A/N:
Ok. Sorry this took so long! I rewrote this chapter like, a million times, and I didn't want to half-arse it. Also, this is not entirely planned out, so I can't promise really regular updates. Sorry, peeps.
Sigh. I know, we all want to bring Sirius back. But erasing his death would take too much reworking of the series to make any sense. And, strangely enough, his death kind of figures into the plot I have in mind. So, in short, I'm really sorry, but Sirius won't be coming back.
Tonks I don't care about.
. . .
His alarm sounded, and Draco awoke in his dorm room. It was the next morning and his stomach was already growling. He hadn't gone to the Great Hall last night for the first meal of the year. He was planning on going, but Pansy convinced him otherwise. "After all," she told him, "you don't know how you'll react to smelling your mate. If you were to faint or something, it would look bad in front of the whole school." He agreed with her, thinking of how his legs melted at the first wisp of his mate's scent on the train. And furthermore, an entire hall full of hormonal teenagers wasn't exactly what he needed, especially with the new strength of his nose. Theo tried to sneak him some food last night, but it wasn't really enough. Now, his hunger was in full force.
He had mixed feelings waking up in his old Hogwarts bed, Theo's bed across from his. He loved Theo as one of his best friends, and it was nice to hear someone else's breathing at night. But now they were the only ones there. Crabbe was dead. Goyle wasn't coming back either. Draco and Theo's room, as they called it now, held those two empty beds, and in spite of himself, Draco couldn't help but miss his old bodyguards.
They were never brilliant, but they were always there, whenever he needed to talk, whenever he needed safety. He wished, in spite of himself, that he had treated them better. They were good people, in their own way, even if they did a lot of harm, especially at his own bequest. If he could have started over again, meeting them on his first day in Hogwarts, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Crabbe would still be there, snoring like he always used to. Just another couple of ghosts, one still technically living, the other long gone, fit to join the halls of that old school, never quite forgotten but never really there again.
Not that Malfoys had regrets.
It was too late to dwell on things lost. Draco shook his head, as if to refocus. He recalled setting his alarm the night before for quite early, so that he could get down to the Great Hall before anyone else. Now, gliding towards the prefect's bathroom, he wasn't quite certain it was the best plan. He was yawning and shivering at the same time, which should qualify as some sort of achievement.
He came to the prefect's bathroom door and uttered the password. "Green Snake." It occurred to him that, in his rush to avoid everyone with their scents and stares the night before, he had accidentally shirked his prefect's duties. Whoops. He was sure good old Daphne Greengrass had a ball last night, leading around those snot-nosed first years by herself. He would have felt bad, but really, he wouldn't have been much help had he showed up. He wasn't very good with kids. He did not "play well with others," so to speak, especially since the whole "inheritance" thing.
Yet he could not shake the feeling of the pull on his heart, ignited in him since that first smell met him on the train. As soon as he thought about it, which was often, even in the warm water, he shivered. Something was missing. There could be little denying that, at least not while he sat alone in an empty room. He sighed and clutched his arms around his shoulders. He had been happy just moments ago. Only Draco malfoy could depress himself while taking a bubble bath.
He stared at the wall in front of him. As much as he identified with his Slytherin side, as much as he enjoyed rooting for the Silver and Green, sometimes the dungeons felt pretty empty. He sat motionless, as the water began to grow tepid. Most of the bubbles had popped, what was left of the froth clinging to his body. He examined his hands, his fingers now grown pruny. Dipping the long digits in the water, his reflection bubbled back at him.
After what felt like a good hour, he was ready to head downstairs.
Classes wouldn't start until Monday, so that gave him some time to adjust to the new environment. He already knew what classes he would be taking: Advanced Potions, of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. He didn't know how useful that class might be, other than the fact that it was a requirement for a job as an auror. Then, of course, there was Transfiguration, and Arithmancy. Things were, at least on paper, quite doable.
Now, walking towards the Great Hall, he tried to keep the trepidation in the back of his mind silent. He would eat, and leave quickly. He would to avoid the majority of his fellow students until he had a better handle on things. At least over the weekend, he could dine at odd hours, keep locked up in his room, walk the grounds, whatever it took to stay far away from the majority of the Hogwarts population. Before long, he came to the doors of the Great hall. He pulled one open and slid through the crack, greeted with the immensity of the room, filled with nothing but sunlight.
He found his old place at a deserted Slytherin table. Gazing up at the ceiling, the bright blue sky shone through, flecked with clouds. Slowly, he cracked open an egg that appeared before him and spread jam on a few slices of toast. Taking dainty bites, he flipped through one of those muggle books he found in his mother's room. Pride and Prejudice. Hmm, he thought to himself. It wasn't half bad. It had been a slow start, and he had to get used to the idea that everything that was going to happen happened in conversation. But once he acclimated, he found himself pulled into the romance, the way romance ought to be done: grand and wonderful and, above all else, true.
He couldn't help himself: he hoped his mate was like Mr. Darcy, someone smart and clever and more than anything else, irrevocably in love with him. Sure, Elizabeth and Darcy had their ups and downs, but anyone with eyes could see that Darcy was hopelessly in love with Elizabeth from the day he met her. He took slow bites of a few strawberries. Ever since his transformation, foods tasted brighter and more concentrated. He chalked it up to the better sense of smell. Still, he couldn't help but enjoy himself. The castle was almost pleasant this early in the morning, when everything was quiet.
A few students were trickling through the doors. He smelled them as they entered: pasty, young, and altogether unappealing. Sighing, he finished his last strawberry. This was likely the end to his peace and quiet, the end to his nice reading environment. It was a shame: this Austin lady wasn't half bad, especially for a muggle.
He wiped his mouth and set his silverware down again. Nothing like a relaxing breakfast to clear one's head. Putting the book in his bag, he climbed over the empty long bench and headed towards the door. And then suddenly, that heavenly scent was just around the corner! His knees went weak and he threw out his hands at the nearest table, leaning against it heavily. Around the door walked Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and the bloody boy-who-lived!
They sure had changed. All of them had battle scars, or all except Harry, who of course had primarily internal scarring, but for the prominent exception scrawled across his forehead. They were all taller, stronger, fuller, rougher. Each of them seemed more direct, more present, and more somber, even Seamus. But Draco barely noticed these changes. He was far to bowled over by that scent.
They were chattering to each other but they stopped when they caught sight of them. Draco had righted himself with an effort, and he tried to control his facial expression. They were staring at him with wide eyes, no one moving a muscle. Draco inhaled deeply. His head was spinning. That scent seemed as elusive as ever.
Something was wrong. Now that the four boys were close, he sensed something underneath that smell. Dean's hardy scent, Neville's warmish one, Seamus's bright one. Even Potter, though surrounded by that scent, smelled strong but flat and almost slightly acrid. Draco felt repulsed by all of them. Despite the smell, none of them could be his mate! He couldn't think straight. How could this be possible?
Eventually, Potter cleared his throat. "Morning, Malfoy."
Draco had almost forgotten that they were on nominally polite terms since the end of the war. Potter had supplied testimony in his very own trial, as well as his mother's, supporting their acquittal. Draco struggled against his thoughts to find words.
"Morning Potter, Finnegan, Longbottom, Thomas." He kept his voice cool and steady.
They nodded their heads, but their wide eyes never left his face. He knew they were examining his features, just like everyone else and their grandmother had been keen to do. His face prickled in response. Now that they had been standing, that tremendous scent seemed to be fading. How could it be, that his mate must have been so close and yet now seemed so far?
He decided to end the staring contest by walking through the huge oak doors and into the hallway. He felt their eyes follow him as he left, as well as some errant second, third, and fourth years who had wandered into the Great Hall for an early Sunday brunch. Draco didn't even want to think what a PR disaster it would have been had he gone at a normal time. He hurried towards the dungeons: he couldn't afford another mistake like that!
He chewed his lip as he walked. It wasn't like him to make such easy mistakes! A year ago, just a year ago, he fought in a war, almost taking the life of the most powerful wizard of the century. He shuddered to think how long he would have lasted, had he come into his inheritance then. No longer able to keep a straight face when he needed to, liable to go knock-kneed at any moment. Post-inheritance Draco would have been dead within a week, mate or no mate.
He cursed himself at the involuntary shiver that coursed through his blood when he thought about losing his mate. He cared so much, more than he ever should, about a man he had never met. His inheritance had taken over his life in a matter of a few weeks. Ever since his birthday, all he could think about was his mate and whoever that would be. All he could think about was the empty place he felt, the empty place that had taken over the hole in his heart left from the last year. Just thinking about it made his heart beat faster, made his head want to spin off his shoulders. How self-centered he had become! Could he forget all those who lost around him, how lucky he had been to be spared? Apparently he could.
He used to think that the Draco who cared about PR disasters died a few years ago, begging his way into Slughorn's Holiday party, sniveling at the feet of a lunatic, cowering beneath the iron fist of his father. He thought he had moved beyond such pettiness, out of the realm of those childhood cares of not even respect, but pure reputation. He thought the war had taught him how little things like that mattered, in the face of loss and torture, fear and death. Apparently, Draco had been wrong. Maybe there was something in the air at Hogwarts that bred pettiness.
Not that he could blame it on Hogwarts. Everyone else had grown up. It showed in the faces of seventeen-year-olds who grew up too fast, because they had no other options. Faces covered in blood, missing parts, he saw it again when he shut his eyes. But so quickly shoved aside it all was, when he had the first opportunity, before even the first anniversary of the final battle in the same hallways he now walked with so little care or reverence.
No one else forgot.
Reading muggle books too, as if some made-up romance mattered two fucks anyway. Had his inheritance reduced his brain to that of a five-year-old's? He had never done such a stupid thing before, not even when he really WAS five.. Either his inheritance had changed him more than he knew, or he was turning to shit for no reason other than his own stupid failure.
Walking down the corridor, he shuddered, whether from cold or from disgust, even he could not tell.
. . .
Ron woke up, late as usual. Looking around the room, he saw that his mates were all gone to breakfast. "Nice of them to wake me up," he muttered to himself. He smacked his lips. Yuck! Nothing like morning breath.
In its own way, however, it was nice to have some piece and quiet. Not that he didn't enjoy talking with everyone. He did, but after all they had been through, after winning the war of the century, they somehow didn't have all that much to say to each other. Once you've seen friends dying, family missing, people suffering all around you, it's a little difficult to get all up in arms about who the new professors are. Stretching, he slipped on some shoes to make his way down to the prefect's bathroom. Hey, it's not like watching first years all day and night didn't have its perks.
As soon as he reached the door, he uttered the password. "Green snake." He huffed to himself. He understood the idea behind it: that the password rotated weekly between the themes of the four houses. Some mubo jumbo meant to keep the houses united. But really, since the Slytherins basically caused the war, it seemed a far punishment to remove them from the cycle. Not that he was irritable or anything.
Pushing open the door, he was greeted with a wonderful odor, and an empty room. The scent of something sweet and husky hung in the air, like the edge of a memory, not completely faded away, but no longer distinguishable in its origin. Ron inhaled deeply, trying to place it. All he could tell was that it reminded him of home, somehow.
He rubbed his hands together. Unless the water was running, this place was bloody freezing! He walked over to one of the tubs, from where the scent seemed to be emanating . It felt warmer than the rest of the place, and Ron felt somehow drawn to it. He puzzled over this for a minute, but eventually shrugged his shoulders. Hey, who was he to question some happiness, wherever it happened to come from? Without further ado, he turned on the tap and watched the tub begin to fill, grinning happily at the prospect of warmth. Sweet, sweet warmth!
Scrubbing himself in the bath, he went over the muscles with care. They spoke to his strength and newfound prowess, and, vain as it might seem, he liked to take note of it. Those new forms that rippled under his skin when he flexed or shifted, he was proud of them. They were gained with hard work and a lot lost in the war. In a strange way, he was proud to have something positive to show for it. He washed until all that were left were the freckles.
After drying off, he dressed himself in a fresh pair of Hogwarts robes, ones that actually fit this year. Money was still relatively tight in the Weasley home, but his parents couldn't let Ron go his last year at Hogwarts in hand-me down pants. Now, putting them on, they felt good. He felt good. Then his stomach growled. Hopefully he hadn't missed breakfast. With that thought, and with another moan from his stomach, he exited the prefect's bathroom and broke into a jog. There was no way he'd miss his chance to eat.
He rounded a corner and almost ran into someone.
"Woah, sorry mate. I didn't see where. . ." He said before he looked up, into the wide eyes of one Draco Malfoy.
Ron almost opened his mouth in shock. Draco looked different from how he had remembered him. Ron blinked, to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Draco, or someone who looked an awful lot like him, hadn't moved a muscle. His face looked softer, more rounded, but that might have been the seeming horror stretching his mouth and, consequentially, his face into an o. The Draco he remembered looked pinched, look sickly ill, looked like. . . well, he supposed, looked like he was in a war. New Draco looked better, it seemed. Draco looked thinner than he remembered though, even through thick black robes. He gave off the impression of having shrunk.
For a moment, he looked barely human.
"Wa-watch where you're going, Malfoy," Ron managed. He was too shocked to be really angry, and apparently, so was Malfoy. The other boy had opened his lips, as if to speak, and he seemed to move them slightly, but no sound came out. Before Ron could give it a moment more's thought, Draco walked off down the hall, rather stiffly. Ron turned forward and walked ahead, but he couldn't help but shoot look after look back at the blond head making it's way in the opposite direction.
"What the bloody Hell was that?" Ron wondered aloud. Couldn't one damn day at this bloody school just go normally?
Draco felt like panicking. What in Merlin's name had just happened to him? He was walking, minding his own business, and all of a sudden, he brushed shoulders with Weasley of all people. He found himself leaning against the wall for support, unable to look away from the boy in front of him, unable to blink. The scent from the train floated over and engulfed him, making him woozy, but for the undercurrent of fear that ran through him. Weasley STARED at him, as if he could see right through him. That gaze pierced him to his soul, pierced through the scent and every thought he had. Draco was certain that Weasley knew.
The moment passed as quickly as it came. He wrenched himself away from the wall and walked away, refusing to look back and refusing to run. He felt like he had when he had been called on, in his own home, to identify the golden trio. His stomach turned and he almost vomited along the hallway. This was not good. This was not good at all.
After what felt like hours, he came to the portrait marking the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons.
"Password?"
"D-d-decorous dragons!" he stuttered, his arms shaking at his sides.
The portrait swung open, but with a raised eyebrow.
He stumbled forward, and into a filling common room dressed in green and silver against the bare stone. People stared at him, to be sure, but he was too distracted to care. His heart sank when he saw Pansy appearing at the top of the stairs leading to the girl's rooms. She was chatting with some Emma girl, but when she caught his eyes, she stopped. Walking quickly but inconspicuously as possible, she stood next to him and leaned over.
"What's wrong?"
Draco felt her warm breath on his ear. He shivered almost imperceptibly, but was determined not to show any of his haggard self to her. He really needed some peace and quiet, to just sit and rest I his own room, without intrusion.
"Nothing's wrong."
Pansy nodded her head, and then muttered.
"I haven't eaten breakfast yet. This had better be good."
Draco gave her a weak smile, but followed her slowly as she headed towards his room. He was silently cursing himself for failing to cover up his emotions.
"Hey, I'll talk to you later," Pansy called over her shoulder to a bewildered Emma, who shrugged her shoulders. Wheeling around, She muttered "come on!" to Draco as she directed them towards the boy's room. They almost felt the common room start chattering as soon as they were out of sight.
As soon as they closed the door to Draco's empty room, Pansy wheeled on him.
"What in Merlin's name happened to you?"
His mind whirred. He had to think of something to tell her, anything, and the renowned Slytherin silver tongue found only snippets of the truth slipping out. "I was walking back from breakfast in the Great Hall. I was almost to the dorms when someone knocked me over and landed on top of me!"
Pansy winced. "Ooh, I'm so sorry. That must of hurt like I can only imagine!"
"Hmm?" Draco had been lost in thought, remembering the scent from just minutes ago. His memory was so hazy. He didn't understand. All he recalled was that damned red hair, that amazing smell, and something paralyzing his movement.
"Did it hurt?"
Draco shook his head. "Oh, yes." He gave a curt nod. "Of course it did."
Pansy shook her head. "Well, Draco. . . I was just worried."
Draco didn't bother to respond, he was to busy lost in thought. This was not good, not good at all. He had to gain control of himself again. One little bump with the Weasel of all people was not going to throw him off, not a Malfoy. He had to pull himself together.
"Draco?"
"You know what, Pansy? It's nothing. It's an issue not even worth my attention." Draco buffed his nails on his shirt and gazed at them before making eye contact. When he did, Pansy was giving him a raised eyebrow like he had never seen, except perhaps on himself.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded. "I'm positive. I'm sorry I even troubled you with it in the first place."
Pansy nodded her head slowly. "If, if you say so."
"I do," he said curtly. "Just forget about it."
"Well," said Pansy. "I think I'll see myself out."
"Alright." Said Draco. His heart was pounding though, despite his best effort. His body was surely mistaken. He had only encountered the Weasel once so far, and so what if he smelled nice. He had thought Terry smelled nice. That didn't mean anything. Besides, at first, Potter and his pals had the same scent. Maybe it was the same with the Weasley boy. He just didn't spend enough time in the same room with him for the smell to wear off.
Pansy had long left the room. He had moved since. His legs felt a little weak, ever since running back. He couldn't dwell on it. He had to find his mate, and allowing his brain to become confused like his body clearly was, was not a good idea.
Ron was sprawled in the Gryffindor common room, near the fire, with Harry in the chair to his left and Hermione sitting tentatively between his legs, her back against the legs of his chair. Even in September, nights grew cold, as the mist poured over the Scottish countryside. For the last day before classes started, the common room was quiet. A few first and second years hung around in small groups, wide-eyed at an opportunity to sit in the same room as the Golden trio, especially Harry Potter. Ron rolled his eyes.
He absently let a hand fall on Hermione's shoulder. She seemed to acknowledge it without looking up from a giant book in her lap, as usual.
"What, are you studying again?"
She looked up this time, tilting her head back to look into his eyes. "Of course. Arithmancy. My favorite subject."
"Right." He muttered, looking at Harry, though he too had a book in his hands. "You too?" he jeered. "Studying? You've gone over to the dark side, I see."
Harry gave him a wink, before returning to his book. Ron sighed and looked back at the fire. Apparently people weren't in the mood to talk.
Which was fine, he supposed. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk much either. It was just. . . he wanted something to take his mind off the events of earlier. Ever since seeing Malfoy, he had been a little on edge, a little thrown off. It was hard to put a finger on what it was exactly. Maybe it was the stare. Maybe it was the lack of an insult about his father, his family, his hair, or his economic standing. Maybe it was the lack of a remark at all. But whatever it was, that split-second had struck him as worth remembering.
Then there was the fact that Malfoy looked different. Not, "oh I haven't seen you in such a long time, Merlin you look different" different, but "weird" different. Like, "not normal" different. And that bothered him.
Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was childish to let such a minor event bother him. But there was just something unusual about Malfoy. He bit his lip. He knew he was bound to talk about something that was eating at him, so he might as well bring it up now!
"Do you know of any spells that change people's appearances? You know, permanently?"
Hermione looked up from her book, turned around rather flamboyantly, and simply raised an eyebrow. He quickly got her point.
"Ok. Stupid question." He felt himself blush while she nodded her head. "Well, any curses, I suppose?" But who curses someone to look better than they did before? Not that Malfoy looked good either way. But still.
Hermione looked back at him, with an eyebrow raised yet again. "Are you thinking of anyone in particular?"
"Yeah. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am." He nodded his head pensively. This was going to be uncomfortable. He didn't want his two best mates to think he thought all that much of Malfoy; but then again, this DID seem to warrant mentioning. And Malfoy had been all Harry talked about for most of sixth year. So maybe it was justified. "Have you guys seen Malfoy lately?"
Harry looked up from his book, and nodded. "Yeah, actually, I have." He closed his book in his hands and leaned on the arm of his chair.
"Well," continued Ron. "Did he seem. . . different to you?"
"Come to think of it, he did." Harry said.
Hermione waved her hand somewhat absently. "Oh, let's not start this again. I'm sure you're both imagining things."
"No, no," began Ron. "He definitely looked different. Like, his face was, I dunno, rounder or something."
"Yeah, sort of more soft, kind of."
Hermione gave an exasperated half-chuckle. "Well, maybe he put on some weight."
Ron was leaning forward in his chair, waving his pointed finger at the fire. "No, see, that's the thing. He looked smaller, like he shrank or something."
"Ron, " chided Hermione. "Everyone looks like they've shrunk to you. You're almost as tall as Hagrid nowadays."
Ro felt his cheeks burning. "I am not!" He may have been taller, sure, but he wasn't a giant! Merlin. You'd think being six-feet-three was unheard of. "Besides, I just got taller, I didn't go blind!"
"You know, Hermione, I think Ron has a point. We bumped into Malfoy in the Great Hall, and he was acting a bit weird. He kept staring at us. . ."
"He stared at you too?"
"Oh, Merlin help me!" cried Hermione, thrusting her hands up to the ceiling and rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, he stared at me, said hello, and then just walked off. It was a bit uncomfortable, to be honest."
"He didn't even talk to me."
"Yeah." Harry nodded again, his glasses glinting in the light of the fire. "You don't suppose something. . . happened to him, over the summer?"
"Happened in what way?" Ron couldn't help but pose the question.
"Have both of you gone completely insane?" Hermione could not have rolled her eyes any harder. "Need I remind you, Malfoy saved all of our lives, when he could have turned us in as who we really were."
"Maybe he just didn't recognize us."
Now even Hermione had shut her book, and had turned around to face them both. "Really, Ron? That's nonsense and you know it. He turned over a new leaf. Harry gave evidence at his trial! You don't really think he's up to something, do you?"
"Just because he did one good thing doesn't mean I have to like the bastard," Ron muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Of course you don't have to like him Ron," she continued. "But at least be civil."
"I was civil!" He raised his hands, as if falsely accused. "In fact, I barely said a thing to him! All I mean is that I think something's a little off with Malfoy, that's all."
Harry chuckled. 'Then again, you could argue that something's always been off with that one."
Ron guffawed, and a few tired-looking second years glowered at him. Ron chose to ignore them. Since when did second years have that kind of gumption, to look down at their elders! "You could say that again."
Hermoine pursed her lips and shook her head. "Really, I think you boys are just blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I'm sure when we see him in class, he'll look perfectly normal."
"Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that he didn't look normal before!" Ron mentioned.
"I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now, when I could be reading my textbook."
Even Ron felt the sting of that comment. "Fine, fine. It's not important anyway."
But as he drifted off to sleep that night, Ron couldn't shake the feeling that something was definitely up. Maybe it was nothing. But Ron had a suspicion that whatever had happened to Malfoy, was not going to leave them in peace. He sighed, for the umpteenth time that night, and stared at the ceiling. "Never a dull moment around here. . ."