbottom who had initiated the amicable nastiness – but on the whole, their conversations were engaging. Huh. Who would have thought?
"Do you think the school is in danger?" Longbottom asked, cutting through his thoughts.
"Come now, you know I can't give away the secrets from my Death Eater meetings," Draco replied sarcastically. He could not help it. Just this morning, he had received three Howlers – one of which had gone off before he could destroy it, and it had been filled with the usual colourful bile.
"As if they'd invite you to those," Longbottom snorted. "From what I've heard, you were a shit Death Eater, Malfoy."
"I beg thy pardon!" He tried to look outraged. "I would remind you that, just like you mentioned earlier, I am partially to blame for the death of Albus Dumbledore." Should he really be saying that? The admission was doing nothing but shoving him into a more dubious light.
Longbottom must have been thinking something along those lines as well. "And you wonder where all those rumours come from."
There was a lull in the conversation and Draco skimmed over a research paper about a Tibetan root that helped improve blood circulation. He did not think it was what they were looking for, but still made a small note in his journal, which was already filled with countless scribbles. "You haven't asked me if the rumours are true," he could not help but say.
"I know they're not."
"You are certain?" Draco raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and Longbottom merely shrugged. He wondered what he had done to earn such trust. The world must truly be coming to an end if one of the leaders of Dumbledore's Army was not suspicious of a Malfoy. Still, it was something that went in his favour and he ought not to be questioning it. "I don't think they will attack Hogwarts. It is too obvious a target," he spoke up slowly. Besides, everyone knew that extra security protocols were put into place when the castle was refurbished after the war. "But it wouldn't hurt to be cautious."
What was he thinking, having this conversation with Longbottom? Why was he joking about this whole matter to begin with? Surely, a companionable work environment was not enough to loosen his tongue so. This was Potter's friend. An ex-Auror. This would only put Draco in further suspicion. He really ought to put a leash on himself.
Longbottom nodded solemnly, but instead of looking sceptical, he pulled open a large Herbology book to recheck some fact, and then noted it on a roll of parchment before him.
Draco eyed him warily for a moment, then picked up his drink only to realise that he had finished it. With a sigh, he got up from the bright orange floor cushion he was sitting on and stretched his back, eyeing the living room of Longbottom's house. Nearly half the Herbology books from the bookshelf had been pulled out and were scattered about the place. The bright blue couch was covered with Draco's collection of potion books that they had left open on specific pages. There was a large chart sprawled on the table upon which they had drawn their findings from the blood samples.
He went to grab himself a fresh bottle of Butterbeer from The Three Broomsticks from the kitchen (Longbottom somehow always seemed to have it in stock whenever Draco visited) and wandered aimlessly about the living room. He came to a stop before the fireplace mantle, upon which rested a bunch of photographs: Longbottom and Luna kissing, Luna with her father, a group photo of the two of them with the Golden Trio and Ginevra, Longbottom with a stern-looking woman that must be his grandmother, and an old photograph of a man and a woman he did not recognise. Some of their features were very familiar though, and Draco guessed that they must be Longbottom's parents.
"There is something I wished to discuss with you," Draco said, turning around to face the Gryffindor. This was a bad idea. It was going to lead to disaster, and probably get him killed along the way. He should stop. He should just shut up. "I ask you listen to me with an open mind."
Longbottom seemed intrigued. "Alright."
There was no easy way to go about this, and it was most likely to backfire because it was one of his more stupider ideas, so he should just say it. There was no need to form a premise or to cushion the blow. Just bloody say it. "I think your parents could serve as prime case studies for this project," he blurted. "I'd like access to their blood samples for now. And later, I'd like to conduct the potion trials on them. With your consent, of course." He cringed inwardly. Even to him the blunt words sounded extremely offensive; perhaps he should have found a way to cushion the blow.
"You're joking," Longbottom said, his brows drawn into a frown.
"I'm not. Hear me out," Draco added quickly for Longbottom had jumped to his feet and pulled out his wand. He wanted to reach for his own so that he could defend himself if the need arose but did not give into the temptation. It was imperative that he saw this conversation through, and the noble Gryffindor was less likely to attack him if he was unarmed. "The aim of my project is to create a potion that will heal human cells that have been damaged beyond repair. Well, the Cruciatus Curse left irreparable–"
"That's why you wanted me to help you out," Longbottom said, his voice rising. "Not because of my knowledge of Herbology but because you wish to use my mum and dad as your personal guinea pigs!"
"I would like to assure you that I do not wish to cause your parents any discomfort or harm," he said calmly. "I will get a permit from the Ministry, as per the law. And we will have a consulting Healer to ensure their safety. My friend, Blaise Zabini, is one of the best Healers in the continent, and he specialises in Dark Magic. I know he will be willing to assist–"
"I don't care!" Longbottom shouted. "I'm not letting you experiment on my mum and dad. They've been through enough already."
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He understood that his suggestion was not the easiest or the most ethical method of going about this, but it was the wiser one to be sure. Frank and Alice Longbottom were perfect test subjects. The alternative would be to torture someone else to the point of insanity before trying the prototype potion on them, which would mean a lot more hassle and paperwork; the trial would be allowed in the name of research, for this is exactly how medicinal potions (and medicines in the Muggle world too) were made by carrying out tests. "Look at the bigger picture. Think of all the lives that would be saved if I – we – succeed," he said. "If we manage to undo the damage caused by Dark Curses, then in theory, this potion would be able to reverse the effects that the torture left on your parents. Who knows, they might even return to being norm–"
He did not get to finish his sentence, for a bright yellow emanated from the tip of Longbottom's wand.
Draco's instincts took over and he reached into his pocket for his own wand. There was no time to cast a shield, so he only managed to haphazardly deflect the Knockback Jinx, which collided with one of the floor cushions and caused it to burst. As feathers flew everywhere, he warily glanced at the man before him.
Longbottom seemed furious, but it was not mere rage towards him that had caused him to attack; It was a desperation of sorts, as if he dared not hope that his parents would recover. Which was odd. Surely a boy who had suffered through his parents' insanity his entire life would jump at a chance to see them healed.
But what if they didn't? It was the possibility of failure that had caused Longbottom to lash out; if he allowed himself to dream that his parents would be fixed, and if the project failed, then he would be crushed.
Draco could relate to that fear all too well. What if all this research turned out to be nothing but a futile attempt at curing his own Curse? Then, he would live exactly how he had lived for the past six years. Awaiting pain.
And Longbottom would have the same loony parents that he had had all his life.
They had to try, though. Even if there was a one percent chance of success, Draco would try; he would do anything to rid himself of the Dark Lord's Curse.
"I did not wish to upset you," Draco said as he picked up his journal and pocketed it. He vaguely pointed at all the books he had brought over. "I'll leave these here."
"Take your shit with you," Longbottom snapped. "We're done, Malfoy."
He shook his head and started towards the main door. "Just think about it. Please." And then, with a polite nod, he left.
xx
The time had come for Draco Malfoy to take back control.
And he had claimed some of it back. He had Ginevra's trust, and though he had lied to her about some things, it would not matter. Because he had refused Dolohov. The old secrets may have to prevail, but there would be no new ones between them from now on.
He had a beautiful girlfriend whom he loved very much. His best friend no longer had domestic issues and was going to be a father. And though Longbottom was pissed at him and might pull out of the project, Draco was adamant of seeing it to the end. He was going to find a cure... Or at least try his hardest. And if then he failed, there would be no regrets.
Overall, it seemed that things were getting better. He was his own master once again.
Well, what did you think of this chapter? Please leave a review and let me know.
Stay safe. Until next time! x