Chapter 6: Draco
Soul-Wasting Struggles

"Only those who know the supremacy of the intellectual life—the life which has a seed of ennobling thought and purpose within—can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances." — George Eliot, Middlemarch

Earlier that Day—
Sunday, April 1, 2007The Westbrook Apothecary

"Save your self-righteous rage for someone else, Granger," he spat. "You don't know what I have or have not done."

Draco jerked up the hood of his cloak and stormed furiously out the door and down Diagon Alley.

Why? Why, of all the insipid, patronizing, good-for-nothing, tiny, ridiculous witches in Great Britain, must he keep running into Hermione bloody Granger? Of all the people in the world, she was the last he would ever want to witness—

What had possessed her to go after him? Nearly nine years of perfect anonymity and seclusion—ruined by the Golden Girl of the wizarding world, the bane of his existence, the personification of his worst past—

And where exactly did she get the nerve? Did she just walk up to every conversation happening in every apothecary by force of some kind of perverted habit? Stupid Gryffindors sticking their heads where nobody wanted them. Especially Granger, with her stupid brown-bronze eyes and stupid hair.

"Bloody buggering hell," Draco cursed under his breath as he turned right and passed down into Knockturn Alley.

He would have to make do with the supplies he could find via under-the-table transactions, anonymous owl orders, and the stalls in society's shadowy corners. He would not find Demiguise solution in Knockturn, though. It was too highly controlled by the Ministry. He could ask Blaise to procure a vial for him eventually, but if tradition stood, he would not hear from the prat for at least another two weeks.

No matter. Draco had enough work to do that he could stomach putting his experiments aside for a while. At this very moment, he had ten cauldrons of blood-replenishing potion simmering in his lab. He supposed he could work on some pepper-up and dreamless sleep to pass the time. And next week, it would be time to restock on calming draughts—the standard version and the more concentrated version for those in shock that Severus had taught him. His contact at St. Mungo's would expect a shipment from their "anonymous donor" by the end of the week.

Draco didn't know what initially possessed him to send free potions to the magical hospital. Boredom, mostly. When he left Hogwarts, he brewed to pass the time, just to have something to do with his days that did not involve interacting with many people. Two years later, with no apprenticeship in sight and all of his potions cabinets full, he figured they might as well be put to use.

So, he sent them via owl. Fifty owls, to be exact, and that was with him keeping a substantial supply for himself.

Draco didn't learn until several days later what a stir it had caused, and he knew it in the most unpleasant way he could have imagined—Harry fucking Potter in his foyer.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" he had asked, too shocked to muster up any of the formalities Mother taught him.

"It's Auror Potter now," Potter had replied tersely. He looked stupid in a wrinkled, ill-fitting crimson robe. "And this is my partner, Auror Gibbs. We're here because there's been an unusual—because we have reason to … oh, alright—did you send two thousand potion vials to St. Mungo's anonymously last week?"

Eventually, after his heartbeat slowed, Draco replied, "I'm not saying I did." Had he done something illegal? "But why would law enforcement be involved with something like that?"

"Hundreds of galleons worth of potions turn up en masse with no note?" Potter dared to chuckle. "Have to ensure no one was robbed and nothing sinister is going on."

"They were labeled, weren't they?" Draco spat in anger, adding quickly, "I would have to assume, that is, considering I have admitted to nothing."

"They were labeled quite clearly," Potter said. He looked uncomfortably around the marble entryway, glanced quickly at his mute, bearded partner, and stepped forward to be a mere arm's length from Draco. "Listen, Malfoy, we need to write a report on this case. I can frame it as an anonymous donation to the hospital, and I can keep your name out of the main bits if you want. But we have a record of your house elf hiring a horde of owls, and we could probably trace the ingredients, too, if we went forward."

Draco scoffed and jutted out his chin.

Potter went on without waiting for a reply. "Healer Agatha Wells at St. Mungo's wanted me to let the donor know that should they wish to repeat a donation of the kind, they should contact her directly since," Potter sighed, "'there are specific potions that are hard to find when needed.'" He pulled a folded parchment from his stupid robes and held it out. "She also sent a note."

Draco considered dodging things further to force Potter into an annoying circular investigation. But the thought of having something to do was too tempting to ignore. He snatched the parchment out of Potter's hands.

"I don't want my name in the press, Potter," Draco hissed.

"Why?" He asked incredulously. "This is pretty remarkable, Malfoy."

"I don't want any headlines about Death Eaters trying to poison the vulnerable and ill populations of magical Britain," Draco replied sternly.

Potter looked at him blankly and then appraised Draco with a resigned purse of his lips. "I'll do my best if that's what you want."

"It is," Draco nodded, then looked at the doorway. "There's the exit, Potter. Have a nice life."

Potter had surprisingly kept his word.

No one had contacted Draco about his ill-advised charitable stunt, and no other Aurors had come calling at Malfoy Manor since that day. It took Draco a week to work up the nerve to send a letter to Healer Agatha Wells. He did not include his name or the Malfoy seal in his message, only writing an apology for the lack of communication prior to his gift and wishing her department continued success.

Her reply had been swift and perfunctory.

Greetings,

We are extremely low on the common cure for boils (there seems to be an outbreak) and have no budget for additional potions this month. Can you help?

Sincerely,
Healer Agatha Wells
Director, Department of Potions, Poultices, and Tinctures
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

The cure for boils was a first-year recipe. Draco made two hundred doses the next day and sent them with his regards. It was a good thing, too, since he discovered a jar of sopophorous beans about to go bad in a dusty cabinet and could use the entire lot.

Healer Wells replied only a few hours after Draco sent his package.

Thanks for the help.

Establishing a not-for-profit charitable corporation only takes one filed form at the Ministry of Magic Clerk's Office. A suggestion if you're interested in a more substantial partnership. I'm only allowed to procure the interesting potions from entities whose names I can have on the books.

Sincerely,
Healer Agatha Wells
Director, Department of Potions, Poultices, and Tinctures
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

After a week of indecision, one filed 12987-F parchment, and the mundanely named Charitable Potions Trust was born. Draco needed to append his own name as the organization's director, but since no galleons were involved—if they were, he would have required form 12999-E—he did not need to verify his identity with anyone at the Records Office. He did not leave the Manor; no one saw his face, and within the month, Healer Wells had a new regular potions supplier.

And that was how Draco came to provide St. Mungo's with a third of their most commonly needed potions and a good chunk of their rare brews and antidotes. He didn't know whether Healer Wells knew it was Draco Malfoy, with whom she corresponded each month, but if she did know, she didn't mention it or ask for confirmation in their letters. Their relationship was blissfully distant and transactional—potions in exchange for something to do with his days. And he now had something on which to spend the never-dwindling supply of Malfoy gold.

Over the years, Draco had brewed more blood-replenishing potions, pepper-ups than he could count, and one particularly complex antivenin that occupied him for an entire week. If only people would get poisoned more often.

Of his acquaintances, only Theo and Potter knew his secret. And perhaps the one Ministry drudge who filed his paperwork. Potter knew because he was fucking Potter, and Theo knew because he had gotten Draco drunk on his twenty-fourth birthday and coerced the information out of him. Theo was a nosy git.

While he reminisced, Draco had reached the narrow cobblestone roads and thick overhangs of Knockturn Alley, and he relaxed enough to draw back his hood slightly and slow his pace. He didn't feel like doing his shopping anymore, but he also didn't feel like going home. He wandered slowly toward the main thoroughfare of the alley, dodging an errant hag and peddlers who were too disreputable to tempt even the Knockturn crowd.

He paused a few meters away from the entrance to the White Wyvern. It was four o'clock—close enough to an appropriate drinking time. However, none of the denizens of Knockturn cared for propriety. He walked in through the creaky wood-and-brass door.

The Wyvern was the most upscale of the establishments in the alley. However, it was still Knockturn, so in terms of cleanliness, it was equivalent to a nogtail den. The bar smelled dank inside, like it had never thoroughly dried out after a flood. The circular tables and stools scattered throughout the ample, dim space were all made of dark wood. The material may have been polished once, but it had long since worn down to a knobby, uneven finish that never seemed clean.

Draco placed a pile of sickles on the bar and ordered a large fire whiskey. The haggard white-haired barkeep handed the drink to Draco in a chipped glass and grunted. Draco scowled in reply and turned back to the seating space, which was rather full, it being a weekend afternoon at the only mildly habitable place for degenerates in magical London. He looked around and was grateful to find an unoccupied back corner table behind a torch stand.

He flopped in the seat and ill-advisedly drank his entire beverage in one large gulp. He coughed and sputtered momentarily before groaning, resting his head on his forearms, and leaning over the table.

Draco didn't know how long he stayed in that position, thinking of nothing. He focused only on the numbing burn of the whiskey as it spread from his stomach to his veins to his mind. When he raised his head at last, he felt pleasantly disoriented.

"I never thought I'd see a Malfoy drunk on a Sunday at the White Wyvern," a gravelly male voice said to Draco's left.

Draco's head whipped around, and he glowered at the figure standing before him. The man was short and stood off-balance as if he walked with a limp. His weathered complexion peeked out from behind an auburn beard and chin-length hair, graying at the temples.

"It's rude to insert oneself into others' privacy without an introduction," Draco said, pulling together his most aristocratic posture despite the dizziness in his head.

"Oh, but you know me, Draco," the man sneered, sliding onto the stool across from Draco at the table. "We were two lucky ones, along with your father."

"You think highly of yourself if you assume that I know who you are," Draco retorted.

"I'm sure you wouldn't have noticed me with your nose up in the air all those years." The man smiled, showing a row of uneven, yellowing teeth. Some simple hygienic charms would fix that immediately. Draco had to consciously avoid picking up his wand to banish the plaque. "The Dark Lord barely noticed either. I never did have the honor of receiving the mark."

Draco blinked, suppressing the instinct to clutch at his left arm. So, this man was a would-be Death Eater but not one of the inner circle. Draco supposed that meant he had been in and out of Malfoy Manor during the war and had likely fought at Hogwarts. There were many faces from that time that Draco had willingly forgotten.

"My condolences," Draco bit out, "for your anonymity and general missed opportunities."

A menacing grin. "Opportunities … those are funny things. Sometimes they pass you by, and sometimes they come back around."

Draco's head flinched back almost imperceptibly. "Is that so?"

"Maybe not for you," the man jeered. "But for those of us willing to wait … undoubtedly."

"Why don't you just say what you came here to say, and then we can both be done with these useless riddles?" Draco snapped.

The man laughed a low, breathy chuckle. "I just wanted to see if it was really you. My, my, how the mighty have fallen." The man stood up and looked down at him. "You might have the chance to rise again, Malfoy, if you're as smart as people said. Keep your chin up." A flick of his finger. "But not too far. As they say, you might miss what's beneath you."

The man walked away, and Draco, slightly dumbfounded and still reeling from his drink, called after him. "I didn't get your name."

"I'm sure you'll remember eventually," the man replied over his shoulder, audibly chuckling. Draco scowled bitterly and lamented the state of his empty glass.

What the bloody hell was that? The lunatic was probably a glorified snatcher who glimpsed the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor one day by accident. Like most of Draco's recent decisions, coming to the Wyvern alone was a terrible idea. It was time to head to the Manor, where Muffy would delight in cooking him something. If he asked nicely for her to sit with him, it wouldn't seem like he was ordering her to keep him company.

Draco stood up and began heading toward the door, but he froze when he noticed a familiar figure. The perfectly coiffed head of Theodore Nott spoke in low tones to the barkeep, who nodded and motioned behind him.

What was Theo doing here? Before Draco could call after his friend, Theo swept around the bar and through a doorway partially concealed by a tall cart brimming with dirty plates and mugs. Without thinking, Draco headed directly for the doorway after him.

"Oi," the barkeep called, grabbing Draco's upper arm with his dingy hand. "Where d'you think you're going?"

"Just joining my friend," Draco said testily.

"I don't care who your friend is," the barkeep replied. "You aren't allowed back there."

Draco groaned internally while keeping his mask of indifference in place. Theo had been avoiding him for weeks, ever since that disastrous day at the Ministry. Draco never got the full story of what Theo knew about those runic stones.

He decided to change tactics.

"My associate said I could come here if I wanted to acquire some … interesting objects," Draco said, adopting his deepest drawl. "He also told me to bring a substantial amount of gold."

The barkeep let go of Draco's arm and looked at him skeptically. Interesting. Draco was on the right track.

But then wizened wizard said, "Well your associate isn't a very good one, is he? Since you don't know much. Good luck with your search." He motioned toward the bar's exit with one arm.

Drat. Draco scowled at the wizard and then looked longingly at the closed doorway where Theo had vanished. Slytherins were never ones to make a scene, so Draco decided against storming the barricade. He would get answers, though. Tomorrow, Draco would stake out Theo's comically large single-occupancy manor, and his weedy excuse for a friend would fess up—to what Draco did not yet know.

Later that Evening—
Malfoy Manor

When Draco returned to his quarters at the Manor, he was more than a little tipsy. The fire whiskey he downed at the Wyvern had finally kicked in full force, and his surroundings took on a lovely warm hue. Not yet hungry despite his earlier musings, he decided to do one of his favorite things while drunk: play music and brew potions.

The brass case containing his musical library was the width of his chest and had a double-hinged clasp on the lid. Opening the case, Draco perused the smaller brass boxes contained inside. He chose one, plucked it from its setting, and placed the more significant case back on the bookshelf in his sitting room.

Walking into his lab, Draco perched the brass box on the end of his work table and opened it. The enchanted music began to play out. It was an upbeat piano concerto he had listened to many times before, and he took a moment to sway along with the tune. A memory of his mother reading to him in the library with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows flashed through his mind, and Draco frowned wistfully.

Heading over to a hook on the wall, Draco donned his dragon hide apron and tied it around his waist. For most wizards, brewing anything while tipsy would not be the best choice. Still, Draco was expertly, overly practiced in pepper-up potion. Plus, the ingredients were all harmless, even if he happened to make a mistake.

He would not make a mistake.

The motions of the brew were practically branded into Draco's muscles, and he barely had to concentrate as he set up his workstation. The preparations were like a dance: fetch, chop, crush, fetch, chop, crush. He let his mind go blank and gave himself over to the choreography. He decided on brewing three cauldrons of pepper-up. By the time he had reached the simmering stage, an hour had passed, and Draco's head had cleared somewhat.

He was about to call Muffy to discuss dinner when the elf popped into the lab without him having spoken.

"Sir! Sir!" Muffy's voice was nervous, almost frantic, and Draco whipped down on one knee to meet her eye level.

"What is it, Muffy?"

"The old master is here, and he comes down here now," she told him, wringing her tiny hands.

"The old—what, my father is here?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Muffy replied softly.

Draco stood up slowly and wondered briefly if this was a ridiculous prank Blaise had set up with some Polyjuice and one of his father's hairs. A steady thumping of footsteps approached from behind him, and Draco whipped around and regretted the motion immediately. His head ached.

Lucius Malfoy, serpent's head cane held aloft in one hand, stood in the doorway to Draco's lab. He wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit and matching cape, and his signature look of disdain, made all the more potent by the sneer of disgust that colored the tilt of his mouth.

"Draco," he began. He looked around the lab without moving from his position in the doorway.

"Father," Draco replied, dazed. He reached out an arm and shut his music box with a flick of his finger. The silence echoed. "What are you doing here?"

Lucius frowned, still apparently unwilling to step further into Draco's lab. "I thought it was about time for a visit, son."

"You've returned to England now?" Draco blinked. "After three years. To … have dinner?"

"A Malfoy may return to his ancestral home whenever he pleases," Lucius scowled. "And seeing as you could not be bothered to join us for the holidays this year, I have come to obtain proof of life."

"I write to Mother twice per week," Draco retorted, matching his father's scowl. "And an owl would have been appreciated rather than arriving unannounced."

Lucius stood up straighter. "Elf!" He focused on Muffy, who shied away, half behind Draco's right leg. "Get some dinner for us. We'll eat in the dining room."

"Hey!" Draco's hands clenched. "You don't get to talk to Muffy that way." He turned away from his father, looked down at Muffy, and nodded, speaking softly. "Muffy, would you please prepare some dinner for us?"

"Yes … Draco, sir." Muffy popped away.

When Draco turned back to his father, he was unsurprised to see that he was scowling even deeper.

"I'll see you upstairs," the older man spat out, and then he swept back through the sitting room.

Draco sat down heavily on one of his stools and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. What was his father doing here? It was certainly not for a social visit. When the elder Malfoy's probation ended after the war, he followed his wife to France and did not look back. They had all tried gathering in England during holidays for some time after, but it was too tricky—awkward. And while Narcissa had made an effort to visit Malfoy Manor several times per year, Lucius preferred to remain away. It wasn't as if he enjoyed spending time with his son.

That meant Lucius wanted something.

With a groan, Draco hung up his apron, cleaned his hands, and made his way to the main level. He hesitated as he approached the wide corridor leading to the dining room and ballroom. Draco avoided this part of the house for a reason, and the long shadows cast by the late evening light made the atmosphere all the more menacing. Draco already knew that he would have difficulty trying to sleep that night.

The dining room's black marble and dark paneling gleamed. Muffy did a wonderful job maintaining even the never-used rooms of the Manor, and she had lit the sconces along the walls, which emanated a warm light into the cavernous space.

Lucius was already seated with his back to the windows. Muffy had set their dinner at the center of the table rather than the more traditional head, a fact for which Draco silently thanked her. It would be uncouth to awkwardly decide who should be in the top seat. Tradition dictated that it should be the current Lord (Draco); memory dictated that it should be Lucius; and Draco dictated that it should be no one, ever—not after the Dark Lord claimed that perch for his own. Draco steeled himself and took his seat opposite that of his father.

"Shall we dig in?" Draco said snidely. Lucius scowled and snapped his crisp, white, monogrammed serviette across his lap.

Dinner was a tender roast, baked potatoes with rosemary, and green beans with lemon sauce. They ate silently for a long while, only the sounds of their silverware scraping against the china plates filling the room. When Draco had mostly finished his food, he cleared his throat and ventured to speak.

"Is there a particular reason for your visit, father?" Draco didn't look up but heard the movements from across the table halt.

"I'm having lunch in London tomorrow with some new acquaintances your mother and I met last season in Provence." Lucius took a long sip of his wine. When Draco looked up, his father looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

Interesting. "I wasn't aware you and Mother had made some new friends," Draco drawled. "Is that all, then? Off to France on the morrow?"

"That is currently my plan." Lucius cleared his throat, set down his glass, and folded his hands on the tabletop. "Your mother also requested I speak with you regarding…" He sighed tiredly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your personal life."

Draco drew back and asked incredulously, "My personal life?"

"Yes." A curt nod.

"What of it?" Draco narrowed his eyes.

Lucius frowned disdainfully. "Well, to start—do you have one?"

A small flame of anger bloomed in Draco's chest. "I don't see how that would be any of your business."

"The survival of this family is very much my business," Lucius snapped. Then, grinding his teeth, he said, "Your mother would eventually like a grandchild, Draco."

Draco felt sick, the twist of bitterness and nausea clenching his gut. "How considerate of Mother to send you to let me know."

"You broke your betrothal to the Greengrass girl," Lucius continued delicately. "Perhaps with some effort, she would reconsider the courtship. You seemed happy with her."

"That was five years ago." Draco's nostrils flared. "Astoria is currently being courted by Adrian Pucey, Father. And don't pretend to be concerned with my happiness."

"You are not seventeen anymore, and your eternal bachelorhood is becoming an embarrassment for us in France," Lucius hissed, glaring daggers across the mirrored finish of the dining table. "They are more traditional there."

Draco spat, "Don't talk to me about being an embarrassment. Ever. Again."

The two men stared at one another silently, grey into grey, for several long moments. Draco broke the tension by standing up and placing his napkin on the table.

"You can tell Mother I will write to her soon," Draco said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Good evening." He turned and retreated to the corridor.

"Draco," Lucius called. Draco paused, sighed, and turned to partially face his father, who was now standing at his setting at the table. "Your mother would like to introduce you to some witches over the summer. It would … please her, if you would consider a longer visit."

Clenching his teeth, Draco replied in a strained voice, "I will discuss it with Mother directly." Without waiting, he swept from the room.

Draco could feel his heartbeat reverberate as he stormed down to his quarters. He did not slow until he was safely in the confines of his windowless bedroom, slamming the door behind him so vigorously that a picture frame rattled on the wall.

Not only did his father have absolutely no interest in any of the work Draco was doing—as evidenced by his inability to even step foot in Draco's lab or ask a single question about it—but it seemed as though the former Lord Malfoy's entire presence was a farce orchestrated by Draco's well-meaning but undeniably misguided mother. Could this day have been any worse?

Draco knew Narcissa was growing increasingly anxious about Draco's lack of interest in having relationships with witches in their social circle … or with witches in general. The frequent snide reminders in her letters were not missed. For example: I was just looking at our portrait from Yuletide five years ago, and the Greengrass gardens were quite picturesque. Or: I heard from Lady Parkinson the other day, and she writes that Miss Pansy is doing exceptionally well. And the dreaded: Your father and I dined with the Ballinoises again, and dear Jacqueline asked after you.

Jacqueline Ballinois was a Lethifold's soul and a Blast-Ended Skrewt's personality wrapped up in a perfectly poised Pureblood package. Draco would rather poison himself with asp venom than interact with her for another single moment.

Draco groaned and fell facedown onto his duvet. A more extended visit to France for the summer season was probably unavoidable. Narcissa Malfoy was a plotter by nature, and she most likely had already laid out her son's entire July and August in a perfectly coordinated itinerary that would force him to dance with Jacqueline no less than three times. The thought made Draco queasy.

Would Pansy—

No. Absolutely not. Draco would not ask Pansy for anything. Not to come to France and certainly not to pose as his date. She had the annoying habit of calling in returned favors tenfold and at highly inconvenient times. That was how Draco found himself huddled inside a crowded yurt in Kazakhstan picking up five bolts of enchanted silks on New Year's Day 2003.

With a sigh, Draco decided not to think about his father, mother, or impending summer any longer. He had months before he would need to be directly concerned and at least a week before his mother would demand a Floo call.

On the other hand, Theodore was a problem that simply could not wait. What had the evasive, weedy, good-for-nothing, alleged best friend of his gotten into?

Draco used his wand to set an alarm for eleven o'clock, just before his pepper-up potion would finish simmering. After his work was done, he resolved to head immediately to Nott Manor and get answers using physical force if necessary.

But for now, Draco sacrificed himself on the altar of a shower and a long, quiet night of sleep, if his whirling mind could manage it.

Up Next: Hermione tries to make it out of the woods.