Regardless of how much he might want to, Draco found himself unable to sleep yet again. While the weather was warm and his sheets were soft, a general feeling of unease pricked away at the back of his mind. It was a feeling new to the Malfoy boy but one that he was quickly growing used to as the days following his father's imprisonment labored on. Everything felt too quiet-too tense- like something was about to break. Conversations with his mother had become clipped and short and without anyone else in the house, Draco was beginning to feel more like a ghoul haunting the estate rather than the sole heir.
Sighing, he picked up his wand from the nightstand and flicked, whispering a soft 'lumos' into the darkness. A dim light sparked from the tip and Draco squinted his eyes shut, throwing off the duvet and sweeping his feet onto the floor. Paper crunched under his weight. He swore, suddenly remembering what he had been occupied with before making his feeble attempts at sleep. He adjusted his wand and carefully stepped around the scattered papers strewn haphazardly across his bedroom floor. He'd spent the majority of the previous day engrossed in folding an origami pattern that he'd found tucked away in the back of a book. It was more complicated than anything he'd made before and used multiple sheets of paper. He'd gone to bed exhausted and unsuccessful; Evidence of his failure strewn about in the mangled corpses of his creations. Maybe he'd try again tomorrow, though the thought came with no small amount of fatigue.
Careful to stay quiet, Draco clicked open his bedroom door and peered into the empty hallway. He knew his mother would almost certainly be asleep at this time of night, but he still felt weary. While hesitant to admit that he'd been avoiding his mother, the idea of a midnight conversation about why he felt so restless didn't appeal to him in the slightest. Neither of them had even spoken Lucius' name to each other since the trial and Draco had no intentions of being the one to break the streak. His father being exposed as a Death Eater came as no surprise to him after all. If not for the pressure it had put him and his mother under, Draco might even be relieved for the space. Their relationship was often strained but he would much prefer the company of an overbearing parent to the direct scrutiny of Voldemort himself. Besides, he had yet to confront the thoughts of Lucius in Azkaban. His father had always been so powerful, to think of him rotting away to Dementors… it just didn't feel right.
He scowled, quietly creeping down the hall towards the staircase. As he walked, the shadows danced alongside him, catching on the intricate marble detailing and playing tricks on his eyes. The mahogany walls seemed to swallow any light that touched them and with the marble floors acting as a mirror, Draco couldn't help but flinch instinctively as the darkness bent and stirred around him. The manor was a familiar place but the night did no favors in making it a comforting environment. The windows to his right were elegant and tall, and during the day would showcase a lovely view over the gardens. Now, all he could see were the imagined shapes of figures writhing outside, watching him, threatening to break the thin separation of glass.
Draco had often found immense pride in how lovely the estate looked and the considerable effort that went into maintaining it. But as his footsteps echoed off the stone floors and resonated with the intricate sconces, Draco couldn't shake the comparison to a mausoleum: Cold and lifeless. He could see himself in these halls, remembering Narcissa scolding him for touching things he shouldn't or Lucius praising him for those precious first signs of magic. He couldn't place exactly why he felt so disconnected from it all. Perhaps the part of him that belonged here had gone to Azkaban with Lucius all those weeks ago.
He got to his destination thankfully uninterrupted and pushed open the heavy door that separated the potions lab. It was located at the base of the manor and didn't get much foot traffic these days. After Draco had finished his first year at Hogwarts, Lucius had given him free access to it to practice his schoolwork. Draco knew it had mainly been so he could surpass his classmates in grades but he had appreciated it nonetheless; Potions had always been one of his favorite subjects.
He flicked his wand again and lit the lamps around the room, letting his own charm fall away. The lab was fairly small and cozy in comparison to the rest of the house. A large table at the center with cupboards stocked full of ingredients and cauldrons lining the majority of the room. A large fireplace decorated the far wall and Draco couldn't help but smile as it clicked to life in response to his presence. He wouldn't be here for long but it gave him a warm feeling to be acknowledged by the magic that lived in the estate. Draco made his way to a specific drawer and pulled it open, the bottles inside clinking gently against each other. He rummaged for a moment and pulled out one specific vial. Frowning, he pushed the remaining bottles around, taking stock of the contents. There was only one dose left of the sleeping draft he'd made less than a week ago. Perhaps his mother had been finding herself in need of it as well.
Running an exasperated hand through his hair, he closed the drawer, making a mental note to return in the morning and brew another batch. He took a quick inventory to ensure he would have everything he needed and wrote a note to the house elves requesting certain ingredients be restocked. Leaving the note visible in the center of the table, he blinked back a newfound wave of exhaustion. With a wave of his wand, the room returned to darkness. He made his way back up the stairs, all thoughts of his childhood and recent loneliness lost to his desire to fall quickly into a dreamless sleep.
With a quick tip of the bottle to his lips, he maneuvered back through the chaos of his room and his wish was granted within minutes of his head hitting the pillow. The potion tasted of lemons.
The knocking grew louder as Draco blinked, confused and half asleep. It was still incredibly dark outside and the sound was out of place in his room. He leaned up on his elbow and looked around waiting for his eyes to adjust. No one was there and it felt like Draco's brain just couldn't catch up to his surroundings. What the hell? His origami papers were where he had left them, and his door was closed, no light peeking through to indicate someone was in the hallway. He let his head drop back down and rubbed his eyes as the knocking continued. He was losing it.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, he shot up and looked at the window behind his desk. A small silhouette was perched there, wobbling back and forth as it pecked the glass. Draco gave a frustrated grunt and rolled out of bed. His window slid open with a slight push and a familiar owl hopped in onto his textbooks. It had a crumpled letter in its beak and it looked at Draco with expectant wide eyes. Returning a scowl, he took it and turned it over in his hands. No address, just the word 'padfoot' written in quite possibly the worst handwriting Draco had ever seen.
"What the hell, you pigeon. This isn't even for me." Draco hissed, about to shove the letter back into the bird's mouth. The snowy white owl chirped as it hopped back out the window, oblivious to Draco's frustration. "No, wait!" With a silent flap of its wings, the owl was gone, abandoning the letter with its disgruntled new owner. Draco let out a sigh and pulled his window shut. He eyed the letter with a sneer and threw it onto his desk where it joined his pile of unfinished transfiguration assignments. Whatever he thought, crawling back into his, now cold, bed. Stupid bird.
Even though he'd quickly fallen back to sleep, Draco found himself groggier than usual this morning, pale bags forming under his normally pristine gray eyes. Damn owl. He blinked and stared down at the paper in his hands. It was supposed to be a Greenback Dragon but at this point it more closely resembled a mangled iguana. He'd started his day by tidying up the mess he'd made last night, throwing away the failed attempts and neatly stacking the fresh sheets of paper for later use. He'd let his optimism win out in the end and now stared at yet another of his abominations. He was now deciding how many of these horrid little creatures he would allow himself to create before he gave up entirely. Something about this pattern just wasn't working for him.
It also didn't help that Draco couldn't focus with the letter staring at him from its place on his desk. He'd decided not to read it of course, more out of spite for the rude awakening than anything else. But the more Draco thought about it, the more familiar the owl seemed. He couldn't place it for the life of him, but the white feathers with little black spots felt like a memory that sat just out of reach. After a meager attempt to distract himself with salvaging his poor iguana, Draco caved to his curiosity. He got up, grabbed the letter off the stack, and fell onto his bed to examine the envelope once again.
He hadn't misread the night before, the only visible writing being 'Padfoot.' He didn't know what that meant but he had a feeling that the letter was not intended for him. It looked as if it had been delivered in a storm, the paper curling and crumpled from water stains drying overnight, a heavy dent left in the center from the owl's tight grip. Sighing with the weight of his dismal night's rest, he roughly shoved his finger underneath the slip and tore the envelope open. The handwriting inside was just as messy as on the outside and Draco considered just throwing it away rather than going through the laborious task of translating the chicken scratch. He rubbed his tired eyes once again and began:
Dear Padfoot,
There's not a day that I don't spend wishing you were here and yet I know I don't deserve anything better than the circumstances I am in. The nightmares are getting worse though. Everyday I dream about what I could have done differently that night. What I could have done to save you. I should have been more prepared. I'm sorry, Sirius.
The name made Draco pause, a sinking suspicion settling over his chest. Surely this couldn't be-
And I can't stop thinking about what could have happened to everyone else. What almost did happen. Does it even make a difference if we train or not? How am I supposed to live with myself when I eventually get Hermione killed? or Ron?
Draco swallowed, his suspicions confirmed. He was reading the innermost thoughts of The Boy who Lived, Harry-fucking-Potter. Instinctively, his face contorted into a disgusted sneer, scoffing at the annoyance of being delivered Potter's lost mail. His owl must have a matching head injury to be this fucking incompetent. To make matters worse, it seemed like Potter was reminiscing of the very same night that had been haunting Malfoy's every step: the break-in at which Draco's father had been arrested and sentenced to Azkaban.
Draco's eyes glared through the letter, the words refusing to register past his hatred. Potter had the audacity to whine about how his friends might have died when Draco's entire life had been upended. The incident had been Harry's fault after all, who was he to complain? A twisting feeling formed in his stomach as he realized that once again, his life had fallen subject to the whims of that dumbass nimwit god fucking idiot. And now he was receiving his wayward mail. What a fucking joke.
Slamming the paper back to the desk, Draco stood abruptly. He didn't know exactly where he was going, but suddenly his room felt too small, the manor too constricting. He all but ran through the halls, ducking into the staff kitchen, and bursting through the back door of the estate. He didn't stop to apologize to the startled house elves or wait for the door to close behind him before breaking into a long awaited sprint.
He had known things were getting worse for a while. Voldemort's return hadn't been a secret in his home. Lucius talked about it often: the fame, the glory the Malfoy name would have now that a true leader was returning. Voldemort's presence had been something to celebrate, a sign of better things to come. But Malfoy had noticed the signs of wear appearing on his father's face. He'd noticed the uncharacteristic silences between his parents as Lucius was called away more and more often. Now that he was gone, that silence had filled the manor, choking any sense of normalcy that Draco had once had.
Gasping for air, he willed himself to run faster into the woods. Trees blurred past him and he could feel his lungs painfully restricting. He wanted to go even faster but his body was screaming at him to stop. Panting desperately, he jogged to a pause and leaned his forehead on a nearby aspen, his fingers digging painfully into the bark. He took ragged breaths waiting for the adrenaline to calm down and his racing heartbeat to quiet in his ears. He wanted to scream, to punch something. He wanted to see his father and for everything to go back to how it was. He wanted to fly.
It was impossible of course. Ever since the incident at the ministry, dementors had been clinging to the outside of Malfoy Manor. Whether they were sent by the Ministry or Voldemort, Draco didn't know. It wasn't like anyone told him anything important, he thought with vehemence. His knowledge ended with a conversation he'd had with Narcissa Malfoy three weeks ago. She'd barged into his room and confiscated his Firebolt, saying it was too dangerous to be in the skies and she would "much prefer if you stayed inside this Summer, Draco." If she knew he was even this far from the manor's protection, she would likely throw a fit. He swore, pushing off the tree. He had only run about half a mile into the woods, but his legs ached.
Draco told himself for the rest of the day that he wasn't going to give Harry's letter a second glance. If Potter wanted to mope and feel bad for himself all Summer, Draco didn't mind one bit. He deserved it, the bloody git. If he could have just set down his hero complex and minded his business, none of this would have happened. The audacity to cry about a situation he caused… Draco audibly scoffed at the thought, rolling his eyes.
After his outburst from the manor, Draco had casually walked back and apologized to the house elf that came to check on him. He was fine, he'd insisted, brushing off their concern. With no desire to have a similar conversation with his mother, he'd made his way straight to the potions lab and sequestered himself behind a massive cauldron. A single batch would have taken hours, so Draco doubled it, determined to spend the rest of his day being somewhat productive. If he spent his entire Summer moping about, he'd be no better than that blasted Potter.
The crackling hearth provided a pleasant ambiance as he chopped the nondescript roots and boiled them over a flame. The root infused water would need to be combined in about half an hour, once the potion was brought to a slow boil. He would need to pay special attention to the color and consistency, as the cooking time may vary depending on the pewter levels of the cauldron. He stirred , double checking the recipe. This was his fourth time making the potion but getting lazy with a sleeping draft was an easy way to end up at St. Mungos.
It was much in this same manner that the day passed quickly for Malfoy. Focusing on his task in the windowless basement allowed a pleasant amount of reprieve from himself. Draco would have said it was peaceful if he had been aware enough of his own thoughts to realize how focused he was. Not a single thought of his father or the letter in the wastebin upstairs passed through his mind as he measured out goosegrass and crushed toad horns.
It wasn't until a shout from above echoed down to him that he was pulled back to reality. Mistaking it for his mother calling him to dinner, he ignored it, continuing to stir the potion counter-clockwise. The shouting continued, gaining in volume, and Draco furrowed his brow to look up at the door.
"DRACOOO~~" the shrill voice shredded any sense of calm that may have existed and Draco stiffened. His aunt had apparently come to visit. The door burst open, Bellatrix's face breaking into a wild grin as her eyes landed on his pale face. She slunk across the lab, leaning over the table towards him. "Draco-" She sang in a sickly sweet voice, trailing her thin fingers across the rim of the boiling cauldron.
"Hello, Aunt Bella." Draco stated blankly, trying not to give her the reaction she was obviously looking for.
"Have you heard?" She cocked her head to the side, a dark lock of curls falling across her face striking a bold line between her wide eyes. "The wonderful news from the Dark Lord?"
"You know I haven't. Just tell me." Draco couldn't help but look down as she pulled her hand away from the cauldron, a thin line of smoke wafting up from where she had pressed her skin to the hot metal. She caught the change in his attention and flicked her tongue over her teeth.
"The Dark Lord has plans for you, boy." She prowled around the perimeter of the table, making her way closer to him. "You're going to redeem the Malfoy name…" She picked up a stray piece of goose grass and twisted it in her fingers. "It's kind of him, considering your father's most embarrassing failure at the ministry." Her head snapped up, her smile gone, gauging his reaction. Draco swallowed, turning his attention back to stirring the blue liquid in front of him.
"What plan do you mean?" He tried to keep his voice steady. He hadn't grown up around Bellatrix and the difficulty he had predicting even simple encounters always made her presence inherently unnerving.
"You're going to kill Dumbledore!" The grin was back on her face and she let the words out with a twisted laugh. She was close to him now, snaking her arms around his shoulders.
"W-What?" Draco stopped stirring.
Bellatrix trailed her long fingernail down the side of his face and she leaned closer, her hot breath burning his skin. "You've been chosen, Draco!" He stared, unmoving, into the cauldron. "Voldemort needs someone on the inside of Hogwarts and he's chosen you." She twisted a piece of his white hair just as she had twisted the grass before. Her voice grew low into a fervent whisper. "Isn't that great news, Draco? Finally, our family will be able to show our faces."
"I suppose it is, Aunt Bella." He forced a weak smile onto his face as he watched the bubbles grow faster in the cauldron. "Did he mention anything else about the plan?" Like the how, or the when, or the fucking HOW Draco thought, panic creeping into the edges of his conscious.
"That's not for me to disclose." She said whimsically, dropping her hand away from his face. "I just wanted to be the one to share the good news!" She cackled softly. "The Dark Lord will come to the Manor soon enough to formally discuss his plan." She moved past him, dragging her hand along his shoulder blades. Draco couldn't seem to look away as the bubbles grew violent in the potion, the soft blue color slowly shifting darker.
"Thanks for telling me." Draco replied softly, his mind going numb, but he tried his best to sound determined. "I hope I'm able to live up to his expectations." Bella's head swiveled with preternatural grace, her eyes dark as she caught the subtle expression of doubt flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to speak again but she lunged forward, grabbing his jaw and pressing her nails into his skin.
"You HOPE?" She sneered, her feverish eyes flicking quickly between his. "There is no 'hope' boy! You must succeed or you'll be the death of us all!" Her voice was shrill as it grew to a manic shout. Her eyes locked with his, breathing heavily. When she spoke again, she was unnervingly quiet, all the previous rage having disappeared from her tone. "Draco. Draco, you don't understand." She lifted her other hand to move the hair that had fallen into his own face. She looked somewhat thoughtful as she brushed the blond strands back. "After your father's…disgraceful performance… the Malfoy bloodline is worth nothing to the Dark Lord." Draco swallowed, trying to ignore the pain in his cheeks from where her fingernails met his cheeks. "If you were to…. Fail…." She said softly, pressing harder. "As your father did… There would be no reason to keep… any of you… alive." She stared, unblinkingly at him for a moment before continuing. "Do you understand, Draco?"
"Y-yes." The words seemed to tumble from his mouth. "I won't fail." Her expression shifted yet again as she released him, moving away with a sweet smile.
"Very good!" She playfully ruffled the black skirt she was wearing and strode to the door. "I have to go speak with my dear sister, now. Have fun with your… potion." Her eyes flicked down and back to him with another grin before she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.
Draco didn't move for several minutes, the palm of his hand pressing into the grain of the wood for balance. His mind reeled and he felt like he couldn't bring himself back to his body. Bellatrix's words seemed to pound into his skull without any hope of being absorbed or understood. His heart beat fast -Too fast- and he let out a shaky breath. Draco's gaze once again locked onto the boiling cauldron, and he found himself unable to move as its contents writhed, having burned to a charcoal black color. He slowly lifted his hand to his face and rubbed at the indents her nails had left. She hadn't drawn blood at least.
Draco was numb as he entered his bedroom. His head vaguely pounding as he mindlessly pushed off his shoes and walked over to his bed. Bellatrix had left an hour ago and Draco was only just starting to let the situation sink in. He was going to be asked to kill Dumbledore. Draco's stomach felt like lead and he collapsed onto his bed, pressing his hands against his temples. How could this have happened? He was only 16 for God's sake. How was he supposed to kill one of the most powerful wizards alive? He choked back a sob and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. Voldemort would come calling in a few days to discuss His plans but if what Bella had told him was true, the decisions were already made. He didn't have a choice anymore.
Draco pictured Dumbledore, the funny old git who'd rigged the House Cup against Slytherin in his first year and tried to imagine what it would be like to kill him. He couldn't. What would Hogwarts be like without him? He couldn't imagine that either.
He let out an exasperated laugh that slowly turned into a cry. The tears flowed freely now and he didn't bother to stop them. What was the use? He couldn't kill Dumbledore. He already knew that. Voldemort was giving him an impossible task, probably just as an excuse to make an example of the Malfoy family. Draco's life meant nothing and Voldemort was going to make him dance before he died. He thought about his father and cried harder. Lucius would have known what to do. Lucius would have found a solution that didn't involve him. Lucius was gone. Draco sobbed, mourning his father's absence and the impending feelings of doom that seemed to crush him from all sides.
It was three in the morning when Draco's eyes were finally dry again. His soul felt battered and colorless and his eyes were bloodshot from crying. Oh, what a brave death eater I'll make. He thought bitterly, wiping snot away from his nose. He didn't quite know what to do now. Anxiety crawled through every muscle of his body but exhaustion seemed to drag him back, like he wanted to make a break for it but couldn't quite muster the energy to move. He compromised the two feelings by curling into a ball and shutting his eyes, trying to force the panic out of his head. His room had long since fallen into a hollow darkness around him. Yet he made no movement to light the lamps or grab for his wand. Perhaps if he laid there long enough, refusing to think, he would eventually fall asleep.
An hour passed slowly with no luck. Dejected, Draco sat up, stretching his neck and staring into the darkness. He thought back to his day of brewing and vaguely wished he had been able to finish the sleeping draft. It seemed so insignificant a thing but more than anything else, Draco was tired and he wanted to sleep. Maybe he would brew more tomorrow. The smell of burnt lemons still festered in his nose and he wordlessly decided to try a different recipe. At least the anxiety was less sharp now, or Draco had just gotten to the point where it held no bite.
A shadow passed by his window and Draco snapped his head up. Probably just a dementor getting too close to the house. He couldn't help but think back to the owl from the night before, a small smile curving his lips. Draco had no interest in becoming Potter's permanent waste bin if he kept losing his mail. Suddenly remembering the letter, a surge of anger flared through him giving Draco enough energy to finally turn on the lights. He snatched the parchment from the dustbin where he had thrown it earlier that day and wrapped himself back up in his duvet, leaning back against the wall. He ripped the letter open, a bitter sneer already curving across his lips. Let's see what bloody Potter has to say for himself. Draco thought, quickly finding the place where he had left off.
I haven't heard from the Order in weeks. I'm starting to think they're realizing it too. That I don't know what I'm doing. We're all just waiting for me to get everyone killed aren't we? People keep telling me I need to save everyone but I don't know what to do. I feel like a kid and people just keep vanishing. I wish you were still alive, Sirius. I wish I could have met my parents. I wish someone would write back.
Draco's eyes paused on the last sentence, reading it over and over again. The handwriting had deteriorated as it was written, as if Harry was growing more and more frantic with each word. Spots of ink were smudged from what Draco could only assume were tears and he suddenly felt acutely uncomfortable.
I wish someone would write back.
Draco stilled, his anger had disappeared and a new feeling was starting to form from the uncomfortable sensation in his mind. God, did he pity Potter? Draco half-heartedly rolled his eyes, more out of habit than anything else. No, it wasn't pity; it was a vague sense of understanding. Both of them were too young for any of this. How was it fair that so much be placed on the shoulders of literal children? Draco didn't even like Potter. He was entitled and snot nosed, and somehow got away with every fucking thing his cobbleheaded mind could come up with. But they were the same age, going to the same school. And now, here they both were: being asked to do the impossible neither having given their consent or opinions on the matter. They should be quarreling over quidditch rivalries, not pitted against each other in someone else's war. And regardless of the opposing sides they were each on, Draco could tell that Harry was just as lonely as he was.
Draco set down the letter and pulled out a clean sheet of parchment from his desk along with his favorite silver quill. He briefly wondered whether Bellatrix's insanity might be contagious as he dipped the quill in ink and started to pen his reply.