The night of Slughorn's holiday party, Draco sat in the Great Hall with those in his year who hadn't been invited, which meant everyone, save Blaise. It was a poor showing for Slytherin house—Slughorn's own house—but Draco could only scrape together a trace amount of indignation. Horace Slughorn's opinion mattered as much as Professor Burbage's.

With the start of winter holidays being the following morning, the discussion surrounding him mostly centered around what everyone's family planned on doing. But despite a mounting war, no one else's plans seemed to have changed. Pansy was off to the Alps and Theo to his grandmother's in Wales. Most were staying in England, although with plans of grand parties and gatherings Draco knew he wouldn't be seeing the likes of.

"This chicken is abysmally dry," Pansy said. "Don't you think, Draco?"

He recognized the blatant push to eat, and after only a few days of it, wanted to rebel. But he could see how far behind he was on his meal than the others, and understood he had forgotten again.

He wanted to defend himself. He wanted to explain that not eating wasn't intentional. He wanted to make them believe that he simply forgot. He wanted to explain how much more occupied his mind was this year than the last.

But he humored her with a bite. "The elves probably sent all the best off to the party."

"Couldn't have paid me to be there," Crabbe said.

"You know he let students volunteer as servers?" Theo said.

"And students did?" Draco asked.

"The ones desperate to be there. Blaise will have a headcount."

"But no time to tell us. He hasn't begun to pack," Pansy said.

"He can't need to bring that much home," Draco said.

He dropped out of the discussion when a hand rested on his knee, fully hidden under the table, but consuming every trace of his attention.

Draco took another bite, then another, forcing it down with half his drink. He topped off his goblet from the pitcher, then managed to force another bite.

"Thomas, what do the McGruders do for Christmas?"

"It's only my father," Voldemort said. " I suspect he will work throughout."

His hand didn't move. The allotted time for supper had nearly ended, and Draco's plate was hardly touched.

"How drab," Pansy said. "My father has always taken leave for the entire month. Though, I suppose only executives can do that."

"He must loathe the work, to take off that much."

Pansy's forehead furrowed while she tried to decide whether Thomas had meant it as a slight against her father. Draco was certain he had, but kept eating while the hand was in place.

One more day and he would have weeks off. One more night, then he would be on the train home.

Tomorrow you might.

Draco reached for his goblet before he choked on his last bite. Since Potter had cornered him that morning, he spent the day burying every trace of the memory. This close to Voldemort scouring his thoughts, he couldn't allow stray pieces to surface. Draco closed his eyes, layering the offer deep in his thoughts, under the news of his father's escape from Azkaban, under Potter throwing him the sweets, and even under the relief of a break from Hogwarts.

It would have been better to take the memory out entirely, to pull it out and let it float away unphialed. Letting it go would have meant safety, yet for some reason, with Voldemort's hand threatening on his knee, Draco only buried it.

"Then you must've given your future career great thought," Pansy was saying when Draco withdrew from his thoughts, satisfied with his burial.

"Naturally," Thomas said. "We will all be of age this year, regardless of whether our education continues."

"Theo won't," Pansy teased. "His birthday isn't until July."

Theo cut his eyes at her, but let it slide. The fact that he and Draco were the youngest of their year never seemed to cease being funny to the others. Draco had long started accepting their teasing, which wasn't so bad given he was second youngest.

His birthday was at least during the school year.

"Do you always haggle trivialities?" Thomas asked her.

"When it means we get to see little Theodore flush like that."

"I would've gone to the party," Goyle said. "All that food."

He looked at Draco's plate. Draco couldn't hold Goyle's inability to be subtle against him, but there were times it became blatant.

Draco didn't think he could stomach much more. The water went down easier than the meal, even though the food was better than Pansy had let on. He considered switching to a more substantial drink, but let that idea go as soon as he'd had it. Whatever he got down was a success.

"You wouldn't have actually wanted to," Daphne said. "It's so drab."

"How would you know?" Theo asked. "Half the professors decided to attend."

"Slughorn's new."

"He's ancient," Pansy said. "A returning professor? That doesn't make him new."

"Doesn't make sense why he'd even want to come back," Millicent said. "Why not keep tradition and replace the Defense professor again?"

Draco caught Thomas smirk, almost unnoticeably.

"Certainly Dumbledore had his reasons for bringing back Slughorn," Thomas said, although it sounded more like Voldemort.

Did he know something about Slughorn's rehiring?

It was another point Draco couldn't imagine applying to him, and he let that one go as well. His mind didn't have the capacity to store as much information as it once did, and every free space he had was devoted to their studies and the workings of the vanishing cabinet that awaited them upstairs.

"Well, I'll see you all at breakfast," Theo said, "And some of you in the dorm. I'm knackered."

"All that ogling you've done at Patil?" Pansy asked, earning herself another glare before Theo left them. "He's too easy," she mused. "But I should be getting upstairs too. See you on the train?" she added, making sure to meet everyone's gaze.

"Can't exactly miss it," Millicent said.

"Slughorn shouldn't pick favorites," Goyle said.

"All the professors do," Draco said, when it seemed no one else would answer and risk rehashing an old conversation so Goyle could add his piece. "We're lucky for Snape's favor."

"He's not my professor though."

"He's still your head of house. And it isn't like he'll take points from you over petty things like the others."

Draco had lost count of how many times Crabbe or Goyle had walked into something unaware, and been unfortunate enough to have a professor within hearing range of the crash. They lost Slytherin dozens of points over the years for that sort of thing, or even from simply napping during lessons.

"You going soft, Malfoy?" Crabbe said.

"Picking battles. I'm not going to crash a party I don't care to go to, simply because I was uninvited."

"Of course you were. Your father's lost everything."

Draco wondered exactly at what point he'd lost Crabbe. Sometime last year, he imagined. Goyle hadn't dared laugh when Potter sent him to hospital after the spat on the pitch.

"Has he?" Draco asked, and made a show of spinning the Malfoy crest ring on his left hand. "Seems like everything is still where it's always been."

"He's lost respect."

"Easily rebought," Draco said. "Or, it is, when you own more than a shop on Knockturn."

"You'd talk bigger if you weren't clearly bothered," Crabbe said, nodding down to Draco's body. "Wasting away under the stress?"

Pansy and Theo had left, and Goyle lacked the discretion needed to sway the conversation elsewhere. Draco chose to put his palms on the table, hoping to convey strength, but really needing the support to push to his feet while keeping his face strictly modeled in amusement. He enjoyed looking down at Crabbe like he used to be able to.

"You and I both know you're off the mark."

Feigning pride over the mark with Voldemort beside him was a risk, but he refused to let Crabbe have even the slightest trace of power over him. Crabbe had been told the same lies as the other Death Eaters, although, Crabbe only got rumors and scraps of information. Draco was the one marked.

Crabbe's face paled, and without waiting a moment, he stood, mirroring Draco's position.

Draco didn't let him give whatever rebuttal he'd come up with.

"Sit down, Vincent. This jealousy is unbecoming."

Draco stepped over the bench and left the table with his head up. But he noticed the faintest tremor in his hand, which he hid against his side, mostly covered with the wide sleeve of his robe. If he hadn't just eaten more in a sitting than he had in prior days combined, he might have attributed it to hunger. But as he passed through the narrow gap between Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, he recognized it as anger.

Crabbe never should have felt confident enough to threaten him, and in public. He had known after his father's arrest that things were likely to change, but never anticipated Crabbe rising up, simply because his father managed to run away before the Aurors rushed in.

Voldemort could have chosen Crabbe to aid him this year, but he hadn't. He had chosen Draco.

Wasn't that what Draco had always wanted? He took the mark at sixteen and barely that. Had he been the youngest ever trusted with the mark?

Why couldn't he muster up the pride he'd once held at the idea?

Although most of the other students—those not at Slughorn's party, that was—were heading to their dorms to pack for tomorrow's trip to King's Cross, Draco knew the schedule. He ascended the stairs, all seven flights, and leaned against the wall across from the Room of Hidden Things. He rummaged through his bag and took out a book with no intention to read.

Then settled in to wait.

Why had he been given the mark? Draco hadn't questioned it at the time, back in the freshness of his father's arrest, when he was led out in front of Voldemort and made to swear their family loyalty would continue with him. The charms on Malfoy Manor had transferred to him in his father's absence, and Draco had to open them once again to accept the dark lord's coming and goings. That hadn't required being marked. And coming to Hogwarts with a mark was a risk. Without a private bath, how would Draco have kept it hidden in the showers?

He chewed on the tip of a thumbnail, still pretending to read the book charmed to float in front of him. If Crabbe had his way, Draco would have been thrown to the wolves.

"Your house is turning against you," Voldemort said when he turned onto the corridor.

"Only Crabbe."

"For now."

Voldemort paced the three times necessary to open the door, and Draco plucked his book from the air before following him inside.

The room smelled thickly of dust and a little of rot, but three months into the year, Draco had gotten accustomed to it. He was almost certain the smell clung to him wherever he went. There were times halfway through a Charms class that he would catch a whiff of rot and feel certain the others would find him out.

Voldemort went right to the cabinet, and Draco to the podium to record notes. While he anticipated the holiday break, it meant weeks off. From what Draco could tell, the cabinet was nearly repaired. He didn't know what exactly would happen when there was no work left to be done. His father escaped from Azkaban, either yesterday or sometime before the Prophet ran in the morning, which meant Draco no longer needed to modify the Manor's charms.

Not knowing what might come next almost, but not entirely, made him want this school year to drag along.

Voldemort began the incantation, and Draco checked his watch to record the time they began. He had taken the incantation to heart by this point, and had once woken from a dream in which he was chanting it, although, it wasn't at the cabinet, but at a pile of green apples that had gradually begun piling up next to his bed. The words had been hard fought in learning, and the wand movements had taken most of Voldemort's efforts. He explained the process to Draco after he had been released from hospital. Draco listened intently, while giving some of his attention to holding onto the podium for fear of passing out, but knew there was so much more to magic that he had to learn.

Voldemort could feel magic as it moved. His wand channeled it and guided it into place. While he chanted the words of the incantation, the inner workings of the cabinet moved with him, settling back into their rightful place. Draco couldn't see any of it. He watched Voldemort as he worked, unable to feel any changes being made, although he knew they must have been. In his six years at Hogwarts, Draco had never considered what it meant to create magic, and doubted it was saved for the seventh year curriculum. Hogwarts taught them only the basics.

But what if he wanted to learn more? What if he wanted to pursue this new element of magic? Where could he go after Hogwarts? There were apprenticeships and some workshops offered, but no further education.

How did wizards learn? How could Draco do the same?

"What do you have on your person you can part with?" Voldemort said, breaking Draco from his inner monologue.

"My lord?"

"Something to test the cabinet," Voldemort said.

Draco nodded, then reached for his book bag to look for something he might be able to give up. He searched the pockets, but found little he could forever part with. His quills and ink, perhaps. He would be back home tomorrow, and could replace anything he had given up then.

But then, Draco remembered. He had a wrapped sweet in his pocket from where Potter had thrown one at him the day before. And he hadn't been able to eat it around the others, not when they had stared at him in absolute confusion. They had first accused Potter of poisoning them, but Draco knew Potter wouldn't stoop to such levels. Even before the apology, Draco recognized the testing of his reflexes as what it was. Potter wanted a truce. He wouldn't be tossing one of the Weasley twins' creations at him. Draco also doubted the Weasleys' were selling poisoned satsumas.

He offered the sweet to Voldemort, who looked from it up to Draco.

"Harry has been around you with greater frequency since your incident."

"He has," Draco admitted. The entire school must have witnessed it in the last several days. There was no hiding that something was going on, even if Draco couldn't put a name on it. He returned to his notes as a cover, writing down what he had offered to attempt transporting.

Voldemort opened the cabinet door and set the sweet on the panel at the bottom, then closed it. The transporting was meant to happen without incantation or spell, and they waited—three seconds had been determined to be enough—for it to vanish.

When Voldemort opened the door again, the sweet was gone.

They successfully managed to transport objects outside of Hogwarts, but the trick would be to do the inverse. Once that was completed…Draco didn't know. He preferred not to ponder over the possibilities.

"Over your break, we will visit Borgin and Burkes to assess the condition of the cabinet's twin."

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort returned to the cabinet, spinning a few new spells Draco didn't recognize, but wrote down in his notes. He believed his Latin was proficient enough, but if any words were misspelled, he would correct them when he did his thorough review.

Their time in the Room of Hidden Things had grown shorter as the cabinet returned to full functionality, and tonight was the shortest to date. It left Draco with enough time to scrub out the cauldrons, now finished brewing polyjuice, as none could be left bubbling over the break, as well as pack what little he intended on bringing home with him.

In the dorm, he was convinced he could hear laughter coming through the walls, where Crabbe, Goyle, Theo, and Blaise were enjoying their last night of term.

That should have been Draco.

He shook his head, and brushed hair from his face with irritation. He had been chosen for greater things. If any of his classmates had been, he would never have recovered from the slight against his family.

Draco had to do this. His self-pity only made it harder.

He stacked the clean cauldrons against his bed, hidden from sight of the door. He doubted anyone would come in during the break, but the elves were always a risk.

Standing, Voldemort, no longer Thomas, stood over him. Draco braced himself before making eye contact, and forced himself to open his mind enough that Voldemort's examination wouldn't hurt.

His day rushed by in reverse: working on the cabinet, supper and his spat with Crabbe, starting on the homework assigned over the break, lunch when Pansy had prepared Draco's plate for him before he even sat, and then Potter.

Anger and curiosity blended inside him, and the memories of the encounter began to emerge. Draco offered up the conversation about Lucius, as well as his rush of emotion, the confusion of feelings about his father's escape. He offered more thoughts on leaving Quidditch behind, the struggle of accepting maturity and how much he lost in it.

The invasion of his mind continued, and Draco offered up the last thing he could, his last line of defense between what was buried and what he was merely ashamed to display.

He offered Potter's stare, moving from Draco's eyes to his mouth, then the quick shift away.

Voldemort withdrew.

"Is there something you should confess in regards to Harry Potter?"

"I've done nothing to encourage him, my lord."

Draco had nowhere to retreat. The back of his thighs pressed against his mattress, cornering him.

"It seems your existence is encouragement enough."

"It's nothing."

"Do you truly believe that? He gravitates to you at every opportunity."

"It's a schoolyard rivalry."

"Rivals do not seek out one another to discuss one's feelings."

"Potter is the one who led to his arrest."

"Harry Potter will die the moment the protection over him fades," Voldemort said. "Do not forget that."

Draco's vexation built despite who stood before him. Potter's insistence on crossing paths had nothing to do with him. Without instigating a physical attack, Draco had run out of ways to tell Potter to bugger off.

"I won't."

The moment he stepped off the train, Draco spotted Narcissa awaiting him at King's Cross. She didn't approach—Draco wouldn't have expected her to—but waited for him to weave through the crowd to get to her. With Lucius's recent escape, the two of them drew attention, which they both ignored to maintain decorum.

"Mother."

"Draco."

Her only show of affection came with a hand on his, for a brief moment, indicating he should follow her. Draco could have gotten home on his own, so long as the floos were open, but Narcissa always arrived. Last year, it had been a necessity, as Potter and his lot hadn't taken a moment to distransfigure Draco from that pile of sludge they'd turned him into.

They walked back to an apparition point, and Narcissa linked her arm with Draco, checked that he had his wand in hand, and carried him home via side-along.

They appeared outside the front gates, which stood open and waiting for them, icicles dripping from the iron. Stepping onto the estate left Draco with a rush of calm, and also of exhaustion. He thought of his bedroom upstairs, practically an apartment in itself, with his grand bed, miniature library, fireplace, and plush sofas. He would be able to sleep.

"How was your term?" Narcissa asked, and in a tone that Draco understood her true intention.

"Hectic."

She knew his true assignment this year, but aside from that, he didn't know what she knew or didn't. Neither of them could speak openly, even to pool information.

"I presume you saw the Prophet?"

"I did."

"I do not believe the Ministry should stir trouble for us here, but you are welcome to keep upstairs."

So Father was home, and already getting back to proving himself. Draco ignored the chills on his arms, and reminded himself this break allowed him to rest. He would need it before going back to Hogwarts, or even to Borgin and Burkes to work on the other cabinet.

"How have you been?" Draco asked.

"I received your recent letter well."

Draco burned with guilt. Narcissa likely had equal say in this year's happenings as he did. Neither of them had signed on for this.

He cast his eyes downward. He had signed on when he took the mark. She had as well. They promised their lives to the service of the dark lord. Exhaustion and a household devoted as a headquarters were small asks, considering.

"How is he?" Draco asked.

"Trying too much for someone recently surrounded by dementors."

That was how Draco was expected to carry himself. To push down any of his own needs and work harder to make up for his weaknesses.

"Does he know?"

"Only what the others do."

"Which is?"

"You've been tasked to kill Dumbledore before the end of the school year."

They neared the front doors, and Draco briefly debated asking for a walk around the gardens before going inside. But that was impractical considering the gently falling snow and icy paths. They were also both dressed in their mugglewear, which didn't provide as much warmth as a robe and cloak would have.

"Will I be asked about it?"

"You're under no obligation to humor any of them with an answer. Even Bella or your Father."

The assurance meant nothing. Telling the truth would have been simpler, and keeping up the lies would be draining. Draco prepared himself for it regardless, for questions he couldn't answer and less-than-subtle prompts at his actions over the last term.

Draco disliked lying to his father.

An elf met them at the door and took their coats. Draco would have kept his if not for his mother's insistence coats were not meant to be worn indoors. He was always freezing these days.

"Draco," Lucius called from the adjacent room.

Draco took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and followed the voice.

"Father."

Lucius sat on the tall armchair in their receiving room. His face was ashen, his grip on the plush arms seemingly the only thing keeping him tied to the moment, and his gaze took too long to find Draco. His pallor spoke to the horrors in Azkaban. The dementors had made headway on him in the last six months.

Draco wanted to look at Narcissa for guidance, but held himself steady. Lucius stood, robes that once had been tailored to him now hung loosely. He hadn't shaved that morning.

"I'll have Neesy call up tea," Narcissa said, but unlike normal, their elf didn't appear at her name. Narcissa made no comment regarding it, but left the room.

"I've been told you were given the honor of the mark," Lucius said.

"I have," Draco said. He hadn't been away from his father long enough to justify this anxiety pressing against his chest. The last they had seen each other had been during the previous school year, when Lucius came to hospital enraged that Potter had been allowed to attack Draco so publicly, and with essentially no consequence.

Then he was sent to Azkaban, where he had been half a year. Half a year wasn't so long, not when Draco lived away from them nine months a year.

"I trust you are putting in every effort?"

Lucius placed his hand on Draco's shoulder, a formerly comforting action ruined by the thumb applying pressure to the base of his neck. Not a threat, but seeping of desperation.

Lucius failed. He ended up making Voldemort's return known, lost the prophecy, and got arrested along with several of the inner circle. While their family lost few resources over it, they had lost standing.

Did Lucius believe Draco was the family's last chance? The weight of the Malfoy line could depend on his actions this year.

And Lucius would have believed it was dependent on Draco killing Dumbledore.

"Of course," Draco said.

"Good, very good."

Lucius dropped his grip on Draco with a final squeeze, and went back to stand by the fire. He rested both palms against the mantle, clearly not paying attention, because he nearly tipped over the pot of floo powder. When he leaned down, his hair obscured Draco's view of his face.

"There are whispers that the dark lord may choose to reside elsewhere," Lucius said. "And what with his absence this year, I'm inclined to believe the rumors."

"The dark lord prefers to work from the shadows," Draco said. It was the stories they had all been told as children. The dark lord moved without notice or warning. He gathered followers, yet no one knew how word spread. Why did a three-month absence surprise them?

"Before we were in the shadows!" Lucius snapped. "He gave you an assignment, then vanishes? He's planning more, and we should be at his side."

"He must still send word," Draco said.

"Oh yes. The letters come, I've been told. Assignments for the others. Missions and orders for some. But for most? Lie low and gather resources?"

"Perhaps he only chose not to stay here while Mother was alone?"

"You are given a suicide mission and believe that gives you insight into the mind of the dark lord?" Lucius asked. He turned abruptly, and the fatigue in his eyes had been overcome by anger.

"No," Draco said. "Is there something you would have me do while home?"

"Return access of the defensive charms to me. They never should have been given to a child."

Draco heard the scorn lacing his father's words, and kept his gaze down as he began to transfer control of the Manor's security back to his father. The process was shorter than the one giving Draco the controls. Transferring while Lucius was in Azkaban had meant a payment of blood.

Once the magic passed between them, Lucius calmed.

"You are doing well, aren't you, Draco? You'll be able to carry out all he asked of you?"

There was the desperation again, made worse by the effects of Azkaban on Lucius's appearance. He seemed to have aged a decade. Did the dementors steal life along with the soul?

"I'll see it done."

Whether Draco believed his own words felt irrelevant in the wake of the relief that washed over his father's face. Lucius came forward again, but this time, bringing Draco into a rare embrace.

"I always knew you would live up to expectations."

Draco closed his eyes, committing the sensation of his father's hold to memory, but excluding the circumstances. When was the last time been? Before his first year at Hogwarts?

He'd been such a disappointment to the family since then. If he could succeed this year, if he could truly help Voldemort accomplish his goals, would his father's approval return?

Or would he always be the boy who had been snubbed by Harry Potter, who could never lead Slytherin to the Quidditch cup, who constantly lost the battles he began?

Lucius had always rushed in to clean up Draco's messes. Maybe this time, Draco could do the same for him.

Draco had awoken well rested for the first time in months. No one came to wake him, and by the time he made it downstairs, his mother was already having tea. She always had her late-morning tea in her sitting room, which unlike the rest of the house, hadn't been decorated to impress visitors. The room had warm light coming in from a north-facing window, potted plants hanging from the ceiling, her tidy desk where she managed the affairs of the household, and all the gifts Draco had given her over the years used to personalize the room. It was also the only room in the house, aside from his bedroom, that had any non-staged pictures of the family.

"We'll be receiving tonight, " she said, and offered him a scone. She spoke with a pointed glance at his pyjamas, covered by an open day robe.

"Formal wear after brunch then?" Draco asked.

"People are always in and out these days. You need your hair cut."

He hadn't bothered styling it back that morning, which he knew didn't suit him. The longest of it had passed his ears. Too long and too short to be any true style.

"I can't very well do it myself."

"I'll do it once you've eaten; appearance is more important than ever."

"Which I'm meant to've intuited on the first morning of winter hol?"

"You were meant to remember our home has been opened to many."

"Even your personal sitting room?"

"Your tone, Draco."

He helped himself to the tea. "Of course, Mother."

She put her hand on his as he made to set the teapot back on its tray. He met her gaze.

"Is there anything more you need while home, apart from a haircut?"

He couldn't tell her about the planned outing to Borgin and Burkes, or the precise nature of his actions at Hogwarts. But she did know more of the truth than anyone else he trusted.

"A few books from Father's study. And an order of potions to take back to school."

"Which potions?"

"Anything that will keep me awake and focused."

"I can place the order today. Are there ingredients you are running short of?"

"Professor Snape has been seeing to the orders."

Narcissa nodded once. Then removed her hand. Her hands were dry, and one of her nails broken short.

Draco should have kept in touch all year. She had been running the household while he was away, far outnumbered by people who had lost respect for their family. Whether Voldemort was present didn't matter.

He never should have made her think she was in this alone.

For a while, they say in comfortable silence. Or, it was comfortable until Draco looked up to see Narcissa watching him with a worried expression.

"What?"

"How much of your health condition was accurately relayed to me?" she asked, carefully forming the words.

Watching him eat must have triggered the thought.

"Some details, I suppose," Draco said, wiping crumbs from his fingers. "It isn't—"

He stalled, trying to put it into words. No one had really discussed it with him. He had no reason to explain when everyone thought a few pamphlets could cure him.

"I want to eat," Draco said. "There's only so much time, and the course load…"

Narcissa remained silent, hands folded in her lap and head tilted only just, in what Draco recognized as her patient posture. In the past, it had been reserved for his rants about everything at Hogwarts, and most of that about Potter, and was always followed by advice.

This time, she stayed silent, so he went on.

"When I can spare time for meals, the food may as well be ash."

But he has finished off the scone. It had tasted fine, and even prompted more hunger.

"Do all the children in your year sit with you at meals?" Narcissa asked in that same slow cadence.

Normally, Draco would have pointed out their ages. Pansy, Crabbe, Daphne, and Blaise had already come of age. But she wasn't asking about any of them.

"All, usually."

And always since they let him out of hospital. Just thinking about it, Draco could feel Voldemort's hand on his knee, a hidden threat to eat. The memory came with tangible sensation, and Draco rolled his shoulders back in an attempt to shake the urge to shudder.

Narcissa took her wand from the table, and Draco followed the movements to identify her wordless cast. A silencing charm.

"Do you believe your extra course load will last through the full year?" she asked.

Draco scraped his unchewed thumbnail across the etching in his tea cup. "I don't know if I can answer that."

His mother's lips tightened. Her demeanor so rarely shifted from her perfect decorum, but now, her frustration seeped through. It made him want to confide in her. Perhaps it was immature, but she had always been his closest confidant.

"I can have nutrient potions delivered."

"I'm hoping when I go back, I'll have readjusted."

"It will only begin again," she said, and set down her wand to cup his cheek. "You're fading away on me."

"I'll get through."

"You can't only count on surviving it. I need you back whole."

Draco put his hand over hers, but lowered them both. He didn't release her. Between the two of them. He wanted no false assurances.

"Father called it a suicide mission."

"It is what the others were told. You're taking your father's punishment. No one expects you to be able to kill him."

"Once it's finished, they'll know it wasn't me."

"They'll know you were chosen for a task so private, that multiple vows were cast to conceal it."

"You made a vow?" Draco asked. Was it even safe for her to be discussing this with him?

"I should not be your concern. When you come out of this," she said, squeezing his hand, "You will have gained your own prestige."

He would be expected to join the other Death Eaters. When they were expected to torture, Draco would have to take part. When they went to war, Draco would have to fight. This wasn't enlarging Granger's teeth or fooling Potter about dementors; this was torture and murder.

"You have another year of schooling to come," Narcissa said.

"You really believe I'll be sent back to Hogwarts? That I'd survive there after?"

Dumbledore was respected and Potter was widely loved. When word spread he'd played a role in their deaths, none of them could accept him back. An entire generation of wizards and witches would ostracize him.

"Perhaps Durmstrang?" she said.

"I don't speak the language."

And switching schools the year he was expected to sit for his NEWTS?

"I'll be the first Malfoy not to finish his schooling," Draco went on. He picked a crumb off the lip of his teacup. "There's no guarantee that I'll even finish this year."

His statement essentially answered her previous question, but Narcissa said nothing of it. She simply tried to brush his hair behind his ear, then shook her head when it fell back.

"I'll cut it today before everyone arrives."

"Who all is coming?"

"Everyone who is able."

"I can stay upstairs," Draco offered.

"You've taken the mark. You're expected to attend tonight."

Of course he was. Of course he couldn't have one day to rest before having expectations loaded into him.

There was no sense in debate. Neither of them had a say in the matter.

"I don't believe any of my formal robes will fit me properly," he said in place of the arguments begging to come out.

"One of the elves can tailor whichever set you choose. If you choose the leather tunic, you can pair it with an indoor robe. That will cover the hasty resizing."

The formal robes for indoor wear were open in the front and sleeveless. Draco always considered them a pointless layer as he could get away without.

"I'll choose one straight after the haircut," Draco said. "Do you know why they're coming?"

"They come when called."

Which likely meant the dark lord would be coming by. Draco should have been used to him by now. He'd been sleeping in the same room as him for three months. But the anxiety remained as fresh as it had been that first day. And now, there was the added layer of being surrounded by people who believed Voldemort had given Draco a death sentence.

"Can I call for more scones?" Narcissa asked.

In this one aspect, Draco managed not to disappoint her. "And some fruit."

Neesy adjusted the leather tunic a final time while Draco wore it. He stood in front of the tall mirror in his bedroom, checking every detail of his reflection for anything that might have needed changing before he had to go downstairs. His hair was styled back perfectly, no longer at a length that caused him trouble. Neesy had done adequate work with the tunic, the only noticeable seams at his sides, where the outer layer would cover them. He had the glamour in place to hide the flaws in his complexion, and he wore the Malfoy crest ring on his left hand.

No matter how put together he made himself look, there was no hiding the weight loss.

"Is Master Draco needing anything else?" Neesy asked.

Draco double checked her work and shook his head. They didn't have more time, and Neesy wasn't a tailor.

"It will serve for the time."

He inclined his head to her, and the acknowledgement alone made her eyes well. She clasped her knobby hands together, thanked him for allowing her to serve him, and disappeared with a loud crack. Draco stared at the spot where she had stood for a moment. Was that how he was meant to serve? To come alive at every order?

He shook off the thought. He was not going to start comparing himself to an elf.

Draco slid his wand into his wrist holster and hoped he wouldn't need it. Voldemort had been absent for three months. Certainly tonight was a formality, a check-in.

The clock on his bedside table told him it was still early for arrivals, but Draco slid on the outer robe—the same black as his tunic and trousers, but trimmed in gold stitching—and went downstairs to the receiving room. His mother and father were already waiting by the fireplace.

They both made the same examination of his appearance that he had. Draco said nothing of his father's apparent disappointment, despite the both of them both having lost a proportionate amount of weight since Lucius's arrest. Holding his posture straight and his chin slightly raised, Draco didn't so much as hint his gaze towards the tattoo marring his father's neck. It would have been deserved. Draco was, after all, the one making up for that scandalous mistake. He was the one the family's name banked on.

"Father, Mother," he said, and took his place at his mother's left. Narcissa's hands were folded together in front of her, knuckles patchy and red, and they twitched as he took his place, like she stopped herself from reaching out.

"You're much too young for this business," Lucius said. "You will say nothing. You will show the proper respect to both the dark lord and his followers."

Accusations and worse, truths, threatened to rush out in response. But Draco had more than enough practice containing emotions now.

"Yes, Father."

He mimicked his mother's posture, right hand holding left, naturally allowing easier access to flick out his wand.

They didn't waste breath on meaningless small talk while waiting. Lucius stared at the flames, startling when a log popped, and Draco kept his attention on the far window. As night fell, the view outside faded, and when the window began reflecting the sight of the three of them in a line, he looked away.

When the fireplace roared green, Lucius stepped back and immediately bowed, too deeply. Perhaps it was the three months of cohabitating with the dark lord, but Draco didn't see any need to bow to someone because they entered a room. His only movement was to divert his gaze downwards, where he watched Voldemort enter their home through his swaying hem.

Nagini winding around his feet came as a surprise, although Draco couldn't pinpoint why. He refused to look at her. Her size alone set him on edge and constricted his breath.

"Lucius," Voldemort said. "You must be relieved to have returned home."

"I am only relieved to have returned to your service, my lord."

"Is that what you have done?"

Nagini wove her way around Voldemort's ankles, and then over towards Lucius, who hunched his shoulders expectantly. He mumbled assurances before gaining confidence, raising his voice to give a compelling promise of loyalty, which Voldemort listened to, radiating amusement.

He's been seen as a child too long, Draco thought, and then debated whether he had to contain his thoughts now. His mind had been scoured daily for the last three months, and he didn't know what to expect from the time away from Hogwarts. He at least deduced not to consider this a break of any sort. He didn't foresee any breaks from his expected service.

"Do I sense you have retaken control of your manor's charms?" Voldemort asked when Lucius finally stopped rambling.

"Assigning them to Draco was a temporary solution, my lord."

The mention of him brought over Voldemort's attention. Draco left his eyes down, fixated on a pattern in the wood grain he always thought resembled a tree. His father knew nothing of the true nature of Draco's assignment. Draco would maintain the pretense so long as he needed to. He wouldn't fail his family.

"Winter break already, Draco?" Voldemort said, and Draco heard the lingering amusement.

"Yes, my lord."

Lucius took a step forwards, which Draco presumed was to put distance between him and Nagini. "I was honored to learn you had recognized my son with an assignment," he said.

Voldemort turned a wrist at his side, opening his palm. It summoned Nagini back to him, and he ran his fingers over her head idly.

"You are mistaken," Voldemort said.

"My lord?"

Lucius looked to Draco, and then sharply refocused back to Voldemort. His stance wavered without the help of his cane. He left it leaning against the chaise, dangerously close to clattering to the floor. But it remained behind Lucius, forgotten, while he beseeched Voldemort on Draco's behalf.

"If Draco is falling short, I can work with him. He's young, but I am confident he will rise to any task assigned him."

The confidence once might have left Draco flushed with pride, but now, he only felt hollow. Lucius's words weren't directed at Draco. They weren't praising him. They were empty, simply spoken to appease Voldemort. How much of his father was constructed the same? Every word, every action, all performative for the sake of the dark lord.

"You misinterpret me, Lucius," Voldemort said, and crossed the narrow space to stand in front of Draco. With the hand that had pet Nagini, he lifted Draco's chin to meet his gaze. The next words were spoken to Draco.

"You are mistaken in believing he is still yours."