July 2000 – 20 Years Old
"Fucking shite – I'm defecting."
Draco apparates into an alley in Islington, nearly landing on top of a skip bin. It's been years since he's been to Muggle London, and thankfully, he has a vague memory of the spot from when his mother had secretly taken him to a Muggle toy shop when he was three after visiting his scary great Aunt.
After dusting himself off, Draco quickly removes his mask and transfigures his robes into more appropriate clothing. Even though it's the middle of the night, it wouldn't bode well for a Muggle to spot some cloaked figure lurking in the shadows and drawing attention.
"Reducio," he mutters, holding his wand over his mask and placing it awkwardly in his pocket while taking a few steps. Then, he peers around the corner and seeing that the street is quiet, he pulls up the hood of his anorak and walks to the correct location. Thankfully, being a Black should allow him access to 12 Grimmauld place, hopefully overriding any wards that might have been left by the Order before they fled after the Battle.
"Finite Incantatem."
Draco watches as the Fidelius Charm gives way, and the ground begins to shake, causing the hidden unit to appear. Opening the front door, Draco has a near heart attack when Dumblefuckingdor's fucking ghost rushes towards him. He defensively casts a Protego followed by a swift Avada as a conditioned response to an attack. "Fucking shite," he breathes out when the imitation apparition disappears. "Homenum Revelio," he mutters, seeing there aren't any humans lying in wait.
"Pulsatio."
A faint glow appears on Draco's chest, picking up his own heartbeat, and from what he can tell, there are no other living creatures within the old Black ancestral home. He'd created the spell after nearly being killed by a fucking House Elf attempting to drop a fucking crate of apples on his head when he broke into a storage house belonging to the Order a few months back. Of course, he hadn't expected it, quickly discovering how useless Homenum Revelio is if a fucking creature could have easily done him in. Thus, the heartbeat spell was born.
That would have been quite the way to go, though.
Death by fruit box.
Swiftly moving through the darkened corridors, Draco runs diagnostic spells to see if he can pick up any trace magic. He's not surprised when the most recent use of magic is revealed to be primarily healing spells. It would make sense that the Order had brought some of their wounded to their old headquarters after the Battle.
Draco walks up the stairs - each step creaking under his feet - and stops in front of a door with a nameplate reading Regulus Black.
Slowly entering the room, Draco discovers a strange scene. It's evident that someone was brought into the room to be healed as he clocks the dried blood on a pillow, sitting on a dishevelled bed. But then, his eyes are drawn to something even more peculiar lying on the floor. Draco takes a few cautious steps forward and picks up the broken remains of what he recognises as Potter's glasses.
"Right," he says, remembering the git took an Avada to the face. Looking around, he sees an open journal on a small desk and smiles, thinking Potter might have left some clues. Picking up the journal, Draco's grin turns into a firm line when he begins to read.
12 August 1977
The pain was unbearable, but I believe I pleased the Dark Lord. I can feel the Dark Magic of the Mark still working its way into my magical core. Lucius says that I will get used to it.
I hope he's right.
– R. A. B.
Draco instantly occludes at the casual mention of his father, realising he'd been there when his mother's young cousin took the Dark Mark. He then notices a minor annotation in drastically different handwriting written in the margin.
Took the Dark Mark at 16 over the summer holiday.
Draco slams the journal shut and rubs a hand over his face, taking a breath and distancing himself from the similarities. He quickly shrinks the journal and places it in his pocket beside his mask and returns to running more diagnostics.
"Recentissimus Augurium," he says and sees that the very last use of magic in the room was someone apparating. Draco takes a breath about to do something stupid, understanding he could kill himself if he follows, knowing it's likely he's not been there before. He's never attempted Death Eater Feig's variation of the tracking spell but knows he has no other choice.
"Procul Appare Vestigium." Draco gets a hazy image of some kind of field, and before he loses his nerve, he apparates.
As soon as Draco hits the ground, the intense pain in his side and the growing warm wetness in his shirt alerts him to the fact he fucking splinched himself. He attempts to use the same spell Snape used when Potter fucking cut him to shreds, but unfortunately, all it really does is stem the initial bleeding. Draco hobbles towards the only structure he can see for miles. Thankfully the wards are weak, and within ten minutes, he enters through the front fucking door.
"No wonder they lost," he mutters, annoyed, not understanding how the Order is still lurking in the shadows like cockroaches, not even properly warding a safe house. He quickly checks and can see no other life source besides his own and wonders if this ugly dump was also abandoned.
Feeling faint from the blood loss, Draco looks for fucking anything to wrap around his torso as he quickly discards his torn shirt. Thankfully, some thick gift wrap ribbon has been left on a dusty old table. He frantically unspools the unfortunate shade of puke-yellow fabric and attempts to awkwardly wrap himself, wincing with the movement and regretting not learning more healing spells. But given he is usually on the other end of a damaging - usually deadly - curse, he thought it a waste of time.
"Fuck," he rasps as the wounds reopen with his movement. The blood begins to seep through the ribbon, and now he looks like some Godric awful Gryffindor's Christmas gift. Draco casts another spell to stem the fresh bleed as he sits on top of a kitchen table, taking stock of the space and wondering where in Salazar's name he is. "What the fuck?" he says, seeing a strange clock with a bunch of ginger-haired faces. He then recognises the Weasel and scrunches his nose at the thought this is the fucking home of the Weasley family. "You really are dirt poor," he says, looking around.
Draco begins to regret his decision knowing he can't apparate in his current condition. If he gets the summons, there's no way he'll be able to get to the manor even remotely in time not to suffer severe consequences.
Suddenly, he hears a familiar crack of apparition and scrambles to another room, eyes on the front door with his wand drawn. He watches a plump witch he vaguely recognises to be the Weasley matriarch enter the oversized hovel.
Then, he watches as she begins rummaging around the dusty kitchen, completely unaware there's a Death Eater – former Death Eater – right behind her. He takes a few steps closer and considers killing her just so he can help the Order get it through their thick heads how stupid they —"
"Expelliarmus!"
Draco's wand goes flying before he even registers that the witch is facing him with her wand drawn.
"Levicorpus."
Draco lets out a pained grunt as his side opens up, and fresh blood begins to flow, dripping onto the floor as he hangs upside down.
"I'm defecting, you bitch!" he barks, wincing in pain as he grabs his side.
"Defecting?" she says with narrowed eyes. "I could have easily Avada'd you — I'd say it's rather stupid to try and sneak up on someone like an assassin if you want to gain my trust," she says, still pointing her wand at him as she lowers him to the ground.
Draco remains lying on his back, still clutching his side. He knows he needs to gain the fucking erumpent's favour – but he can't help himself from opening his fucking mouth.
"As if you'd ever be able to cast the Killing Curse," he chokes out as the pain and rapid blood loss causes him to shake.
The witch gives him an unsettling smile as she slowly bends down and whispers in his ear. "See – you're not a child anymore, Draco. I'm fairly certain I could muster enough hatred to kill you now."
A chill runs down Draco's spine as a memory from the Battle flashes in his mind.
"Now – I could have easily sent an Avada, but I'd be a fool to think I'd ever muster enough hatred to kill a child, even one as cruel and misguided as you."
Draco's eyes widen as she points her wand directly at his forehead, causing him to wish he followed in his mother's steps rather than be killed by Ronald fucking Weasley's mum. She flicks her wrist, causing him to flinch.
"Stupify."
…
"Rennervate."
Draco opens his eyes to find himself seated in a stiff chair while his wrists are chained behind his back with a wooden table before him. He also notices that he's shirtless and can see – and feel – that his wounds have been healed. Draco looks around the small, dimly lit room, unable to discern where he is, given the walls are blank with nothing aside from himself, the table, and a few chairs to keep him company.
Wondering how long he will have to wait, Draco grows annoyed, feeling an itch on his face he can't scratch. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, an inconspicuous door opens, and Draco tries not to roll his eyes when Ron fucking Weasley walks in.
"Weasel," he says with a nod.
"Ferret," the wizard nods back as he plops his arse across from him and just fucking stares.
Draco decides not to choose violence as he waits for the ginger git to speak. He's got a fucking beard making him look – different, and Draco is not at all jealous that he can't grow facial hair because some distant relative a few generations back was a fucking Veela.
"You do realise I can easily vanish these chains with wandless magic," says Draco. "I'm displaying a huge amount of restraint given there's an itch on my fucking chin – as a gesture of goodwill, of course."
Weasley pulls out some parchment with a sigh. "We are in great debt to your impressive amount of self-control, Malfoy. Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix - you passed the test," he says sarcastically, still fucking staring at Draco.
"Right," says Draco with an eye roll as he vanishes the restraints to finally take care of the itch. "The Order has some serious safety issues. If I were to –"
"You know," cuts in Weasley as he sits back in his seat while crossing his arms, ignoring Draco's attempt at a helpful critique. "This is the second time I've had a heated argument with mum about not using the Killing Curse on you. She told me what happened at the Battle — when you nearly sent an Avada to our backs. The jury is still out on who you were really aiming for."
Ignoring the implications that the overfed witch spared his life twice, Draco simply sits with a blank face figuring the matronly Weasel probably has never even used a successful Avada in her life.
He watches as the bearded Weasel pulls out his Death Eater mask, followed by Regulus' journal – both returned to their original size. Then, the git sets Draco's wand down next to his other belongings.
"The last few spells you've cast paint a rather interesting story, Malfoy."
"It's been an interesting few years – what can I say?"
"Yes, well – we'll be getting to that part soon," says Weasley as he flicks his wand. "Expecto Patronum." A small ugly dog appears floating around the room. "The ferret is awake," he says before the Patronus disappears.
The door opens ten minutes later, and another fucking ginger enters the room. Only this wizard is larger and has burn marks on his face making him slightly more intimidating than Beardy. Nevertheless, he walks into the room with a fucking grin and sticks out his fucking hand. "Name's Charlie – Charlie Weasley." Draco ignores the absurd gesture and watches as the man shrugs, dropping into the third chair. "Was worth a shot," he huffs.
"Is this the part where you question me for hours regarding my intentions?" says Draco with an exasperated sigh.
"No," huffs Charlie – Charlie Weasley. "This is the part where my baby brother and I sit here, and you freely spill your guts under the influence of this –" He reaches down and pulls out a small glass of clear liquid, causing Draco to nearly roll his eyes.
"You know – a bit of free advice," says Draco as he leans in, eyeing the shot glass and then looking between the two idiots. "If this is how the Order has been vetting potential turncoats, I can guarantee you've got a few spies among your ranks."
"Why's that?" asks Ron with a raised brow.
"All Death Eaters are trained on how to speak around truth serums. You know – semantics."
"Interesting," says Ron as Charlie reaches down again and pulls out an entire bottle making Draco slightly less confident.
"Well, maybe you don't have as many spies as I thought if you're forcing enough potion to kill a man. But it still wouldn't work for someone proficient in Occlumency. You'll never get anything out of me with that shite. I'm an Occlumens and can easily get around Veritaserum."
"That so, Malfoy?"
"That so. I could get my shields so strong that I would truly believe whatever lies I were to spout off to you. And again, I'm trying to help you – defecting, remember?" Draco says smugly as he sits back in his seat. But then he watches as the wizards both fucking shrug before Charlie gives him a slight smirk and leans in.
"Well, lucky for us, this isn't Veritaserum nor any other truth potion," he whispers, tapping on the bottle. Draco narrows his eyes, seeing beardy Weasel also smirking as Charlie sits back and returns to a normal voice. "See, thanks to some clever Muggle engineering, your impressive use of Occlumency won't stand a chance against this stuff," he continues. "I'd like to see how proficient you are with twenty-five ounces of this flowing through your system – it's Tequila."
Draco looks at the bottle, which he estimates is roughly twenty-five ounces and then back at the gingers. "That's actually pretty fucking clever," he says honestly and then downs the first shot. Partly because he wants to get this fucking over with and partly because it sounds rather enticing to get plastered.
Thirty Minutes Later
"F-fuck," slurs Draco, barely able to keep his head up. He's never had Muggle alcohol before and, truthfully, only ever got pissed after hours of sipping on Ogden's finest in the privacy of his childhood bedroom, wallowing about his life choices - he blames the drink.
Draco can see that the bottle is still two-thirds full and knows he is already too far gone to continue if he doesn't want to poison himself. "Piss," he states, blinking rapidly, trying to focus on the four gingers in the room.
No – two.
Four?
"Yeah, mate. You're fucking pissed. Why don't we –" starts Charlie, but then Draco abruptly stands, side-stepping the chair – turns left – and then proceeds to pull his trousers down to his ankles and piss all over said chair.
"Yeah – pissed indeed," says Ron, scrunching his nose. "I think he's ready."
"Fuck, Malfoy," huffs Charlie.
"The chair's uncomfortable," Draco mumbles, pulling up his trousers. He then stumbles, nearly sitting in the chair before Charlie mutters bloody fucking hell and quickly vanishes the piss.
"Let's get this over with before he blacks out," huffs Ron in annoyance, pulling out some kind of Muggle pen. "Why are you here?" He questions with narrowed eyes.
Feeling the room spinning, Draco squints his eyes shut and puts his hands on his temples. "Why are any of us here?" he laughs. "Why is the sky fucking blue? Why do bad things happen? Why are you such a nosy cun–"
"I mean, why are you defecting," snaps Ron.
"Ah, yeah – because I'm bored," Draco says as he opens his eyes.
"Right," sighs Charlie, swiping a hand over his face. "You mean to tell us that you're defying your Dark Lord and betraying his cause after years of service and ruthlessly killing members of the very group you are now trying to join because you're — bored," he says suspiciously.
"Oh, and sad," Draco adds, giving a thumbs up to the younger Weasley with a nod as if to say – I'm doing well, right? But it only elicits a glare from the git – rude.
"Yes, so being a big bad Death Eater makes you bored and sad. Do you expect us to give a fuck, Malfoy? Your spoiled brat tears aren't enough to give us any other reason than to turn you back over to Voldy so he can take care of you."
"Ah — no," starts Draco, drunkenly wagging his finger in their faces. "Being a Death Eater makes me feel like I can't fucking breathe," he says, placing his hand over his heart. "I'm sad because my mother left me all alone — oh, and my dog died."
"Your — dog?" asks Charlie. "Malfoy –"
"The Dark Lord made me Avada Hound after I got the Dark Mark," he cuts in, frowning at the memory. He then lifts his finger again, remembering something else. "I'm also angry."
"Angry?" echoes Ron.
"Yes, angry – for lots of reasons, but mainly because Greyback molested me three times the summer after fifth year and once more the summer after that – wasn't pleasant," he adds, shaking his head and scrunching his nose, barely cognisant of the words coming out of his mouth.
The Weasley brothers remain silent while all Draco can think about is how he shouldn't have taken the four extra shots, feeling the nausea rolling in his gut.
Finally, Charlie speaks. "Do you still believe in The Cause?" he asks softly while Ron focuses on the paper in front of him.
"No," Draco winces, clutching his stomach. "I never did," he breathes out, eyes closed, trying not to vomit. Suddenly he hears some shuffling, and then there's a hand on his shoulder. Draco opens one eye to see Charlie standing beside him, holding a small bin.
Taking the bin and hovering his face over the top, Draco groans, feeling his mouth beginning to water right before he hurls. After a minute, he catches his breath to see that Charlie has returned to his seat, where he pulls out a vile and hands it to Draco.
"What's this?" he asks, hoping it's a fucking sobering potion.
"Veritaserum."
Draco hurls one more time before downing the potion as the two Weasleys proceed to question him about the Dark Lord's strategies, Death Eater hideouts, future raids, and such. He's aware that they are most likely going to kill him after they get their information, but at this point, he is so fucking done he doesn't even care anymore. The longest Draco has gone without occluding since he was fifteen is an hour and the emotions he's been repressing start to catch up to him once they enter the third brutal hour of questioning.
Draco finds himself near fucking tears after confessing every murder he's committed – at least the ones he remembers. Most of his kills were unknown witches and wizards during combat, with a few Muggles scattered throughout during raids. But there are also a few kills he confesses that have both the Weasleys tearing up – hearing the details of their friends' last moments.
Finally, Charlie asks one final question.
"Are you joining the Order to redeem yourself and seek forgiveness from the people you grew up with to ease your conscience?"
Draco inhales slowly as he tilts his head and looks him directly in the eyes.
"No. I'm not that deluded into thinking I'll ever be forgiven. I'm joining the Order for purely selfish reasons. I want to get revenge on the Dark Lord and his followers for ruining everything in my life. I don't give a fuck about helping Muggles and Muggle-borns. I just want to see Lord Voldemort suffer in agony, knowing he lost a war he thinks he won before he finally breathes his last fucking rancid breath."
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, and there's a moment where Draco thinks he should have attempted to lie, but then he sees both gingers smiling.
"Good," says Ron. "Because we don't need you to become soft, Malfoy. We need you to use your fucking terrible and unredeemable self for our selfish purposes. Your Order directives will put you at risk of death and torture by your so-called old friends daily. If you get discovered, we won't risk harming a single hair on any Order member's head to come and save you."
"Still want to join, Malfoy?" asks Charlie, with a raised brow.
"Fuck, yes," says Draco, knowing he died a long time ago. At least now he can have fun fucking with Voldecunt until his body finally follows his soul.
"Excellent," says Charlie with a firm nod as Ron pulls out another vile of a strange violet liquid.
"We usually go through a much lengthier process to evaluate potential Death Eater turned Order spies, but apparently, someone has convinced us that the sooner we get you to take the Vow and become active, the sooner we can get a leg up in this fucking war.
Draco eyes the potion. "War," he huffs. "The Cause would argue that your lot lost the war – hiding in hovels and causing the Dark Lord to be miffed occasionally."
Both Weasleys ignore Draco's observation as Charlie gestures for him to drink the potion.
"Sobering potion – we take consent very seriously," he states with a cold stare.
Draco takes a drink and instantly feels his head clear, reeling from the implications of Charlie's words, now aware he unwittingly confessed about Greyback. But he also could simply be making the statement aware of how most of the other Death Eaters often treat their captives before they're killed. Sitting silently, he begins to occlude, dulling his emotions once more.
Ron gives a nod to Charlie, who casts a Patronus. Draco watches as a dragon emerges from his wand he instantly recognises as a Romanian Longhorn, having had his mother read the same damn book about dragons every night before bed.
"He's ready," says Charlie, causing Draco to wonder if Harry Fucking Potter is about to walk in. Then, he hears the crack of an apparition outside the door. Within seconds, Draco finds himself heavily occluding, trying to hide the shock, hurt, confusion and anger welling inside his chest as Severus Snape enters the fucking room.
Without any pretence, the wizard - who he had already grieved over -gestures for him to stand. Draco stands, not taking his eyes off the traitor – but then realises – he's a fucking traitor too.
"Your hand," drawls Snape. Draco extends his hand towards Ron – already waiting – as they clasp onto each other's arms. "You are about to make an Unbreakable Vow to Mr Ronald Weasley to ensure your loyalty to the Order."
Draco nods as he takes a breath, knowing there's no turning back. Snape waves his wand as he begins the spell.
"Draco Malfoy," he starts in a commanding tone. "Do you – of your own will – vow to actively seek to betray The Cause, the Dark Lord, and his followers?"
"Yes," says Draco without hesitation as the white binding magic begins to form.
"And do you – of your own will – agree to the task of operating as a double agent in favour of the Order of the Phoenix, pledging your aid to the Order and its members?"
"Yes," again, with no hesitation.
"And do you agree to listen and submit to your Order member handler – whoever is assigned – within reason of your best judgement for the benefit of the Order of the Phoenix and everyone who falls under the Order's protection?"
Draco hesitates momentarily, not particularly liking the idea of submitting to Ronald fucking Weasely, but he figures he's already come this far.
"Yes."
Snape utters the final incantation as the Vow is sealed. Draco pulls his hand back, rubbing his wrist, still feeling the magic working inside his magical core, causing internal cognitive dissonance with the Dark Magic from the Mark. Regardless, he's bound by the Vow, and his allegiance will have him going against the poison tainting his spirit.
Of course, he could simply kill Ron, and the Vow would be broken – but in killing Ron, he'd kill himself, given that wouldn't necessarily be aiding the Order. He turns to face Snape and opens his mouth. Unfortunately, before Draco even has a chance to question Severus, the older wizard dissaparates. He turns to the Weasel duo with a slightly bewildered expression.
"Your probationary period as an Order member begins now," says Ron, handing Draco his belongings.
"You're letting me keep the journal?" he asks, knowing he stole it from what he assumes to be Potter's old room.
"In case you get bored again," says Charlie dismissively. "Use it as some light-hearted bedtime reading."
Draco rolls his eyes but keeps silent.
"Now - we are aware of your need to adhere to the summons, so you can apparate from the designated safe house where your handler will be staying with you – helping you learn how we operate as you report your intel and such. It's protocol to keep a Death Eater turn Order member in the dark about locations and other Order members' whereabouts until we can be sure you can play your role efficiently. We don't want you to unwittingly give yourself away the first day on the job and be a liability risking everyone else's lives."
"Wait – you're not my handler?" asks Draco, resisting the urge to punch the bearded Weasel in the face at the implication he would give up sensitive information so easily. Ron says nothing, so Draco looks at Charlie, who's grinning like an idiot.
"Oh – she should be here in a mo –" says Charlie.
Draco hears the sound of apparition outside the door – wondering who the fuck his fucking handler is. Apparently, it's some witch he's going to have some bizarre flatshare with for the foreseeable future. The door opens, and Draco nearly groans in disappointment, knowing he better not fucking make a rude comment as the fucking ginger erumpent enters the room.
"I believe you've met our dear mum a few times before," says Ron as he hugs the witch.
"You can call me Molly, dear," she says as she sticks out her hand. Draco returns the gesture with a forced smile that looks more like a grimace – is a grimace.
"Just be grateful, Malfoy – no one else was willing to take you on. In fact, if it wasn't for mum, we would have pumped all this intel from you –" Ron holds up his notes. "And then Avada'd you before dumping your sorry dead arse in the Thames."
Molly then holds out her arm, indicating he's going to have to fucking side along like he's a fucking child.
"Merlin's fucking beard," he mumbles under his breath, thinking Beardy's idea might have been the better option.
"Looks like you and I are going to get to know each other real well," Molly says with a saccharine smile as he reluctantly takes hold of her arm.
Draco glances at the Weasley boys, who are still fucking smirking.
"Yay me."