Warning: Graphic description of a child's death.
Once the blue walls of the Malfoy drawing room had fully reclaimed themselves, Bill cleared his throat. "That was the sixth of June, 1999," Bill said, voice raw. His body was caged by Fenrir's, the alpha wolf's dark eyes sharp with emotion. Bill swallowed. "That was the last time I really remember having any hope."
"Just a year after the Final Battle," Amelia murmured. She turned to Bill. "The Ministry attack, though. That was surely a turning point for your Resistance?"
Bill shrugged. "Was it?" He asked in the general direction of the other rebels. "I wouldn't know, really. Fenrir and I only lived another four months after the Ministry went down."
Arthur looked at his eldest, eyes wide with shock and face pale with dread. "How?"
Bill softened, stepping away from Fenrir to gently take up his father's hand. He didn't acknowledge how Arthur's fingers immediately swept over his pulse. "The Ministry attacked Knockturn Alley. We were escorting a group of children out when we were cornered and overwhelmed." Bill smiled. "The kids made it, though."
Arthur nodded once, sharply. His face was grim as he pulled his eldest boy in for a quick, hard hug. "I am very proud of you," Arthur said, locking eyes with Bill. "Even if I wish with all my heart that you had never had to make such a choice."
Bill dipped his head as they parted, blinking fast. Fenrir was beside him immediately, an arm tucking around Bill's waist. Bill leaned into him as though he had been doing so all his life.
From over Bill's shoulder Arthur gave an approving smile to his past and future son-in-law. Fenrir blinked, surprised by anyone who wasn't his pack giving him approval, but accepted the gesture gratefully. It was nice, he thought, knowing that his mate's dad wasn't going to go looking for a silver dagger anytime soon. Bill would agree, Fenrir knew. His family was obviously important to him, like the pack was to Fenrir. Rather than one replacing the other, Fenrir swore he would do his damnedest to make both compatible.
"The Ministry attack didn't do as much as we had hoped," Daphne finally answered, drawing the conversation back to Amelia's question. "Objectively, we succeeded. However, the Light didn't destabilize as we had assumed they would."
Ron nodded, his face growing distant with memory. "After aligning with the Greyback pack we had better odds, but we still weren't an even match." Ron rubbed at his forehead, feeling the familiar stress build between his eyes. "Even if our soldiers were objectively superior, we were always outnumbered, under-armed, and scrambling from one hideout to another. That all takes a toll even when your enemy doesn't have home-field advantage."
"We'd hoped that taking out the Ministry buildings would kill the hydra," Harry summarized. "Instead, we just cut off a head."
"Not to say that we didn't give them hell anyway!" Astoria Greengrass piped up. The words were disturbing coming from such a small child, still cuddled up on her big sister's lap. "After we took out the Ministry in October of 2000, they never managed to reestablish. We also hit St. Mungo's and took out the monster factory there six months after. Then there were the regular raids on Diagon Alley, which was basically a death camp by then, and our defense of Knockturn right up until the end, along with the Forbidden Forest." She paused, thinking. "We really did quite a lot, didn't we? In not even two years of fighting."
"Twenty-one months," Daphne said softly, running her fingers through her sister's hair. "It felt so much longer.
Dean looked at Seamus, the boyfriend he was never able to make his husband. "At the same time it felt like no time at all," he said.
"We didn't even make it to our first anniversary," Blaise added wonderingly. He hadn't yet had the time to think about that. "We died about four months after the wedding."
Narcissa flinched. She turned to her son. "Draco..."
"We married on Valentine's Day, 2001," Draco replied tonelessly. He'd hunched into himself, forbidding touch. "We died on June tenth."
"My Gods," Lucius muttered, running a hand over his face. It was a tick he'd developed as an overwhelmed child; one he'd thought successfully beaten out of him in his youth. He found himself falling into it more and more these days. It began its resurgence on the day of his return.
Lucius had been in his home office, ostensibly engaged in paperwork while instead wondering how Draco was finding Hogwarts. Lucius had been midway through an anxious fantasy wherein Slytherin House had been corrupted by Dumbledore and their family needed to flee to Bulgaria when a stray thought had popped into his head: At least Bulgaria doesn't persecute werewolves.
Lucius had paused mid-spiral, utterly confused. Why would he care at all about werewolves—and then the memories hit him. Memories of another war, first. Of the Dark Lord rising again as the most nightmarish version of himself Lucius could imagine, a mad perversion of the man who'd been a guardian and mentor all of Lucius's youth. He remembered breaking his vows to that monster, turning to Dumbledore at the eleventh hour in a desperate attempt to save his family, his son.
He'd fought for the Light. He'd sold secrets and untangled curses years in the making, fighting back-to-back with Sirius Black and the gaggle of Dumbledore's followers against Death Eaters he'd once trained. But they weren't the people he'd known, anymore. They were driven by a thirst for destruction, not a desire to preserve the magical world Lucius loved. Azkaban had done a lot of that damage, but Voldemort's horrifying cruelty and capriciousness had done the larger part. The man Lucius had admired and loved like a family member seemed dead, a vengeful wraith left holding his wand.
Remus Lupin had been his port of calm in the storm. They met in the Hogwarts library. Properly met, Lucius amended. He'd known of Lupin in school, a quiet shadow lurking between the louder and stupider Marauders. Finding out from Severus that the boy was a werewolf had floored Lucius. Every member of the race his father had introduced him to had been obvious warriors, their muscular bodies prowling silently beside their charges as they worked as bodyguards, mercenaries, or more shadowy contractors. Even later, as Lucius fought the man during the first war, Lupin had barely seemed more lethal than a leashed hunting dog.
But in the library, researching spells to help fight the second war, he'd come to know a different man. And this man had snuck, as silently as moonlight, past his defenses and taken his heart.
He divorced Narcissa, his life partner and mother of his child, for this man. He mediated his politics to better compliment Remus's Light ideals. He respected the landmines around Remus's lycanthropy, dancing past the ones buried too deep and carefully trying to disengage the most harmful ones. He soothed Remus through their lycan bonding, trying his best to accept what felt alien to him because he knew it was so very much worse for Remus, that the concept of mate and destiny were both things Remus didn't understand and had been instructed to hate under Dumbledore's instruction.
He did everything he could to understand his husband. To understand what Remus couldn't, when Teddy came along and it became clear that their baby had a noticeably lycan streak. And then, suddenly, he wasn't just battling Remus's self-loathing. He was battling the Wizarding World's.
The memories of his death lingered in his mind. He could smell the hot August air as he stepped out the Ministry doors. He should have just flew'd home, but the meeting had been awful. He'd wanted to walk a while in Diagon Alley, clear his head a bit and maybe bring home something fancy from the chocolatier's shop for Remus. He should have had a bodyguard with him, but the meeting time had been changed suddenly and he would have been late if he'd stopped to summon Millicent. He'd fought two wars, he'd thought. Surely, he could handle an hour's walk.
And then something searing had blown through his chest, sending him crashing back against the Ministry steps. Marble bit into his back as he lay there, his breath refusing to come back to him. He heaved in air only to bubble up the blood on his lips. He couldn't reach his wand. He couldn't stand. He dragged his hands over his chest and saw crimson staining his palms. Screams broke out, a cacophonous racket that kept getting further away even though Lucius wasn't moving.
He was under water, suddenly. Under water and his hands were going cold, his mouth dry from the shock of the freezing water. It was like the time they'd gone to Dover when he was a boy, and his father took him swimming in the ocean. The cold would ease, eventually. He should take Teddy to the beach next summer. Draco had always loved the ocean…
Lucius had been hyperventilating—as much as he could when his lungs wouldn't fucking work—when Narcissa had burst through his office door. They'd exchanged one glance. In a heartbeat he was holding her as he hadn't since they were children, her sobs soaking his shoulder.
Narcissa had told him in shakes and gasps about losing him, then Remus. Lucius could have almost coped with that. He and Remus had fought two wars. They'd married quickly precisely because they'd known they could die at any second. They'd made peace with leaving each other violently, even if they'd thought themselves safe at the time of their deaths. But their deaths hadn't been the end of Narcissa's confession. She'd continued to tell him about Kingsley losing his position, about taking Teddy into hiding, and then the house arrest, and the run for the MACUSA, and then being caught and sentenced to hang. Her, Kingsley, and Teddy.
Lucius had been on the floor before he'd processed the weakness in his legs. He'd been vaguely cognizant of Narcissa's arms tucking around him but not much else. Teddy hadn't even been two, and they'd hung him.
Lucius had closed his eyes, bile gathering in his mouth. Teddy must have understood something terrible was about to happen. He must have been crying, screaming for any of the adults who'd loved and protected him all his little life. Had they bound his wriggling toddler body or cast magic on him? Or just dashed his little head against the cobbles to silence his wailing. Lucius spit stomach acid onto his incalculably expensive heirloom carpets and dry heaved.
Only Narcissa's hissed whispering about Draco had kept Lucius together. Teddy was gone, maybe never to born if they changed the future too much, but Draco was alive.
Lucius had stumbled up off the carpet and into his desk chair, begging Narcissa to bring over the scotch so he could wash the taste of death out of his mouth. He had plans to make.
Those plans had now largely come to fruition. Getting Bones the Minister's seat, using her to get the Magical Children's Act passed, freeing Sirius Black, making Arthur Weasley a competent man again, getting Harry's custody out of Dumbledore's talons, the Dark Arts Amendment—on and on it had gone, years' worth of manipulation finished in a few months. All of it done in the name of his murdered son, and for his living one.
Remus had been the only indulgence he'd allowed himself. He'd found his once-husband in a dilapidated cottage outside some gods-forsaken magical hamlet, a couple weeks after returning. He'd wanted to go immediately, but finding a werewolf living off the grid was time-consuming and Lucius had plans to get in order. At least Remus had been waiting for him, his face young in many ways but full of despair. They had been able to shore each other up with fragile words and desperate reassurances, Lucius holding Remus upright as he whispered Teddy's fate. Yet hearing that Draco had indeed died in their last life, Lucius felt that familiar weakness come over him again.
Gods, Lucius thought, suddenly exhausted. He needed a drink.
A supernaturally strong arm locked around his waist, keeping Lucius up even as his bones sagged. He had a few inches on Remus, was broader in the shoulders and more muscular, but Remus was a whipcord of preternatural strength. Lucius curled against that power, focusing on his breathing. Somehow, he had failed not just one son but both. How did he move on from that?
"Draco is fine," Remus said quietly. Lucius forced himself to nod. He knew that, logically. Draco stood right in front of him. His dithering heart just wouldn't listen. Sucking in a deep breath, Lucius focused on his son, who was curled in on himself like he didn't even want the air to touch him. Lucius felt the itch to act. He was hesitant, though. What could possibly make this better?
He looked to Blaise Zabini and found that the boy looked even less sure than Lucius felt. Blaise hovered, his body leaning close but paused just short of touch. The conversation carried on around them obliviously. As Draco's husband, he should provide some clue—but not yet married a year, Lucius remembered. Lucius had not even known Narcissa's colour preference at a year. They had fought viciously over something as simple as which wine to have at dinner. The first year with Remus, Lucius made a regrettable crack about the Marauders that had started a week-long fight.
Blaise had been allotted about four months to learn his husband while living in a war zone before being chucked back in time. No wonder he hesitated. Lucius wondered if he had ever even seen Draco like this before, if there had ever been enough of a reprieve in battle and adrenaline.
Well, Lucius thought, no harm done. If action failed to materialize, that simply meant they needed to buy some time. Lucius knew how to do that.
"While this is all very interesting," Lucius drawled, drawing the room away from what was rapidly becoming a disastrous conversation. Apparently the topic had turned to morality while Lucius was busy mulling his failures. He felt a sneer rise up. As if they could afford the luxury. "I find myself certain that they are still some memories yet to be revealed. Might I request we see these before discussing the finer points of proportional retaliation?" He locked eyes pointedly with the new Minister Bones.
"You are correct, Lucius," Amelia replied tightly. "We must indeed have all the pieces."
Lucius inclined his head elegantly, eyes assessing. Amelia wasn't the only person whose sensibilities had taken a beating during these memory revelations. Both Kingsley and Arthur had looked sickened at turns, and even Remus had flinched at some of the lengths the rebels had taken. Amelia was the loudest critic, however, with the most faith in the Ministry. Lucius suspected she thought she could control the place, especially now as Minister. She hadn't been there to see the hysteria, the raw panic that had swept society with the fall of Voldemort. Lucius may not have believed it without having lived it, either.
A low chuckle broke Lucius from his musings. Draco had straightened up, his arms crossed over his tiny eleven-year-old chest. His right hand tapped its fingers against his vial. He should have looked ludicrous, so young but standing with the posture of a broken man. But Lucius only felt dread.
"I have a piece for you, Minister," Draco said, his tone perfectly reasonable.
Ice lanced down Lucius' back.
"Draco," Blaise murmured, his hand finding the crook of Draco's arm at last. Draco didn't brush him away. He didn't drop his eyes from Amelia, either.
Amelia swallowed visibly. She had obviously sensed the new tension in the room. "What, pray tell, is that?"
"You question the level of violence we used," Draco stated. There was no hint of accusation in his voice, merely the dry statement of fact. "You think we were overzealous at best, perhaps utterly immoral. Even after the Ministry memories."
Amelia stiffened. "What you experienced was horrific," she said. "I can't imagine your sorrow and I can't imagine what you went through. Even at the heart of the last two wars, though, we didn't kill so readily. We used our lethality sparingly. We certainly didn't flatten people, not even Death Eaters." Her eyes cut around accusingly to the several people in the room who had borne the mark. "Let alone guards and aurors who probably didn't know what was being done."
The room exploded with noise. Several of the young returned cried out, at least one "Fuck off!" coming out loud and clear. Severus had an arm curled around Sirius's waist and arms, obviously putting his whole strength into holding the man still. Others, like Rita Skeeter, had faces that flickered briefly with disappointment. Still more seemed unsure. Arthur was watching his boys closely while Kingsley looked away. The young Susan Bones didn't seem to know what to think, her eyes flickering around without purpose.
The whole exchange might have devolved into a true battle had a burst of green sparks not shot into the air with a bang.
Harry stood stone-faced in the ensuing silence, his wand still pointed to the ceiling. "Draco," he said with a voice of soft authority. "I assume you're working towards a point?"
Draco smirked. "You know me so well."
Harry nodded. "On with it, then."
Draco rolled his shoulders. He licked his lips. "For the record," he said perfunctorily, "I'm sorry." Then he thumbed off the vial's plug.
Bubbling memory seeped into the room, spilling abrupt darkness over the furniture. As the sofas and chairs faded away, the walls and floors solidified into cobbled streets and boarded up storefronts. A cold sliver of moon provided the only light. There wasn't a sound to be heard, which made a woman's gasp very noticeable.
Rita Skeeter had a hand over her mouth, though the whole of the returned had already heard her and turned appropriately. "Oh, Draco..." Rita muttered, uncaring of the attention. She was watching Draco. She knew this scene. The first addition of The Cassandra Times had featured its awful story.
Beside her, Lavender closed her eyes. She, too, was familiar with this story. Rita didn't blame her for trying to block the images out. This story had been one of those that stuck to your insides like dried blood. The tale of the fall of the House of Malfoy.
Draco, blank-faced and young, didn't appear phased. "She wants to know why we fought like demons. I thought I'd show her."
"What?" Sirius said, shifting uneasily. There was a new, bad tension in the room. He didn't like it at all. "I think we get why. I mean, sweet fuck, what the Ministry did..."
Amelia looked away. She'd had nightmares about the Ministry memories. There were images in her head that she would never forget. But she had also woke from her nightmares with a horrid pressure pushing her down, crushing her... Surely, such brutal magic couldn't be warranted. Not when she had killed maybe one Death Eater in all her years as an auror. There was evil in the basement of the Ministry, unjustifiable cruelties in the street, yes. There was something wrong. She wouldn't argue that. But she'd fought Voldemort, and they had never killed like this. How could such lengths be justified?
The telltale crack of apparition wrecked any opportunity for an answer, spitting two young men violently into the street. Something was immediately obviously wrong. The blond—Draco—stumbled his landing, losing his footing and slamming hard into the stone backward. His hands were full of Blaise, who fell with him. They rolled with the motion and were instantly on their feet, squared to fight back-to-back.
Draco faced the returned, his eyes wild, cheek, nose, and snarling mouth bloodied. His hair was chin length, not the long flow of blond they had seen in the Ministry memory. He was younger than he'd been then. Eighteen, Sirius guessed. He remembered this look.
This was before Draco had figured out the wandless magic, too. His whole arm trembled as he pointed his wand at enemies that he must have left behind when he apparated.
"What the hell," Draco gasped in the memory, his voice cracking. His neck was red, like someone had been interrupted in strangling him. Spellfire singes decorated his clothing and even with no obvious threats, it seemed to take him real effort to lower his wand. "What the hell was that, Blaise?"
"We had just returned from Italy," the Draco of the present said calmly. "We were greeted by Ministry guards out for our blood. We weren't very receptive to that."
"You were supposed to stay in Italy for years," Narcissa bit out. Draco had been finishing his potions mastery there—hosted by the Zabinis. Damn, she thought, momentarily distracted. How had she missed such an obvious clue? Pushing that train of thought away, she asked the more important question. "Why did you come back?"
"Draco had asked me to marry him," Blaise replied. His whole focus was on Draco, who watched the scene with a worrying serenity. "We had tried sending letters but received no reply. We hadn't received any messages at all. We were worried."
"There had been a block put on mail leaving Britain," Draco supplied placidly. "Anything sent within the border was searched first by the Ministry. Besides, we would have had to come back sooner or later thanks to the Reparations Act. Like Theo and Luna."
Narcissa nodded, swallowing down her emotions. She had just wanted her boy to be safe. A fool's hope, she supposed.
"Blaise?" The Draco in the memory called again, drawing the attention of the returned once more. Blaise had yet to say anything in this memory, though Draco had prompted him at least twice to speak. Draco made to turn but Blaise spun abruptly, locking his arms around Draco from behind and holding him in place.
"Oh, Gods, Dray," Blaise choked, slumping against Draco's back. "Please, let's just go. You don't need to see."
Draco frowned, confusion flaring across his face as he turned. "Blaise, what on Earth—"
The scene seemed to stop. No one spoke and no one breathed. All attention was focused on the structure that seemed to materialize as Draco turned. Perhaps this was the spell's way of ensuring the shock adequately translated. Sirius, stomach roiling and his heart broken, thought they could have bloody well done without the dramatics.
Taking up the central square of what was now recognizably Diagon Alley was a construction of rough stone blocks, heavy timber, and coarse rope. The length of three dark storefronts and a storey tall from the top beam to stone foundation, the gallows loomed over the street though there were buildings that stood far taller. Spaced just so that the silent breeze wasn't enough to send them bumping into each other, eight still bodies hung in a neat row. One was very, very small.
"Merlin," Amelia breathed, but her shock was drowned by the sucking, struggling inhale that came from the memory's Draco.
"What," Draco said so quietly that the returned had to strain to hear. He took a stuttering step. Then another, and another, until he was in a dead run.
"Draco," Blaise called, tearing after him, but Draco beat him to the foot of the platform. It stood as high as his shoulder, so that all could have a good view on a crowded market day. "Draco, please," Blaise tried again, pulling at Draco's shoulder. "We can't help them, we don't even know what this is all about. We must go."
"That's my mother's dress," Draco said. He stood frozen, his only motion the drip of blood from his bruising nose and split lip. "I helped her pick out the trim."
"Oh, Gods," Sirius breathed. The rest of the return watched in stunned silence, spellbound by horror. In the memory, Draco stared up with wide eyes. Blaise made the only sound; a terrible, shocked mumbling.
The heads of the corpses were covered by white bags. Printed across each was a word. The corpse Draco stood before simply said 'Dark.' The next said 'Traitor.' The third said 'Saboteur.' The next four were all marked 'Dark.' The last corpse, that one very, very small body, was labeled with 'Werewolf.'
Lucius felt blood roll down his knuckles. His nails had cut into the flesh of his fisted palms. He screwed his fingers deeper still. His baby had hung. Lucius couldn't take his eyes away. He could barely even make out Remus' trembling body pressing against his side.
Unerringly, the Draco of the memory's gaze drifted in the direction of that littlest corpse. All this time, Blaise had been making disbelieving noises about how Draco must be mistaken, that there had to be witches with the same damn trim. Draco appeared not to have heard a word. Instead, he walked until he came to stop in front of that smallest corpse. Blaise followed him step for step.
"It's stitched in a patented green," Draco said, devoid of anything at all. "Only a Malfoy could have it."
Blaise's jaw dropped. His faced slowly fell into desperation. "It's dark," he tried hopelessly.
Draco didn't bother with a response. Instead, he pulled himself up onto the platform with an easy heave of muscle. There was plenty of room. The little body took up barely any space at all. Wrapping one arm around the waist, Draco made a slicing motion with his wand, cutting the rope. The little body settled stiffly in his arms. Draco slid to his knees, cradling the corpse.
"Draco," Blaise choked, horrified. He made a stumbling motion, as if to follow, but couldn't quite manage. "No," he mouthed, as Draco gently removed the hood. Tears sprung to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
Teddy Malfoy looked up at them in frozen horror, amber eyes gone milky and unseeing. His little mouth was open in a perfect bow of fear. In death, his hair had leached of the colours the young metamorphmagus had favoured mimicking in life, leaving his baby-soft hair the same platinum as his big brother. Draco ran gentle fingers through his bangs, brushing his eyes closed in the same motion. As Draco removed the rope, he looked almost to be sleeping.
"He's barely cold," Draco muttered. "He might have been alive when—"
"Don't!" Blaise snapped, and then, quieter, "Draco, we couldn't, you couldn't—We had no idea. You can't blame yourself."
"I'll blame who I like!" Draco snarled, then winced. His hands began to shake, tiny earthquakes spreading across his skin. He was breathing harshly, running his fingers through Teddy's hair. "That was Mother," Draco said, "The one beside her, Kingsley. Gods, my whole family..."
Blaise swallowed. "Your father, Remus..."
Draco shook his head. "They never would have laid a finger on Teddy if either were alive."
"Never," Lucius hissed, stricken. "Draco, they never would have touched either of you. I swear on my magic."
In the present, Draco sucked in a breath. "I know, Father." That's why they killed you first.
Draco knew his eyes were wet and red as he watched himself go to pieces in the memory, sobbing into his dead brother's body. Blaise had done his best, in that moment, but Draco had been beyond all comfort. He still felt that way, some days. He unwound his arms, reaching for Blaise. His hand was accepted instantly and something jagged in his chest settled.
The squawk of sirens broke the devastating tableau, making all those watching jump. In the memory, Blaise and Draco jerked to attention, wands at the ready. Draco balanced Teddy's corpse on his hip. His face was a mess of tears and blood but none of that had dulled his reflexes. A good thing, as the square was quickly filled with aurors.
"The fuck?" Sirius said, wrathful. Could there not be one fucking moment of peace?
"Sensors on the ropes," Blaise explained dully, when it seemed that no one else would. "The Ministry didn't want anyone taking a corpse down ahead of schedule." He took a deep breath. "They were warnings to the living."
"God," Amelia rasped, repulsed to her very core. This wasn't corruption. This was... Hell.
"By order of the Ministry," one of the aurors began. But quicker than lightening his grief had flashed to rage and Draco was striking, letting off a volley of godawful curses, the kind only found in the libraries of the oldest, Darkest families. Blaise joined in without pause.
The memory lit up with colour and noise. Draco and Blaise fought viciously, but they were matched against at least ten combatants. One managed to clip Blaise with a body-bind and he fell. As Draco covered him, a spell caught his hand and his wand went flying. With a scream, Draco stumbled for the second time that night and fell almost on top of Blaise, still clinging to Teddy's corpse. The aurors closed in, their wands circling the pair and their cold cargo.
"Due to your noncompliance," the auror who had spoken before said, "I am within my powers to order your immediate execution." The man grinned, dropping his assumed formality. "Beyond me why they didn't just take out you lot right away in the first place. It would have saved us a lot of trouble." The assembled aurors jeered in agreement.
"Oh my God," Amelia gasped. She knew that man. Wilkinson, she thought. She hadn't trained him, but she had worked with him. He had signed the card the DMLE had sent her when she's been named minister. How could he...? Her mind blanked with betrayal and pain.
The auror—yes, Amelia thought, definitely Leon Wilkinson—jerked his head at Teddy's corpse, sneering. "At least it's an immediate put-down for those types," he said. "Only reason they even bothered to hang it was so that people would know it didn't matter how famous or rich your family was. Monsters don't get to live."
Lucius made a choked-off noise, part sob, part curse. He could feel tears on his face. This was his fault. He was supposed to protect his children and he had failed.
"How," Arthur asked, dumbstruck. He could understand his own children's deaths. They were fighters, soldiers, and people in those roles died. There was some logic there, the thought sent hot agony cutting through his heart. But Teddy Malfoy... "He's just a baby."
"They legalized werewolf hunting," Remus replied. He stared at the gallows with vacant eyes. "There was no build-up, nothing, just—legalized. I was in London," he coughed, swallowing, trying to keep his vice clear. "I was dealing with affairs. I—I didn't last the day."
Lucius closed his eyes. "You were in London because I died. The legalization only passed because I died." This only happened because I died.
"You were murdered, Lucius," Narcissa said through tears, exhausted with keeping up pretenses. "You hardly had a choice."
"Did any of us?" Severus asked blankly. Greif stained his voice.
In the memory, Draco's trembling had increased tenfold. His skin didn't seem to be enough to control his rage, his pain. His eyes flared with quicksilver aggression, his teeth bared animalistically. He was hunched on the ground, cradling a dead child and his still fiancé, but in no way did he appear beaten. He was like a feral thing, wild and waiting for a moment of weakness to sink tooth and claw into.
The auror swallowed, suddenly uncomfortably. Perhaps he had sensed the tension. He screwed up some bravado for his men. "What, Malfoy? You shaking because you're scared?" The ring of aurors chuckled. Their leader rocked back on his heels, comforted. At least, until a jagged laugh shook out past Draco's lips.
"I bet you would just love that, you sick sack of common excrement," Draco snarled, straightening. The shaking had receded, replaced by something raw and strong. Draco's voice thrummed with it, with violence and powerful hatred.
The auror growled, straightening his wand again. "Time to fucking die, you Dark bastard."
Draco tossed his head back and laughed horribly again. "No," Draco said, shaking his head. He still held Teddy. "No, I think you have that a bit confused."
The auror reared back, but nothing could have saved him or his compatriots.
Face a demonic twist, Draco screamed as his dragged his extended hand from left to right, palm out as though to strike—and strike he did. The aurors flew as though knocked from the ground by the hand of the divine. Surprise briefly lit Draco's face, like he couldn't believe that had worked, but he didn't slow down.
Pulling his hand back to his chest, he thrust out, palm up, as if he were trying to break a nose. The aurors smashed against the farthest building across the square, connecting with a wet thump. Draco raised his arm and the aurors scraped higher, those conscious screaming in terror.
When they reached the top of the building, Draco let them free. They slammed into the ground with a sickening thud.
Draco dropped his posture like a puppet with his strings cut, gasping for breath. He was bleeding from dozens of cuts and burns. Heaving in air, he gathered Blaise and Teddy's corpse in his arms and screwed his eyes shut. With a determined scream and a deafening crack, the three bodies disappeared from the square. The memory ended as the last echo of his disapparition faded out.
The silence in the Malfoy's drawing room was deafening. Safe within the dainty blue walls and warm hardwood floor, the horror of Draco's memory should have seemed further away. Yet not a single person could forget the sound of Draco's grief or Blaise's desperation. Their rage and terrible sorrow. Teddy's waxen, fearful face. His frozen eyes.
"That was September 6, 1998." Draco said after the silence had stretched past his tolerance. "Father was murdered in mid-August. Hunters killed Remus the next week and would have killed Teddy if Mum hadn't been looking after him that day. She and Kingsley took Teddy and went on the run. You can guess what happened next."
"He was just a baby," Arthur said again. He was heartsick for the Malfoys, who he'd grown very close to over the last few months. There was no greater loss than that of a child.
"It didn't matter how much of a werewolf you were," Bill said flatly. He took Fenrir's hand and held it tightly. "Turned children, the children of werewolves, those who only bore a scratch or were partially afflicted somehow else, none of that mattered. It was open season on all of us."
"We've always had it bad," Fenrir muttered, "But this was the nightmare. The pack...?"
Bill shook his head. Fenrir closed his eyes. The conversation dropped.
Finally, Draco sighed. Not just a sigh of tiredness, or even exhaustion, but of total and complete depletion. "Is this enough?" He asked no one in particular. His gaze focused out the window, where the sun shone and baleful albino peacocks still idly plucked along the lawn. "Does this convince you that we aren't monsters? That we weren't just killing for shits and giggles? Because I certainly don't have anything left to show you." Draco ripped his eyes from the window, clearing his throat. "In fact, may I suggest a recess?"
"Of course," Narcissa agreed. She firmed her shoulders and shook the sorrow off her face. "I'll have lunch set for twelve o'clock. Feel free to come as you please." Certainly no one needed the pressure of even light formality right then.
Unable to make herself move or think anymore, she sat gracelessly on the nearest sofa.
Draco nodded once, sharply, just like his father. He then turned and promptly disappeared out the drawing room doors. Without a second of hesitation, Lucius followed him.
Well, I hope you all enjoyed that. I am pretty proud of this chapter, actually, so I hope I'm not unfounded in feeling so. I honestly thought I would be done with the memories by this point but what can I say, the Malfoys have demanded way more of my attention than I thought they would. Hopefully you enjoy that, though. Let me know what you think! On another note, I have revamped this story. By this I mean I fixed some plot holes and the timeline (again) so hopefully that all functions better now *nervous laughter.* Also, I cut out the Creeveys as returned. I am very sorry to anyone who loved them but I have so many characters that I honestly just couldn't give them the time. I am tentatively hoping to conclude this story by the end of first year, so they would have had a minor presence anyway that I felt could be better used elsewhere. So, yes. I hope you all agree.
Love you always and thank you for your wonderful reviews. Your reviews are the reason I open my stories up to the public so please come chat with me! I do my best to reply to everyone!
Updated 20/08/2022
Sincerely,
BlackRoseGirl666