Wilfully Chapter 27, a harry potter fanfic

Hello, readers! Since majority is authority, I will not be splitting this story into two. It will be one long tale (which it kinda already is), so buckle your seat belts! Thank you so much for all your love to this story. It means a lot. And now, off to the chapter!

Disclaimer: We all know I didn't create Harry Potter. It is the genius of J.K Rowling. Duh!

WILFULLY: CHAPTER 27

It had been a while since Draco Malfoy had suffered a full-blown panic attack.

The first time it had happened was in the Room of Requirement during his sixth year at Hogwarts, when an attempt at fixing the Vanishing Cabinet had gone awry. Time was slipping out of his hands, he was nowhere near to fixing the damned thing, and the Dark Lord was waiting for him to mess up so the Malfoys could be punished. Fainting with a pounding heart and sweat running down his spine was the most logical thing, really.

He had suffered a couple more during that year, but it had stopped afterwards. Sure, he was back at the Manor, surrounded by the worst people to walk the face of the earth, but the fear and the worries did not spiral out of control. He had kept his head held high, his mouth shut and poured his strength into his Death Eater missions, hoping to placate the Dark Lord enough to escape punishment.

The last time he had suffered a panic attack was when Blaise's father had diagnosed his Curse. The thought of being crippled by a Curse that could ignite any time and leave him helplessly soaked in pain was too frightening, and he had collapsed on the floor of the Healer's office, his limbs tingling restlessly, his head spinning and chest constricting.

Life had generally been alright after that. Only now it wasn't. He hoped to Salazar that it would not happen again, but if his luck was anything to go by, it most certainly would.

"I don't know if I should be angry or impressed that you thought to reach out to Aspasia."

It was not the familiar voice of his old comrade that caused Draco to shiver. The air was extremely chilly and he was only wearing a light travel cloak over his dress shirt. But then again, how was he to know that his Dark Mark would lead him to appear on the banks of Llyn Padarn, a lake in the Snowdonia National Park, Wales. He recognised the place almost instantly, and understood the sick, twisted reason why he had been brought here of all places.

The small village of Llanberis lay across the lake, calm under the heavily clouded sky. It had been equally tranquil that day over seven years ago when he and Dolohov had made their way through the streets on their first ever mission together. The target had been witch who had been a rather vocal supporter of the Order, and whose work at the Ministry had caused a bit of a hindrance to the Dark Lord's plans. Her screams had pierced the peace of the place when they had set her house on fire. To this day, Draco was not sure if her muggle husband had made it out in time or not; for the sake of his own sanity, he assumed he did.

He had shared at bottle of Butterbeer with Dolohov afterwards as the two of them stood on the rocky shore by the Lone Tree, watching the sunset. The bloodshed they had left in their wake had unsettled Draco immensely, who had already suffered through harsh punishments for not succeeding in his mission to kill Dumbledore and had started questioning the wisdom of the Dark Lord's movement, though he dare not say it out loud. In the midst of all that horror, it was the sheer beauty of orange hues of the setting sun reflected in the dark waters of the lake that had provided him with an odd hope in the world, a shred to hold on to.

Here he was again, by that very tree, surrounded by the very same beauty of nature, with the very same ugly man.

"It is you I reached out to," Draco said. "Aspasia was merely a medium."

Dolohov turned to face him, then. "Well, Malfoy," he said formally, clasping his hands in front of him. "What can I do for you?"

This was it, the moment that would plunge him into a very dangerous game and he was excitingly ready for it. He was a Malfoy and a Slytherin; it was in his blood and bones to treat life as a complicated chess match, to use his cunning and intellect to step towards his ambitions. His father had trained him for it, and though he had been terrified during the war, he had observed the Dark Lord in much detail, learning from him where he could. He could do this. He could play this game with Dolohov and win. He had to, for the sake of Ginevra, his mother and his own self.

So, he raised his chin defiantly and said, "It is more of what I can do for you, my old friend."

Draco stepped out of the kitchen hearth in 12 Grimmauld Place. He had come here first to keep the Git Who Lived Twice updated about the situation with Dolohov and get that wretched conversation out of the way before he went off to find Ginevra. There was much more he needed to discuss with his girlfriend, once he managed to placate her of course, for she had been terribly angry with him at the Manor before and rightly so. Still, the two of them had managed to fix so many quarrels between them already, he was optimistic that he would be able to get her to understand his stance on the entire situation.

It would seem that he would not have to go very far to have either of those conversations, for the recipients stood before him– only they were so engrossed in their shouting match that neither of them noticed him standing there in bewilderment.

"Are you telling me that the Auror Department is so incompetent that you had to enlist a defected Death Eater to help you with this case?" Ginevra was screeching.

"Draco has a history with Dolohov that I can exploit to put an end to this damned Cause," Potter retorted. "I will not have any more innocents dying on my watch."

"And that's very noble of you, but this plan of yours puts Draco in a lot of danger."

"Don't think him a flobberworm, Ginny. He is a bloody Malfoy, and I'll bet my Order of Merlin that there is a sneaky, venomous Basilisk underneath all that proper, posh exterior."

Ginevra frowned. "Where's all this trust coming from? I thought you hated him."

"No." Potter said, and it was such a shocking admission that it gave Draco pause. "I am indifferent to him. What I hate with every bone in my body is that you chose him."

"I thought my noble Cause was not worthy of you, Malfoy," Dolohov sneered. He had an odd, predatory glint in his dark eyes, as if he knew that he had won but was playing with his prey before he went in for a kill. "You must be very desperate to come here and offer me your allegiance."

"I believe angry is the more apt word," Draco replied coolly.

"Ah, yes." Dolohov snorted as he fished out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with the tip of his wand.

"Those things will kill you." He could not help but state, even as he desperately prayed that they succeed.

"The filth those muggles smoke will, but not this," He took in a large puff and then held it out. "Try it."

Draco had no choice but to take a drag, and he instantly picked up the taste of ground Anjelica roots and Borage with something else that may or may not be cannabis; being a rather talented potioneer with an impressive knowledge of Herbology did have its advantages, after all. It was awful, though, and he tried his best to ignore the burn that had bubbled up in his throat, but having very limited prior experience of smoking meant that he was bound to fail. He released a puff with a choked cough, and handed the damned thing back to the man with a grimace. "Afraid this is not my thing."

"Clearly," Dolohov looked amused. "It would seem that your thing these days is to get humiliated at the hands of the Aurors." He paused to take another drag, and also to see if his words were having the desired, biting effect on Draco. Once he saw that they were, he continued, "Do you think Harry Potter targets you because he's jealous that you stole the love of his life?"

"What does it matter?" Draco asked, injecting an icy fury in his voice. "I had nothing to do with the Azkaban breakout or the blast at the Quidditch stadium, as you know all too well. What Potter did– it has ruined me."

"And now you come to me, seeking revenge."

"I think of it as justice."

Dolohov turned to face him then, eyeing him with such intensity that he wondered if the man could see through his skin and deep into his brain. It was unnerving, and he found himself practicing Occlumency, just in case. "And how do you plan on getting your justice, Malfoy?"

"It's not as if I forced or manipulated Draco into this," Potter was saying, arms folded across his chest. "He agreed to this of his own volition. And I know you're angry, but we know what we're doing."

"Considering what dunderheads you and Draco are, that's hardly reassuring," Ginevra shot back. "I should tell mum about this suicidal plan that the two of you have concocted."

Apparently, the threat of Mrs. Weasley was not something to be taken lightly, considering how even the mighty hero who slay the Dark Lord seemed to pale. Draco could recall the colourful Howler the woman had sent to her youngest son back in second year at Hogwarts, and if that was anything to go by, perhaps it was wise to steer clear of her fury. "You can't tell anyone about this, Ginny," Potter's voice was impressively firm. "This is strictly confidential. I should hex Malfoy for telling you in the first place."

"I should hex you for trying to hide things from me again!"

"I'm trying to protect you, Gin. Please, just stay out of this."

That was the wrong thing to say, and Draco knew what was going to happen next even before it happened. He had witnessed that same blazing look cross her face mere hours ago, and it had been followed by a number of slaps that had left his cheek red and stinging. Sure enough, Ginevra pulled back her uninjured arm and hit Potter on the face, only instead of a slap she went for a punch. There was a sickening crack, a muffled swear word and blood spurted out of git's nose.

It was such a sublime sight that Draco could not help but snort in glee – alerting them to his presence.

"Please do not stop on my account, darling," he said, unable to keep the wicked grin off his face. By Salazar, he wanted nothing more than to just grab Ginevra and kiss her senseless for breaking the Potter's nose. She was an awesome, fiery lioness and he was not even ashamed to admit that he found her raging glory to be quite a turn on. "I'll bet fifty Galleons that you can dislodge his jaw with another blow."

Once the shock of noticing him passed, Potter looked disgruntled and Ginevra was clearly angry. "Really, Draco?" she demanded. "Instead of telling us what happened, you want to act like an obnoxious arsehole?"

"I will have you know that I had every intention of talking business, but witnessing this moment of perfection distracted me," he sniffed in disdain. "I must let you know that I am going to preserve this memory in a Pensieve and revisit it many times in the years to come."

"If you live that long," she muttered.

"Well, Draco?" Potter asked as he reached for his wand and, after taking a deep breath to brace himself, pointed it at his nose. "Episkey." Another crack echoed in the room, followed by his grunt, as his face healed.

"Well, I think the broken nose was an improvement to your face." Draco knew that the question had been a demand to be filled in on the Dolohov situation, but the vague wording of it had left it open for interpretation and it was simply too good an opportunity to pass. After all, annoying the Chosen One had been a childhood hobby of his.

"Fuck off." Potter wiped the remaining blood from his face using his sleeve, then looked at him expectantly. "What happened with Dolohov?"

Draco eyed them for a moment, taking in their impatience, and decided that it would be unwise to prolong the suspense. He could have spent an age teasing Potter but Ginevra looked very close to attacking him again. The last thing he wanted was to piss her off further; in fact, he wanted to sort out their argument as soon as possible. "It is done."

By Salazar, it was cold. The crisp air seeped into his skin, freezing the blood in his veins and causing his heartbeat to race. He forced himself not to shiver, for to admit that the harshness of the weather was getting to him would be to exhibit weakness and doing so in front of Dolohov would only put him at a disadvantage. His intention was quite the opposite. "The Dark Lord saw potential in me," he pointed out. "That is why he took me under his wing."

"Boasting much, Malfoy?" Dolohov flicked the butt of his cigarette into the water. Bastard could have vanished it with a simple spell, but had to pollute the beauty of the place they were in.

Draco shrugged indifferently. "I find false modesty to be an immensely ugly trait." That was true. It was perhaps one of the major reasons why he never got on with the Golden Trio; he found Potter's humility to be extraordinarily fake and irritating. The git had had no problem in reaping the special treatment he received at the hands of the Ministry and Hogwarts alike, but had the audacity to appear 'uncomfortable' with the attention. "We were paired on more missions during the Second Wizarding War than almost anyone else in our ranks. You know me, Dolohov. You know that I have more to offer than I let on."

"Fishing for compliments isn't an impressive trait either."

"I'm stating a fact. Is it not why you invited me to join your Cause?"

"And if it were?"

"Then I would urge you to use me wisely."

The words hit their mark, and Dolohov turned to him with an eyebrow raised. "And how exactly do I do that?" he tried to sound nonchalant, but the way his dark eyes shone made it clear that he was intrigued, so very curious to gain a strong asset for his Cause.

"Treat me like an equal," Draco spelled it out flatly. "I have no interest in serving you like some common house-elf, and you are too smart to order me about without reason. Think of me as a partner and I will make sure that you – we – succeed in achieving all that we desire."

"And Dolohov trusts you?" Potter asked. He had pulled out his file on the Death Eater and was now sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling away the information he thought was important.

"I would like to think so," Draco replied. He was confident that the show he had put up was convincing enough, but it was difficult to determine if it had been bought entirely; Dolohov was no simpleton, after all, and even though they had left out quite a trail of breadcrumbs in the form of press conferences and besmirched reputations, one could find it convenient if one looked deep into it. "If I were in his place, I would test me."

"How?" Ginevra asked.

"I don't know. It won't be anything good." His answer seemed to bother her, for her body twitched as if she was resisting the urge to start pacing in the room. He tried to ease her worries by adding, "But that's my thinking. It is possible that Dolohov did believe me."

"Even if he tests you, you must convince him," Potter interjected firmly. "It's the only way that you will have access to information that we need to bring down this rebellion. Short of killing someone, you must do whatever it takes to get that."

"I will," he agreed grimly.

Ginevra let out a derisive sound. "An Auror with a saviour complex and a defected Death Eater with a narcissistic disorder. You two are made for each other!" She grabbed her bag from the table and slung it over her shoulder. "I don't want anything to do with this reckless, baboonish plan– or with either of you, for that matter." Shooting the two men an ugly glare, she stormed out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

Potter let out a tired sigh, as if he knew that there would be no mollifying her.

But Draco could not let her leave, not like this. So, he followed her up the narrow stairs that led out of the kitchen and grabbed her wrist just as they reached the top step. "Ginevra, wait."

She wrenched her hand away as she whirled around to face him. "What?"

The waters of the Llyn Padarn shone like a surface of mirrors, in which the mountains, the sky and the rays of the morning sun reflected with such clarity that Draco felt that if he looked at it long enough, he would no longer be able to differentiate between the tangible earth and the reflection. And then a pebble crashed into the surface of the lake, creating ripples that broke the entire mirage. He blinked in surprise and turned to the man who was the root cause of the disturbance in his life, an eyebrow arched inquisitively.

"Tell me," Dolohov said. "What does your Weasley girlfriend think of this?"

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Draco replied calmly. He paused long enough to allow the man a smirk, then continued in a firm voice, "I will demand her safety, though. It is the only thing I demand. I have grown rather attached, and I don't wish to see her get hurt the way she did in the Bodmin Moor attack, for which I no longer blame you."

The last sentence had clearly caught Dolohov off guard. "Don't you?"

"No. I am also willing to let go of my anger towards the imbecile who attacked my father in Azkaban. Consider it a token of my friendship to you."

"I appreciate your generous token," Dolohov's thin lips curved into a smile that only caused him to look more terrifying. "You're a smart little bugger, aren't you?"

"Do I have your word, then? That Ginevra won't be harmed, no matter what." Draco held out his hand.

The wheels in Dolohov's head turned for a few, silent moments, and then he clasped it. "You have it."

"Is it an apology that you want?" Draco asked as he placed his hands on Ginevra's shoulders, not letting her step away from him this time.

"I don't want to hear it," she snapped. "I asked you about your Dark Mark and these Death Eaters over and over again, and you lied to my face every fucking time! You demanded my trust, you took it, and you've given me none in return."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. She was right in her righteous fury, for he had indeed lied to her. But he had his reasons and she needed to see that. "It wasn't your shit to bear, Ginevra. It was mine," he said slowly. "And I've been trying to deal with it."

"Yes, you've done a wonderful job," she muttered scathingly.

"I do trust you," he assured her. "I told you everything, didn't I?"

"Too little, too late."

He stilled at those words, and he could have sworn that his heart did as well. "What do you mean?" He could not have kept the dread out of his voice even if he wanted to.

"My family and friends all thought that I was a fool to trust you. They said I should end things because you were going to hurt me in the end," Ginevra told him, and a hint of a bitter smile tugged at her lips. "I turned a deaf ear to all of them because I thought that there was more to you than you let on. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, only to find out that…" she trailed off with a shake of her head. "That was as naïve as I was going to get, Draco."

It was the disappointment in her voice that had stabbed at his heart. This was the woman he was madly in love with, and instead of making her happy as was his job, he had somehow broken her trust. A tsunami of guilt washed over him, and he struggled to breathe under it but couldn't– for he had made a terrible mistake.

"Ginevra," he all but gasped as he hurried down the hallway to catch her before she opened the front door. Damn her for choosing to leave the way he could not follow; if anyone saw him stepping out of Harry Potter's house, it would jeopardise this mission. "Stop." She did and he was once again caught off guard, once again out of words. What could he say to make it better, to undo what the mess that he had made? "We belong together. You know that."

"I don't know, Draco. I don't know anything anymore." Her voice was low, pained, and she stared sadly at him for a long moment before leaving.

He watched the front door for what felt like a long while. The soles of his feet ached, the pads of his fingers tingled uncomfortably and the shock of what had just happened erupted through his body like Fiendfyre and then extinguished just as suddenly, leaving him unbearably numb.

He made his way back to the kitchen where Potter was poring over his file. Though he said nothing, his green eyes were fixed upon him in a way that made it very clear that he had heard quite a bit of their conversation, if not all. The last thing he wanted was for Ginevra's precious ex to know that their relationship was going through a bump– it had to be a bump, it had to be, because the world would surely perish if it were the end of their relationship.

Draco did not acknowledge the spectacled git as he reached for the Floo Powder. Within a minute, he was back at the Malfoy Manor, where he headed back to his bedroom. He ought to be going to work, but that would have to wait. Everything would have to wait. He summoned a vial of Potion for Dreamless Sleep and downed all of it. He was asleep even before his head hit the pillow.

Maybe when he woke up, he will find that this entire fiasco had been nothing but a terrible nightmare.

"Destitution becomes you, Nott."

"I'm glad you think so. I worked very hard to attain it."

With an amused chuckle, Draco slipped into a chair across from his old school mate and let his gaze wander around The Coal Hole, a semi-crowded muggle pub with a distinctly Victorian feel, located a short walk away from the Leaky Cauldron. It was not difficult to guess why Nott had chosen this place to meet: The fact that it was a pub promised alcohol, and the fact that it was muggle promised a lack of inquisitive ears; no one here would be tempted to eavesdrop on a meeting between the sons of two very prominent followers of the Dark Lord, because no one here would know who they were. It was ironic how it was the muggle world that provided them much-needed anonymity when they had backed a movement to persecute the very same muggles.

"Drink's good here," Nott commented as he took a sip from the bottle of Heineken that he had been cradling in his hands.

"How would you know?" Draco asked. "That's bottled beer."

"Huh. Didn't think of that."

"Don't tell me you are drunk already. It's just after noon."

"It takes a lot more than two beers to get me drunk, mate." Nott flicked back his shaggy brown hair that had fallen over his eyes and leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the tabletop in tune to the rock music that was playing in the pub. The carefree posture was an open rebellion against the proper ways that had been ingrained in him during his childhood, as was the muggle clothing; the sight of him wearing a bright red hoodie, tight jeans and colourful sneakers would most certainly have earned him a beating from Nott Senior. As it was, the old bastard was in Azkaban, much to the relief of almost everyone who knew him.

Their conversation came to a brief halt as a server came to take their orders and blatantly chat up Nott, who seemed to be very much interested if his suave smirk was anything to go by. Draco hid his face behind the menu, allowing his friend some non-private privacy to flirt, but he had no choice but to put his foot down when an apparently innocent question about food somehow ended up becoming a discussion about sausage girth.

"I think I'll have a classic cheeseburger," he said. "And a pint of Guinness."

"Same for me, thanks," Nott handed back his menu to the waiter with a bit of a wink, waited until the man had walked away and then turned to him with a sour look. "Way to cockblock, mate."

"You are here to meet me, not pick up random men."

"Can't I do both?"

"No."

Nott tutted. "Such prissy attitude. One would think you are not getting any."

Draco stiffened. 'Getting any' was the last worry on his mind these days, considering that it had been a little over a week since that disastrous conversation with Ginevra in Grimmauld Place. If he were to be honest with himself, he was not even sure if he had a girlfriend anymore. "How was Seoul?" he asked, changing the topic.

The question did its trick. Nott launched into a rather enthusiastic retelling of the various sights he saw during his recent trip, detailing how he had spent many a night in Korean nightclubs, researching design styles and trying out drinks until he had found a particular wizarding version of soju that he just had to import for the club he was planning on opening.

It had been a lifelong dream of Nott's to open a nightclub that would offer, in his words, 'an elegant look, some wild music and the most exotic blend of drinks that anyone in Wizarding Britain had ever had'. The vision he had once pitched in the Slytherin common room was quite impressive, a sure money-making business, and one that he most certainly would have achieved if he still had access to the Nott family fortune. Unfortunately, most of it had been confiscated by the Ministry after the war, and what remained was squandered away by Nott on drugs, gambling and sex.

Draco sometimes thought his friend a fool for treating his means with such carelessness, but at the same time knew that it was not his fault. Nott had always been a bit messed up because of the complicated upbringing he had suffered through. The bloke had only been truly free to be who he was after his father's imprisonment, and just like most people, he had gotten carried away in the intoxication that freedom had provided. Still, it seemed that he was better now. The unhealthy amount of orgies and illegal potions had stopped. He still drank a lot more than was healthy, but it had not yet spiralled out of control. Draco would intervene the moment he felt it did.

The meal arrived soon afterwards. It turned out that this pub offered one hell of a cheeseburger. Draco was quite impressed with the taste, but Nott must have liked it too much for he let out a loud moan that had the waiter's head whipping in their direction. Alright, maybe the moan had a more seductive purpose than a complimentary one.

"Could you not?" Draco asked, irritated. "I'm eating."

"I don't see why that would bother you," Nott retorted, a sly expression flashing across his face. "Unless–"

"Salazar, not this again!"

"Unless the gay man inside of you has finally decided to respond to the siren song."

"There is no gay man inside of me."

"Pity. You do look quite attractive today, except for those horrendous circles underneath your eyes." Nott raised an eyebrow suggestively. "I take it that Miss Weasley has been keeping you up at night, in more than one way."

Draco shot him an ugly look. There mere mention of Ginevra triggered heart palpitations. It could not be the end for them, it simply could not be. She had been blindsided by his revelations and therefore needed more time to process everything. Once she did, she would understand. She had to. "I'm beginning to think that your impertinence is caused by a dry spell," he misdirected once again.

"It sadly is," Nott grimaced and then glanced at the waiter once again. "Maybe my luck will change today."

"Maybe it will."

"I could do with some luck these days."

"About that…" Draco trailed off to pull out an envelope from his coat and slid it across the table. In it was a formal Gringotts draft, asking that some money be transferred from his personal vault to Nott's.

His friend's eyes widened when he read it, and he practically choked on the food he was chewing. "Draco. This is– Merlin, this is–"

"Take it. Finish your club," Draco said calmly. "And invite me to those epic parties that you've been promising for years now."

"Fifty thousand Galleons is too much. I cannot possibly–"

"You can. You will."

The promise of finally accomplishing his lifelong dream was clearly too difficult to resist for Nott, which is why he folded the bank draft and slipped it into his pocket with a mixture of reluctance and gratitude. "Thank you," he said slowly. "I will pay you back, I promise."

Draco nodded slowly. In truth, he did not need the money back; the amount had barely left a hole in his own fortune, but he knew that the only way his friend's ego would allow him to take the money was if it was offered as a loan and not charity. Slytherins were very hard-headed when it came to their self-esteem, and rightly so. "Did the Aurors cause much trouble when they raided your club?"

"Much less trouble than they gave you apparently," Nott leaned forward. "I have to ask: what do you know about this new rise of the Death Eaters?"

"Not much," Draco lied smoothly. "Dolohov is leading them and Potter doesn't have many leads, if that damned interrogation I suffered through is anything to go by."

"Father told me his Dark Mark hurt."

"Mine too."

"Didn't you apparate off to see who was calling?"

"Of course not."

"Probably for the best." Nott hesitated for a moment before continuing. "They tried to break father out too when they attacked Azkaban, but the Aurors got to him first. He says I should join them, but I'm not going to. I remember Dolohov from before. He's a bloody madman."

"Apparently, he is a madman with a Cause. That makes him incredibly dangerous."

"Yes, but is he dangerous enough to bring down the Ministry? There is no doubt that he will be causing Potter and Shacklebolt a bunch of terrible migraines, but–"

"He blew up half a Quidditch stadium. That is one big migraine, mate," Draco pointed out. "I don't know what is going on, but I don't think this movement started on a mere whim. The Azkaban breakout may have seemed like a desperate attempt to free old comrades, but the Bodmin Moor blast was a declaration of war."

A flash of worry crossed Nott's face. "Dolohov would not have taken such a bold step without strong backing, which means he has allies in high places."

"It is possible." And he needed to find out who these allies were. The sooner he did so, the sooner his uneasy partnership with Potter would come to an end, and he would be able to return back to his normal life.

It was intriguing how he found it easier to discuss this matter with Nott than he did his own best mate. Blaise was still in the dark about this entire Dolohov fiasco, mainly because while Blaise and his family had been avid blood purists back during the war, they were not directly involved with the Dark Lord's movement. Blaise's father was a Healer in Italy, his mother a beautiful, serial bride and his latest stepfather a well-known metal charmer. He always lent a good ear, but he did not understand, not really.

Draco and Nott, on the other hand, had been born into this. Growing up, they had seen their Death Eater fathers reminisce about the first war and the utopia that the Dark Lord had promised at countless family luncheons and dinner parties. And when the Dark Lord returned, they were the ones who were going to be awarded positions of power if they served. Circumstances had led to Draco's induction into the inner circle at the age of sixteen, but a similar fate would most certainly have awaited Nott eventually if their side had won.

Still, as easy as it was to discuss this, there were plenty of things Draco would not share with Nott– such as the knowledge of the Curse that the Dark Lord had left him with, or an honest glimpse into his personal life and thoughts. Not because Nott could not be trusted, but simply because he already had a damn good brother and confidant in the shape of the annoying, vain Blaise Zabini.

The conversation had clearly troubled Nott, who did not even glance at the waiter when he came to refill their beer. He did accept the drink very eagerly though. "Do you reckon that Crabbe is working with Dolohov?"

Draco frowned, taken off-guard. "Why would you think that?"

"I told you in my letter that I ran into him at Paris. Well, we had coffee. He's gotten quite morbid, more than he already was right after his release." A pause. "You remember, don't you?"

"You know that I do." Draco grimaced, remembering the last time he had met Vincent Crabbe about three-and-a-half years ago.

Nott had hosted a rather wild party in the gardens of his family's country house, and Draco had been quite reluctant to go. He had barely recovered from a particularly rough episode of his Curse. Blaise had practically dragged him there, insisting that mingling with some old Slytherin mates was the exact therapy he needed– and then the stupid bastard had abandoned Draco to go dance with his then-girlfriend, Charlotte.

Draco had been generally content to sit at the bar. It was only when a moronic tosspot accidentally bumped into him and caused him to spill his drink over his trousers did he venture into the mansion. The powder room usually reserved for guests was occupied, and judging by the provocative sounds emanating from behind the door, it seemed unlikely that it would be unavailable anytime soon. Smirking to himself, he had made his way past the cordoned off area and up the grand staircase, intending to use his friend's personal bathroom for it would undoubtedly be unoccupied and clean.

"Look who's here," a familiar voice had said when he had reached the top of the stairs.

There, in the hall, stood Crabbe. The once fat bloke had been reduced to half his weight after two years in Azkaban. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes frighteningly deranged and nearly all of the hair on his head had fallen away.

"Crabbe," Draco greeted. "How are you?"

Though Vincent Crabbe had been nothing but a gluttonous, moronic buffoon and a useful lackey, good to keep around to intimidate others, Draco had still considered him to be a friend. Of course, disagreements had sprouted between them after Draco had left Hogwarts at the end of their sixth year to fulfil his Death Eater duties and Crabbe had enthusiastically fallen under the leadership of Professors Carrow and Carrow.

And then the Battle of Hogwarts took place. They had ventured into the Room of Requirement after the Golden Trio. Draco had only wanted to get his wand back from Potter, but Crabbe had had other ideas. All of a sudden, the memory of Goyle perishing in the Fiendfyre hung between them, weighing in on both their souls.

"I'm great! Being chained in a dingy cell in Azkaban with the Dementors driving me insane was a lot of fun." Crabbe replied with an amount of sarcasm that he did not think he had it in him. "What about you? I bet it has been horrible, what with having all your fortunes intact."

Draco stiffened as the brief nostalgia he felt for the man evaporated in an instant. It was foolish of him to try and be civil towards this fat bastard, for any bonds of friendship that had once existed between them were long broken. He allowed his lips to curl into a mean, triumphant sneer, as if to say that it was not his fault that his family had been smart enough to defect at the right time when others had continued to blindly follow the Dark Lord, and then moved to continue on his journey towards the restroom. He had only managed a few steps when Crabbe spoke up again.

"Every freedom that you are enjoying is tainted in Goyle's blood, Malfoy. I hope you choke on it."

"No!" Draco whirled around, feeling raw anger coursing through his veins. "Do not blame me for what happened to Goyle. It was you who cast that damned fire in the first place!"

"To kill Potter, to end the bloody war, which was something that you were too cowardly to do." Crabbe shook his head, his face twisted in disgust. "Can you imagine how the Dark Lord would have rewarded us if we had brought him Harry Potter's corpse?"

The Dark Lord had been a maniac, and his bloodlust would not have sated with the death of Potter. He would have made an example of everyone who had fought against him in the battle, pureblood or not. But it was useless to say that out loud. "You'd have been a murderer, Crabbe."

"Better a murderer than a turncoat," Crabbe spat as he pulled out his wand. "Tell me, how do you sleep at night knowing that you are the real blood-traitor?"

Draco had pulled out his wand as well. "Like a baby."

His words had enraged Crabbe, just like he knew they would– and within half a second, curses were flying around the hall, shattering decorative pieces and burning portraits. It had been a rather violent duel, fuelled by countless furies and frustrations, and had only ended when Blaise and Nott had barged up the stairs and physically restrained the two of them.

Later, Blaise would find him at the Manor and shout at him for getting into such a reckless fight. He would also tell him that Crabbe had to get two toes amputated because of a rather dark, mangling curse that Draco had shot at his foot, and it was sheer luck that he had no intention of filing a report with the Aurors. And Draco, whose body was still aching due to the brunt of the Cruciatus Curse, had merely stated that it was the fear of being sent back to Azkaban for casting the Unforgiveables that was keeping the fat git from going to the Ministry.

There was no reason to fear the fat bastard. There was no remorse over the duel either. All bridges had been burnt that night, and those two men would only ever wish each other ill from now onwards.

"So then," Draco said as he pushed his now empty plate away and leaned back in his chair. "What did the fat bastard say that makes you think he's working with the Death Eaters?"

"That we purebloods have been robbed of the respect that we are owed, and how the Wizarding world order needed to change. But then he said that things will change and that everyone will get what they truly deserve when it happens," Nott replied, his brows drawing into a frown. "Come to think of it, that isn't much worse than his usual rants."

Draco hummed in agreement, though his mind was whirring. A few months ago, his mother had told him that she had spotted Crabbe with Lukas at Rue du Alters. She had been having lunch with his grand-mère at the time, and had told her about the somewhat dubious history. His grand-mère in turn must have confronted Lukas, for he had barged into the Manor and had a quarrel with Draco, informing him that Crabbe was a dear friend of his and the Malfoys had no right to poke their noses in his personal life. All in all, Crabbe's name had popped up more times in these past few months than it had in the years since the war.

"Maybe– maybe he just read about the Azkaban breakout," Nott guessed, unaware of his train of thought. "Maybe it's just wishful thinking on his part."

"Yes, that is the most likely case," Draco supplied, though he did not think so. Had he not suspected that his moronic cousin, Lukas, may be hanging out with the wrong crowd? According to Jeremy Chaucer, Lukas had weaved quite a tale about Draco's past to the boy, about how he was a staunch believer in the old ways and was currently only blending in to escape persecution at the hands of the Aurors. It was a tale that had been very, very similar to what Dolohov had foolishly presumed about him when he had first reached out to him with the offer to join his Cause. "But either way, it is none of our business."

It could all be a very big coincidence. Draco did believe in coincidences. But he also believed in trusting his instincts, which had not let him down so far, and they screamed at him that this was a thread that he ought to tug at.

Well then. Perhaps he would.

After lunching with Nott, Draco found himself walking down Diagon Alley. He still had a bit of time before he had to return to his office and there was a new book on Alchemy that he wanted to buy from Flourish and Blotts. His mind, however, remained fixed on Crabbe and Lukas, and how he could look into those two gits without raising suspicions.

It would be tricky because both of them lived in France. Crabbe was practically a recluse from what he had heard over the years, which would make it difficult to get information on him. Lukas, on the other hand, was in the grandest of limelight because of his family name– a family that Draco himself was related to and harboured respect for, despite the fact that he found the task of meeting his relatives to be tedious.

The sound of his name being called snapped him out of his conundrum, and he turned around to see Neville Longbottom hurrying towards him.

"Merlin! I thought I'd have to cast an Amplifying Charm on my voice to get you to hear me."

"I wasn't paying attention," Draco said in lieu of an apology.

"Clearly." The mandatory small talk of asking one another how they were and what was new at work followed, but mercifully it was not too long before Longbottom came straight to point. Or rather, he tried to. "It's good that I saw you here. I was going to owl you. Luna is back and I've been talking to her about, um, everything."

"And?" he said impatiently.

"I'm in. I want to continue helping you with your project and," Longbottom paused to take in a deep breath, as if he was bracing himself. "And w-we can use my parents as test subjects, but only if you promise that they will not get hurt."

Draco blinked in surprise. "I promise." Though he had not had the time to ponder over that particular passion project of his due to recent circumstances, there had been no doubt that he was going to work on it on his own. Of course, Longbottom's assistance and knowledge about Herbology meant that progress would be quicker. Hopefully. This was probably the first good thing that had happened to him in a while. "I do not have my planner with me right now. I will send you an owl and we can schedule a meeting?"

"Sounds good." Longbottom smiled, then nodded down the street. "Why don't you come over? Luna and I are having ice-cream with Ginny."

An unexpected wave of anxiety washed over him, holding him still in his place. He wondered if it would be wise to see her, to make an attempt to talk to her. The last thing she had said to him that day at Potter's place was 'I don't know', but what if over the last week, she had realised that she would be better off without him? He did not think he had the strength to cope with that possibility. No, it was much easier to keep his distance and think that she needed time. It was easier to maintain that uncertain fantasy.

Something must have shown on his face for Longbottom frowned. "Er, are you two having problems?"

"A little argument," Draco admitted reluctantly, though 'a little argument' was a vast understatement.

"Well, I'm sure its nothing that a nice chat over chocolate sundae can't fix. It always works for me and Luna."

"Luna and I," he corrected automatically and received a rather unamused look in return. Not wanting to listen to any remarks about where he could supposedly shove his proper grammar, he added, "Lead the way, then."

The two women were sitting at a table outside Fortescue & Finnigan Ice Cream Parlour, halfway through their giant sundaes and engaged in what must have been a very light-hearted conversation. At least, it was until Ginevra saw him approaching. Her smile vanished in an instant.

"Hello, Draco," Luna said in her usual dreamy voice, clearly not picking up on the tension that was emanating from her friend. "Long time, no see."

"Not my fault, Loony. You were the one who was away," Draco said as he lowered himself into a chair across from her, firmly ignoring the glare that the redhead had sent his way. Instead, he eyed the quirky magizoologist with interest. Her skin was tanned and her hair cropped short so that it reached just above her shoulders. "I take it your expedition went well."

A smile lit Luna's face and she launched into a brief description of the last few months she had spent deep in the forests of South America with Rolf Scamander, researching something called a Bloral, and how their travels had led them to the Falkland Islands where they discovered a new creature that apparently had the head of a guinea pig, the body of a bloodhound and hypnotising abilities. She seemed to be back for good though, something that Longbottom seemed immensely pleased about, and was planning on working with Scamander to study and classify this new animal with the aid of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Draco listened with polite interest, though he had never been much interested in magical beasts. Studying under that oaf Hagrid had killed his curiosity about the subject. Besides, he was too busy trying to observe Ginevra without making it too obvious. She sat there stiff as a board, her eyes fixed on her ice-cream, her lips pressed into a thin line and her cheeks flushed with anger. It looked like she was resisting the urge to flip over the table and storm away.

Longbottom must have sensed the impending danger, for he said something about ordering some ice-cream for himself and practically dragged Luna with him, making excuses about how he wanted to avoid her complaining about horrible flavours when she dug into his sundae, which was something she apparently had a habit of. Bloody coward. Or had he not-so-subtly left with his girlfriend to provide Draco with a chance to speak to Ginevra for a few minutes?

Either way, Draco was in a shitty position. But one had to always play with the cards one was dealt with, so he did the only thing he could do: start a conversation. "Frowning constantly like that will give you wrinkles, love."

Ginevra's eyes flashed dangerously. "What the hell do you think you're doing, hanging out with my friends?"

He smirked at what a ridiculously childish statement she had made, and decided to respond in a similar manner. "They don't have your name on them." Well, he had successfully managed to make her furious, and when she moved to get up, he placed his hand atop hers. "Don't be like this. Longbottom invited me over."

She wrenched her hand out from under his. "Do not touch me," she hissed.

"So, you are still angry with me?"

"I am beyond angry."

"I am sorry, alright?" He said in a low voice. "I feel immensely guilty for breaking your trust. It was never my intention to do so. Please, tell me what I can do to make it right."

"You can't," she snapped.

"What are you saying? That it's over?" She did not speak but her silence spoke volumes. His chest constricted, making the air he breathed in feel like razor blades going down his tubes. He leaned forward, his voice pleading as he said, "We love each other too much to let this break us apart, Ginevra."

"What's the point of that love if I can't even trust you?" she demanded, her own voice shaking with thinly veiled grief.

Bloody hell. He should have been upfront since the first day, or at least since the day he had confessed his love to her. Had he known, he had even an inkling of how she was going to react, how she was going to take it, he would have told her. But it was water over the head now. He could not change the silly blunders he had made. He could not change the past. "If I had a Time Turner, I would go back and do things differently."

"I'm sure you would." Her eyes bore into his for a long moment, and he could see disappointment and betrayal swirling in there like spurts of boiling flame. She was righteousness and fury and fire, so unlike the iciness that lived in his veins, and it became clear to him that she was not going to change her mind.

"I should go. Tell Luna and Longbottom that I had a meeting to get to." Draco stood up slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers. "Just so you know, I refuse to believe that we are done. I hope you change your mind, Ginevra. You know where to find me when you do."

And then he walked away.

It had been a while since Draco Malfoy had suffered a full-blown panic attack.

That changed the moment he made it back to his office and swung the door shut after him. A sharp pain shot through his chest and he felt his heart pounding so hard that he could hear the thumps it made in his ear. He tried to breathe to calm himself, but the breaths were sharp and shallow. He was afraid, terribly afraid because everything he had built around himself was shattering into pieces and spiraling out of his precious control. Stars danced in front of his eyes, shouting that everything was wrong– and he collapsed onto the cool tiled floor.

The thought of having to deal with Dolohov, becoming a bloody Death Eater all over again, investigating the Lefebvre, lying to his mother, working with Potter, and not having Ginevra in his life was too much, too much to bear. Oh Merlin, he needed Ginevra. He wanted her to tell him that he could do this, that she would support him. He wanted to feel her fingers in his hair, her tender voice in his ears.

He had admitted that it was a mistake not pulling her into the loop earlier. He had apologised for it. He had even promised to be upfront with her from now onwards. And Ginevra still would not forgive him. There was nothing more he could do. Nothing at all. He had lost her because of his own foolishness.

Everything was wrong. Everything was out of control. He was going to die. He was going to fail. He was alone. He was drowning, drowning, drowning and his body was locked in terror. There was no way he would be able to come up for air. It was all going to be over. It was over.

Except it wasn't.

The feeling passed after a few terribly long minutes. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, his chest ached but Draco did manage to stumble his way into his chair and summon a glass of water. The panic was gone for now. But that did not change the fact that he was absolutely, awfully, royally fucked.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter. So please, leave a review.

Until next time! x