August

Draco splashed cool water on his face despite just getting out of the shower. He focused on its trail down his chin and flinched when it dripped onto his chest. They had often toasted overthrowing the Ministry, but there was more to tonight than Bella's shrieking laughter and the shattering of wine glasses.

Throwing a gala for Thicknesse, with reporters attending, demanded perfection. The weight settled over him as his hands tightened on the cool, marble vanity. His breaths created mocking little wisps of steam on the mirror. Draco thought he heard it rattle; maybe it was just easier to focus on sounds than reflections.

Neesy had prepared his clothes for the evening. Tonight he'd have to greet every major political figure in the country while wearing a modern set of robes—cut to fit on top, long sleeves and a high collar, but loose-fitted, flowing trousers from the waist down. They were patterned to resemble stained glass, gilded in roses and embellished with minuscule rubies. The trousers were red and reflected light as if fashioned from gemstone. Draco's finger moved to the hem of a leg and twitched slightly with the desire to tear a thread loose.

They were improper.

They were immodest.

There were three diamond-shaped cutouts along his collarbone. If not for fear of stretching them out—making it worse, he always did have a knack for fucking things up—he would have stuck a fist inside.

Like that would change that the slits revealed one of the heaviest scars on his chest.

Like it wasn't an omen, his every thought on the cusp of undoing. The more he tried to conceal, the more he exposed himself

He dried his face and stared at the mottled, raised scarring in the mirror. Since it left a residue, he couldn't apply the muggle medication tonight—not that he'd noticed any improvement. That should have meant he was free of this torment, but instead he found himself stepping slowly into his pants, all too aware he was not remotely his own anymore.

When he was younger he'd have relished this. Back when galas were just parties full of important people, and the only thing he knew of importance was that the dark lord commanded it. When measuring up didn't mean where he stood or who stood on him, and fitting in just meant looking and sounding the part.

The mark on his forearm was proof of where that had gotten him.

As though acknowledging the Mark were enough to summon him, the door opened and the dark lord entered. Draco's heart lurched in time with his body, hands barely grasping his robes before a wave of Voldemort's wand sent them flying across the room.

He crossed his arms over his chest but they offered no defense. Reeling and disarmed, Draco tried to work out why Voldemort had come. He recognized the spell Voldemort cast as the one he had used to visualize the cabinet repairs, that showed the magic surrounding an object.

The air around them turned hazy, as if to mist, and Draco broke away from reading Voldemort's lips to follow the path of his stare. To the scars.

What had been flesh seconds before was heavy black streaks of roiling rot. Bile crept up his throat as he looked in the mirror, finding the same ooze crawling along his face and throat. Draco almost gagged, tried, but found his lips cemented together.

He tore at what had once been a scar, desperate to shred the curse open and unearth himself beneath it. He lost his fingers in the shroud of darkness, which drained away the idea of light and lapped at its boundaries, like it wanted to consume more.

Inhaling drew no air.

Touch lost all sensation.

In his mind, Draco wrenched himself open spectacularly, down to his rib cage to touch the human parts of himself that beat and breathed. In reality, he couldn't even manage to draw blood where his skin had knitted together. There was no discerning himself from the void that twisted roots through his body.

Voldemort turned Draco to face him again.

"What has caused this surprise? Certainly you knew the nature of a curse."

"I can't—"

He clawed at his chest. He hadn't thought the scars could get worse, and this evil couldn't remain a part of him. It crossed his heart and nearly his lips. The blackness pulsed with a fervor beyond his comprehension, and even as panic stole his breath, it was darkness dancing across his vision.

Ravenous.

Unyielding.

"Does the absence of magic frighten you? Or is it the revelation that Dumbledore's salvation created such corruption?"

This wasn't Harry's doing. If Draco hadn't antagonized him, if he'd just maintained his composure, things wouldn't be falling apart. He wouldn't be falling apart.

Curse scars don't heal.

"I admit, seeing the epitome of pureness so easily defiled sparks interest."

A long finger traced the scar traveling from his cheekbone, past his lips, down his throat. Draco trembled, not letting himself swallow against the dark lord's fingers. They withdrew clean, unmarred by the curse's sludge.

"It has taken complete hold. It is little surprise your healers have failed."

"Please end the spell. Please."

"Hiding the curse will not undo it."

"My lord. Please."

He wanted to cover himself, but also didn't want his hands anywhere near the curse. His wand was in his bedroom. Knowing it was there would be agonizing; having to see them would be unlivable.

A short incantation from Voldemort returned the scars to their prior appearance and the air around Draco cleared of the haze. Gratitude for the scars that had dictated his life since April flooded through him. Everyone had scars. He could have gone his entire life without knowing the truth hidden by a single spell.

Draco clutched the vanity, nearly doubled over as he tried to collect himself. Healer Morgan had been tasked to lessen the appearance. The appearance no longer bothered him. The knowledge settled on his shoulders like a yoke.

His shoulders were bare.

Voldemort hadn't left.

Spinning quickly, Draco grabbed for his robes. He didn't hesitate in putting them on to cover himself. The scars, the gaudiness of the robes, none of it mattered. His body was striped with that absence.

"Give me your arm."

Draco hadn't fastened the robes where the wide front panel connected to either shoulder. He held it in place with his right hand and offered his left. Voldemort loosened the lacing, pushed back the sleeve, and cast the revealing spell at the Mark.

Flinching, Draco started to pull back, but rather than the darkness from Harry's curse, all the spell revealed were a few strands of energy circling his arm, and one connecting the Mark to Voldemort.

"My Mark is a form of curse," Voldemort said. "The difference between the two is fascinating."

He examined his handiwork by turning Draco's arm to either side.

"Wouldn't curses be the same?" Draco asked.

"It would seem the one Potter struck you with has remained active."

Harry had told Draco what spell he had cast. Sectumsempra. To cut forever. If it remained active, wouldn't he still bleed? The incantation made it a killing curse. If it was active, Draco should have died already.

"I thought Snape reversed it."

"He used a healing incantation, a melody, as I understand. Vulnera Sanentur. "

Draco closed his eyes while he translated. Would it be Wounds heal or Heal the wounds?

"What difference does it make if it's a melody?"

"Melodic incantations lull a spell or curse into a desired outcome, much like putting it to sleep."

"So it could activate again? I'm not healed? It's just dormant?"

"As I said, fascinating."

Once again, Voldemort ended the revealing spell. He released Draco's arm.

"Your guests will arrive shortly."

Voldemort left him at that. Draco caught himself after taking a step to follow. His upbringing, any lingering beliefs, former ideologies—none of them could have convinced him to follow the dark lord. But the notion of getting that rot off of him? Voldemort might end up as his only option.

He stopped himself.

The hand holding his robes to his chest became his focus. His heart thrummed under his palm. His chest rose and fell in a long, heavy rhythm. He traced the embroidery under his fingers.

Draco's mind needed to be a fortress.

Your skin is covered in death.

He shook his head. Despite the circumstances, Draco remained a Malfoy, and the name carried responsibilities. Pius Thicknesse needed to be properly schmoozed, and the other guests expected a flawless evening. None of them would care about invisible scars.

For the next several hours, the mark on his arm had to take precedence. The choice to come back here was his own and one he would have to live with.

It was only a gala.

He'd been branded with a lasting curse.

Fuck, Malfoy. You're all I think about.

Draco exhaled to keep himself from screaming. Voldemort could very well be in the next room.

"Neesy."

She responded immediately, popping into the room wearing a finer sheet than normal. Merlin forbid a guest accidentally happened upon the help in their usual state.

"I can't reach these fastenings."

Draco sat at the stool in front of his mirror so that Neesy could reach his shoulders. He pointedly stared at nothing to avoid his reflection. How could he face himself again, knowing what was underneath?

"Have people begun to arrive?"

"Neesy is seeing guests, Master Draco."

"I don't suppose you'd apparate me to the States?"

Neesy gave his shoulder an understanding pat. He didn't know the limits of house elf magic, but he knew she could apparate in and out of the Manor, where Draco hadn't managed to apparate a meter without splinching himself.

"Isn't Master Draco loving parties?"

"I'm not convinced there is time to love anything during a war."

Even if his role in said war was merely to brew potions and dress in the finest clothing money could afford.

Back in April, he had started to believe there might have been space for such frivolities. Such thoughts only reinforced his ignorance. Did he ever actually have a choice?

Neesy finished fastening the robes at his shoulders, and relaced the left sleeve. She stepped away to give him a once-over, much like his Mother often did.

"Master Draco is looking much healthier."

Wearing fitted robes a few months ago would have revealed more than just the scarring on his chest. Being monitored at every meal meant he put back on the weight he had lost during the school year. The victory was hollow, but might end up the only reason for celebration he was given for the foreseeable future.

"Your cooking has always been superior to what is served at school."

Neesy flushed furiously and went to slam her hand in the nearest drawer. Draco caught her before she could, and sent her away before she had a chance to address his statement. From there, he had to meet his reflection to style his hair.

The scars were unchanged; it was only his knowledge of them that had shifted. The two on his face didn't seem so terrible now. Neither had cut anything significant. They were dark and textured, but if Draco hadn't been so pale, they might not have been so prominent.

They were scars, and everyone had scars.

Draco rolled back his shoulders to straighten his posture. He swallowed and held his own gaze.

No one needed to know the truth.

Draco had tried to kill himself at someone else's hand; he had to live with a little death.

The band played at a modest volume, just slightly louder than the buzz of conversation. The Malfoy ballroom was filled with the country's foremost leaders and families of status. Any other year, Draco would have delighted in meeting as many people as he could, if only to later brag about knowing them all and exaggerating their interactions, but tonight, he was content to stand with his father and be grateful so many people had shown up in an array of colors. If this had been a Death Eater meeting, Draco would have gleamed. Tonight, he was one of many dressed brightly.

Draco eyed the drink trays that slowly floated around the room, but with the cameras and certainly the dark lord's gaze, he thought better of drinking. The dark lord was always watching, even if Draco couldn't see him.

The gala had been going on for just under an hour, and Lucius was just now getting over to Thicknesse, despite being the host. His evident irritation bled over to Draco. For the host to be pushed back from greeting the guest of honor, the slight was unmistakable.

Draco should have cared.

Being put in this position should have bothered him. It should have held equal offense to how Lucius reacted, but Draco's only annoyance was maintaining formalities.

It was Macnair who had been tasked with babysitting the imperiused Thicknesse. Macnair scowled at Draco, and Draco barely gave him a moment's attention. He'd seen the man on his knees, barking at the dark lord's command. A trophy was better than a dog.

Lucius shook Thicknesse's hand, but Draco kept his hands neatly folded in front of him, choosing instead to incline his head. Under the light of the chandelier, a light shimmer gave away the glamour hiding the milky eyes of the imperius curse. The Minister needed to look his best. Who would question a glamour if noticed?

"Minister," Lucius began. "Your recent restructuring has led to excellent shifts in the Ministry staff."

"There were quite a number of sympathizers in our midst. They would have offered muggles a say in our world."

"Terrible business. Wizardkind has every reason to be grateful for the change you're heading."

Lucius and Macnair exchanged a glance. The words were entirely for those within earshot. Pius Thicknesse had no mind. Voldemort pulled his strings and dictated his actions. Draco had been in the room when Voldemort, Macnair, Rookwood, and Rosier planned out the imperius curse. Rookwood had cast it. Macnair babysat him. Voldemort decided what policies Thicknesse enacted.

Politics bored Draco as much as they bored Voldemort.

But Thicknesse turned to Draco. His eyes focused on the scars. "It's such a pity you were assaulted so violently. Our students shouldn't fear for their lives."

Whose words were those?

"Hogwarts has always been dangerous," Draco said, uninterested in a conversation with a puppet.

"To think, the boy-legend capable of such an atrocity," Thicknesse pressed on, voice loud enough people glanced their way. He continued, "I trust you saw the Prophet."

Draco had seen it and burned it. He should have taken the time to read the accompanying article. He might've stopped to see where they found a recent picture of Harry, but seeing Undesirable No. 1 plastered on the front page had led him to act without thinking.

"I did, although I doubt Potter was labelled as such because of a schoolyard squabble."

"He will be brought to justice."

"Justice?" Draco asked, unable to stop an amused smile. "Is that what we're doing?"

Lucius grabbed Draco's arm. "We've taken up enough of your time, Minister. Enjoy your evening."

Draco didn't resist being led away, not with so many witnesses. He was already dressed to draw attention. A bratty tantrum would only make him a glittering brat.

"Draco," Lucius said, a breathy sigh. "Tonight isn't the night."

"Oh? When is?"

He relented when he saw his father's expression. It wasn't the time because there would never be a time. Money and blood no longer provided the freedoms it previously had. They were slaves to the dark lord.

"I'll behave," Draco assured his father. "Go continue hosting."

"First come with me. There is one more greeting you and I need to make."

Draco had been trailing at his father's side since the evening began, and was certain they had made small talk with every important person in the room and in the garden. He had been eager to slip away to the outskirts of the party where he could drink and burn through the night. At least in the shadows, he wouldn't shine.

"We both know I won't be pursuing politics," Draco said in a vain attempt to avoid more performance, but he nonetheless followed Lucius around the edge of the ballroom, avoiding the loud conversations among the elite of society, people who accepted their invitation likely out of allegiance to the dark lord, not due to the name on the invitation.

Draco hadn't seen the dark lord since he'd been cornered about the scars. It was hard to picture Voldemort attending tonight, given his penchant for wearing simple gray robes. Standing next to Draco, the dark lord might as well have been walking around in rags.

It was Octavius Greengrass who lifted a hand in greeting. Draco scraped his thoughts for any reason for the introduction. He wouldn't have thought the Greengrasses would even merit an invite.

"Lucius," Octavius greeted, using both hands to shake Lucius's. "Any more guests and you'll need a larger house."

"Or at least an expansion to the ballroom."

Octavius then turned to Draco. His expression soured as he looked Draco over, but like everyone did, his gaze settled on the scarring.

"The rumors were greatly exaggerated. I'd heard you were practically mauled."

"It's an unflattering reason to be talked about," Draco said, making himself accept the handshake.

"I'm glad the severity is overstated."

You should see the truth.

Octavius took a wine glass from the tray as it drifted by. He gave it a swirl before continuing to speak. "As the future of the Malfoy house, you need a presentable face."

Draco gave the comment a moment to breathe. If it was meant to offend him, then Octavius did his job well. It also might have been that glass of wine was one of many for the evening.

"I'd manage even without one."

With a clap on Draco's shoulder, Octavius let out a laugh that might have been intended to sound jolly. Draco cast a sideways glance to the hand on his shoulder, and then carried on to look at his father. The reason for this conversation still hadn't come to him. Lucius hadn't jumped in to defend Draco or the insult to his own bloodline.

"Naturally," Octavius said, and drank half his glass. "Now, you've met my daughters?"

With a sweep of the arm, Octavius gestured behind him to where Daphne and Astoria stood silently. Draco hadn't spotted them before, and nodded to them both. Daphne was a bigger bitch than Draco was, and Astoria two years his junior. He had little reason to give them either much thought, but wanted to return the slight against him.

"Given that I've essentially lived with them for the past six years, I'd say so."

Astoria smirked, at least.

"Good, good. I believe it's the first time we've been invited for a visit. Next time, you'll have to show the girls around."

Then it clicked, and Draco shielded his mind to help shield his expression. It was so unimaginable that he couldn't give it a second of consideration. Not now, not with everyone who was anyone standing around him.

"It's a terrible time of year to see our gardens," Draco said. "Mother tends to choose what blooms in spring."

"Draco is underselling the grounds," Lucius said. "He can give an excellent tour."

Draco met his father's gaze. His father actually wanted this. His father had brought in the bloody Greengrasses. They weren't in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They weren't even meant to be a possibility. They were nobodies.

"I could make do," Draco said and gave his most insincere smile. "Ideally before it gets too cold. There's so much to see outside."

"Good man." Octavius clapped Draco's shoulder again. He teetered a bit with the momentum, answering Draco's earlier thoughts about him being inebriated. This was what Lucius thought about Draco?

Draco kept himself steady until Octavius stepped back on his own, fearing what would happen if he moved and let the man topple. If Lucius's absurd plan went through, this would be Draco's father-in-law.

A Greengrass.

Once again finding his father's gaze, Draco pointedly looked to the door that would lead to the kitchen. No guests would wander into a servants' area. If they wanted to guarantee privacy, the kitchen was the nearest and safest bet. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to see if his father was following.

The buzz of the gala faded behind them, and when the heavy wooden door to the kitchen closed behind them, Draco didn't need to cast a silencing charm.

"A Greengrass?" Draco demanded.

"The Greengrasses are a respected family."

The elves refilling drink trays didn't look at them. But they didn't look in such a way that made it overtly obvious they weren't looking.

"The Greengrasses are no one. What am I meant to think here? I'm too ruined for any noble family to want me?"

His breathing picked up as the anger tightened in his chest. The pressure mounted and he wanted to rip off the fitted robes to make his breaths come more easily. He hooked a finger in his collar, but it offered no relief.

"You'll do as you're told," Lucius said.

"So I'm meant to believe," Draco said, finding a crack in the stone flooring a particularly compelling point of focus, "That you're going to give up centuries of careful breeding because I've been scarred?"

"You are unrelated to the Greengrasses. That can't be said for most girls in the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"Stop acting like this is expected. Tell me why. Tell me why I'm meant to marry myself off to someone with nothing to offer?"

"You have always known you would marry who you were told," Lucius said, and the heaviness in his voice drew Draco's eyes. It was the first time Draco truly wished he had learned legilimency rather than occlumency. He hardly recognized his father in the moment.

"I'm your son. When did that stop meaning something?"

Lucius's demeanor hardened. "You belong to the dark lord."

The breaths that had been coming to him so quickly stopped. Draco deflated, shoulders falling and mind going blank. He had heard that whispered for the last several months, but after Macnair, no one dared say it to his face.

He didn't expect it from his own father.

"You're his, and everyone knows it," Lucius went on. "Who do you think would give their daughter to you?"

Rolling his eyes upwards, Draco swallowed heavily, unable to find any of his typical methods of containing his emotions. When everything had fallen apart, he trusted in one thing. He had come back here for his parents. He picked them over his own well being. He always imagined that would be reciprocated.

He should have left with Harry.

Draco turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. He nearly tripped over an elf—he didn't check which—and wiped his face on his way back to the ballroom. Shaking his head wouldn't clear away any redness, and Draco again cursed his coloring. All his life he had been told he was the result of centuries of breeding the purest genes, but that had been all for nothing. His father tossed that aside. Neither of the Greengrass girls would keep that supposed purity in the bloodline.

He was irritatingly pale for absolutely nothing. His entire life had been for nothing.

A hand grabbed his arm the moment he exited the hallway. Draco reached to pull it away, but recognized the hand at once. The manicured nails dug into his arm likely for her own amusement.

"It's about time you're free," Pansy said. "We're huddling in the drawing room."

"Thank Merlin," Draco said. He moved her hand to hold his, and let her weave them through the attendees, searching out privacy and the familiarity of past events. Pansy knew the Manor as well as Draco did after years of play dates and one odd summer, actual dates.

"After that awkward encounter, I thought better of inviting Daphne to join."

"You overheard?"

"Enough. I'll drive a dagger through your heart before you marry Daphne, that bitch."

Draco didn't even realize how much he'd missed her. The summer had passed entirely without contact. Brewing potions, practicing apparition, and attending stifling meetings had consumed every summer day, and Draco hadn't had a moment to write to any of his friends. The fact that they hadn't written him either had played something of a role in his failure to write.

They ducked out of the ballroom, down the windowed corridor that cast moonlighted shadows on them, and into the drawing room, where Crabbe, Goyle, and Theo were gathered, passing around a bottle. Although it was the end of August, they had a roaring fire going, likely to account for having removed all the outerwear pieces of their formal robes.

"Malfoy," Crabbe said, raising the bottle to him. "You look like a right minger."

"Piss off."

Draco took the bottle and the empty sofa, glad his robes were trousers so he could hike up a leg. He took a long drink from the bottle before handing it off to Goyle.

"Haven't heard from you all summer," Goyle said. Goyle never drank, so he handed it over to Theo.

"Been busy, haven't I? War isn't all duels and spells."

"You missed the end of the school year," Theo said, rolling the bottle against his palms. "Why didn't you come back?"

Draco wanted an answer that saved face, but even the best lie still ended with the same root answer: "I won't be going back."

"At all?" Pansy asked. She sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning in to convey sincerity. The mood in the room had already shifted since Draco's arrival, but they would find out the truth tomorrow when Draco wasn't on the train.

"At all."

"McGruder didn't come back either," Goyle said.

"Last I heard, Thomas went back to Durmstrang."

"Was he ever Thomas?" Pansy asked.

Draco looked up at her. He had told her more than anyone, but only because she had guessed near enough to the truth. Regardless of that, information was power and he wouldn't put that burden on her.

"Thomas McGruder was here in April, when he received accolades from the dark lord," he said, using enough of the truth to throw her off. The public story didn't include Voldemort living as a student for half a year. After playing his part for so long, Draco wouldn't ruin things by revealing unwanted information.

"Yes, I heard of that," Pansy said. "Apparently I'm betrothed to him."

Draco put his hand on her knee. "They went through with that?"

She flipped her hand dismissively. "Nothing will come of it. My father wouldn't dream of letting me marry for at least another three years."

His warning to Thomas had been his best chance at keeping Pansy out of this chaos. But like Draco didn't have a choice in who his father married him off to, Pansy wouldn't either.

"You'll chase him off," Draco agreed.

"If you think I should."

"I don't know him well enough to have an opinion."

"You two were practically conjoined all last year," Crabbe said. "How couldn't you know him?"

The door creaking made them all jump. They turned, Theo instinctively hiding the bottle despite them all being of age, but no one came inside. Draco stood to check the hall, then saw the source of the sound.

Nagini had pushed open the door with her head, and began slithering into the room. Pansy covered her mouth and failed to cover a quiet gasp. Draco held out a hand to still the others, not wanting anyone to jump and cause a sudden movement. He might have gotten comfortable around her, but he never forgot that she was venomous.

"Stay where you are," Draco said. "I don't think she'll hurt anyone."

He moved seats to keep Nagini away from Pansy. Draco sat on the floor beside the fireplace, leaning back against the polished stone, and Nagini put her head in his lap. The others gawked in their direction. Draco had gotten used to that from essentially everyone who came into the Manor.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," Crabbe said.

"The dark lord thinks highly of her," Draco said, using the simplest explanation he'd found. "I've often been tasked with watching her."

It didn't explain why she'd sought him out tonight. Draco checked the door, half-expecting Voldemort to follow her in, although he hadn't made an appearance at the gala. But the door remained partially open.

Horrified looks rained down on him. So much of his life had become unexplainable.

When Nagini looked at him with a familiar red glint in her eyes, it was just another thing for the list.