Chapter 16 - Confrontations
"There's no need to look at me like that, Malfoy." He spread his palms face up across the surface of the table and gave Draco a look of mock contrition. The corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes were widened as if he was so terribly sorry for his presence. "I'm your client."
There was a fraught silence as Draco struggled with what Zabini had just said. His face was a frozen mask as he stared down at the other man, numbly taking in his clownish expression. Only Draco's whitening knuckles gave away his turmoil. He saw the corners of Zabini's mouth twitch upwards almost imperceptibly, as if he was repressing a smirk. The sight of that tiny movement seemed to awaken Draco, triggering his disbelief to give rise to a hot flush of anger. He barely noticed the barman entering the room, two Firewhiskeys held on a tray. He placed the glasses on the table and Zabini leant forward in his chair. Expensive looking muggle shirt cuffs poked out of the end of his robe sleeves as he reached for the glass. A flash of gold cufflink was momentarily visible. The sight inexplicably enraged Draco further.
"To our new partnership." Zabini raised his drink and flashed another wide, toothy smile at Draco, his show of remorse abandoned. Again, neither noticed the barman slipping out of the room. Draco only continued to stare at the other wizard, unadulterated rage coursing through him, hot and desperate, as the fog in his mind cleared. He drew himself up, fighting the very real impulse to curse the disgustingly smug look off Zabini's face. His hands shook slightly as he raised them off the table. He felt ridiculous. Humiliated. An absolute, fucking idiot.
"Come on Malfoy, sit down!" Zabini cajoled.
"Where did you find my advert? I placed it months ago. What, did you recognise my address and decide to cut it out and keep it? You twisted fuck." Draco felt his voice crack as he spoke, damaged as it was from constant fume inhalation and recent lack of use. In that moment, he couldn't care less. Zabini put his glass down and leant back into his chair, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
"You got me there, Malfoy. Though, technically it is my business what goes in that paper-"
"I don't give a fuck about your business." Draco interrupted, his voice rising into a hoarse shout.
"No, I'm sorry. Please, we've got off to a bad start. Please, take a seat, let me explain. Calm down."
"You think this is a joke? Calm down? Our lives are just a joke to you? Deigning to hand out charity? Think you're some kind of fucking saint?" He sneered.
"Not in the slightest-"
"Then what? Enjoy kicking people when they're down, lording over them what they don't have?" A remote part of Draco recognised that he barely knew what he was saying, that he was just uncontrollably spitting words.
"Not that either, just let me explain -"
"I told you before, why don't you get it? I don't need a job from you, Zabini. I'm not one of your lackeys, and I never will be." Draco made for the door, his movements jerky with tightly wound adrenaline, his heart pounding in his ears ferociously. His thoughts were a whirl, overpowered and muddled by rage and humiliation. He had to get out, he couldn't think. Never had he felt more of a fool. He'd been played far too easily. How the fuck had he allowed this to happen? Blaise had been trying for months to get him to work for him, though he had always assumed it had been a cruel joke, made to further highlight Draco's poverty compared to his own success.
The man was a complete freak, clearly getting off on some sick, perverted power trip. And now he had what he wanted: either Draco, somehow indebted to him, or made to look like an absolute idiot for his own pleasure, or, the thought whipped through Draco's mind in a flash of lucidity: that he now had some kind of power over Draco in the form of blackmail material. Though that woman gave a magical oath that the creation of these potions wouldn't put me in danger. What could can I even offer him anyway? And he would implicate himself with possession of Dark potions, so no, it can't be blackmail.
"Malfoy, stop being so melodramatic. We're family, stop assuming the worst. Think of Scorpius. You don't want him to end up in trouble again." Draco stopped dead, hand gripping the doorknob. His rage was suddenly extinguished by a jolt of sheer panic. He looked round at Zabini.
"What did you say?" His low voice trembled with tension. Did he know? Did he mean-
"Trouble- financial trouble. You don't want to end up in serious trouble again." Draco released a breath. No, he couldn't possibly know about Scorp's muggle fighting. He'd have had no way of finding out. Draco was suddenly thankful for the instant sobering of his emotions provided by a threat of very real danger. If anyone like Zabini found out about that, (barring Potter and Granger, who appeared, Merlin knows why, to be on his side,) the speed in which he'd loose access to Scorp to the Greengrasses would be instantaneous. He took a few moments to collect himself, taking deep, yet inaudible breaths to slow his heart rate.
Draco turned away from the door and surveyed the other wizard. Zabini had barely raised so much as an eyebrow, let alone his voice at Draco's stark display of emotion, but remained loose limbed and stretched out in his chair. Draco felt the urge to curse him again as anger bubbled up once more at the sheer arrogance of the man. Everything about him was calculated. Every sentence, every gesture. Eyes slightly widened as if in sincerity, words inflected with just the right intonations to inspire guilt. Draco wouldn't have been surprised if he'd even gone as far as putting his hands behind his head and feet on the table, he looked that sure of himself.
In contrast Draco felt like a trapped mouse. So easily setup after all of his foolish complacency. Fool, fool, fool. The word stabbed at his heart, and he battled to ignore it. However true, it wouldn't help him move forward and deal with the situation. He needed to stand back and be dispassionate. Despite Zabini seemingly having the subtlety of a bull, he undoubtably had the upper hand and so Draco needed all of his wit about him.
Using a huge effort of will, during those few deep breaths Draco managed to calm his mind from spasmodically lurching from one hysterical thought to the next. Ignoring his still racing heart, he forcibly removed himself from the situation and judged it. Zabini expects me to react like this, given the right provocation at school my temper was terrible. And he knows there was nothing I hated more than being made a fool of. But though he's seen it happen countless times at Hogwarts, that was a long time ago. What does he expect of me? To thrash around like a bird in a cage, throwing insults, which, luckily is exactly what I still want to do.
Why has he done this? The question echoed round and round his head.
"You're well aware I know about your financial troubles Draco. I know you haven't received money from the Greengrasses this month, and I'm assuming you probably won't ever again. Can't say I don't blame you. Must have been awful, to be controlled by dear old Apollon and Amelia like that." Draco was silent, but remained poised to leave. "I knew you'd have refused the job if you'd known it was me-"
"So instead you set up this elaborate plan, trick me into working for you. Spoon feed me this fake job, manipulate me into brewing a fuck load of useless, incredibly hazardous potions. You're a sick man. I will not be controlled by the Greengrasses, and I will not be controlled by you either." Draco barely had to pretend to inflect his voice with disgust, so true to what he was feeling. The words, imbued with so much hyperbole and shouted with so much apparent lack of restraint, conversely helped to give him back a feeling of some sort of control of the situation. They were what Zabini expected to hear; and accordingly a satisfied looking smile came to his face. Draco didn't know in that moment what he could achieve by acting like this, but he knew he needed to know why Zabini had done it. If going along with it helped him discover this then he would. No matter how debasing.
"Who said anything about control!?" Zabini's voice oozed with amused indignation, before becoming cajoling once again. "You're offering me a service that I am in genuine need of! I didn't say anything about the potions being useless. I don't have the time to brew them myself, or clearly, the talent," he bobbed his head a little in Draco's direction.
"You can't flatter your way out of this," Draco sneered
"Sit down, Malfoy. Please, have a drink. Let's talk this through. Don't act irrationally, it isn't like you." Draco quelled the automatic, clearly irrational and childish response on his tongue of 'you don't know me,' and brought his still slightly shaking hand, clutching the doorknob to drag through his hair.
"The job's still here, I need the potions, you need the money. You agreed to make them, whats the problem?"
What was the problem? Draco could have laughed. Putting it so plainly like that Zabini had forced him into making a definite decision and he knew it. No matter what games they both could play, the fact still remained that Draco depended on the Galleons he would be receiving from Zabini. What was the point of gaining an upper hand? It was a hideous fact, but he needed that money. He and Scorp couldn't continue the way they'd been going. Draco gave a minutely shuddering exhale, hyper aware that Blaise was closely watching his reactions. He felt completely drained. He had been out of this Slytherin power game for far too long. He couldn't remember the rules. He was the one who had already taken the money and he was the one who had just dedicated the past few days to single minded brewing, and lost precious time with Scorp in the process. Zabini had won before he'd even revealed his identity.
"What the fuck do you need these potions for?" He muttered, his voice gravelly and tired, apparently surrendering. Let him think he's won, for the moment. Blaise laughed appreciatively and picked up his glass, idly swilling the ice around so it chinked together. Draco slowly turned from the door and flicked his wand at his chair where it had fallen on the floor. It righted itself and he sat down heavily. He felt utterly wretched. He picked up his own glass and took a great swig. The amber liquid burnt his throat and he nearly coughed. For the first time in his life, he wished he were drinking the muggle version. Why complicate something that could be so calming by adding fire to it? He took another long drink and then spoke again, making his voice slightly pleading. It sickened him.
"Just tell me - why? Why have you done this? Not the potions - I don't give a shit about your reasons for those, but what have you seriously got to gain by using me? I can't offer you anything. I don't have money, connections, influence. I haven't for a long time." His hands swept over the box containing the potions, "You can't honestly think I believe that these are the real reason."
Blaise tilted his head to the side as he took a drink from his glass. Draco knew with grim certainty what he was about to hear would not be near the truth, but he hoped to gain something from the answer anyway. The man's voice was smooth and melodic when he answered, and of course his reply rang predictably false.
"I'm doing it for our family, Draco. You're not the only one who has Scorpius's interests at heart. Daphne has been working herself up in complete worry over our nephew-"
"Bollocks," Draco interrupted. "Daphne doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone except for herself." Blaise smirked and gave a self depreciating sort of nod.
"True, but we have been worried, and family means a lot to me-"
"What? I am sorry, but how many men has your mother gone through? How many fathers are there between you and your siblings? Whatever warped view of family you were brought up with clearly has led you to believe some pretty twisted things about the concept, Zabini." At Draco's words, the oily smirk had finally been wiped from the other mans face and Draco felt a small, petty surge of victory. It was immature, but worth it.
"And your idea of family is hiding away your son in some grotty muggle hovel." Zabini's voice was cold and his dark eyes bore into Draco's. Draco finally saw a flash of the surly boy he'd known at school, kept hidden behind the false joviality and bluster of the present. It unnerved him. "Keeping him from the rest of the world and barring his grandparents and his family contact. Refusing to allow him to even go to Hogwarts, something that should be his right." Draco grabbed the glass and downed the remaining liquid in one, making to rise and leave again. The spike of anger hadn't been faked.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. But you threw the first punch there." Zabini's turned to the wall and leant forward to pull on a little concealed handle. When he spoke again his unctuous, persuasive tone was back in place. "But you must understand how it all looks from the outside. Let me help you. I can introduce you to others, put in a good word. Perhaps that will lead to greater things, perhaps not. Draco - I don't like to see you like this. It isn't right for the Malfoy name, for someone of your blood. For you or for your son. Where's your sense of pride?" Draco could barely keep a smirk from forming at the sheer irony of this statement, but then the door opened again and the barman was back, seemingly summoned from the pulled handle.
"Two more of the same, I presume?"
"Yes, that's all for now." Blaise snapped without looking away from Draco. The man placed two more glasses down on the table and picked up the empties. The silence was thick and he kept his eyes cast down, averted from meeting the eye of either wizard. Draco waited for him to leave before answering.
"I have pride, Zabini. Perhaps it's just the type that you don't understand." At that Blaise began to laugh again, slapping his hand on the table in an disproportionate display of mirth. This time Draco forced the smirk in place. Let him read what he wants into that.
"Of course you do, of course. Probably even too much?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively before breaking into laughter once more and shaking his head. "I'm sorry! Malfoy, you're so bloody serious, have a drink man. Relax. Anyway, yes, of course you do, which is exactly why I didn't approach you directly with this. How many times have you rejected my job offers in the past?"
"If you think that a Malfoy would ever stoop to work in a factory, one that belongs to you, no less -" he scoffed, before being hastily interrupted.
"Yes, yes, well, that was the only thing I could offer at the time," Draco raised an eyebrow, Blaise continued, undeterred, "but things are changing, the business is really taking off. We're expanding into media, all sorts really."
"Is that anything to do with why you're wearing a muggle suit under your robes?" Draco asked, not really caring at all, while lifting his glass to his lips. He savoured the burn this time as it went down, beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol and the charm it was under spreading warmth through his stomach.
"Ah yes." Blaise grinned and rolled up the sleeves of his robes to expose the pale pink shirt. He held out his arm, examining the seams curiously. "It's a little restrictive, but Italian made, all the best things are of course, beautifully cut. Yes, we've been expanding in all directions. I even had a meeting this morning with a muggle-born! I really do think a hint of muggle dress makes them feel a little more, comfortable."
"Congratulations." Draco said dryly, unwilling to be taken in by whatever distraction Zabini wanted to give him by revealing this. He took another deep drink and sat back in his chair.
"I digress again, I apologise. Here, let's get to business." He shook his sleeves back down and reached into his robes. He drew out a cheque and held it out to Draco. "What we agreed on." There was a moment when Draco imagined himself taking out his wand and casting an Incendio on the fucking thing, but it passed and he reached out and took it, the image of a happy Scorp held furiously in his mind. Blaise grinned and held up his glass once more to toast. "Cheers. Here's to our partnership. One that I'm certain will be incredibly beneficial to us both." Draco raised his glass to his lips without barely so much of a tilt in the direction of the other man. He downed the whiskey before slamming the glass down on the table slightly harder than he'd meant to. He stood, and suddenly felt lightheaded. Sleep deprivation and a lack of breakfast were not good forerunners to two large downed whiskeys.
"The Baraniuk potion will be ready in a few days." He said impassively, while sliding the box of Scutum Infirma across the table towards the other wizard.
"Brilliant. What a nasty concoction." Blaise grinned. Draco felt more and more like he'd just made a deal with the devil.
"I really don't want to know what you're planning with these things, Zabini."
"Malfoy, where's the Slytherin I used to know? What's the harm of a little spiking here and a slight poisoning there if it keeps business progressing nicely? You've been hanging about with Gryffindors far too much for your own good."
"What do you know about that?" he asked, sharply.
"Well you haven't exactly been subtle about it. Half of Diagon Alley was talking about the day you had that run in with Potter. And of course, what with little Scorpius off to Burbage High you're bound to be seeing a lot more of Granger. I'd check the Daily Post today if I were you. Might be something of interest in there about your little muggle-born..." he said, tilting his chin up to Draco and giving him a grotesque wink. Draco held his gaze for a moment, biting back his reply, and his disquiet at the insight Zabini seemed to have into his curiosity for the witch. He's just trying to provoke me.
Though it could just be coincidence. It had to be. No way could Zabini know that much about him. After all, the Draco of the past would certainly have been interested to know about any humiliation of the witch, though for totally different reasons of course. Perhaps Blaise was trying to ingratiate himself with Draco after all. As if Granger's misfortune would impress him.
How could he know that Draco's attitude towards her had changed so fully? If he believed, as the Greengrasses did, that Draco was merely sending Scorpius to Burbage High for purely selfish reasons, then mocking jumped up mudbloods wasn't that unusual. Though why his avoidance of that word? It was almost like he was testing Draco, to see where his beliefs still lay. And the causal references to business with a muggle-born. What was he playing at?
Draco suddenly needed to get away. He couldn't deal with Zabini any more than he had. The constant guessing, second guessing and predicting of answers. The back and forth as they verbally sparred had exhausted him and had achieved nothing. He still knew nothing about Zabini's true motivations. The room was badly ventilated and hot, and along with his slight inebriation, the heavy smell of Zabini's aftershave was beginning to make him feel sick. Along with the sight of the man of course.
"I'll look into it. Expect an owl with the date and time for our next meeting," he simply said in reply, before opening the door and walking into the corridor, through to the entrance of the pub. He stepped outside, momentarily blinded in the sunlight after the dark, candle lit interior, and breathed deeply, blind relief that the meeting was over washing through him. The tension leaving his body made his limbs feel heavy and weak, and he was actually thankful for the sustenance from the alcohol, however artificial and temporary it was.
The conversation he'd had with Scorpius over the morality of the potions echoed in his mind. His absurdly childish, though cherished notions of good and bad. What would Scorp think if he learnt the truth? How would he feel? How convoluted and grey the reality of life was. Draco took the cheque out of the pocket in his robes and gazed down at the large amount written down. Did it really make a difference - that the client was Blaise Zabini? Money was money and he'd known all along the type of person who'd be after potions like this. All he could do for now was hope - hope that the potions were all Zabini did want. Because he knew he couldn't and wouldn't offer him anything else.
Draco thought longingly of Scorpius and then home, but instead set them and with great effort, his conversation with Zabini aside and span into the Apparition thinking resolutely, yet apprehensively of Narcissa.
Draco found his mother that afternoon wrapped up in bed, and driven within herself by her own demons. The dusty, hot twilight of the room was suffocating, yet Narcissa lay on her side swaddled in thick bedding, completely still and wan. Draco's breath caught as he reached out to lay a hand on the delicate skin of her neck, and then released again as she stirred under his touch.
"Mother?" he said, his damaged voice husky in its attempt to be soft. It had been a couple of days since he'd last been over, focussed as he had been on those fucking potions. Surely not enough time for her to slip so badly? Draco moved his hand from her neck to rest on her hands, blue veined and thin, bunched up on the pillow in front of her face. He knelt by the bed, his weary body thankful for the rest, and spoke her name again. This time her eyelids fluttered open and she seemed to meet his gaze as if from a great distance.
"Draco -" her voice was frail and weak, like the last rays of a winter sun. "Draco, please, not today." She frowned and made a movement as if to take her hands away from his, but his hold was firm.
"Mother, please, I've brought you some breakfast." He spoke slowly and calmly.
"No, no, I'm not hungry today." She shut her eyes and tugged her hands once more and Draco felt a wave of concern and regret. He'd never seen her this bad before. She was usually capricious but always pleased to see him.
Suddenly a wave of crushing self awareness came over Draco at that point and he released her hands abruptly for her to draw them slowly under the duvet. Draco had been here before - but of course, he'd been the one debilitated and shrunken and Scorp had been where he crouched now. He floundered, feeling helpless and guilty, the plate of toast lying uselessly to his side. How could he have put his son through this? This sickness.
"Mother, I would really like you to sit up. I've brought some food, and I want you to try and eat." He strained his voice to convey confidence. A tear slipped from Narcissa's closed eyes and ran down across her cheek, filling the wrinkles in her skin like floodwater on parched earth. Draco felt himself cracking.
"Please Draco, I don't want you to see me like this. It's not right for you -"
"What do you mean it's not right? Why can't I look after you?" Narcissa flinched slightly and opened her eyes wide and stared up at him. He had to fight to hold her gaze.
"You shouldn't have to see me like this. It's not right... While i'm so - reduced. If Lucius was here -"
Draco couldn't stand it any longer and looked away from those pale, dolorous eyes, focusing on the wall above the bed. He couldn't have this conversation about his father again, not after his morning.
"Please Mother," he said uselessly.
"What would he think Draco? What would he think of me? What I've become?"
"Mother-" She gave a dry, brittle sounding cough and Draco focussed back on her in alarm. Her features were set in twisted grimace.
"I'm pathetic, talking like this. What would Lucius say?" She was muttering, turning away from Draco as if he wasn't there. "What would my parents think? I'm a disgrace to our family. It wasn't meant to be like this-"
"Disgrace?" His voice wavered. "You're a disgrace?" Suddenly he felt his mind snap under all of the suppressed emotion from the last hour. It came back to him in a rush; all of his concern mixed with a aching desperation for things to be okay, worry and doubt over his actions, and anger, of course over Zabini, but mostly at himself; for letting this happen and for being completely helpless to stop it. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back round to face him. She whimpered but he didn't remove his hand. His fingers bit into her delicate skin, as if he didn't realise how much pressure he was exerting. "Mother! Our family, is just you, me and Scorp. There's no one left to disgrace."
"Draco, please let me go! You don't understand-"
"Of course I fucking understand. I understand far too well," he growled.
"No, you don't-" she was cringing away from him, hands clawed over her face in an attempt to shield herself. "Please leave me alone," the self disgust so painfully obvious in her voice nearly made him rear away. Never had he heard his mother revile herself so acutely. It was all he could do not to shake her until she woke up and just realised she wasn't alone in suffering with this. That the boundaries they'd crossed were impossible to put back, but it didn't matter to him. A realisation came to him suddenly and he understood.
"It's the muggle pills isn't it! You've taken them - while I was away. And now you're like this! Where are they?" It was only the broken state of his throat that stopped his voice rising to a shout. Draco had been searching for that medicine box all week, but it had vanished into thin air. He hadn't dared ask her outright about them, not wanting to drive her away from him. Though apparently that was just another mistake to add to the list. Narcissa was shaking her head uselessly, eyes squeezed shut behind her hands. "Mother, where are the pills? Tell me! You can't take them! They'll damage you, damage your magic!" Both of his hands were gripping her shoulders and she cried out.
"Draco, I haven't! You're hurting me!" At this he withdrew his hands as if burnt and stood, backing away from her towards the wall. He leant against it and brought up his shaking hands, pressing his palms against his closed eyes, a headache beginning to throb behind his forehead. He felt utterly frustrated. How could he have left her for so long? When he knew the drugs were in the house? He took a steadying breath, let his hands drop away and looked back over to the bed. Narcissa had wrapped herself up even more tightly and had turned with her back to him. Her absurdly tiny frame was shaking slightly and at that sight the rest of his anger, so quick to rise up, withered just as fast with a dull stab of guilt.
Draco walked across the room, and cautiously approached the bed from the other side. He sat down, but his hand hovered uncertainly over her form, and he dropped it back down to his knee. He made no attempt to touch his mother again.
"I'm sorry," he croaked. The air was heavy with his silent remorse. He tried again - "I'm sorry - I'm sorry I'm not enough."
He stood up and walked back to the plate of toast. He cast a preserving spell and laid it gently on the bedside table next to the charmed cup of tea. He gave his mother one last, searching look and walked from the room, body stooped as if his very thoughts had physical weight and he wore them on his shoulders. His head swam as the pain grew behind his eyes and he leant heavily on the wall in the hall. What the fuck is this day? How am I meant to do what's best for her, for Scorpius? If all I've got to work with is Blaise fucking Zabini. How can I help her? Nothing I'm doing has worked, and in fact she's getting worse.
Draco shut the door to his mother's room and pessimistically cast a few varying Accios. As expected no pill bottles, empty or full flew towards him. His mother may be mentally unwell, but she still seemed to be able to command the type of magic needed to keep the necessary things hidden and secret. He returned downstairs and slowly began to organise the food he'd set aside for their lunch that afternoon, mind moving at speed.
Thoughts about his mother soon returned to the meeting with Blaise. He cursed himself again for his idiocy, and as he thought about what he said and how he reacted he experienced a fresh wave of shame and humiliation. The supercilious way Zabini had looked at him as if he held power over Draco still caused his heartbeat to increase, even well over an hour later. He repeated Zabini's words over and over in his mind, trying to remember what he could about his intonations and expressions. If he could learn anything new, anything at all... But it was hopeless.
Why hadn't he insisted to know the identity of the client off that witch last week? Why hadn't he insisted on a more thorough oath to ensure he wouldn't get set up. And over and over the question surfaced, why had Zabini done this? It couldn't truthfully be that Zabini wanted to help him and Scorp? Could it? It would be easier just to believe that he was doing it all just to implicate Draco in a crime, to get Scorp returned to his grandparents. In that case Draco could just cease contact, cut his losses and bin the rest of the potions. But that woman's oath negated this motivation. And I need that money so, so badly.
Draco finished preparing the food and sank down on to a chair by the kitchen table and began to rub absentmindedly on the burn mark his mother had made with the cigarette a couple of weeks previously, regret coursing through him. He was slipping, sliding back into despair. I can't help my mother, I'm out of my depth, I can't do the right thing. I can't do anything right, always making the wrong choice. I'm not a good father, I nearly encouraged my child to be involved in Dark magic, what the fuck is wrong with me? No wonder his mother had taken more of those drugs. When they provided such an beautiful escape from the tangle of thoughts and mess of their lives.
Fuck. What am i thinking? Draco lifted his head off the table where he'd lain it without realising and slapped his hands down hard on the wood. He centred his thoughts on the stinging sensation which gradually waned to a sharp prickling under the skin of his palms. He focussed on the ebbing and building dull throb of his headache.
A cool band of light shone through a gap in the shutters, lighting the room just enough for him to make out a patch of grey mildew in one of the corners of the ceiling. He was still and listened; in the distance he could hear a crow cawing. Its mate joined in. He breathed in through his nose, air filling his lungs. The kitchen smelt musty and damp, with a slight sweet hint of decay. Careful, careful. He took a few more deep breaths in and out and felt himself start to calm.
He thought back to the long letters Potter sent him the week before. The words came to him easily. Recognise that your thoughts are just that - thoughts. Acknowledge you are having them but realise they don't mean anything, they are not real. Accept that you control them, they don't control you. Control. Draco couldn't control anything to do with Zabini or his mother, but he had volition over himself. He'd been doing it externally for as long as he could remember. However, internal control of one's thoughts was something he'd only thought of as either beneficial when against an enemy like Blaise Zabini, meaning better performance in the heat of the moment, or during Occlumency. But Potter had introduced him to a different concept: to give oneself power over one's own mind, for one's own sake.
He didn't need to think like this, he wouldn't give Zabini influence over his mind. He wouldn't lead himself down into those dark thoughts again. He'd promised Scorpius he wouldn't, and for fucks sake, he was going to keep that promise. Draco felt his spirits lift slightly for the first time since that morning. He couldn't do anything about Zabini right now so he wouldn't think about it any longer. He'd done all he could to help Narcissa today. He needed to let her do the rest herself.
He would go to Potter's now and pick up Scorpius. Draco felt warmth bloom in his chest at the thought of reuniting with his son and it drove away any lingering despair. It was still a good few hours before he was due, but what did that matter? Perhaps he'd even talk to Potter. The thought of clear, to the point, Gryffindor conversation was incredibly appealing after the rigmarole of that meeting with Zabini. And he had never truly thanked Potter for his help with caring for Scorp and for sending all of those letters. That was something he felt able to do now, and there was also that warding project he'd promised to help with. Maybe Granger would also be there? His heart seemed to skip a beat and he stood suddenly, reminding himself again of the necessity of stopping thoughts like that running away with themselves.
He strode towards the shutters and banged them open, causing weak, ivy filtered sunlight to fill the dank room. Well, it was better than nothing. He began to cast a series of strong preserving charms on the food for when his mother was ready to eat. He would come back tomorrow, and perhaps things would be better then. He nodded once and thinking forcefully of that shady Hampstead bus stop, Disapparated.