The click of his mother's shoes - formally dressed for another day of checking the Manor's rooms for errant specks of dust - announced her arrival. She appeared to him upside down from where Draco lounged - on his favorite sofa, in his favorite parlor.
Which gave him the opportunity to pretend that her frown was, for once, a smile.
"It's a gorgeous day, darling. Won't you . . . go out? Or one of your friends could join you for Quidditch?"
He hid her with an arm across his eyes. "It's a weekday, Mother." And nearly time to start curing last night's hangover with whisky. "My friends are engaged in their pursuits."
"You could get one of those."
"That desperate to be rid of me, are you? Wanting me to get a job?"
But he couldn't hide the disappointment in her tone. "I don't judge, Draco. If a . . . job is what you need, I'll support it."
He lifted his arm to show her his affront. "What kind of job could a Malfoy have? No one's going to hire Lucius's son. And besides, I'm not good at anything."
"You haven't tried," Narcissa snapped. "Your father always found ways to occupy himself - investments and business and such."
Draco sighed and covered his eyes again. The light of day was tiresome and blinding. "He occupied himself straight into prison. And how much money does one family need?"
A pause while she considered how hard to push. "You could invite a witch over? I haven't seen Miss Parkinson lately."
His mouth twisted. "Nor will you."
"Miss Greengrass, then."
"Mother. Stop. No one wants to see me."
"Are you going to lie around by yourself forever? "
"No," he replied. "Eventually I'll lie around with a wife and heir in residence."
"Very funny. Who will have you, Draco? When you offer only . . . this?" At least Narcissa did him the kindness of sounding pained when she said it. This - a heavy word. This, him, a useless prat.
Draco rolled lazily to his stomach, aiming his wand at the wall above the mantle. "That's the name's job." He shot green sparks at the crest which hung there. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. "It sells itself - that and the Gringotts vaults." He laughed.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy - you are halfway through your twenties. I'm not requiring you to get a . . . a job or a witch or to host fancy celebrations. I am asking you to get up from that sofa and do something." She waited in vain for him to respond. "I could use some help in the gardens. I'm thinking about altering some of the paths. Perhaps introducing some curves, trying something a little less . . . structured."
"Why would you do that? The paths are the best part." He meant it. When he passed through them on the rare occasion he went down to the pool, or to the pitch, he always appreciated the clarity the gardens afforded. No chance of stepping into a thorny rosebush, when the way was delineated with stone.
"To have a change. To - stay occupied."
"Arranging and re-arranging the gardens is fucking pointless. I'm not interested."
Her heels snapped angrily away as she left him to mope.
"Don't worry, I'm going out tonight," he shouted at her back. "You'll be free of me."
He had new appreciation for those sunny gardens down in the dark. Waking with a cramp in his back on the lumpy, narrow sofa, he would never again miss a chance to stroll freely through them - to appreciate the neat rows and tended hedges and labeled beds. There was order in the garden.
Instead his days passed in a confusing dark blur of stone and headaches and Granger. Never out of sight, never out of his mind. He counted the time not in hours - that way led to certain insanity - but in the bites she ate and the words she spoke and the shudders she made on his fingers. But despite his hands on her morning and night, by all measures her healing was slow and arduous. For them both.
Draco rose, always, before she did - an unwelcome change from the last several years of his life. He had never been one for mornings. But among the blue balls and bad dreams and headaches, he struggled to rest.
And he needed some time to be awake but not monitoring her. He didn't mind having her nearby - but it was easier when she was asleep. He used his early hours to argue back and forth with Alonso Carrow and Goyle and Macnair and the Karkaroffs and Yaxley's bastard and and and. Draco's notes to them were stilted, short - and the responses increasingly strained. "We're only in this position because of you," wrote Young Dolohov. Petulant, even on paper. "Risking our futures - and you can't be bothered to fulfill your commitments. I'm beginning to think you're a bigger tease than Nott."
Calm the fuck down and forget I contacted you, Draco almost wrote back.
Instead, he forced out another excuse. "Still working on the weapon. Plans such as these cannot be rushed." Carefully avoided a glance at Granger a few feet away. "It will be worth the wait."
The wait. How long?
For as much as he was relieved by his ability to supervise her, to ensure she ate and rested and didn't fall and avoided nightmares, Draco dreaded each day in equal measure. Dreaded each time he touched her.
Not because it was bad, but because it was-
On the eighth day it had come to a head. It was his fault entirely that it got out of hand - Granger was doing what she liked, requesting what she wanted. Except what she wanted was to remove her soft grey nightgown. And let loose her tits. Not for him - for herself.
He tried not to stare at them, really he did. They're not for you, he reminded himself. Over and over. And over. This is for her.
But of course he'd seen them. Seen how round they were. How nicely they sat, how they fit, on her chest. They were perfect for her body, the softest of complements to the rest of her. Or, he assumed they were soft. If they were anything like the skin of her belly he knew they were. He distracted himself from touching them by appreciating instead how the color of her nipples was an exact match to the shade of her lips. How they begged for his lips to draw them out.
In a moment of weakness, he pretended her hands on them were his hands. That her thumbs were his thumbs. That it was him playing with her, testing their weight, making them peak.
It gave him the strength to decline when she - fucking hells - offered to let him touch. "I don't think it's a very good idea. Not right now." Not ever.
The wanting that day - Draco was ashamed of it. He wondered if she could sense it in him as they sat reading on the sofa, the undercurrent of desperate lust. It had driven him to exercise, to burn it out and slake it as much as he could. "I'm going to lose my mind if I don't get a slight sweat going." But still his cock existed in a state of extended soreness - as his head did, from the memories.
Granger had done something incredibly brave: sought what she wanted. And he'd been a coward, unable to handle it. So he'd shut it down.
He'd worked up the courage and told her that night that it couldn't happen again. "Yesterday, and this morning - it was too much. From now on, clothes stay on. Tits stay covered." He avoided her face. Her confusion. "We shouldn't forget -" that we're doing this to keep you alive. That you're a - my - victim. That we must protect you from me at all costs.
The cost of his sanity, anyway.
He'd never forgive himself for the face she made. "I get it," she'd said quickly. "I agree. Won't happen again."
"It's not your body," he'd almost explained. "Your body is-" unspeakable- "it's me." But then he'd have to say why. To explain his need to maintain careful lines.
Instead he thanked her.
After he saved that memory he tried to forget it. Tried to forget the unexplored possibilities beneath Granger's clothes.
Tried not to linger on that day as when the path had split. As when Draco carefully began to line their path forward, her treatments and his administration - neat, clean lines, clear boundaries - with the endless supply of stone around them.
It wasn't true that he never did anything, he thought, stepping into the Floo. Draco went out. Regularly, in fact. At night, wearing dress robes. He saw people.
The same people.
They went to the same club every time. It was an old fashioned kind of place, frequented by the elite Pure Blood set. Parquet dance floor and low stage surrounded by round tables and high velvet benches. A place where you could be seen if you wanted or shrouded in shadow if you didn't. Members and their dates mingled lazily, splitting and reforming in tired combinations.
Draco and Blaise sprawled at their corner table.
"How are things?" Draco asked casually. They'd parted after their last night out on awkward terms.
It had started just like this one - except that after a couple of drinks Blaise had gestured at the dancing bodies below. "Aren't you sick of this?"
"How's that? This club?"
"The whole scene." Blaise shook his head, leaning back into the cushions. "I feel like we've been here a thousand times."
"We nearly have. What about it?"
"I'm fucking bored, mate. I've either fucked these women or don't care to. I've done all the potions, drank all the whisky. Danced and fallen and gotten back up and passed out again."
"That's life, Zabini. We're fit gits with too much free time and even more money."
"But when will it change?"
Draco cocked his head, idly watching Pansy whispering with her girlfriends, their fingers drunkenly catching on each other's backs and arms and hair. She wore some obscenely short garment that showed her arse and her waist. But she pointedly ignored him and he returned the favor. Blaise had a point - they'd seen all this before. "When we're married, I guess."
"Half the wizards here are married. They leave their wives at home to come bird hunting."
"When we're dead, then. I don't know. Fuck it, if you're not having fun, just leave." The conversation annoyed him. Not because he had bigger things to worry about - but because he didn't.
Zabini rubbed his head, looking morose. "It's not just here. It's everything. It's not like it was when we were kids, before the war. Our parents were always out, having fun. Now we hide in these shitty clubs, waiting for - for what, Malfoy?" He sighed.
Spurred on by the warmth of the whisky, Draco tried to help. A hex in the dark. "Your mother's in Azkaban, same as my father, right?" Blaise had nodded. "Who's running her business?"
"It seems handled. The money keeps flowing."
Draco sneered. "I'd guarantee someone there is stealing from you."
"How would you know that? She left a couple of blokes to manage things-"
"Right. That's how it gets away from you. If you're so bored, go get more involved. Build it into something bigger, better. Make a name for yourself."
Blaise ran a finger over his lips. "I wouldn't know where to start."
"That'll make it all the sweeter when you figure it out."
For a long time there was only the beat of the music, the flickering lights - and Blaise thinking. "Thanks, mate." He stood and patted Draco's shoulder. "I'm going to head out. I'll see you. Soon?"
That had been weeks ago and he hadn't been around - until tonight.
They spent a few minutes like they always did, laughing at and admiring Nott - dancing in their periphery with anyone who was game. Witches, wizards, the wait staff. He was drunk, shooting sparks at people who weren't, drawing a crowd to the floor. An atmosphere unto himself.
Draco sipped, scanning the room over the rim. He felt a little like he was looking for something. Or, perhaps, someone. But whom? He knew them all already.
Blaise beside him was smiling to himself. Barely touching his drink.
"What's gotten into you?" Draco asked. The cheer was suspicious.
"Ah." He fiddled with his cufflinks. "Nothing."
But it was too late. Draco had seen it - Zabini's usual above-it-all expression had been replaced with something resembling . . . purpose.
"Tell me."
Blaise kept his attention on the crowd. "Bored as ever mate, same as you." He chanced a peek at Draco. "Don't look at me like that."
"You're fucking someone new." What else could it be?
"I wish," he laughed. Nervously.
"Who is she?"
Zabini demonstrated a sudden and intense interest in his drink. "Tastes more like the '72 than the '89, both fine, of cour-"
"Is it Pans?" The only potential explanation. "I don't care, go ahead. I'd rather you than some prat we don't like, but don't tell anyone I said-"
"I've been working." The confession spilled out like an ugly thing between them, Blaise dark-cheeked. Blushing. "I'm taking over the business."
"Like . . . a job?" Draco had no idea what to say. I'm sorry was the instinct, but that didn't seem right. He harkened back to the conversation with his mother.
"Yes, a fucking job. I get up and go to the office."
"Every day?" I'm sorry seemed more and more appropriate.
Blaise laughed. "Five days a week, Malfoy. And sometimes on weekends, when it's busy." He shook his head like he was summoning courage. "And I'm glad too. Once I got more involved I learned you were right - I found a load of grift and bad contracts to sort out. Bloody good thing I'm taking an interest." He bowed his head. "Profits are already up ten percent."
"I don't know why you'd hide it. It's - good for you." This felt like a serious topic. They didn't really . . . ever . . . talk about serious topics.
"It is." Blaise set his shoulders back and his glass aside. "I'd gotten sick of drink each night, potions in the morning, back at it in the afternoon. I felt like shit and looked like shit and my life was shit."
Definitely a serious topic. The whole thing was making Draco cranky and uncomfortable. "We've had some good times."
"We have, mate. We have. But I can't do it forever. And if you never change anything it becomes forever."
Theo had found Pansy in the crowd. They were laughing madly, spinning in each other's arms. "There's no such thing as forever."
"Fair. We live to die." Blaise tried to lighten the mood with a grin. "But that's a long way away and I'm going to dance with that crew in the meantime. Might as well make the most of a night out."
Draco lifted his drink in a toast. "To inevitable ends." Watched him go. Finished in a swallow and lifted a hand at the witch who was waiting on them, signaling for another. Her resentment flashed before she nodded and went to fetch it. As she should.
So Draco drank, and watched his friends, and tried to scratch Zabini's newfound purpose from his mind. After a while he paid his bill - tipping generously, just to be a prick - and left. Alone.
Back at the Manor he ensured a hangover by summoning another whisky - a whole bottle, all the way from the cellars. Dangling it from his fingers, he wandered. Through the halls, past his father's study. Along the way he snapped back at the portraits who offered unsolicited advice about his hair or an heir. Made his way to the Library, collapsing into one of the armchairs and lighting the fire in an unnecessarily intense burst from his wand.
Zabini was on to something. When will it change? Things were different since the Dark Lord fell. Harry Potter and his kind were supreme. Kingsley reigned as Minister, pretending the war never happened. That the Death Eaters never existed.
But they had existed. He rolled up his sleeve, confirming the evidence. There, beneath his skin. The Mark. He watched it flex in the firelight as he slowly clasped a fist.
Would Draco live a life of nothing? Years of lounging on sofas and in clubs, watching other people dance? Marriage to whomever his mother picked?
One little blond son - who would surely be another fucking brat?
There must be more. But he lost the potential to the flames and the drink . . . and memories of the past.
Granger wasn't shy about indicating that she was awake. She tended toward dramatic sighs and grotesque stretches over subtle eyelash flutters. He was thankful not to be sharing a bed with her - she was liable to elbow him in the face with the way she threw her fists around, purring like a lion cub. Thankfully, he grew more successful every day at stoppering his annoyance.
The day truly began once she was up.
Because Granger waking meant . . . breakfast. No wonder he looked forward to it.
Breakfast, which was far less enticing now that it came without bacon. He told himself that meat awaited once they were free - something to look forward to. He didn't want her fainting because he'd pressed something upsetting beneath her nose.
"Granger," he said in greeting. Good morning, except it wasn't good, was it? The cave was dark as ever, her face sallow.
Most days she settled beside him on the sofa, reaching out a hand for the Prophet. Draco gave her what he'd already read - carefully, twice - confident that it wouldn't mention anything that might trigger undesirable realizations. Such as: his father was burrowing his way out of prison and his monster was at large, its hurting someone else an eventuality. He tried not to think about it. She didn't need a fucking meltdown.
He looked on as she opened the pages with a sharp snap and refolded them - the same way he often did. She held the paper in one hand while she sipped her coffee with the other. He placed her croissant and fruit within reach. Noted, with satisfaction, that she ate without so much as a glance, trusting whatever he'd chosen.
"Did you see this?" she asked softly.
His throat caught. "What's that?" Craned his head to see.
"Dragon sighting over the North Sea." She stared at the wall. "I was working on that before." Before he interrupted her life.
"Hmm. Dragons live a solitary life, don't they?" He focused on his eggs. "It's not surprising they'd hide away up there."
Granger frowned, a little furrow splitting her brow. "I suppose. Though there's some evidence to the contrary - dragons aren't quite as solitary as previously thought."
"They travel in packs?"
"More like . . ." she sighed and set the paper aside. "We have indications that they mate for life."
Draco curled his lip at her. "Dragons don't give a fuck about anyone or anything except their next meal."
The furrow left her face as she turned to him, ready to fight. Draw it out. "You don't know the first thing about dragons. We study them in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I have a report on my desk at this very moment, waiting for me to return-"
"I don't care about dragons, Granger," he snapped. "And I know where you work."
Rolling her eyes, she picked up her pastry. She finished a bit more of it each day.
After a proper lie in - the club had taken it out of him - and three vials of hangover potion, Draco finally made it out of bed and back to his favorite parlor. Narcissa found him in the same place, same position. It was late enough that he was already balancing a crystal tumbler on his chest, amber liquid sloshing dangerously.
"It's four in the afternoon," she sniffed as a greeting.
"Of course. Apologies for the rudeness," he grinned. "I'll get you one. Kirby!" The elf appeared instantly. "Mother wants a drink."
But Narcissa sighed. "Kirby, tea service please. For three." She turned to her son, hands clasped. "Draco, you have a visitor."
He lurched to a sit. "Who?"
"Your father's solicitor. He wants to speak to you. Alone."
He downed the rest of his whisky. "I've got nothing to say to him."
"Go and greet him in the foyer. I'll meet you back here when you're finished."
Draco staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. His mother kept her thoughts to herself but he read them in the set of her mouth.
Sure enough, there was an old spectacles-wearing solicitor lingering near the front doors, shoulders hunched and wand twisting nervously in his fingers. "Master Malfoy." He extended a hand. "I come with news. But -" he glanced pointedly at the ceilings, at the corners. At places where hidden ears may lurk. "Let's talk somewhere more private."
Draco scoffed. "This house has more wards than any building but Gringotts."
"I'd still prefer to go somewhere unexpected."
Whatever. Be that way. "We can go out to the pitch. I've had just enough to drink that if I get on a broom I might break something essential." Draco chuckled.
The solicitor - stodgy - did not.
So he led through the rear doors of the Manor, across a patio, and through the gardens - just beginning to come alive for spring. Out to a wide open field punctuated by Quidditch poles. They stood forlornly at attention, bored from disuse.
"Well?" Draco spread his arms wide, turning in a circle. "Can't get more private than this."
"Right. I'll cut to it." The old wizard cleared his throat. "I've heard from your father, in a roundabout way."
"So have I. He writes to my mother when he's allowed. She reads me the bits that won't make me sick."
Tell Draco to be a regular sight at the bank - the goblins respect a man who stays on top of his vaults.
Remind Draco of his obligations. Young men are prone to languishing.
Are we any closer to becoming grandparents? He cannot be the last Malfoy.
Narcissa always delivered this charming wisdom with a smile, indulging her husband from afar. "He means well, darling. He loves you so. The day you were born was the happiest of his life."
But the solicitor shook his head. "This isn't the kind of thing he can share in a letter. Those are monitored."
Draco waited for what was sure to be more manly advice. Something offensive, no doubt.
"Lucius has found a way out."
It hung in the golden hour between them. Felt like it took that long to answer. For Draco's own breath had failed him.
His father - freed.
His father - returned.
His hand found its way to his chest, rubbing where it felt tight. "That's - that's impossible. Illegal, of course." He squinted at the solicitor judgmentally. "But, mostly, impossible."
"No. Sirius Black escaped a few years ago."
"My father's not an Animagus," Draco said warily. "And they've surely boosted security since then."
"I'm just to pass it along - with instructions. Based on the source who delivered the message, though, I warn that it seems credible."
"Who was the source?"
The solicitor adjusted his glasses. "The Head Guard."
Touching Granger in the morning was like taking a two minute utility shower before you put on starchy dress robes for a dull evening with your parents. Or at least - that was the tone he was trying to set. Something you had to do. It wasn't unpleasant, per se, but you didn't waste time or effort on the luxuries.
If she didn't like it - the strict rapidity with which he handled her, the space he kept between them - she was too well-mannered to say so. Morning after morning, soft foray between her legs after another, Draco made her come. They moved in relation to one another in a dance of predetermined steps. A waltz unlike any dance instructor had ever trained him for.
Granger playing lead, moving to the bed.
Laying down.
He followed and aligned himself beside her, keeping a few inches between her back and his chest. The distance felt much greater.
Stroked her belly and her hips.
Made his way to her cunt.
And she was always ready - wet and encouraging. I've been waiting for you, Malfoy, it said. Hurry up and set aside your reservations.
As the days passed he learned about ten different ways to make her orgasm. He'd have been proud - that was just with his fingers - if they were in any other circumstance. But they weren't, so he stuck to the steps.
Dance and song concluded, he bowed and left her. To rest and heal and so he could catch his own breath.
To let her relax into the mattress, to spread her limbs and smile against the pillow. The smug satisfaction of the pleasured. He was content to let her have it as he distracted himself from his raging desire - moving his body so as not to lose his mind.
His father's solicitor - or was it his solicitor now - left him at his request and went back to the house for tea.
Draco needed space. He was thankful to have selected the pitch - it had been a long time since he watched the sunset from out there. But watch it he did, as he mulled over the information and request.
Request? No. Lucius wasn't much for requests. It was a demand.
His father had planned it already. Achieved the unthinkable, the never-done. Half of the impossible. Draco supposed it made more sense than how Sirius Black had done it. Lucius had ingratiated himself - the richest man Azkaban ever held - to the guards. Promises of fortunes had convinced them to turn the other way while tunnels were dug by some of the lower-security prisoners. They would adjust some of the wards for a night so that they wouldn't alarm.
All his father requested - demanded - was a distraction.
The solicitor described it as a simple enough matter. Slip in a weapon, nothing too damaging. Nothing lethal. The guards didn't want to lose their heads while they were looking away. They just needed something that would lend cover to their failure to contain a Malfoy. Plausible deniability. Let the weapon loose, and in the midst of the chaos Lucius would find his way into one of the tunnels with access to the outside.
"Once he's free he'll meet you - not here."
"Obviously." Draco gestured behind them at the Manor. "Prime place to search. And I don't want my mother to have any part of it." He considered the sun's fading rays. "Is that all?"
"No. There's one more thing."
The deadline.
By the Equinox. The Autumnal Equinox. It was at the end of September. Six months away.
Draco had six months.
Six months to supply the other half of impossible - if he was willing.
"I have to ask," Draco said, as the solicitor turned to walk back to the house. "Why?"
A shrug in response. "I can't answer that."
"Doesn't he know he'll be caught?"
"I imagine he expects to do the good he can in whatever time he can get."
Good, thought Draco. Good is relative.
By the time he returned to the Manor the gardens were dark. He had no trouble traversing the paths - the straight lines.
Narcissa was waiting for him. "Dinner?" she asked. He examined her face carefully - but found no hint of guile. "Darling? Aren't you hungry?"
Always. So he joined her, and made up a lie. The solicitor simply wanted to talk about their accounts. "I should take more of an interest," he said, swirling his wine. "Spend more time at Gringotts."
"That would be lovely." The hope in her voice hurt.
He locked himself in the Library when she went to bed.
Found the section on ancient weaponry. And found himself intrigued.
Unfortunately, he found nothing that served primarily as a distraction rather than a tool of dismemberment and destruction. Draco didn't want anything too bloody. There'd be enough on his hands, if this was done.
So he expanded his search, navigating through other shelves.
How to stop time, to still it
Spellwork of all kinds - runes and charms and hexes and jinxes
Dark magic
By the time the sun came up he'd covered nearly every table. Ideas were spinning, new information overwhelming after so many years with his brain disengaged.
The headache he earned that day was different. For once, not throbbing from drink. It was the subtle awakening of a muscle, yearning to be stretched.
As Draco dragged himself to bed - simply to rest, a few hours, before he started again and picked up the threads - his ancestors muttered in his wake.
"Fuck off," he told them.
And fuck it.
Fuck being bored.
Fuck his wasting of time, his uselessness. His life.
Fuck prison. Fuck the Ministry. Fuck Harry Potter.
Fuck marrying a well-bred witch and begetting a son.
Fuck the duty.
When he got to his room he stared up at the portrait above his mantle - made when he was young. His parents' hands laid over his shoulders, their future between them. His father stared down at him.
"I'll try."
While Granger had her rest - the one that stretched from morning to early afternoon, and after Draco was finished doing wanker shit in front of her, exercising in a vain attempt to lose the hard on - he retreated to the bathroom.
In it, he tended to himself, of course. Had a wash - and a quick unsatisfying wank, it never took long - and brushed and combed and dressed.
But then, the part he dreaded.
Pulling the memories. It felt worse every day. He had become sure he was doing it wrong, taking too much - but who fucking knew. He laughed, more than once, that he could have walked out at any time and simply asked. "Granger? What do you know about memory extraction?"
She would surely have educated him. Corrected him. Told him how to fix it, how to do it properly. And then tried to figure out why he wanted to know and her healing would have been spoiled.
Sometimes it felt as though withdrawing them from his mind required him to overcome a massive hurdle - the natural instincts of being an Occlumens. Each time he cleared the hump, he was launched, far and hard, into a place he didn't intend to land.
No matter.
Draco had started down this course - laid this path - and he would not stray. That was the crux of it, after all. He'd chosen to help his father. To provide the weapon. To rally their allies.
Some part of him had known there would be consequences.
If it came down to it, Granger deserved to know the truth. The need to preserve the evidence against himself became more crucial each time he caught her staring.
Keep her reputation intact. Let her see who you are. Show her what you did.
After several weeks in the Malfoy Library, working day and night, Draco had lost the enthusiastic flush of a new project. He was fucking frustrated. None of it fit. The more he learned, the less attainable his goal. Weapons tended to maim, to kill. And even if he found something that might work, he had no idea how to get it in and deploy it. The spellwork was a dead end - that would require him to go in himself to fetch Lucius, and he'd prefer not. Time suspension seemed - for a day - to be the best course. He thought perhaps he could stop it for everyone but his father - but his attempts quickly showed he wasn't strong enough. Wasn't a talented enough wizard. He could hardly pause a feather floating to the floor, much less prisoners and guards and the dementors circling that dark island.
He needed help - and had only one potential source for it. So he went to see the solicitor. Found the location on a scrap of paper in Lucius's desk - an unmarked office above a shop on Diagon Alley.
As soon as Draco walked in, the man started sweating. "I didn't think you'd come here." He opened the window curtain, checking if anyone had followed.
"I need better instructions."
"Information is hard to come by." He chewed his thick lips. "Our . . . mutual friend can only send one-way communications."
Draco sighed. "I've hit a wall. If I'm to make progress I need more. How the wards work - how to get something in - and when - and why - and where?"
"I'll inquire."
"See that you do or I'll be back next week."
"You cannot come here!" The solicitor slammed his wand on his desk, knocking parchments a flurry and his glasses askew. "We must communicate as little as possible. You know, of course - the risks."
Draco's heart pounded at that. It was . . . exciting. The most he'd felt in - "I'm well aware of the risks. And - I accept them." He received a pained expression in response. "Though I assure you I have no plans to be caught."
The next week the solicitor wrote to say he'd come by the Manor. When he arrived he simply indicated the pitch with a tilt of his head.
Draco followed him. He'd dug out and donned his kit to prevent Narcissa from being suspicious. He was also more sober this time - a marked improvement.
"Three things," the old man said once they were alone in the field. "Then you figure out the rest for yourself. I don't want to be the middleman." He looked over his shoulder. "This is the kind of thing that lands you where he's trying to leave."
No shit. "Go on."
"To get past the dementors, to evade the wards, to protect the guards' cover, you'll have to 'make something they've never seen before.' That's a quote."
"Make something," Draco said dumbly.
The solicitor shrugged. "Forging something newfangled doesn't sound so difficult. But that's not my area of expertise."
"What's the second thing?"
"You're to garner support," he explained. "From the right families. He wants a proper Homecoming - friendly faces to greet him and do his bidding. Round up the Old Guard."
"The Old Guard" - Death Eaters - "are all in there with him."
"But their heirs aren't. Their children, their families."
"Uh huh. And the third?"
The solicitor looked a little sorry for him. "Don't tell your mother."
He was furious that Lucius thought it had to be said. Disgusted, Draco issued a clipped dismissal with promises that future communications would be received and not initiated. Then he climbed aboard a broom - might as well, when he was dressed for it - and flew.
Flew for hours. He'd forgotten how much he liked it. He'd forgotten the clarity that could be found in the solitude and the openness of the sky.
He'd forgotten how the chilly breeze brushed back his hair and stroked his cheeks.
It was the closest thing to touch he'd had in a very long time.
Eventually he returned home and stayed up all night, solidifying ideas and drinking water. His mother was thrilled when she poked her head through the doors and saw something clear in his glass. "I'm off to bed, darling. What are you doing?"
"Working on a new project."
"Oh!" She smiled. "What about?"
"It's a surprise - and I'd prefer if you avoided the library for now. If you need something I'll fetch it for you."
Narcissa paused at that. Stared at him for a moment. She was considering, balancing her relief that he was upright and sober with her suspicions. But he saw the moment she decided. "Alright, Draco. I'll leave you to it."
Kirby appeared many hours later. "Coffee and breakfast, master?" He had a tray in his hand.
Draco accepted a mug gratefully with one hand while he rubbed sleep from his eyes with the other.
"A top off?" Kirby gestured to the liquor he'd brought.
"Just black," he demurred. "I'm breaking bad habits."
The elf's ears, backlit by early dawn, twitched with delight.
When he could work no longer - it had been years since he read so much in one sitting - he stood, and stretched, and cracked his back. He made his way to bed, feeling - satisfied, actually. His mind was astir with lists of things he needed and people he knew.
Reclining against his pillows, waiting for sleep, he questioned, abstractly, the Why. What's Lucius's plan?
But looking around the home that Malfoys built, he was sharply reminded - that his father suffered for the sins of many. A lifetime of punishment - when many others had avoided less. Draco had been complicit, had he not? He too bore the Mark and history of participation. And yet-
he lay on a soft mattress, under clean sheets, belly full of elven cooking.
A complete contrast to his father's conditions. Draco felt that death would be preferable to Azkaban. He could not, himself, survive in that dark hellhole, surrounded by crazy people and dank stone and the ever-present threat of a dementor's kiss.
"I'm doing my part," he whispered. "Getting Lucius out and bringing him supporters. What he does with freedom, with them, is up to him."
Draco spent each afternoon the same way: embarrassing himself in front of Hermione Granger while suffering from a blistering headache. His Sixth Year self would have taken a running jump off the Astronomy Tower to avoid such a scenario.
He recycled the same tired spells in a pathetic loop. Alohomora, in every language, every direction, every style. And all the others. None of them made any difference. He knew they wouldn't - but felt obligated to show Granger that he was trying.
Though her lack of pressure actually made it worse.
His frustration grew as she calmly flipped pages. When he caught her watching him it was with an aloof sort of pity - like he was a sodding idiot, but she didn't want him to realize it. Draco would have preferred for her to pull a Pansy - to lift her eyebrows in deliberate derision, to openly mock him, to point and laugh.
At least then he'd have an excuse to lash out. As it was, he was mean to her without a good reason. "Haven't you read that one already?" he fairly shouted one afternoon. He was prowling back and forth, pacing the length of their cage. "Or are you just staring at the pages and letting me do all the work?"
Granger answered slowly, bored and mildly indulgent. "I've read it."
"Well what's the fucking point of reading the same thing twice? Didn't you retain it the first time?"
She pressed her lips together to stifle a smile. "I retained it."
Draco wanted to smash something. "Then why- "
She held it up. A Treatise on Containment Charms. "This one is rather on point. The first time I read it - three days ago - I made a mental list of the parts that might be worth cross checking in some of the other materials. I've done that, and I'm back to see if I glean anything helpful now that I'm better educated on some of the terms."
Oh. He glared at her.
"And," she raised a haughty brow. "Because I'm feeling a little better." She tapped her temple. "Capable of higher level thinking."
He turned away and tried another unlocking charm. Let me out. But he'd lost the heat.
"Hungry?" Granger shoved the lunch packet at him. "The rest are yours."
So he joined her on the sofa and ate five sandwiches and watched her read, sliding a finger over the page. O Beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-ey'd monster which doth mock the meat . . . words . . . it feeds on. He squelched his imagination of her finger sliding other places.
Draco summoned another book and tried to focus. It could be worse, he thought. At least Granger didn't make his blood run cold and his spine tremble. At least she wasn't the Carrows.
It was the year's first hot day - hot enough that as Draco stood in front of the castle, he almost looked forward to the dark coolness it would surely provide. Almost because it was an uninviting place - black stone covered in vines. Weathered gargoyles and clouded windows. All that money and nothing but gloom. How depressing.
The door opened and a sad looking elf wheezed a greeting. "You're expected."
"Thank you," he said, for lack of anything else.
He could see, as he walked into the Carrows' dining room, lined with iron candelabras and heavy drapes, that they were not happy to see him.
"Young Malfoy," said the brother. Alonso. A few years older, thick and broad with close cropped hair. He had the face of a Quidditch player who'd been bludgered one too many times.
"It's Master Malfoy, actually. But you can call me Draco."
"Sit," said his sister. Alyssa. Equally thick - buxom and proud of it. She compounded distracting tits with a pretty, dark-lipped face. He made sure to meet her eyes.
Draco accepted their wine with a grateful - and he hoped, graceful - nod. "I was a little surprised that you were so resistant to meeting me. I thought we might have some things in common - families wrongly imprisoned, common goals for the future." He winked at Alyssa. "Young and eligible wizards and witches."
"I don't know if our goals are aligned," said Alonso blandly from across the table. "Some of us would never have inherited titles or lands but-for the Wizengamot's blessings. If my cousins were free, I'd be living somewhere that required far less maintenance." But the way he said it - Draco knew it was a front. Alonso fucking loved this hideous, heavy castle. Pride was all over his face as he looked at the room around them. "So I'll ask - why are you here, Malfoy? We've been neighbors for centuries but your family has hardly given us the time of day."
"I'd like to change that."
"I assume you're similarly distressed by your latest tax bill?" Alonso swigged his drink and a bit dribbled at the corner of his mouth. He swiped it with the back of his hand. "Ministry's gone mad."
"Ah," said Draco. I can afford my taxes. But it sparked an idea. "Of course. I think my visit, ultimately, will result in . . . an adjustment to the Ministry's approach. By someone who feels the way you do." Alonso looked like a child on Christmas morning so Draco continued. "Azkaban may be one prisoner short by the Autumn Equinox. I'm hoping you'll join me - to welcome him home."
"What kind of welcoming?" Alyssa asked - less suspicious than Draco expected. Alonso did not react at all.
"My guest wants to be greeted by those with a shared history, shared vision . . . and a willingness to commit."
"Hm." Alonso squinted at him, making his small eyes nearly invisible. "I want the Carrow name at the top when a new Lord rises. When your father rises. He's just the wizard we need. Popular and idealistic."
"Of course," agreed Draco smoothly. He'd leave it to Lucius to deal with them. His job was to get them in the room. "I'm confident Lucius can make that happen. We can sort the details later. For now, can I count on your presence? At the Equinox?"
The siblings looked at each other. "Let's eat."
They dined and drank together long into the night. Draco was proud at how quickly the seed he'd planted sprouted into enthusiastic planning. Well, not planning so much as ranting. He kept waiting for a good time to excuse himself - but he quickly learned that once Alonso got going, nothing could stop him.
Alonso loved to rant.
For hours Draco barely had to speak. He politely sipped and nodded his head appropriately. He'd been trained for this. It was just like talking to his father when he'd switched from wine to whisky.
"-and that Potter!" Alonso slapped the table. "Too fucking young for all that power. He'll be Minister by thirty at this rate."
"Hmm." Potter was another Lucius problem as far as Draco was concerned. "We'll see."
But Alonso's eyes had gotten distracted. They glittered as he raised a hand. Greeting a man at the door behind.
Draco whirled, confused and uncomfortable. Exactly as Alonso had intended, judging from his vicious smile.
No. Not a man. It smiled down as Draco rose, a lifetime of manners taking over and dictating that he extend a hand. He stared at teeth, pointed and long. Very long.
Razor sharp.
"I knew your father." It - he - spoke in a hiss.
Vampire.
Everything in Draco froze - including his blood, which seemed to be aware and respectful of the proximity of the threat. He knew your father. Don't be a coward. If anything can sense weakness it's a vampire. So he kept his hand out-
-and they shook. Cold, old fingers slithered in his.
He barely resisted a visible shudder.
"I am Trocar." The vampire said it like it should mean something.
So Draco nodded - like it meant something. "Draco Malfoy."
"Draco Lucius Malfoy," the vampire supplied, floating away. He did not join them at the table. He seemed to regard such a thing as beneath him.
"My father's name," Draco said neutrally.
"Are you like him, I wonder?" Trocar didn't expect an answer though. He was looking at Alonso.
Alonso boomed. "I've invited our blood-drinking friend because we need allies, Malfoy. No point in springing your father free without support to elevate him, is there?"
Draco had an unfortunate and stunning revelation - he'd been had. Alonso had known, somehow, the purpose of his visit, the plot, before he ever set foot in this fucking castle. He'd planned the whole thing - the meal and the wine, his pretend resistance, and a fucking vampire - to put Draco in his place. And - it had worked. The vampires being involved made everything feel Serious. Like he was a boy playing at a man's game.
He sat the way his mother had taught him. "Control," she'd snapped. "Not like a sack of potatoes."
"What support does your kind intend to provide?" He fingered his drink casually. Confident. At least - he hoped that's how it seemed. "I thought a peace was brokered centuries ago."
The vampire shrugged. "We were largely excluded by the Dark Lord because we didn't make our amenity known. We shan't make that mistake again."
"I mean this to be a revolution!" Alonso yelled. It was hard to tell if he was more red from the wine or his wild hopes. "Crush the Ministry's unfettered power. Install our own. Depose the tax loving tyrants!"
Taxes again.
"You seem prepared, Carrow. As if you knew what I came here to say."
Alonso and the vampire looked at each other and grinned. "One thing you'll learn about us, Young Malfoy. We get what we want and we always have a backup plan."
It was time to go. Draco bid goodnight - to Alonso, to Alyssa, and to the vampire, who eyed his neck benignly.
"Oh, and Malfoy," said Alonso, as Draco stood. "There's one more thing. You mentioned eligible witches."
Draco kept his face blank. "Yes."
"Do you know one named Parkinson?"
He studiously avoided thinking of what Granger was doing in her bath each day.
Or, more accurately . . . Draco attempted to avoid it.
Truly, he did. He distracted himself - from thoughts of soapy tits and "I've tried . . . in the bath . . . " and water pouring over her face - with reading his mail and meeting with Nott.
Unfortunately, both of those things were stressors and failed to improve his temper. The letters contained more inquiries, more frustration. And Nott was fraying slightly, doing his best to keep up with Draco's requests.
He whispered them between louder entreaties - for certain meals or wine or clothes. Those were legitimate requests, of course, but he didn't want Granger or Potter hearing his secret directives.
"Tony writes like he's panicking. Go and settle him down."
"Not him again," Nott whine-whispered. "He's so awkward."
"We'll have a Burgundy pinot with pasta," Draco said loudly, before he dropped his volume to match. "Distract him from getting excessively chummy with Carrow. I don't want them scheming behind my back more than they already are." They were liable to spring Lucius free while he was still stuck down here, while he was completely out of control - a worst case scenario.
When they'd said goodbye, Draco waited the few seconds it took for Granger to open the door. She was an apparition against the dark, damp-haired and brown-eyed and . . . .
Watching her settle into the sofa, he was relieved she did not seem to want to visit with Nott. Draco was perfectly content to keep them apart. The sooner she saw Theo the sooner she'd want him - rendering Draco's mood even more foul. "Think of a fantasy," he told her sometimes when his fingers were teasing. He always got a response to that, her intimate muscles confirming that she was. Her boyfriend, surely. He couldn't stop her from that, but didn't want to wonder if her mind was also drifting to the curly-headed flirt whom he called a friend.
"Fuck no," Pansy said, paying him no attention as she cast some kind of mirroring charm and reapplied her lipstick.
"Pans, please. It would really help me. Your family is Old. So are the Carrows. Alonso wants to take you out."
"I don't even know what I'm helping you with."
Draco conceded that. "I can't tell you. Trust that you don't want me to. But I need the Carrows' support for a new project. I just want you to join us for a dinner, talk to him a bit. Go out with him if he - you - both want."
"We hate people like them," she whined, mirror vanishing in a puff of smoke. She crossed those long legs and bobbed spiky heels. Caught him eyeing them and smirked. "So that's how far we've fallen, Draco? First, Persia. Now, you're whoring me out to help you with some business deal?"
He cringed. "You know I've learned from . . . the former. As to the latter, I am not. You might like him." Seeing her skepticism he switched tacts. "He looks like your type."
Pansy frowned. "A tall dumbass who's generous in bed?"
"Stocky and possessive and rich."
Red lips curved. "I suppose that works too."
He laughed. "You're the best. I'll get it set up."
Pansy's agreement was especially invigorating because Draco had hit another snag.
After the solicitor's second visit he'd quickly and completely ruled out a traditional weapon. A cursory review of the Azkaban wards - the publicly known ones, anyway - indicated that was pointless. Weaponry of any kind, metal or wood or sharp points or firing bits, would be shattered before it got across the water that lapped at the prison's base.
It was Sirius Black who made him think of it, actually. If an animal had gotten out, an animal could get in.
Something . . . alive.
Within days - and long nights - he'd exhausted the resources available to him in his Library, extensive as they were. The elves could barely keep up with the re-shelving as he flew through books about creatures, making notes and flinging them aside when he was finished. So Draco turned to private collectors.
By the end of the month he'd contacted just about every bookseller in the magical world. His hand hurt - from writing, not wanking, for a change. He worked as fast as he could, translating in dozens of languages, requesting anything about Creatures and their Origins.
He kept it anonymous, of course. Didn't want to be traced. Gold is the most effective eraser. Enough of it could get rid of anything. Slipping away from the Manor one morning, he arranged an intermediary at a collector of dark artifacts. Not Borgin & Burkes. He never wanted to go back there again - and besides, it was too obvious. No, he picked a smaller place, a hole-in-the-wall off a side street in the wizarding part of London. The eager young shopkeeper was thrilled to assist and promised discretion. "People collect what they collect, sir. I don't judge. Not my place."
The book collectors responded to his inquiries - and his gold - with impressive results. He'd received information about every creature confirmed to exist, and those that weren't. On theory and the dawn of magic, on how things came to be.
With the texts pouring in and scattered about him, Draco made fast progress. Working beneath the painted ceiling, by the light of day or candles, it all began to come together. Reading some of wizardom's wisest philosophers convinced him - it was possible. Everything came from something. All was new once.
And yet, he lacked the crucial piece - precisely how?
He thought of another resource in the middle of May while he was taking a rare break to swim. Slicing through the water, he found himself, unfortunately, recalling Alonso's most recent rant. Alonso, who wanted to see him and talk to him and plan with him every fucking week. Alonso, who was quickly becoming the most obnoxious person Draco had ever met.
The Ministry.
Of course. It was so obvious that it stopped him with a splash. He stood, twisting his hair, water lapping at his waist. The Ministry would surely have such information, probably kept under lock and key. He was reasonably sure there was a whole magical creatures department.
He'd simply have to find an in. Hopping out of the pool, he went to inquire.
The solicitor was visibly disappointed to see him again. "Malfoy. I thought we agreed you'd wait to hear from me."
"I need a Ministry connection - someone to locate and leak records."
"I'm obligated to inform you that receiving government papers without permission is a crime."
"Add it to the list."
But the solicitor rubbed his grizzled chin, considering. "That said, it's not a bad idea. Smart to have a finger on the pulse of what They know."
That too.
"I may have a name." He pulled open a drawer, consulted a ledger, and jotted it down. Slid it across the desk to Draco's waiting hand.
Kennilson. Fowler Kennilson.
"His accounts at Gringotts are overdrawn. If you offer him gold - enough to make a difference but not enough to change his life - I imagine you'll be able to get what you need." He looked over the tops of his glasses. "Don't trust him, though. He's a cheat at cards." He blinked at Draco. "Ask me how I know."
He didn't - but he did contact Kennilson, sending an untraceable owl and arranging a meeting at an out-of-the way pub on a quiet morning.
Draco hated the arsehole from the start.
Nearly as much as he hated himself. He was polyjuiced - had used a stray hair from the solicitor's office to brew it - but the whole thing made him dreadfully uncomfortable. "Tell me about your work," he suggested, sliding over a drink.
Kennilson spilled so easily - he probably could have skipped the veritaserum. ". . . Department of Magical Accidents. Two decades and nary a promotion. Being met and surpassed by 'war heroes,'" he moaned. "And they aren't worth the paper their names are printed on, I can tell ya that."
"Which war heroes?" Draco pretended to sip his own whisky.
"Ginevra Weasley, of course. She gets hardly any work done, that one. It's bollocks. Spends most of her days flitting about from Potter's office to Granger's office and her dad's-"
"Granger?" he'd interrupted. Too fast. Don't make that mistake again.
"Hermione Granger. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Another right cunt."
"Ah."
"A cunt what needs a shagging, I'll tell you that. Rough and tumble, like. Always got that nose in the air. If you ask me-"
"I didn't."
Granger.
Draco hadn't thought of her in . . . . Alright, he'd thought of her. Every so often she chased him through his mind while he wanked. Slapped him again when she got him cornered. Pulled his hair and ordered him onto his knees. Commanded him to draw off her robes and lift her skirt . . . .
Shaking his head he pressed. "I know of her. She can't be old enough to be managing a whole department."
Kennilson's chin wobbled, irritated at the pushback. "She's not in charge, not technically. Still a Junior Minister. There's a figurehead, an old bloke with tenure. But everyone knows Granger runs the show."
Of course she did. Potter, no doubt, pulling her up with him. Except Draco knew that wasn't true. She'd always been the first with her hand up. If Potter had been anyone else - any other name, any other history - it would be Granger pulling him along.
"Finish your drink, Kennilson. I want to know more about the records in the Departments of Mysteries and Magical Creatures. And - I want copies."
Kennilson had his drawbacks - being a fucking creeper, the primary - but he'd provided some of the Ministry's darkest secrets within a week.
Draco spread them out on the library tables, light dancing across the parchment. Granger would be furious, he thought, looking them over. Within an hour he was the furious one, shaking with pique. His father and Alonso were right about the fucking Ministry after all - it was completely incompetent. It didn't have the answers either. He shouldn't have been surprised, but it was still maddening.
He'd have to figure it out himself.
Draco worked until his eyes gave out. Until the words weren't making sense, until fact and theory blurred into a confusing mess. Until he woke up with a start, his head on an open tome, dreaming of spells and incantations and possibilities and dead ends.
But he had ideas.
He would need a few things. Space. Somewhere to experiment, and channel energy, and forge magic and matter and life together. And Power - he'd need a lot of that. Ideally, a place with inherent magic, to be siphoned and manipulated. Dark Magic. For that's what it would require. Goodness and light didn't create monsters. Only the dark did that. Only Draco did that. He needed a womb of darkness.
His father had mentioned a warded place for hiding the family. Draco resolved to ask Narcissa about it the next time they dined together. He knew she'd be glad not to have to eat alone again. He'd been leaving her too often.
The day he went to find the caverns he wore his old green jumper - the one his parents had given him. It fit, finally, properly. Only took fifteen years. It was soft, and still imbued with a warming charm to protect against the moor's harsh winds. His mother's eyes sparked when she caught him leaving in it. "So wonderful to see you in color." He knew the spark would have died if she knew where he was going.
He was always watching for three things when Granger emerged from her bath.
Was she frowning? Many an afternoon she came out looking glum - which meant he'd have a quiet night ahead. No chess and little conversation. Draco preferred the days she opened the door and he caught a bit of fire. A hint of the witch he'd known in school. The witch she was before his monster got to her.
Were her legs bare? That was purely selfish - it was a lot easier to touch her when she wore a nightshirt or loose shorts. The tight Muggle trousers constrained his movements. Though he couldn't complain about what they did to her arse.
And - was she wearing his jumper?
Granger wore it often. She said it kept her warm in the damp. He didn't tell her it was charmed - she might have had him spell something else instead.
The problem with boundaries, with lined paths, with firm rules he set for his hands and his mouth and his cock - was that Hermione Granger was a fucking ace at kicking them apart. It felt like she followed him around, a half step behind, and rearranged as he laid the stones.
No sooner did Draco assure himself he'd never-
Touch her excessively
Let her touch him
Enjoy it
Forget what he did to her
-she put on that godsdamned jumper and he lost sight of it all.
Sometimes he caught himself, while he paced and pestered, reforming the world around them.
They weren't in the cave.
They were in his parlor, relaxing in the late afternoon.
She was reading on his sofa and he was sipping a whisky as he leaned against the mantle and watched the fire. He felt like an adult.
But in both worlds Hermione looked the same - curled up with a book, lovely legs tucked beneath her, swathed in his clothes. Tits highlighted the snake far better than his flat chest ever could. Her hair, loose and comfortable, curled madly about her shoulders. She twisted it when she wasn't turning pages.
"Anything new from Nott?" she asked, destroying his dream. They were back in their prison.
"He reports that it's raining today."
She hummed absentmindedly. "I suppose that means I'd just be sitting somewhere else and reading - the cave doesn't matter so much."
Like she could read his mind.
He waited until his stomach rumbled and he was tired of the silence. Granger didn't engage much when she was focused. And bothering her could be so satisfying. He stepped forward and tugged the book from her fingers. She released it without argument, looking up at him expectantly.
What would it be like, to lean down and-
"Enough of that," he snapped. "I'm hungry."
Granger relaxed with a glass of wine - his best attempt at an apology for his churlishness - while he pulled dinner out of the basket. He sat opposite her, the better to see - to make sure she ate enough. She called out to Potter for a few minutes - Potter, who sounded rather cheerful. He should be fucking thanking you for this excuse to bang the shit out of Weasley again.
Draco interrupted them with a silencing charm. "It's ready."
They engaged in their usual polite mealtime conversation. "When was your last holiday?" she asked, swirling a spoon in her soup.
"I escorted my mother to France last winter. We have a home there."
"That sounds nice."
He looked at the torches. "She likes it more than I do."
"Where do you like to go?" She was drinking more than she ate.
So he slid more bread in front of her. She usually did well with the bread. "I don't travel much."
That seemed to surprise her. "Really? Don't you like it?"
"I like it fine." The whole line of questioning annoyed him. What did it fucking matter? But she was talking, so he answered. "I'm-" alone- "too busy." She sipped at her spoon, seemingly satisfied. "Are you able to travel? Take breaks from your illustrious Ministry career?"
Granger frowned. "A restriction on time away is the worst part of my job, yes. But I get around a bit. I hiked in New Zealand last year with my parents." She had a faraway look. "It was so beautiful - I'd love to go back one day."
Draco wouldn't mind seeing New Zealand. Exploring, with-
When he'd counted that she'd had five bites of salad, nearly all of her soup, two rolls and a glass and a half of wine - and he'd had four glimpses of her collarbones beneath his jumper - he packed it up.
"What shall we do tonight?" she asked.
"You tell me." He summoned the chess set and produced a deck of cards from thin air. "Your options."
Granger smiled weakly, her head against the cushions. "Your turn to choose."
But he sensed exhaustion. "I'm tired of games. I'll read."
She didn't protest. So he opened Othello and took the empty seat beside her. Stretched his legs out comfortably. Did the verse justice as best he could, maintaining a low and steady tone.
Granger's eyes were closed in minutes. Come hither, gentle mistress. He gingerly reached over and slid her wine glass from her fingers before it could fall. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee.
Setting the book aside, he stared at her. At Hermione Granger, clad in green. His green. His snake upon her breast.
It was his first Christmas home, his first time with his parents since he left for school. The three of them were in the parlor, snug between a crackling fire and an ostentatiously large tree.
His mother handed him an ornately wrapped present. "For you, darling."
"They're all for me."
"Open it and be grateful," his father chided.
Draco opened it to reveal - the least exciting gift for a boy. A jumper.
It didn't help that this particular jumper - dark green with a silver snake carefully embroidered upon the chest - was approximately five sizes too large. Eleven year old boys hate to be reminded that everyone in the world, it seems, is bigger.
"Try it on!" Narcissa bade.
He nearly refused - but she looked so pleased, her hands clasped with the joy of giving.
The damned thing required several rolled cuffs to reveal his hands. Draco had blushed, humiliated. Could barely look at his father - except when he finally did, Lucius wasn't disappointed in Draco's stature. No, his father's eyes were shining, wet with pride. "Look at you. Quidditch team, top of your house in marks. Future Prefect and Head Boy - I can see it now."
"It's huge."
"You'll grow into it." His father's confidence was . . . reassuring, actually.
"It's a fine color on you," his mother supplied. "It contrasts so beautifully with your hair."
Lucius nodded supportively. "A better son we could never have imagined."
Well, that did it. Draco wanted to crawl under the chaise and disappear. Instead he found himself smothered in four different arms. One of his parents, he couldn't tell which, nuzzled at his hair. "Draco," his father said, low and rough. "There are . . . difficult times ahead. You must always remember who you are."
"The future is nothing - we're nothing - without you," his mother agreed.
They held him for a long time.
And wearing an overlarge jumper, he let them.
He used those happy memories - of his father, precious few as they were - to propel him on his many trips down through the cave, to the fire pit and side rooms.
Because within a week Draco's initial excitement turned to dread. He hated the fucking caverns. Oh sure, they were dark. Had space aplenty. Precisely the place he needed, with supplies and privacy. They were also dirty, and damp. He despised the echoes and the flutters of wings and the way his boot always found a loose rock to trip over.
But thanks to Ancient Malfoys, he had the excess of dark magic he needed. He felt it as he worked - the bad things that had happened there. The fears and dangers that drove his family to hide there, time and again, century after century, had been imprinted on the caverns. Blood had been spilled to create and protect them. Not just his family's blood, either - he sensed the blood of innocents. And Draco tried to use it all, drawing it in, mixing it with his own.
He spent the rest of May and most of June there - when he wasn't arguing with Alonso and avoiding the vampires. When he was too tired to stand, faint from blood loss, he slept on a cot by the fire, avoiding the little rooms which surrounded it except to use the loo. They made him feel claustrophobic.
But most of the time - Draco conjured. Experimented. Incanted. Made attempt after attempt. Stopped time and tried more spells.
He tried it all.
He laughed to himself, the first day, the first time he tried. This was probably the only child he'd ever have, birthed in that cave from his blood and bad magic. Lucius wanted an heir - shame this one wouldn't be blond. If the theories were correct the end result would be a modified and corporeal cousin of a poltergeist, the heritage and influence of dementors and boggarts thrown in. Rather than assuming the form of its victim's fears, it would absorb them. Feed on them, amplify them, and cast them back. His creation would leave the Azkaban guards dazed and confused, ideally. Not bloodied, not physically maimed. Though he didn't think too much about the effects - except sometimes what it meant for him, for his future, to do this. Narcissa had acknowledged the biggest hurdle to getting herself a grandson. "Who will have you, Draco? When you offer only . . . this?" No one was the answer. No friends, no witch would have him, when he succeeded. Problems for another day.
"Time for bed," he said. Jostled her shoulder slightly. "It's late."
Granger jumped, blinking and looking around. "Oh - I'm sorry."
"You might want to move to the pallet."
"Of course." She used the arm of the sofa to leverage herself to a stand. When would she truly get better? He frowned at her. "I'll just - brush my teeth and be right out."
"Fine."
Draco didn't know what to do with himself in those anticipatory moments. He fiddled with his wand, turning it over in his hands. He felt like he was about to pick a girl up for the Yule Ball, anxious and vaguely embarrassed that they both knew they were about to dance.
When Granger returned he looked on as she climbed into the alcove. Laid her head on the pillow. She smiled sadly, patting the space beside her.
Come on over, Malfoy. Time for the show.
And show it was.
Her show.
The clever witch pushed her luck at night, working her head beneath his chin and giving him several intoxicating whiffs of her hair. It was so distracting he nearly forgot what his hands were doing. In his mind, his hands were doing other things - twisting in her hair, testing their texture. Tracing the shape of her ear. Pressing into the indentations of her collarbones, measuring their depths against his fingertips. Cupping her tits and her arse and discovering where she was ticklish.
Until she came, and made that sound. He'd done as was required.
He got away from her before he did anything else.
Draco interspersed his failed efforts in the cave with visits to families of the Death Eaters.
It quickly became his most hated task.
He realized it, sitting across from the Dolohov heir. Antony.
The first time they met the young man showed off, encouraging Draco to meet his sister. His younger sister, only a Sixth Year at one of the schools on the continent.
"Advanced magic, and maturity, for her age," said Tony.
"I prefer my women to be women."
"She's nearly seventeen."
Still a child - the very thought made his cock wither. Nothing Draco wanted less than a naive virgin, weepy and dependent. "Older women." He cleared his throat. "Let's cut to it, Dolohov. There's something coming. I can't share much, but I can promise - better days are ahead."
Antony stroked a wispy mustache, nodding like he had to think. They both knew he was dying to be a part of it. "I'm intrigued . . . but Carrow beat you to it. He's pitching a revolution. What's in it for me, Malfoy? Death Eaters getting together - it's bound to attract attention."
Draco casually cracked his neck, sore from days bent over his notes in the dim of the cave. Dolohov was one of those spineless young men perpetually convinced someone was coming for him. Draco had spotted it a mile away. A man so weak he was afraid of a nameless, non-existent foe. "It's not illegal for old friends to meet. It's still - for now - a free country. We'd better act though, to keep it that way."
It worked like a charm. Tony nodded enthusiastically. "So true. We must fight back. I'm with you, Malfoy. I want to restore my father's name. To protect our rights."
Draco smiled. "Perfect. I'm hosting a dinner to make introductions next week. I do hope you'll join."
So far he'd met with the Karkaroffs, the Macnairs, the Yaxleys. Relatives of the Rowles and the Crouches and the Goyles. He suffered through an extremely awkward tea at the Rookwoods, where Augustus's widow got him alone, sat in his lap, and tried to find his cock in his trousers. He finally stood, feeling dirty, and excused himself from her flirtations with a false smile. "I've got another call to make. I'll see you at the Equinox," he promised. He hadn't been lying. He had an appointment with the Crabbes.
They were aching, the children of the scorned. Aching for justice, for a return to the old days, for a place. Like the Carrows and Young Dolohov, they were the beneficiaries of their parents' prison sentences - and yet embittered by them too.
When he'd mentioned to Narcissa that he might have a little party - he didn't tell her that it was to engender goodwill with Death Eaters, reduxed - she'd nearly keeled over. And spent the next week beside herself with glee, assisting with the preparations. "It's like old times," she said more than once. "But you won't even see me, Draco. I'll just check that the elves are on task in the kitchens and stay out of your way." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "It's so nice to host."
He bent down and kissed her cheek. "We'll do it again, Mother. Soon."
"Oh," she breathed. "Will you have a witch there - as your special guest?" She pretended to examine her nails.
"Don't push it."
The night of the dinner Nott and Pansy arrived first. She spun in a circle, showing off her weird, short dress robes. "Do you like them?"
Draco fumbled. "Uh, I guess. They're . . . untraditional."
She frowned. "We're off to a bad start."
It only got worse.
First of all, Draco had made the classic mistake of inviting too many wizards and not enough witches. "You fucked up," Pansy whispered at one point, surveying the crowd. "And I can't stand Alyssa or the Karkaroff sister."
When Dolohov arrived he shook Nott's hand, immediately flushed beet red, and proceeded to get inappropriately drunk. Rather than flirting excessively, Nott turned aloof. He must have been in a mood. The Carrows made the dynamics even stranger. Alyssa made sure to sit by Theo, who rebuffed her conversation at every turn. He was busy glaring at Dolohov. Draco tried to kick Theo under the table, to get his attention back on the Carrows, but succeeded only in bruising his foot.
Thankfully, Alonso was happy enough meeting Pansy. He loudly admired her robes - which earned Draco a sidelong see-you're-a-fucking-moron look from her. He made a we-already-knew-that face back.
During dinner the conversation was all over the place. Gossip about other Pure Blood families. Another Alonso soliloquy about taxes. Discussion of the unfairness of long sentences for Death Eaters who hadn't been 'that bad.' Draco nodded through it all, staying mostly silent. Listen more than you speak, son. The more you let people talk, the more favorably they'll view you. Lucius had taught him that. Goyle and MacNair got into it about Quidditch, and the Karkaroffs rudely whispered among themselves.
No one said why they were there. That was fine with him. Only Dolohov, who said "See you at the Equinox" under his breath as he departed. "Hopefully we'll have a new member."
Draco was sick with relief when it was over.
"Thank you, Pans," he said, flopping into an armchair for a nightcap.
"I didn't do it for you. " She kicked off her shoes and took the other chair. "He was nice to me, actually. We're going to go out again this week. And - I should try something different if I expect different results." She frowned at Draco pointedly.
He swallowed, nodding. "I deserve that."
She leveled a look at him. "Speaking of different results - I stayed behind to tell you something. I don't know what you're doing, Draco, and I don't want to know. But whatever it is, it's a bad idea. While you may think you have a lot in common with these fuckers, you don't."
"Speaking of trying something different," he said slowly, "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life sitting in the corner of the club."
"Surely you can find an amusement that doesn't involve creeps like Waldren MacNair." She shivered. "I hate that guy."
He agreed - but he couldn't tell her that. Couldn't tell anyone that.
It was early July. The days were hot, and long, and Lucius's deadline was slipping ever closer.
"If you've seen this, you're learning the truth," he said one night to the mirror. His voice sounded dead to his own ears.
The voice of a monster.
"I hope it explains some things. There's just a bit left before I'm caught up."
They'd been in the cave nearly three weeks. His head may not survive another.
"If you are seeing this, it probably means I'm unavailable for questions." He stared at himself, at shoulders that sagged. "Assume the worst for any bits you don't understand."
When he'd washed his hands and brushed his teeth and changed into what he assumed was sleep-appropriate attire - he'd never worn sleep clothes in front of a girl before - he resigned himself to trying to rest.
He dreaded the dreams that came with it.
Was that how Granger felt? With her visions?
Laying on his back, a hand beneath his head and twisted in his hair, he turned to a reliable trick he'd often used as a child. "Imagine something, darling," his mother told him once, when he came to her complaining that he couldn't sleep. "Take your mind to a place of dreams, and it'll find a way to slip into them."
Imagine.
He trod back down a path - back to a dream from the day. A lovelier world from the late afternoon.
A pretty witch curled up on his favorite sofa in his favorite parlor.
Falling asleep, her book slipping from her fingers.
He'd set it silently aside. Slide his hands beneath her shoulders and her knees and lift her into his arms.
Her instincts would compel her to hold his neck. To thread her fingers in his hair. As he carried her-
Through the long halls of the Manor, portraits silenced by the shock - and his threats.
Past open windows overlooking the gardens and the pitch beyond.
To his room.
He'd kick the door shut behind him and lay her on his bed. White sheets.
Cover her carefully, tucking her in.
He'd stretch out beside her. And she'd roll into him.
Her head on his shoulder in the place beneath his jaw.
She'd lay her arm across his chest - touching him - and he held her hand. Played with her fingers, slipping his own between.
"Goodnight, Malfoy," she'd breathe, sunset showing him the shape of the words on her lips.
"Goodnight, Granger." He whispered it back in the dark.
It came on the twentieth day of experiments, just when he was about to give up. The night before he'd got another missive from the solicitor. Only thirteen words. Midnight. Eve of the Equinox. Tunnel at the waterline on the southwest side.
He'd been reading an Old spell in an Old language. Like most of the others, it required blood. He'd sliced his palm with his wand, dripping red onto the stone.
It didn't work. None of them worked.
Tired, and hungry, and confused - Draco had a tantrum, actually. Threw his wand, flooded with frustration . . . and fear.
Frustration.
Fear.
What if his father got the tunnels and guards ready and Draco wasn't there?
What if he was?
What would come next, when Lucius was out?
The pain in his hand brought him back. Twenty days meant twenty cuts - all in the same spot. He'd been healing himself, very poorly. You are not a Healer, he knew. You are chaos, the stuff of nightmares. He deserved to bleed.
Collecting himself, he turned to the next parchment, the next batch of notes.
He'd jotted together a hash of different ideas - theoretical spells to, among other things, control dementors and animate the bones of boggarts. There were no indications that any of them had ever worked. But he'd cross-referenced and combined them with an account he'd found from a long-dead witch. She claimed she'd had success channeling the spirits of the dead into a new form. She'd found bodies enough in morgues and on a battlefield - some Muggle war.
Draco didn't expect success.
Sure enough, when he was finished - nothing. Silence. Not so much as a wisp of smoke.
He began to gather his parchments. He was fucking exhaus-
. . . . he heard it.
It was coming.
Up and out of the darkness. A hideous thing. It was the size of a hippogriff, or a stag. His eyes struggled, in the dim, to identify its true form - but it was ephemeral, shifting into different shapes. None of which he recognized.
Scrambling for his wand, Draco held it out.
He would not be afraid. You are not afraid.
It came close. Smelling, sensing. And, apparently, recognized him. Because it left him alone, despite his frantic attempts to stop it. It passed him, avoiding the fire in a wide arc, and began to leave.
He cast a series of Stunning spells, his first instinct. They did nothing. The monster's essence simply absorbed them.
He tried to crash rocks down in front of it, to lock them in together, but he wasn't fast enough. The thing evaded the piles before he could build them high enough.
He'd spent so much time bringing it forth, birthing it - he hadn't thought about the after. About management.
He felt so fucking stupid. Now that he saw it, as he watched it leave, how was he to get it to Azkaban? Ask it nicely to step into a crate?
It was the end of July. He had about eight weeks.
But the thing - the monster - did not wait, gave him no time to think. It was its own, and it respected him only enough to spare him. Before he could guess further at how to stop it, it was gone.
Up, out of the cave. Onto the moors.