TW: Dementia
Draco was sprawled out on a threadbare loveseat in Theo's bedroom. Theo's Scavenger clothes were strewn all over the floor, on the dresser, and hanging limply on the headboard.
Theo was lying on his bed, his back resting against his crooked pillow, with his boots still on. For the last six minutes, Draco had been watching him throw unshelled pistachios into the air, catching every third one in his mouth. The sheets were littered with little green seeds.
Keela was lying on her belly at the entrance, head upright and her eyes following the movement of the flying pistachios. The rock that had hit her did no damage, fortunately. She probably had a little bruise under her fur.
"You're a mess," Draco remarked, glancing around. "Your room stinks."
Theo shrugged, popping a pistachio into his mouth. "It's not my fault that my rounds last for days. I don't have time to clean up."
Draco began to fiddle with the neck of an empty bottle he'd found on the loveseat. "I don't understand why the rounds take so long. We've got all our players."
A pistachio missed Theo's mouth and bounced off his forehead. "Dunno."
He frowned, watching his friend. "What assignments are they giving you?"
"Got Glasgow. Also, Portkeys."
"We're still looking for Portkeys?"
Theo shrugged. "Got one in Aberdeen last week. Scotland hasn't been well cleaned. I know others are being exchanged underground."
Another few crunches of pistachios passed. Draco kept thinking about Theo's assignments. After Voldemort's victory, one of the first tasks he had given his followers was to track down every registered Portkey—the international ones too. This way, he could gain a modicum of control over the whereabouts of Wizards. Most of all, it was to prevent the survivors from leaving too far and make the chase more thrilling.
"You know, no one would notice if you came back here to sleep, at least," he eventually said. "That's what I did when I was a Scavenger."
"Lucky for me, I'm not you." Theo chewed loudly on a pistachio before throwing another with a very bad aim, and it clattered behind the headboard. "Speaking of your beautiful self, how's the babysitting going?"
He didn't have a lot of time to spend with Theo anymore. Since he'd become a trainer three years ago, his only days off were Thursdays and Sundays, when he didn't have to spend all day watching his band. They could do whatever they wanted with their time, and there were other people to keep an eye on them.
"Oh, same old," he answered. "Weak old-timers, cocky bastards and... fucking Granger."
Theo paused his pistachio toss and stared at his friend. "You're fucking Granger?"
"I said—"
"Just messing with you," Theo smirked, resuming his activity. "Should have seen your face."
Draco shook his head, dismissing the mental images that Theo had just conjured up in his mind. To speed up the process, he blurted out the first piece of information he had been given this week during a meeting with the games staff.
"I heard Croatia was attending this year's edition."
A loud crunch as Theo shoved a mouthful of pistachios in his mouth. "You know, maybe I shouldn't say this, but I really don't care."
Draco snickered. "Neither do I."
Scotland, The Empire—July 1998
Draco was having breakfast at the dining table with his parents. It was morning and the sky was a sickly shade of yellow. Mother was reading a book, father was skimming Rita's latest three articles of Empire This Week and he was picking at his eggs.
It was quiet, way too quiet.
Harry Potter died two months ago, and the Dark Lord had created a fog that was devastating the world. First week of June—the UK. Second week—Europe and Asia. Third Week—North America. Fourth week—South America. It was the middle of July, now, and he kept thinking about those millions of people who had died and were still dying.
Snape was dead, Crabbe was dead, Bellatrix was dead, and he'd been recruited to become a Scavenger—whatever thefuckthat entailed.
"Don't play with your food," his mother said without looking up.
Draco let go of his fork and sat back in his chair. His father lifted his eyes to him, pondering. He folded the article in half and placed it on the table.
"Why aren't you dressed yet?"
"Have to be in the new building in an hour," he drawled. He hated it. He hated that he couldn't sleep in the castle, that he had towork. "I have time."
"The new building is called Town Hall, Draco." His father crossed his fingers. "You should get used to calling things by their name. The Dark Lord is working really hard to make us live as comfortably as possible."
His mother pursed her lips, and kept her eyes on the inside of her book. But Draco noticed that her eyes didn't travel on the page. She was listening.
His throat burned, for whatever reason, and he swallowed. "We still have to find our food, and cover our faces, and fucking play catch with—"
"Enough." Lucius' face hardened, and Draco could already see the disinterest shaping his features. He broke eye contact, retaking the article. "Go get dressed."
He breathed hard and talked slowly. "I still have time."
"Listen to your father," his mother intervened.
He bit the inside of his cheeks and curled his hands under the table. He watched them both alternatively, trying to understand how they could beokaywith this new lifestyle. They had abandoned their Manor, their home, to establish in the Dark Lord's Empire. As if they had a choice. If they didn't, like Pansy's family, they would be traitors.
He left the table without a word and without tucking back his chair. He went to his room to change into his Scavenger outfit. It was fitted and stretchy, but he hated the thick-soles boots.
When he got down the stairs, his father was gathering his things by the front door. Narcissa was tying his cloak at his neck. He passed in front of them to get to the kitchen.
"Draco?" his mother called after him. "Don't you say goodbye to your father?"
He backtracked, hands in his pockets, and watched his parents. "Goodbye?"
"I'm going to France," his father said, his wife's knuckles grazing the underside of his chin. "Might be a few days. I already told you."
He shrugged. "Forgot."
Narcissa tutted reproachfully.
"What are you doing there?" he asked, just to make his mother happy.
"The Dark Lord needs me to retrieve something important. I'm not at liberty to say any more."
"Great," Draco said.
Lucius pulled his mother against him and kissed her. Then he looked at him. "You take care of your mother while I'm gone."
Draco was annoyed, tired, frustrated, moody. The world was broken and sick, and they were about to launch the first edition of a twisted tournament. He had caught a glimpse of the players' uniforms that Voldemort's house-elves were designing. Brown jumpsuit.
Brown like shite.
His father left and closed the door behind him, not even expecting a reply. Draco turned on his heels to continue his path to the kitchen.
"What is going on, love?" Narcissa demanded, following him.
"I'm thinking maybe it's time I move into those new dorms they're building."
Two weeks later
Draco had moved into the dorms and had captured six players—four muggles and two mudbloods. He'd painted the games' symbol on every surface he could find: concrete slabs, the bottom of empty pools, windows, brick walls, statues, vehicles, roofs.
Father was always tired and short-tempered, so Draco avoided 'family dinners' as much as he could. He focused on running every morning—along the borders, where he wouldn't cross many people. Each morning, the Scavengers met at Town Hall and checked if the High Scavengers had assigned something for them. Sometimes, they had the day off. They just never knew in advance.
When Theo wasn't out on a Scavenger hunt, they spent their evening together. Stealing Firewhiskey from Dolohov's storage in Town Hall and throwing stones in the Lake at midnight. They talked about Pansy, wondering where she was and if she'd made the right choice to flee the Empire.
Theo's company helped him forget he was unhappy.
And lonely.
Two months later
Narcissa had invited Draco and Theo to dinner that evening. It was the first week of September and the players had started their training. Draco and Theo were on the path to Hogsmeade—no, Cindermore—and the evening was dull and soft.
They climbed the steps to Malfoy House and Draco entered first. Already, he knew something wasn't right. There were torn sheets of newspapers on the floor and one of the dining room chairs was overturned. The door of his father's study was shut.
"Mum?" Draco called, advancing into the house. Theo closed the door behind them and removed his boots.
A sniff. "In here." Her voice drifted from the kitchen.
He found her in the kitchen, waving her wand at the floor to collect the thousands pieces of broken porcelain. Shattered plates and cups. She immediately wiped her eyes and turned her face away when he entered.
"Woah," Theo commented behind him.
Narcissa peeked at him, eyes sliding down to his feet. "Theodore, dear, don't come in. You'll hurt yourself."
Draco's boots crunched on the floor as he approached her. "What happened? Are you okay?"
Her eyes were red and her nose was running. "Your father is tired, that's all. I'm fine."
Shock coursed through his veins. "Did he do this? Mum, did he hurt you?"
"No, it's not like that." The pieces on the floor gathered in one pile. "I asked him to help me set the table while I finished the sauce. Said he was tired, that he didn't like pork, then he dropped everything. He's resting in his study."
His jaw clicked. "I'll be right back."
"Draco—"
"I'll clean this up, Mrs. Malfoy," Theo interjected, jumping into action and drawing his wand. "Why don't you sit on the stool? Actually, would you like me to mend them? I learned a spell that could…"
The voices dimmed as he left the kitchen and strided to his father's study. He opened the door abruptly without knocking. He slammed it behind him.
His father was sitting on his leather chair, leaning over the desk. The far wall was lined with shelves, and he was scribbling furiously on parchments.
He startled and spilled his ink when Draco barged in.
"Apologise to mum," he demanded.
Lucius said nothing, dabbing the ink spill with his sleeve.
Draco was stunned. "What are you evendoing?" He lurched to the desk, grabbing his father's arm, dripping with ink. "You're making a mess!"
His father yanked his arm free. "I'm tired, son, and I'm busy."
Draco wanted to jump over the desk, shake him by the shoulders and scream at him.
"You're always tired. You're acting like a child! What's going on?"
"It's none of your business!" Lucius snapped. His hair was untied, and his clothes were askew.
His father's tone wasn't something that bothered him anymore. "I don't care what you say to me. Whatever this is? It stops with mum."
Lucius got up, his sleeve dripping on the carpet, and walked slowly to him. They were the same height.
"You're an insolent little prick," his father gritted through his teeth.
Draco felt the sting of his words, but straightened. "And you're a horrible father and husband. Go shower."
He slammed the door on his way out, and the family portrait crashed on the floor. He went back to the kitchen, helped Theo clean while his mother finished cooking. Then, they ate together, the three of them, never glancing once at Lucius' study.
Ten months later
Draco had moved back into his parents' house three months ago. Three months ago, his father had run off in the middle of the night and had jumped into the Lake. Narcissa had woken up not so long after he was gone and found him. He was agitated, saying he'd had a bad dream, but that was the first time that she was having trouble following his train of thought. His sentences weren't well strung together.
The next morning, she had come to find Draco to tell him what had happened. He decided he didn't want to leave his mother alone to deal with this.
Since he'd move back, he had noticed how bad things really were. Lucius wasn't eating enough, and when Narcissa forced him to eat more, he exploded. He had lost weight, and his cheekbones were protruding, eyes sinking in their sockets.
His mother came back every day from the Hospital Wing with different vials and ingredients that could soothe him. She was scouring books trying to find any information about what was ailing him. They asked around. Nobody knew.
Draco's anger subsided, leaving place to confusion, then empathy, then sadness. He remained angry, because he didn't understand what was happening, and what he couldn't understand made him angry.
His mother told him countless times that they had to be patient and kind, and try their best not to provoke him. Lucius didn't always remember their names. He told the same stories over and over again, he forgot normal things, fell asleep in uncommon places and chewed his own hair.
None of the other Death Eaters knew what was happening to him. Nobody could help.
Now, in May of 1999, Draco was sitting in front of the Lake with his father, gazing at the sparkling surface of the water. The first edition of the Games was over. It was the middle of the afternoon and his mother was taking a nap. He figured she could rest even better if they were out of the house.
Lucius pointed at the Arena. "I remember when you played Quidditch."
A pleasant warmth spread in Draco's chest. "You do?"
"Of course. You were an excellent Keeper."
The burn returned. "Seeker, dad."
His father frowned. "You're sure?"
He nodded and they kept quiet for a few minutes. Draco didn't know what they could talk about anymore. Chances were, they wouldn't stay on topic for more than ten seconds. He'd rather when his father asked him questions—this way, all he had to do was answer.
But today, no. Today, there was a question hovering in his mind, and he cursed himself for not asking it sooner. For not asking it before…this.
"Dad?"
Lucius hummed.
"Were you really on board with the Dark Lord's plan?"
"What plan?"
"The fog, the games—" He gestured to everything around him. "The Empire. All of it."
His father stayed quiet for a few heartbeats. Then, he turned to him. "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing, I just—"
"What do you want me to do, Draco?"
"I asked if—"
"What do you want me to do?" His father started to fidget and squirm, changing position and bouncing both of his knees. His eyes flooded with tears. "Tell me what you want me to do…"
A blanket of lead fell over Draco and he felt guilty. "Let's get you back inside." He tugged his father up and kept his hands on his elbows to steady him.
"What do you want me to do?" Lucius cried, shaking.
"You have nothing to do, dad," he answered softly. "Just try to rest."
They walked back toward Cindemore, slowly and shakily. His father couldn't stomach Apparition anymore, not even for a short trip.
He kept asking the same thing, over and over again. And Draco tried different variations of soothing replies.
When they got back to the house, Lucius was still crying and Draco led him to the guest room where he'd been sleeping. His father curled up on the bed, laying on his side, and Draco removed his shoes.
"He told us…" Lucius began. "He told us that we shouldn't go in the Lake."
"Who?"
His father straightened abruptly to a sitting position. "We can't swim in the Lake. We can't swim in the Lake!"
Draco shushed quietly. "It's okay, we won't go swimming."
Slowly, Lucius laid back until his head sank in the pillow. "What do you want me to do…" he mumbled, words slurring.
He threw a blanket over his legs. "There's nothing to do but get some sleep, okay?"
Lucius said nothing, staring at the ceiling.
Draco walked to the door. "Want something to eat?"
His father licked his lips, his temples wet with tears. "It's been a long time since I had a chocolate frog."
Draco blinked. "...Okay. I'll find one." He closed the door quietly. His mother woke thirty minutes later and he told her everything. Then, he left. It was his day off, and he spent hours looking for a chocolate frog. When the evening came, he still hadn't found one. Theo came back from his Scavenger run with a captured player for next year, and Draco decided that he should look into thereal worldto find what he was looking for.
He didn't find a chocolate frog. He went to Diagon Alley, Wizards' villages, and scoured the Hogwarts Express. His search wasn't over. He didn't know it yet, but for every future Scavenger run he'd do, he'd search for a chocolate frog. Hoping to find the very last one on earth.
When he came back to the Empire, dawn was streaking the sky and he was empty-ended. He walked by the Whomping Willow and his heart stopped, then shattered. The pain was so sharp that his hand flew to his chest.
His father's body was swaying under the tree, hung by the neck.