Draco was seething.

For weeks now, from the moment he had learnt of his father's arrest, the pit of rage in his stomach had been building and building. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye; Lucius was arrested at the Manor and taken to Azkaban before Draco had arrived home from school earlier that summer.

Every waking moment, he felt angry. There were little half-moon crescents permanently imprinted into his palms from the amount of time he spent clenching his fists, and the circles under his eyes seemed to darken by the day. Images flashed across his mind in cruel succession; Potter, the Golden fucking Wonder, and his band of merry fucking followers; his father locked up in some cell, cold and exhausted and surrounded by misery; the Dark Lord and those soulless eyes that seemed to bore right through him…

At night, Draco couldn't sleep – or was it that he wouldn't let himself? There would be a few blissful moments of respite when his eyes finally fell closed and the images faded into darkness but, before he knew it, they were back, more vivid in dreams and more terrible, so that he'd eventually find himself screaming into life, the sheets of his bed flung off and his lungs heaving for air, a thin sheen of sweat plastered all over his body.

And so it went on. Day in, day out. He hadn't left Malfoy Manor all summer. His mother said nothing, just sat, and stared, and drank. His Aunt Bella ranted and raved throughout the corridors, one moment fawning over him, clutching at his shirt as she cried that he was their only hope for salvation, the next screaming and tearing at her hair as she cursed Lucius and the Malfoy blood that she believed to be her downfall from the Dark Lord's favour. Draco didn't know which was worse. He had been raised to value the blood that flowed through his veins more than anything in the world, but privately he couldn't believe that the same bloodline that had produced his serene and beautiful mother – and by default, him – could also, somehow, have produced Aunt Bella. She made his skin crawl, and the fact that they were bound by blood made him almost physically sick.

There had been another visit from the Dark Lord last night. Draco had been instructed to remain outside the room, although he knew very well it was him they were gathered to discuss. Aunt Bella had been almost giddy when the Dark Lord finally left, well into the early hours of the morning. Draco had still been awake, and had lain there listening to her screeching laughter until the first signs of light began to creep through his heavy drapes. He must have drifted off eventually, because when he finally woke around midday, arms and legs twisted inside his sheets and his forehead damp with sweat, the house was silent.

He had stayed in his room for several hours since then, listlessly fanning through a couple of books – although nothing related to schoolwork or Hogwarts. It felt futile to even think of studying when he knew the path his life was to veer down in the coming months. Once, he had attempted to sit down and open a title from his summer reading list, just to pretend for a while that things were normal, but his hands had shaken so much that he had ended up hurling the book across the room in anger.

And so it was the Draco found himself draped across his mahogany four-poster, feet dangling limply off the edge and hands balled into fists at his sides. Shards of early afternoon light from the summer sun stretched in through the partially opened drapes, motes of dust swirling slowly in their path. Books were strewn across every surface – the floor, his desk, the unmade bed. His bookshelves, which lined two full walls from floor to ceiling, were in disarray. A tray of food sat on his bedside table, almost untouched, while several cutglass tumblers containing traces of firewhiskey were dotted about the room – evidence of his late nights and bad dreams.

From somewhere a floor or two below, Draco heard the creak of footsteps and a muffled voice.

Enough.

His eyes snapped into focus. He suddenly couldn't stand to be in the house for another second. The thought of his Aunt Bella's ghastly fingernails dragging over his cheek, his mother's dead-eyed stare, the Death Eaters who sat in Malfoy-crested chairs and ate his family's food and patrolled their corridors, always watching… the thought of it all made him sick.

He needed a distraction.

Slowly, he found the pair of black dress shoes he had cast aside some days previously, and slipped them on. He was wearing black trousers and a white button-down shirt, which a quick glance in the mirror told him was far too rumpled for the outside world. But it didn't matter – no one was going to see him where he was going.

Prising his door open and silently begging the hinges not to screech into life, he strained to hear for any nearby movement. When he was confident that there was no one in his wing of the house, he set off toward the far end of the tapestry-lined corridor.

The door to his mother's chamber was ever so slightly ajar, the room inside shrouded in darkness. He peered inside and saw that she was sleeping. Lying directly on her back, pale hands folded on top of the covers and blond hair fanned out across her pillow, he felt for one horrible second that this was what it would be like to see her dead. But then she took a rattling breath, eyelids fluttering, and the hand Draco had been clenching around the doorframe relaxed.

Once he was certain she was not going to wake, he crept further into the room. Unlike his own sleeping quarters, the room was devoid of anything that might have hinted at its occupant, save for an empty silver goblet on the bedside table that Draco surmised had contained a large among of red wine the previous night.

Even in sleep, his mother's face was drawn, her mouth pressed into a thin line and a deep crease evident between her brows. Draco's heart contracted at the sight of her. Carefully, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then, he moved to the fireplace on the far side of the bed, pulled out his wand, and cast a Disillusionment Charm.

Draco had been thirteen when he had had first read about the charm in one of his text books and started practicing on inanimate objects. To begin with, it was things he wanted to hide from his housemates at Hogwarts – boxes of sweets sent from home, letters from his parents that his younger self had felt embarrassed by. At first, his charms had been weak – he well remembered an entire box of Chocolate frogs being devoured by Crabbe, much to Draco's displeasure. But, eventually, he found that he was able to conceal sedentary items around his dorm room to the point that they became indetectable.

He had then moved onto casting the charm upon himself – and discovered that moving objects brought brand new challenges. The first time he thought he had been successful, he had been sitting in the Slytherin common room, marvelling at the way his lower body blended perfectly with the green leather armchair below him, while his upper body and face seemed to merge as one with the silver tapestry hung behind him. He had been sitting perfectly still, waiting for someone else to enter the deserted common room, when Blaise Zabini had come barging through the door. At first, Blaise's eyes had glided over Draco as they would a piece of furniture, at which Draco's heart had leapt and he had jumped from his chair in celebration. Blaise had let out a high-pitched scream – a sound that he would never admit to making to anyone other than Draco – and threw the book under his arm at Draco's partially mottled form.

"What the actual fuck, Draco?" He had exclaimed, and the two of them had laughed so hard that Draco thought his sides might split.

Eventually, though, he had mastered it – well before Flitwick started teaching them the basics for last year's O.W.L.s. Draco didn't know what his fascination with the charm was, but the thrill of making himself invisible to the naked eye – knowing that for once in his life he had complete freedom to do and go wherever he wanted – was indescribable.

He was confident that his charms could last for several hours at this point, which was imperative as, although living in a wizarding household meant he could safely use underage magic without Ministry detection, he wouldn't be able to recast the charm once he left the Manor.

Scooping up a bit of Floo Powder from the enamelled pot next to the hearth, Draco stepped into the fire and whispered his destination as loudly as he dared, not wanting to wake his mother from her much-needed slumber.

He was heading to Muggle London.

Draco appeared in the back room of a dingy London pub. Blaise had introduced him to this particular connection on the Floo network the first time they had snuck out into the city together, along with Theodore Nott. Apparently, his mother had once used the fireplace to take him on a trip to Harrods, which Draco had found fascinating, for the Zabinis were perhaps even more obsessed with blood purity than his own family, but Blaise had just shrugged.

"Mother says the champagne truffles from the food hall are worth the displeasure of rubbing elbows with a load of Mudbloods for a few hours."

Draco headed through to the main bar, which hummed with the conversation of afternoon drinkers. He weaved his way through the crowd towards the door, nose slightly wrinkled. The street outside thronged with people and the bright July sun was blinding; Draco instinctively raised a hand to his eyes and squinted up and down the length of road. When was the last time he had actually been outside?

His stomach jolted slightly at the thought of the dark and oppressive confines of Malfoy Manor – a place that, until a few months ago, had always felt like home. He shifted anxiously on the street, thinking of the Death Eaters who patrolled the corridors and his Aunt Bella's constant presence. No one had ever expressly told him he couldn't leave the Manor this summer, but all the same, he hoped that no one came looking for him before he made it back.

His mother's sleeping face swam before his eyes. His heart ached for her. He missed his father, but he couldn't image the pain she was currently experiencing. Her husband gone, her house invaded. And her son…

Draco wasn't stupid. He knew that, in the coming weeks, he was to take his father's place by the Dark Lord's side. He knew that it would be his job to try and make amends for the mess at the Ministry earlier in the summer, and a small part of him – his younger self – swelled at the idea that he had been chosen above all others – certainly over Crabbe and Goyle, but even over Blaise and Theodore. They couldn't take on the responsibility in the way that he could, they weren't worthy in the Dark Lord's eyes like he was. But another part of Draco – a part that had been growing louder over the past few weeks – wanted to shout and scream that it had nothing to do with worth or honour. It was all about punishment. And from the way his mother had occasionally looked at him this summer, her eyes wide and fearful, Draco had the feeling that there was something they weren't telling him – that there was something else he was expected to do…

He shook his head, pushing all thoughts of the Manor aside, and strode off down the street in no particular direction. This was what he needed, he thought; to be invisible amongst the crowds. Complete and utter obscurity for a few hours.

Every so often, he stopped to look in a window or take a better look at a Mudblood going about their day. After that first trip with Blaise and Theo, Draco had periodically made covert visits to Muggle London. They left him with a heavy, unsettled feeling in his stomach. More often than not, he liked to find a place to sit and watch the world go by, but occasionally he would pick a Mudblood and follow them round for a bit, just to see what life was like for them. Usually, it was a girl who had caught his eye – although he would rather have died than admit this to anyone, as the thought alone made him feel slightly queasy, as though his body were betraying his bloodline.

The thing that disconcerted him the most about this pastime was how distinctly normal they all were. They shopped and ate and drank and talked, just like he did with his parents or his friends. They looked like him. Sometimes he would overhear a joke or a funny story, and Draco would find the corners of his mouth twitching. He liked the look of a lot of the things in their shops. It was all so unnerving. Wasn't there supposed to be something ghastly and unsettling about them all? But the only unsettling thing he had found, in all the trips he had taken, was that there wasn't actually anything that he could see or hear to support this whole belief system.

Draco pondered this as he walked aimlessly through the streets, wondering why it was that he kept coming back. It was like reading a scary story and not being able to put the book down, he thought. A perverse, morbid fascination with it all.

Eventually, he found himself on Oxford Street. After Blaise's story about the champagne truffles from Harrods, Draco had decided one day to try them out for himself. They weren't bad, he had to admit, so he had decided to see what other goods Muggle London had to offer. After extensive research, he had decided that the Selfridge's truffles were his favourite. And so, that was where he headed now. Draco unfolded the little mental map that he kept in the most closed-off part of his mind, turned left and, a few minutes of walking later, came upon the familiar façade.

If he were a Muggle – a thought that he pushed away the moment it entered his head – this would be the kind of place he would shop all the time. He gazed around the department store, taking in the throngs of people, the stands closest to the doors, the escalators – it had taken a good five minutes of convincing from Blaise to get him and Theo on one of those during that first trip.

He could imagine his father scoffing at the Mudbloods crowded around the stands and queuing at the tills, could almost hear the sneer in his voice. Greedy. No self-control. But wasn't this just what they did when Lucius took Draco and his mother for a day out in Diagon or Knockturn Alley? What exactly, then, was the difference?

Draco moved further into the department store, occasionally brushing his fingers over an item, or stopping to listen to a shop assistant describe something to a customer. It was crowded inside, and Draco had to work hard to make sure no one bumped into him. It wouldn't really have mattered if they had, because his Disillusionment Charm was so powerful that he could simply step aside without the faintest disturbance of the air around him, but there was something about gliding through the crowds so seamlessly and silently – as a hunter stalking his pray – that would have been ruined by physical contact with another.

Eventually, though, Draco had to admit defeat. It was just too busy; he thought perhaps it was a weekend day, although he had long stopped keeping track. He was making his way back to the front doors, thinking he would perhaps go and lie in Soho Square for an hour or so before heading home, when he heard a familiar sound – a high-pitched laugh.

His blood froze.

Whipping his head around, Draco's eyes roved frantically over the hordes of people, searching for the source of the noise. And then his eyes settled on her.

Surely not. Surely fucking not. He would have laughed at the one-in-a-million chance of it all if his body wasn't having such a visceral reaction to the sight of her.

Hermione fucking Granger.

Here of all places. Encroaching on his day, when all he had wanted was to get some fucking peace and take his mind off things for a while.

She was stood by one of the perfume counters, her face cast down towards the glass cabinet. Her two companions had their backs to Draco, but he knew immediately that it wasn't Golden Boy and the Witless Wonder. Thank fuck for that, at least, he thought.

Draco realised his feet were propelling him towards her against his will. What was it he'd just been thinking about morbid fascination, again?

He realised that these must be Granger's parents, for the older woman to her left looked uncannily similar – the same unruly hair, the same dark eyes. Draco turned his gaze to Granger, and frowned. She looked different. In fact, if he hadn't heard that laugh, he probably would have walked right past her without a second glance. She was wearing a mid-length blue floral sundress, with thin straps and a square neckline. Her arms and chest were tanned from the sun, and her hair was lighter, more golden.

She laughed again as the man – her father, presumably – sprayed perfume onto a swab and grimaced. Draco cocked his head to one side in interest; Granger and her mother certainly looked more physically similar, but there was something about this man and the way he moved his mouth, the way he stood, the away he gestured in front of him as he talked, that was unmistakably, undeniably Granger.

They were talking and looking at several bottles lined up on the glass counter before them. Granger, after much cajoling from her parents, pointed at one. Her father snatched it up in a jokey, exaggerated gesture and presented in to the sales assistant stood before them.

They were buying her a perfume, Draco thought. He wasn't sure why, but the thought intrigued him. Granger wearing perfume…

A moment later, and the bottle in question had been bagged up and handed to Granger with a smile from the sales assistant, and the family began to move towards the doors. Draco realised that he was standing barely a metre from them, and quickly drew himself to one side as they passed.

She was so close, he could have touched her.

For some reason, he found his heart pounding in his chest. As he watched her reach the doors, stretching out a tanned arm to push it open, the scent of vanilla settled around him and, in a split second, Draco made up his mind.

He followed.