Disclaimer: I own nothing, though occasionally I wish I could just borrow Draco for a bit.

A/N: This is where the whole thing starts to get a bit angsty and its only going to get worse. You have been warned.

Edited by the Charming and Wonderful saras_girl, with out whom, my inspiration would surely wither and die. :D

Chapter 2

Sins of the Father

I won't back down

No, I won't back down

You can stand me up at the gates of Hell

But I won't back down.

Tom Petty

Tuesday May 5th 1998, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The first time that the nervous elf approached Draco on his return from the Ministry, he had expected to be told that an entire wing of the house had been destroyed in his absence, considering the bending and grovelling the creature was doing.

"Mistress Narcissa has not yet left her rooms," the squeaky voice had informed him, "and she won't allow any of us to enter."

It took Draco a moment to realise why this was such a problem. The staff of elves was under standing orders to turn down the beds, provide meals, and collect laundry and the like. Narcissa's orders to be left alone meant that their current orders directly contradicted each other, and this had thrown every elf within the manor walls into a state of flux.

Wearily, Draco had assured the frantic creature that he would take care of it, and began climbing the ostentatious main staircase heading for his mother's room. He was unable to completely suppress the flicker of resentment that sparked in his stomach. After a day spent 'volunteering' information to a group of vitriolic and zealous Aurors, and with the promise of similar days to come, he would welcome nothing more than the opportunity to spend all day in his rooms, refusing to leave his bed, and being as troublesome as possible. That behaviour however, was unlikely to convince the Ministry that they had been correct to listen to Potter's claims that he and his Mother had helped during the war.

The only thing that could convince them of that, it would seem, was to willingly present himself at the Ministry of Magic and allow their Aurors to treat him as the worst kind of scum. Simultaneously, they would quiz him about his father's every involvement during the war. Many of the questions had been downright impertinent, but it was the ones that left the bitter taste of bile at the back of his mouth that made him wonder if this might be the very least he deserved.

He knew it was their disgust with his father, rather than with him, that caused them to treat him as a criminal. He knew that it was their own misdirected frustration at their inability to apprehend Lucius, which caused their hostility towards him. His strict, classical education had seen him study enough tragedies in which sons were left to overcome and make amends for the many and varied sins of the father, to allow him to realise that he was currently in the middle of one.

The tall oak doors of his mother's rooms loomed before him. His hand raised to knock, he paused a moment, taking a deep, apprehensive breath. There would be no point in taking his resentment into the room with him. Should his mother sense it, she would immediately take a defensive stance. His annoyance coupled with her frustration at her inability to accompany and support him at the Ministry would lead to guilt on her part, and Narcissa Malfoy did not do guilt well. It would inevitably manifest as anger and be dropped solidly in Draco's lap. He'd had enough of that for one day.

He exhaled messily, allowing a little of his tension and frustration to escape with it, and knocked lightly on the door. No answer. He knocked again, a little more firmly, in case she was sleeping: still no answer. He tried the door and was surprised to find it locked. This was most unlike his mother. She was not one to spend time brooding, nor was she especially dramatic; that particular trait, Draco had inherited from his father. A whispered Alohamora, and the door clicked. A slight trepidation swirled in Draco's gut as he pushed the door inwards and stepped tentatively into the room.

"Mother?" he called gently, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.

Narcissa Malfoy's rooms were beautiful, and usually filled with an airy, brightness that never failed to lift Draco's spirits. Today, however, the antechamber felt gloomy and still. Usually a day such as this would see the French doors thrown wide, causing the voile curtains to billow in a breeze scented by the lavender, which sat in pots on the balcony's rail. The dim half-light, in which the room was shrouded today, was uncomfortably unfamiliar. The heavy drapes were still pulled closed across the windows, and the air was thick and stale. The trepidation began to take on a touch of panic, as Draco made his way through the silent room to his mother's bed chamber.

Here he paused and knocked again. His panic was not quite at the level that would allow him to throw good manners to the wind, and charge headlong into a lady's bedroom. Still there was no response, and he tried the door, relieved when it clicked open at his touch.

"Mother?" he tried again, allowing his eyes to scan the room for any sign of the reclusive woman. When he spotted her, slumped on the chaise lounge, he inhaled sharply. He immediately regretted it as his nose wrinkled at the staleness of the air in the room. His mother was still wearing her night clothes, her hair in disarray. The plait that she would wear to bed was still present, but no longer doing anything to bring her hair to order.

Draco crossed the room, reaching her in three long strides, but still she did not acknowledge him. Her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes were fixed on the horizon as her fingers twisted in her nightdress, ceaselessly worrying the fabric. Draco crouched beside her and tried again to get her attention.

"Mother?" His voice was barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle her, but as he cupped her cheek, running his thumb across the numerous tear tracks that had collected there, she started anyway.

"Draco?" she asked, refocusing sad blue eyes upon him.

Draco nodded, not trusting his voice to stay strong, were he to try to speak at that moment. His mother presented as a picture of abject misery, and he immediately felt guilty for his earlier resentment.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. Fresh tears sprang up in her eyes, and Draco wrapped his arms gently around her shoulders in an unfamiliar display of affection. His mother's tactile and maternal parenting had lasted until he turned ten, at which point his father had put his foot down. Lucius had been concerned that 'coddling', as he called it, would see Draco turn out soft. From there out it had been all rules, and discipline, and expectations he could never meet.

As his mother's arms came around him, he had the distinct feeling of coming home and he savoured what could only be described as a very un-Malfoy moment.

"I didn't do enough to protect you, Draco, I know that," Narcissa snuffled, her voice still thick with tears. Draco pulled back to look into the watery blue eyes, his own tears pricking his eyes.

"You did all you could, Mother, this wasn't your fault." Draco was alarmed at just how much the word 'this' was currently encompassing, and he wondered if she would ever believe that he really did not hold her accountable. His mother swallowed visibly and closed her eyes. Draco watched as the frail woman before him retreated, and once again became Lucius Malfoy's wife.

When she looked at him again, the aloof serenity which had surrounded her through out his teens was back in place. Draco rose and stepped back, reeling slightly, from the sudden gear shift. As he extended a hand to help his mother to her feet; he found the formality, of his role as Malfoy heir, a touch more wearisome than he had moments before.

"I shall have the elves prepare dinner and will return to escort you down in an hour Mother." He heard himself retreating back into the safety of etiquette and winced internally. He kissed her cheek and hurriedly left the room, hoping that with his father's absence, he and his mother might eventually be able to recover the warm familiarity they had once shared.

***

The second time the nervous elf approached Draco, the creature was close to having a panic attack. He was into the second week of helping the Ministry, and was now working on their internal investigations. This had thankfully seen the questions become less personal, as the focus of the investigation had shifted away from his immediate family, and towards rooting out those inside the Ministry who had collaborated. The more information they could extract from him, the fewer deals they would be forced to make with those already filling the cells of Azkaban.

As he stepped from the fireplace, Draco realised that the normally peaceful manor was in uproar. House-elves were running every which way, laden with boxes. He almost lost his balance as a particularly exuberant elf collided with his knees, bouncing backwards and landing, dazed, a few feet away. Surprised, Draco abandoned propriety and scooped up the little creature, setting it back on its feet. It was only then he noticed that this particular elf appeared to have a tail. A long, sparkly tail.

"Is that tinsel?" he asked, confused. The elf in front of him could only squeak when it realised that it had crashed headlong into the young master of the house, and the creature supplicated itself at his feet.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked, as another nervous elf arrived to explain that Mistress Narcissa had thrown the entire house into uproar, when she insisted that the manor be dressed for Christmas, in time for Draco's return from school.

One or two of the more senior house-elves had tried, gently, to point out that it was in fact the middle of May, and that Draco hadn't been at school since the previous November. Unfortunately, there was only so much disagreeing that the house-elves could get away with, and so, in the absence of anyone to countermand the order, the manor had begun to prepare for Christmas.

"Where is my mother?" Draco asked the anxious elf, recognising a weary tone in his voice and knowing that he would have to address that before he approached the woman in question.

The elf directed Draco to Narcissa's favourite parlour, and as he began to stomp towards it, he realised just how unsurprised he was at his mother's antics. Since emerging from her self-imposed seclusion, she had made an effort to act as she had before the world had changed. She did not always manage a flawless performance, however. She was more forgetful than ever and would occasionally question Draco about his progress at school, where his father was, and why Mrs Parkinson hadn't responded to her owl.

Each time she had one of these lapses, Draco had delicately reminded her of the date. He reminded her that he was no longer in school; reminded her that Lucius was on the run from the Ministry; reminded her that Mrs Parkinson was serving a life sentence in Azkaban. Each time it got harder, and Draco found it increasingly difficult to remind his mother of reality, without having to relive the events when he tried to sleep that night.

Draco pushed open the door to the parlour, to be met by a scene of utter chaos and a wall of heat. Obviously unable to get her hands on a Christmas tree in late spring, his mother had attempted to Transfigure what he could only guess was the large potted yucca plant, which had, until this morning, sat peacefully by the pool. It was still essentially the same shape, but now each of its long spines was comprised of tiny needles, and it gave off a pervasive scent of pine.

The Transfiguration seemed sufficient enough for the enthusiastic matriarch, and the sad looking plant had been engulfed in glass baubles and sparkly beads. Boxes of decorations littered every possible surface, their shiny contents spilling out onto the floor. The fire burned brightly in the grate, combining its heat with that of the warm spring day outside and making the room intolerably hot. In the centre of the chaos stood his mother. She had a fevered shine to her eyes and Draco wondered for a moment what he could possibly do to put this right.

"Mother?" he kept his voice low and calm, approaching his mother as one might a startled deer. She twisted on the spot as if he'd yelled, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Draco! What are you doing here? You are supposed to be at school until tomorrow," she accused.

Draco winced, his mother's voice was high and panicked and it tore at him to see her so frantic. He reached out to take her arm and guide her to the sofa. Stealing a moment, he extinguished the fire and cast a few windows open, allowing some of the heat to escape the room, all the while gathering himself for what he was certain would be a very difficult conversation.

"Mother," he began, sitting beside her and hoping that this wouldn't be too hard on her.

"I'm not at school anymore," he explained gently. "I left Hogwarts last year, remember?" He would save her the reasons why, if he could. He'd an inkling that she would only forget them anyway. He took a deep breath, waiting patiently. His mother wore a bemused expression, as if she both understood what he was saying, but couldn't quite grasp what she was being told.

"What is that?" she asked suddenly, her expression clearing slightly, as she pointed to the deformed yucca. Draco hoped that his mother wouldn't notice the surprise that he was sure must have flitted across his face, before he allowed the cool Malfoy mask to slide into place.

"It's just a little project I was working on," he lied smoothly, "but it hasn't worked out the way I planned. I was just about to start tidying up. I should have it cleared away shortly." Draco smiled graciously and rose from the sofa as his mother did.

"I know you will." Narcissa smiled at him indulgently. "You are such a good boy." She stroked his cheek affectionately and swept from the room.

Draco sank back onto the sofa, resting his head in his hands. He had no idea what was going on with his mother anymore. Increasingly she was living in the past, as if she were trying to forget that the past two years had happened. Draco would have given anything for that to be true, to allow his mother her delusions, but he couldn't pretend their lives were anything other than what they were.

It took only a few flicks of his wand to pack all the decorations neatly into their boxes again, and return the unfortunate plant to its original state. He scowled when he caught himself apologising to the plant for its treatment. Maybe his mother's eccentricities were contagious.

A growl of frustration escaped Draco as he sank back onto the sofa. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes firmly enough to create a swirling pattern, which danced on the back of his eyelids. For a moment he tried to map the pattern, noticing the small geometric shapes that swam there, before he tore his hands away.

It didn't help anything after all. Not that he really had any idea what would help right now. This was supposed to be over. His mother and he had been through hell. They had endured all of Voldemort's threats and coercion, had survived the invasion of their home and the accompanying violence, and now they had emerged on the other side, alive and free from both Voldemort and Lucius' tyrannical reign. It didn't seem to matter though, and Draco felt bitterly disappointed with the outcome.

Thus far, every day of his so called freedom had been spent trying to restore the tiniest shred of honour to the Malfoy name. Then, to make matters worse, whilst he spent his days shut up in interrogation rooms from dawn till dusk, it appeared that his mother was going slowly mad.

In a fit of irritability, he slammed his fists into the supple leather, before gathering himself. Feeling sorry for himself did him no good at all, he thought resignedly, as he rose from his seat and stalked towards his rooms. Had Draco indulged his fits of pique whilst under Voldemort's reign he would have died long before now. He had done without these flights of fancy for two years, and the lack of an immediate threat was no excuse to begin to indulge them again.

Despite this resolve, the emotion itself was a little more recalcitrant and it continued to hang about him as he reached his suite. Slamming the door behind him, he cringed momentarily at what his father's reaction to such petulance would surely have been, and then discarded that train of thought as well. Worrying about what his father might think had been the cause of this mess and he wasn't about to start that again either.

He allowed his petulance to hold reign for a little longer, as a kind of internal rejection of his father's exacting standards. He dragged his robes angrily over his head and flung them at the chair under the window. He issued a little yelp of shock when the chair in question gave a soft, indignant hoot. He glanced across to see a small barn owl extricate itself from the discarded fabric, and flutter to the safety of the window ledge.

It took a couple of minutes of fumbling and tugging before Draco was able to release the note. During this time the owl held out its leg with a patience rarely found in the haughty birds. Tentatively he unfurled the message, eyes shooting immediately to the signature scrawled in a slightly haphazard, loopy script.

The note slipped from his fingers and floated to the ground as his stomach began to turn lazy somersaults. He tried desperately to process this information, to come up with a scenario in which the saviour of the wizarding world might have anything at all to say to him. He scolded himself, again. He was acting like a Hufflepuff, trying to imagine what the golden boy might have to say when the answer was laying at his feet.

He stooped and quickly retrieved the note, allowing a mild sneer to settle on his lips. The contempt on his face was steadying and familiar, allowing him some control over the uncertainty that was gripping his insides. If he could just convince the pounding in his chest, that the self assured look on his face wasn't just a façade, then he would be happy.

He quickly scanned the note that Potter had sent, and then read it again. It wasn't long by any means, but if he had been surprised at receiving a correspondence from Harry Potter, he was completely floored by the contents of said correspondence. It didn't cross his mind to even consider refusing Potter's invitation.

Severus Snape had been Draco's mentor during his time at Hogwarts, encouraging Draco where other teachers seemed determined for him to fail. Later, as Lucius' fervour for the cause had increased and driven him from his family, Severus had acted as a father. He had guided Draco and helped him to come to terms with Lucius' abandonment.

During the last two years, Severus had taken on the role on protector, diverting attention away from Draco when ever he could and lessening any punishment doled out when he could not. Draco did not doubt that without Severus' watchful eye he would be long dead.

These were not the only reasons that he intended to accept Potter's invitation, mind. He wanted to know what had caused the Boy Who Lived to have such a change of heart with regards the Potions professor. It was completely unfathomable to him, why Harry Potter of all people would have organized the funeral of Severus Snape. The man had stood at Voldemort's right hand, had killed Dumbledore. Clearly Draco was missing something and he really hated not knowing.

Draco carelessly discarded the last of his clothing as he made his way towards the shower, still wrapped in his thoughts, puzzling over the anomaly. Stepping into the glass enclosure, he sighed as the multiple jets of fragrant water massaged his tired muscles. As he relaxed, his mind drifted slowly, rebelliously to the final reason he would accept the invitation.

Potter would be there. Though he rarely admitted it, even to himself, since the moment the other boy had grasped his hand in the Great Hall he had been intrigued. Intrigued by Harry bloody Potter, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get his unconscious mind to change the subject.

***

The smirk which spread across Draco's face as he made his way through the manor to the solitude of his rooms was completely at odds with the maelstrom of confusion raging inside his head. This did not stop him from suspecting though, that the smirk wasn't going anywhere, and despite his recent difficulties and disappointments, he was pretty certain that the smirk was on its way to becoming a permanent fixture.

He had never imagined that he would get such a simple thrill out of comforting someone, but as Harry's face had pressed into his shoulder and Harry's arms slid round his waist, a peace had suffused his veins. All at once he knew that he wanted to always be the one that Harry called on for comfort, and that was scary and exciting, all at the same time.

The funeral had challenged Draco's every assumption of Harry Potter, from the moment that he rose from the mists of the grizzled little town, standing in the shadows of the factory chimneys. The cemetery, in contrast, was a sweet little place. It had none of the grandiose splendour of the Malfoy plot, but was more a small copse of cherry and yew, holly and elder, with the graves interspaced amongst the trees. There was a hush that settled there that wasn't the creepy silence usually associated with a place of burial. A gentle birdsong broke through the quiet and the wind rustled the leaves on the trees, giving Draco a feeling of calm.

When he had finally come across Harry, he had been standing with his back to him, as he looked out over the town below. As he approached, he had been surprised when Harry didn't turn and didn't appear to notice his arrival. He had thought the saviour of the wizarding world would have been much more aware of his surroundings, and he couldn't help wondering how he'd survived so long, if he allowed people to creep up behind him.

Two more steps, and Draco had understood Harry's complacency. The flicker of a ward could be seen, rippling in the air like vapour over hot tarmac. The wards had been powerful and Draco had called out rather than just blundering into them, picking some random sardonic comment that would grab the other boy's attention without kick-starting their old enmity.

As Harry turned, the look of sadness on his face had taken Draco's breath away. Harry had dropped the wards as soon as he recognised him, and Draco had been both warmed and alarmed by this simple demonstration of trust towards someone who bore the mark of his enemies. From there, the surprises had just kept coming.

He had been surprised by Harry's reasons for the early hour, for the consideration Harry had shown Draco's mentor, as well as himself, by trying to limit any kind of media exposure.

He had been surprised at how comfortable he had felt in Harry's presence as he stood next to him at the graveside. Listening to the Ministry official read the words, which had been repeated so many times in the preceding few weeks, as well as a few words which hadn't.

He had been surprised, and slightly awed, when the official had strayed from the conventional lines and passages. The poetry that was added seemed even more magical in the misty cemetery. 'They shall have stars at their elbow and foot, though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again.'1Draco longed to ask Harry when he had become interested in poetry, wanted to find out how someone who he had thought for years was devoid of culture had come to pick such a perfect piece to be read at the funeral.

He had been surprised when after the service Harry had hung around and satisfied Draco's curiosity, as to the reasons he'd arranged for the Potions master to be laid to rest. Draco had begun to suspect that Snape was not the dyed-in-the-wool Voldemort supporter that he had always appeared, but he was utterly astonished to discover the extent of the man's sacrifices. To hear Harry tell it, the man was not just a Johnny-come-lately to the cause, but had in fact been working under cover for seventeen years. The admiration in Harry's voice had shone out as he recounted Snape's deeds, leaving Draco feeling proud of the man who had accepted him where his own father had failed.

He had been surprised when tears had begun to escape from the vivid green eyes. This didn't compare to just how astounded he was at himself, when he folded Harry in a comforting embrace. His fingers had carded through jet black curls, which looked like they should have been coarse, but were delightfully soft. At that moment he had become lost in sensation, in the complete warmth of Harry. The feel of Harry's warm, firm body pressed against his, Harry's hot tears seeping through the shoulder of his robes, puffs of Harry's heated breath against his neck amalgamated to leave Draco suffused with such a sense of well being that his knees felt weak.

He had surprised himself when Harry pulled away and he hadn't felt the need to act like a wanker to cover the intense vulnerability he felt as he looked into Harry's eyes. He had no doubt, had the exchange have taken place just six months earlier, he would have made some kind of a derogatory comment. He would have tried to make Harry feel small, so that he could gain some kind of advantage. Apparently, at that moment advantage had been irrelevant.

By the time Harry had mumbled out the suggestion they should get together for coffee some time soon, Draco was no longer able to feel surprise. He felt like the world had turned on its head as he watched Harry blush at the proposition, and something inside him skipped as he wondered what that embarrassment might indicate. Now the endless surprises had worn him out and exhaustion weighed heavily on him as he slid beneath his sheets, and sleep took him. Despite the early hour, Draco slept restfully for the first time in two years and did not wake until the following morning.

1 Dylan Thomas: And Death Shall Have No Domain