Draco couldn't recall the last time he'd opened the secret drinks cupboard in his bedroom. He still drank, of course, but almost never alone, and not as furtively as he'd done during house arrest. On the second of May, however, he filled a flask before leaving for Hogwarts, since there was no way he'd get through the day without imbibing.
He still couldn't believe he was going. Mother, at least, was a sort of heroine; if she hadn't lied to the Dark Lord, the entire war might have gone the other way. But he himself had been worse than useless. He had tried and failed to capture Harry—who ended up saving his life—and he lost an old friend to Fiendfyre. Admittedly, Vince had cast the deadly fire himself, but Draco still felt vaguely responsible.
"Consider them your vassals," Father had said when Draco started school. "They aren't your equals, but they still have a use. Particularly at your age, when Gryffindors are more prone to fighting like Muggles than men. And in return, you'll provide direction—which I'm sure they'll need, if they're anything like their fathers."
He therefore treated Crabbe and Goyle like servants, just as Father had advised. But really, he was doing them a favour! Without Draco, they were merely a pair of dullards who would otherwise be excluded from Slytherin life. But his patronage gave them status, and he even helped them revise, since it would be highly inconvenient if they fell behind. They'd be lost without me, he frequently thought, as they lumbered through Hogwarts behind him.
Looking back, however, he wished he had never met them. Their outcomes mightn't have changed—their fathers were Death Eaters, after all. But Draco wouldn't feel as if he had led them there, as he did now. Their dismal fates—Vince burnt to ashes, and Greg condemned to Azkaban—had often fuelled his desire to drink, if only to forget.
After tucking the flask in his pocket, he went downstairs to find Mother. "Are those your father's robes?" she said, arching a single eyebrow.
Cronk had altered the distinguishing elements, but Mother missed nothing. "Yes," said Draco. "Do you object?"
Her sigh was audible. "They suit your colouring, certainly, and the style is timeless. And it's not as if he'll ever wear them again," she said, somewhat resignedly. "But still, it seems disrespectful somehow."
"To Father, or to everyone else?"
"Both. But no one will know, and perhaps it's a good reminder."
That was precisely why Draco had worn them: to remind himself of Father's mistakes. It was a Tuesday, when everything was Voldemort's fault, which reduced Father to a mere follower. But Draco refused to follow anyone. Not Father, not the other Dark families, and especially not Harry—which Draco knew was the primary risk.
Now that everyone knew that his Dark Mark was gone—and that Harry had removed it—people assumed he had become Harry's lapdog. "No, I haven't," he insisted, when Reginald Baxter interrogated him at Pratt's. "All I've done is stop pretending I could ever serve another Dark Lord."
"But what about a Light Lord?" said Baxter. "As the leader of the Dark faction, I need to know where you stand. The Malfoys were once a reliable vote."
"I'll always uphold wizarding traditions, but I won't be anyone's puppet."
"You're Potter's puppet," scoffed Magnus Travers. "He's seduced you as thoroughly as he seduced my granddaughter."
Draco objected fiercely, but Travers raised a steadying hand. "I'm speaking figuratively," he said. "Although perhaps it is literal, given your absence from the Boudoir in recent months."
If not for the Pratt's code of civility—and his defective wand—Draco would have been tempted to curse him. "I didn't realise I was being observed. And Potter has nothing to do with that."
"He cleaned up the mess when you ruined Catherine White," continued Travers. "I assume he advised you to sow your wild oats with a blood traitor."
No, a Muggle, thought Draco. "My private life isn't your concern," he said frostily.
"Then what about your magic?" asked Baxter. "Have you succumbed to the mania for Light magic? Or do you still practise the Dark Arts?"
"I have no interest in learning Light magic," said Draco, dodging the second question. He still indulged in conceit, which had always fuelled his Dark magic, but his wand prevented him from casting with it. Furthermore, his old desire to humiliate Potter had been replaced by pride in their friendship. I'm his only equal, he thought with satisfaction.
"So we won't see your Patronus anytime soon?" said a wizard, which launched a debate over whether the Patronus Charm was technically Light.
"It isn't," said Romulus Wynter. "Light magic is far more volatile. I've heard of cases where the practitioner's entire personality changed overnight. For example, an otherwise sensible witch or wizard might suddenly tell their spouse they no longer love them, since love is a mere emotion, and they've transcended all emotion," he said with contempt. "Whereas the Patronus merely frightens Dementors."
Draco remained silent as they denounced the Light Arts, hoping they'd forget they were interrogating him. But Baxter wasn't distracted. "Malfoy, I understand why you've aligned yourself with Potter. He freed you from house arrest, and you're quickly clearing your family name. But mark my words: he won't be satisfied until the Dark Arts are forbidden entirely."
"That hardly seems likely," said Draco. "And House Malfoy would never support such a measure." Which was true, since he fully intended to resume practising the Dark Arts that summer, after purchasing a new wand. He was allowed to defend himself, certainly, and Dark magic was the surest method. He wouldn't cast Unforgivables, nor anything gruesome—he would simply get the job done, as the current laws permitted.
Baxter was unconvinced, but they agreed to a loose alliance, which reassured Draco he was still his own man. I might be Harry's friend, but I'll never be his acolyte, he liked to remind himself. And I'm certainly not his groupie.
Unfortunately, he felt like a groupie at Hogwarts that morning, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Harry. Like all the attendees, Draco and Narcissa had to pass a security checkpoint at the main Hogwarts gate, which Draco found humiliating.
"Well now, look who's here," said the guard who inspected them. "I know I've met you somewhere. Wait, don't tell me—I never forget a face."
Narcissa tightened her grip on Draco's arm, silently ordering him not to reply. "Good morning," she said, her tone more steely than warm. "How nice to see you again."
It was one of the guards from the Ministry jail where Draco and Narcissa had been held. "The pleasure is mine, Lady Malfoy," he said, conveying no respect at all. "I'm curious, though—do you serve Harry Potter from the same dishes you used with You-Know-Who?" Narcissa was silent, and he said, "What about the throne old Voldy used to sit on? Does someone else use it now, or did you just stow it away until the next Dark Lord turns up?"
"He didn't use a throne," snapped Draco, despite his mother's grip. "And yes, we still use the same dishes and cutlery. Just like how you're inspecting us with the same wand you use to–"
"Draco!" cried Narcissa, which drew the attention of another guard—one whom they regularly bribed while visiting Azkaban.
"Leave it, Bosworth," she ordered, then she inspected the Malfoys herself. "Sorry about that, ma'am," she said when Bosworth was gone. "You eventually did the right thing, and that's what matters."
Narcissa's smile was strained, and she quickly led Draco past the gate. "Salazar, give me strength," she murmured, and they walked towards a pavilion near the lake. It had been erected for the ceremony, and their plan was to sit near the back.
But when they entered, a Ravenclaw prefect with a clipboard said, "This way, Mrs Malfoy," and before they could protest, he led them to a roped section near the front. "For special guests," he explained.
Aunt Andromeda and her werewolf boyfriend were there, along with other prominent mourners, including the Weasleys. Normally Draco would seek out Ginny, but she was soothing her overwrought mum, with Wendy at her side. And George was ghostly pale, flanked by two more Weasleys, including the one scarred by Fenrir Greyback. Another werewolf, thought Draco, but nothing like Harry's tutor. And Greyback could never have entered Hogwarts without my help, he reminded himself.
Fleur Delacour, hugely pregnant, clearly made the connection. She shot Draco an icy glare, then whispered to Hermione Granger. Granger turned and gave him a weak smile, which was friendlier than the look from Ryan Bellamy. Janet Lindhurst, however, gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, while Ron Weasley ignored him entirely.
Fortunately, Percy was also there, looking as awkward as Draco felt. "Draco, it's good to see you," he said, then he introduced himself to Narcissa. They engaged in meaningless small talk, and Draco felt grateful that the Weasleys had spawned at least one black sheep.
Narcissa asked where Harry was, and Percy pointed to a cluster of people near the stage. "He was down here earlier, but the foreign dignitaries all wanted to meet him," said Percy. "I suppose he's always the centre of attention, but today most of all."
As the pavilion continued to fill, Draco felt more like a blood traitor than ever. Kingsley Shacklebolt acknowledged him warmly, and so did Hagrid, to Draco's shock. Fortunately, Merrick Bode still hated him—the taciturn head of the DMLE shot the Malfoys a scathing look. In return, Draco pulled back his sleeve to admire his unblemished forearm, until Mother saw what he was doing and scolded him.
Finally the students arrived, filling the rows in the back. They weren't grouped by house, and Draco saw ample evidence of inter-house friendships. But divisions remained, as demonstrated by the cluster of stony-faced Slytherins.
The ceremony began with a song of remembrance, performed by a choir, then a moment of silence for those who had died. Next came a series of speeches, which were poignant and mostly brief. More than one speaker bemoaned the wards that for decades had suppressed knowledge of the other schools. And while no one mentioned Phineas Nigellus Black, Draco felt a perverse pride in the family connection. With ancestors like that, it's no wonder I was such an idiot, he told himself.
The overall mood was subdued, but it seemed to shift when Harry came to the podium, as if everyone were holding their breath. Starstruck fools, thought Draco, before noticing that he too had forgotten to breathe.
"Is that a poppy?" whispered Mother, with evident horror at Harry's boutonnière. It clashed with his robes, which were trimmed in Slytherin green, but even worse was the flower's meaning. "What on earth was he thinking?" she hissed into Draco's ear, and he heard similar whispers behind him.
"Good morning," said Harry nervously. "Er, judging from some of your expressions, I should probably explain my boutonnière," he said, glancing down at it. "Yes, it's a poppy, and yes, they normally mean 'pleasure'. But that's not why I'm wearing it today. It's actually a Muggle tradition that started eighty years ago, after a devastating war."
He described how poppies had sprung from the battle-scarred fields of Flanders, where thousands of soldiers had died. "Every year on Remembrance Day, Muggles wear poppies to honour the dead, and also as a reminder to keep the faith. Which is why I'm wearing one now. Because we may have won the war, but as long as blind hatred exists, our work isn't done."
Harry's gaze briefly found the Slytherins in the back. "I fully admit that hatred exists on all sides. For example, I learnt to mistrust Slytherins literally my first day in the wizarding world. Which meant that when the Sorting Hat tried to put me there, I begged to go somewhere else. And because Slytherins and Gryffindors traditionally hated each other, I only saw them at their worst, and vice versa."
Draco felt oddly proud again, knowing Harry was talking about him. I certainly saw his worst, he thought with satisfaction, recalling their duel in Myrtle's lavatory.
"Things got even more dire as we got older and our magic grew stronger. It's one thing to hate Gryffindors—particularly when we deserved it. But to hate Muggles and Muggleborn wizards, and to harm them ..."
Harry trailed into silence, forcing Draco to finish his train of thought. Vicki forgave me, he reminded himself, but he still burned with shame.
"To be clear, I'm no longer talking about Slytherins, most of whom weren't Death Eaters. In fact, I'm proud to be a Slytherin now, particularly if it furthers my ambition to prevent the next war. But first and foremost, we need to remember."
He paid tribute to the fallen, as other speakers had done. "But now I want to talk about a classmate whose funeral I didn't attend. There was nothing noble about his death, and he wasn't a hero. In fact, he tried to kill me with Fiendfyre. And yet, I've come to consider his death one of the greatest tragedies of the war."
Draco tensed and his throat went dry, even though Harry had warned him about this. But the mere mention of Fiendfyre could bring back his very worst memory.
"His name was Vincent Crabbe," said Harry. "And I'll never know why he was sorted into Slytherin, since he showed little evidence of cunning or ambition, or even much intelligence. I'll grant you, he was a pretty good Beater, and I'm sure he'd have done well in Muggle sports, if he'd been willing to try them. But otherwise he didn't seem to have a lot of talent."
Yes, point taken, thought Draco irritably. Harry wasn't exaggerating, but did he really need to harp on how thick Vincent was?
"As it happens, there's a time-honoured method for increasing one's magical ability, which Crabbe used to great effect. It's called the Dark Arts, and I've come to realise they're more nuanced than I originally thought. In fact, they have a lot in common with my own practice of Light magic, in that both disciplines try to strengthen and harness certain emotions.
"Which brings us back to hatred," continued Harry. "I've heard that Crabbe used hatred whilst practising the Dark Arts, and clearly he harnessed it, judging from how easily he cast Fiendfyre. He also developed a real knack for the Unforgivable Curses, which he learnt during his final year at Hogwarts. Same with his best friend Greg, who's in Azkaban now."
Draco felt as if people were looking at him—or if they weren't, they should be. Crabbe and Goyle had been his twin shadows, after all. Great Salazar, I need a drink, he thought, and his fingers itched for his flask. But he didn't dare pull it out, so he reached into his pocket just to feel it.
"I know what some of you are thinking: 'Brilliant—a tirade against the Dark Arts.' And maybe that's what this is. But it's also a warning for everyone here, including myself.
"Hatred killed Vincent Crabbe. It cost Gregory Goyle his freedom and destroyed far too many lives. What's more, it will destroy the peace we're now enjoying, if we allow it to. Because that's what drove Voldemort—hatred and fear. And by nurturing our own hatred and fear, we're planting the seeds for the next war. Maybe not for another generation, but even that would be too soon.
"And so, we remember the dead, and mourn them," said Harry, looking out at the crowd. "All of them," he said pointedly. "Every last one, killed by hatred."
A cold wind seemed to sweep the pavilion—or maybe Draco only imagined it. "Er, sorry," said Harry. "That was a bit intense. Anyway, thank you for listening."
The choir sang another memorial, which provided cover for all the whispers. "That was unexpected, even for Harry," said Narcissa. "Did you know it was coming?"
"He warned me about Vince," said Draco. "And I assumed he'd take a swipe at the Dark Arts."
"Indeed. But the suggestion we mourn the Dark Lord?"
"No, certainly not!" said Draco quietly. He didn't mention Aunt Bella, but surely Mother was thinking of her as well. "Whisky?" he offered, finally pulling out his flask. She glared at him, and he put it away without opening it.
People lingered after the ceremony, effectively trapping the two Malfoys. Not knowing what to do, Draco stayed close to Mother, who glued herself to Andromeda. They mostly kept silent, and Draco hoped he looked more solemn than bored.
Ginny and Wendy finally rescued him. "You poor thing," said Wendy, pulling him aside. "This is the price you pay for switching teams. It beats Azkaban, though."
"But not house arrest, which is looking pretty good right now," said Draco. Noting Ginny's pallor, he asked how she was doing.
"It's been a long day already, and it's not even noon," said Ginny. "But I'm so glad you're here, not least because you're upsetting my mum—which is a million times better than grief."
"I live to serve," he said dryly. "Any particular misdeed? Or all of them?"
"There's so much to choose from! Poisoning Ron was pretty special, but you'll never top letting a werewolf into Hogwarts." Draco grimaced, and Ginny said, "The real problem, though, is your Aunt Bellatrix."
Draco sighed in exasperation. "Am I to blame for her as well?"
"No, Mum killed her, remember? And she feels awkward about it."
"She feels awkward?" he laughed. "What, is she afraid Mother will have words with her? Believe me, she won't." He glanced at Narcissa, a short distance away and still glued to Andromeda.
Ginny twisted her mouth into something resembling a grin. "Would it be wrong to force them to talk? I'm sure we could all use a laugh, especially George."
It was a terrible idea, but a single look at George—who was plainly miserable—convinced Draco to do it. They approached him together, and Ginny told him her idea.
"Mum and Narcissa Malfoy?" said George, coming to life again. "Yes, please! If nothing else, they'll see eye to eye about Walburga."
Together they worked out a plan. Draco and Wendy would handle Molly, and George and Ginny would approach Narcissa. Draco was by no means comfortable with his role, but George was actually smiling, so he couldn't refuse.
"Mrs Weasley," he said with a shallow bow. "I've long owed you an apology. But first, my condolences."
Not quite concealing her surprise, she listened as Draco sincerely apologised for his numerous sins. "I wish I could blame my father," Draco said, "but I too made terrible choices, which I'll always regret." From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny and George luring Narcissa into place, but he no longer cared about their plan. Because it was a relief to admit his wrongdoing, especially while dressed in Father's old robes.
He had always scorned Mrs Weasley for being dowdy and fat, but when she pulled him into the world's softest hug, something inside him melted. "Oh, my dear boy," she said, holding him tight. "It takes real courage to admit your mistakes."
Her mention of courage evoked the Sorting Hat's words to him, at Harry's party back in March: "I see a Gryffindor streak. Courageous, and even brash."
Draco had winced, which the hat seemed to notice. "But also loyalty," it continued. "In fact, you'd make a fine Hufflepuff."
"Are you mad?" thought Draco vehemently. "I'm not the least bit loyal! I betrayed the Dark Lord, and I told my father to go fuck himself."
"Language!" scolded the hat. "And that's not the kind of loyalty I'm talking about. Those bonds were imposed upon you, and your courage helped you break them. But when you're free to choose the object of your loyalty, you don't waver. And that's what makes a Hufflepuff."
"Anything but Hufflepuff!" pleaded Draco. "No one will respect me, and there's so much I need to accomplish."
"Gryffindor, then? With all that courage, Gryffindors tend to get the job done." Draco gritted his teeth, resigned to his fate, but the hat took pity. "Oh, fine—have it your way. SLYTHERIN!"
The experience had shaken him, but when Mrs Weasley praised his courage, he was touched to the core. And when she released him from her embrace, he felt younger somehow, as if he had made better choices from the start. "Thank you," he said, sniffling, only a little embarrassed that Mother was watching.
"Mrs Malfoy," said Molly, approaching her. Narcissa tensed, as if she feared a hug of her own, but Mrs Weasley kept a respectful distance. "There's something I need to say, and your son has given me the courage." She took a deep breath, then said, "I know what it's like to lose a sibling. Two of them, in fact. And while I don't regret my actions, I'm–" She paused. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Narcissa blinked, and when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.
"Harry was right," continued Molly. "Everyone who died was a victim, in one way or another. No one is born full of hatred."
"No, they aren't," said Narcissa faintly. "And thank you."
Draco expected the conversation to end there, but Mrs Weasley was only getting started. "Tell me, what was she like as a girl? High-spirited, I'm sure."
"She was," stammered Narcissa.
"And how much older was she than you? If you don't mind my asking, of course."
"Four years older."
"Oh, how I longed for a sister!" said Molly. "But I only had brothers. And then six sons, until Ginny was born." Dabbing her eyes, she said, "I'd walk through fire for any of them, but I think the threat to Ginny was what gave me the power to, well … you know." She didn't say "kill your sister", but Draco's mind supplied it for her.
"I understand completely," said Narcissa. "I feel the same way about Draco, otherwise I could never have found the courage to deceive the Dark Lord."
"Yes, and thank you for that. Parenthood really brings out the best in a person, don't you think?"
"That's a good point," interjected Ginny. "In fact, Draco and I are probably the real heroes today, simply by being so lovable. Maybe next year we should give the speeches."
Mother was clearly relieved by the change of topic, and the tension eased even more when Harry arrived. "Well done," Narcissa told him, with her usual air-kiss. "And thank you for explaining your boutonnière straight away."
"Yes, I knew it would distract you." He looked down at the delicate flower. "Rutherford Stroop told me about them. I knew Muggles wore artificial poppies sometimes, but I didn't know what they meant. All I knew was that my Aunt Petunia kept one in a drawer so Uncle Vernon wouldn't have to buy a new one every year."
Harry couldn't stay long, since people still wanted to talk to him, but he asked Draco for a tour of the Slytherin dungeon after lunch. "Professor Slughorn wants me to meet more of the students," he said. "Obviously some of them despise me—Jacob Travers, for example. But Slughorn says the majority think it's cool I'm a Slytherin now."
Draco was sceptical, based on what he'd seen in the pavilion earlier. "I'll show you around, but don't expect me to sing your praises. After all, I have a reputation to uphold."
"Don't worry, you'll always be a pureblood git," said Harry. "And we can duel if you like—it would be a fun test of my Light magic."
Rolling his eyes, Draco said, "You are truly insufferable. Is it because we're back at Hogwarts, or are you just drunk on adulation?"
"Probably both," admitted Harry. "But you also bring it out in me. Always have done, really." He glanced back at the group of people still waiting for him. "Anyway, duty calls," he said, trotting off to rejoin them.
Narcissa went home, and Draco stayed close to Wendy, who remained within sight of Ginny. "She doesn't want me underfoot," Wendy told him, "but I should be ready at a moment's notice to rescue her, in case she's overwhelmed." She explained the various signals they'd worked out, including "Help, I need a hug," "Oh fuck, Mum's about to cry," and "Steal me away and snog my brains out!"
"I'm pretty sure it's the same code she and Harry used," said Wendy, "but hopefully he won't get the wrong idea."
Lunch was served in the Great Hall, which looked the same as always, with four long tables divided by house. But the students sat wherever they liked, and while some tables were more varied than others, none was entirely uniform. The Hufflepuff table, for example, was a multicolour jumble, and even the Slytherin table had dashes of red, yellow, and blue.
Draco nevertheless resisted sitting at the Gryffindor table, as a matter of principle. "You'll have a better view of Ginny from here," he argued, taking a seat amongst the Ravenclaws. Gemma Rees was there as well, with her boyfriend Dave Corner, and the meal went smoothly—until Katie Bell turned up.
"Hello, Malfoy," she said brightly. "Mind if I join you for afters?" Without waiting for an answer, she plopped down beside him and took a biscuit from his plate. "I never thought I'd get sick of ice cream," she said, indicating the magically chilled bowls on the table. "But after six straight months of soft foods, I only want things I can bite."
She took a hearty chomp, then swallowed conspicuously. "Swallowing is more work than you'd think," she said, reaching for another biscuit. "On a related note, cursed necklaces eventually crush your throat, even if you don't put them on. In fact, that was the only reason I stopped screaming, even though I was still in agony."
There was an awkward silence, and after downing another biscuit, Katie said, "I just realised ... you gave me jewellery! And I'll bet it was expensive. Does this mean we're engaged?"
Draco still didn't know how to reply. Meanwhile, Katie raised a hand to her chest in a pantomime of fear. "Oh no! If we break it off, I'll be ruined, and no one will have me!" Then she pretended to weep.
Everyone turned to face Draco, who was burning with shame. "Look, I'm sorry," he finally said, meeting her eyes. "I should have apologised sooner—or, better yet—never harmed you at all. But I was an idiot, and then a coward. So please know how truly sorry I am."
Her expression was hard, and he was tempted to look away. But he remembered the hug from Mrs Weasley, which comforted him somehow.
"By rights you should be in Azkaban," said Katie fiercely. "The Imperius Curse is unforgivable, and I'm sure you cast it on more than just Madam Rosmerta."
"You're right—I practised it on Muggles. We all did."
"My granddad's a Muggle," she said. "So are some of my cousins. Do you still consider them filth?"
He shot a glance at Wendy, who looked sympathetic but didn't intervene. "No," he said. "Muggles mightn't have magic, and their customs are different, but that doesn't make them filth."
"Have you even met any Muggles?" persisted Katie. "Besides the ones you Imperiused."
"Yes," he said quickly. "Heaps of them."
To his surprise, Wendy laughed and said, "Sorry, Draco—dead Muggles don't count."
He inhaled sharply at the image she'd conveyed. "Oh god no! Live Muggles," he clarified, and the others started laughing as well. "And not in a heap," he blundered on. "Just in groups, like normal people." More laughter, and he dropped his head in his hands. "I'll stop now," he said, mortified.
By then, even Katie was laughing. "I'll be honest, Malfoy—watching you squirm is better than any apology. Can we do this again sometime?"
Still clutching his head, Draco replied in a muffled voice. "Anytime you like."
Wendy finally spoke up on his behalf and told Katie he had genuinely improved. "Admittedly, I didn't know him during his reign of terror here at Hogwarts," she added, "But Ginny says he's maybe only twenty percent as twatty as he used to be."
"Your praise overwhelms me," said Draco, sitting up again. "But presumably I'm good company, given how often I see you."
"Oh, definitely! For one thing, you really know your Quidditch. In fact, you should invite Katie to a match sometime, so she can hear the running commentary."
This led to a conversation about the new Quidditch rules, which dispelled the remaining tension, and eventually Harry arrived. "Remind me never to go into politics," he said, sitting across from Gemma Rees.
Rees chuckled and said, "Tired of glad-handing the hoi polloi, are we?"
"More like hugging," he said wearily. "Which I don't mind, of course. But not for hours on end."
"Do you need a Snot-Removal Charm?" she asked, indicating his robes. "The front looks all right, but I can't see the back."
"No, I'm sure they're fine. My book of sartorial charms has a section called 'Tear-soaked occasions', and I cast the lot." Addressing Draco, he said, "By the way, I'm up for that Slytherin tour whenever you're–"
He stopped short, as if something had caught his eye. Then he wrinkled his brow and lightly touched his chest, clearly confused. Meanwhile, Wendy rose from her seat, next to Harry, and Draco turned to see what they were looking at.
Ginny, still at the Gryffindor table, covered her mouth and shook her head quickly, prompting Wendy to sit back down. Then she shook her head again, her eyes boring straight into Wendy's, followed by a meaningful nod.
Wendy laughed and stood up again. "Sorry Harry, she's my girlfriend now."
"Oh my god!" he blurted, finally catching on. "I just ... er, that was our signal ..." he stammered.
"It still works," said Wendy. "See you later!" In an instant she was gone, leading Ginny away.
"Sorry, Toffer, no broom cupboard for you," said Rees, grinning. "Unless that's what you and Malfoy have planned for your Slytherin tour."
"We don't," said Draco, vexed by her insinuation, but also amused by Harry's mistake. "And I don't think he would chat up a student, but this is Harry so we can't rule it out."
Harry made a rude gesture, and soon they left the Great Hall. Draco felt the absence of Vincent and Greg, along with the strangeness of accompanying Potter of all people to the Slytherin common room.
"This feels weird," said Harry as they snaked through the dungeons. "Like, shouldn't I be jinxing you or something? Not to mention we're dressed wrong. Nice robes, by the way. Are they new?"
"No, they belonged to my father," said Draco. "In fact, it's like having him here with me."
"Will you let in a bunch of Death Eaters, for old times' sake?"
"Yes, the good old days," said Draco acidly. His thoughts drifted back to Vincent, and he grew maudlin again. He pulled out his flask and said, "Firewhisky?"
"Yeah, cheers," said Harry, and they each took a swig. "Er, I hope what I said about Crabbe was all right."
"Like how he barely knew which end of a wand to hold? That is, until he took up Dark magic and was devoured by hate?"
"I didn't say that," said Harry, and Draco shot him a glare. "Fine, I did. But was I wrong?"
At first, Draco didn't reply, opting instead for a scathing silence. But the ongoing noise from passing students ruined the effect. "No, you weren't wrong," Draco said. "He was thick as a troll. They both were. But still, they deserved better."
"That was my point," said Harry, turning left into a semi-concealed passage. A passage, Draco realised, that Harry shouldn't have known.
"How do you know where the Slytherin common room is?" said Draco accusingly.
Harry's expression was insufferably smug. "Because I've been there already. With you, in fact."
"You sneaking little ..." sputtered Draco. "You used your Invisibility Cloak to follow me!"
"Actually, no. Polyjuice Potion. Second year."
Draco could hardly believe the story that followed—"She brewed it in Myrtle's lavatory?!"—but he quickly grasped the implications. "You've always been obsessed with me," Draco sneered.
"Intertwined destiny, remember? But that's not the only reason I know where your common room is." He pulled a pouch from his pocket, then produced an old parchment, which looked vaguely familiar.
"I've seen that before!" began Draco, while Harry quietly cast a spell.
"I give you ... the Marauder's Map," he declared. "Well, not literally—for now it's mine, and next it'll go to Teddy." Harry told him all about the map, and Draco's jaw dropped.
"Talk about an unfair advantage! Between that and your Cloak, you could go anywhere!" The implications multiplied within his mind, and he said, "How in Merlin's name did you never notice that Peter Pettigrew was in your dormitory? Or that Barty Crouch was pretending to be Professor Moody?"
Harry's mumbled reply was unconvincing, and Draco realised he'd touched a nerve. But he resisted the urge to exploit it and changed the topic instead. "Is anyone even in the common room? Or is everyone out on the grounds?"
They studied the map together. "There's Daphne's sister," said Harry, pointing to a cluster around a table. "Probably revising for N.E.W.T.s."
Draco's eyes found his old spot at the largest and most ornate fireplace. "Jacob Travers," he said, with a flare of resentment towards the wealthy young heir. If not for Father's idiocy, the Malfoys would still be supreme, he thought.
"Brilliant," groaned Harry. "I'll let you handle him." Then he cast another charm and put the map away.
When they reached the stone wall concealing the entrance, Draco used the password he'd been given, and soon they were bathed in a familiar greenish light. But he wasn't prepared for the flood of memories, featuring Crabbe, Goyle, and his entire adolescence. Here in the common room, for example, Draco had ruled over his classmates, and the younger students as well. He'd endured snide comments about "Daddy" buying Draco's way onto the team, which he mostly dismissed as jealousy—but they had also stung.
Scanning the room, he spotted the alcove where he and Pansy had first pawed one another. Over time, they found better and more comfortable locations, including the Prefects' bathroom. But all those spots were tainted by memories of what followed: quarrels about their future, Pansy's refusal to have intercourse, and ultimately his own failure to perform. To make matters worse, he'd falsely assumed that Harry was leagues ahead of him—he was the Chosen One, after all. Only later had Draco found out that Harry was woefully inexperienced, but at the time he'd assumed the opposite.
There was no need to show Harry around that afternoon, since plenty of students volunteered. "Were you really offered Slytherin from the start?" asked a boy wearing a poppy he'd obviously conjured. Then Draco stopped listening. Aren't people tired of him yet? he wondered, but apparently they weren't. And it wasn't just the younger students—even some N.E.W.T.-year students joined in, taking a break from their revision.
Astoria Greengrass stayed where she was, thank Merlin, but for several seconds her eyes followed Harry, and she whispered to the witch at her side. The witch giggled and whispered back, prompting Draco to wonder what they were talking about. Did Astoria know that Harry and Daphne were sleeping together? Great Salazar, what if she fancies him? he thought with horror.
Her friend hastily tidied her hair and charmed her lips to make them redder, then joined the group surrounding Harry. But Astoria resumed her work, to Draco's vast relief. She was only two years younger, but he felt protective towards Daphne's sister, who had always been small for her age. Although she seems to be growing up, he vaguely noted, and he wondered if Astoria's blood curse explained her delicately flushed complexion, and the unusual brilliancy of her eyes.
She seemed surprised when Draco addressed her, but they chatted until she shooed him away. "Off with you—I need to revise. And I'm sure you have loads of people to talk to while you're here. But I'll see you this summer—Tuesdays for Weasley's Wizard Wireless, right?"
He hadn't anticipated adding Astoria to his social circle, but he supposed it made sense, given his friendship with Daphne. "Yes, of course," he replied. "See you then, and good luck on your exams."
Draco didn't correct her other assumption: that he had loads of other people to talk to. But in truth he had very few friends in the lower years. As a prefect, he'd been more haughty than helpful, and during sixth and seventh years he was consumed by the war. He'd commanded respect as the Malfoy heir, but he wasn't particularly well liked.
With no one to talk to, he wandered aimlessly through the common room, feigning cool disregard. Harry's more popular here than I am, he thought sourly, and he regretted not showing him around. Meanwhile, Harry was being led through the dormitories by a gaggle of students. And probably signing autographs, thought Draco with disdain.
As the map had shown, Jacob Travers was in Draco's old spot by the fire, surrounded by friends. Draco hadn't seen him in years—two years, to be precise—and Travers had matured into a true Slytherin prince. His robes, for example, reflected just enough firelight to show how expensive they were. Meanwhile, an attentive witch was vying for his attention just as Pansy had done with Draco. Jacob was handsome, after all, with a marked resemblance to his infamous sister. But more than anything he looked spoilt, with a soft, sensuous mouth and a tremendous air of satisfaction.
He bore no sign of having lived through a war, despite having been at Hogwarts that final year. Then again, Jacob's great-uncle Ursinus had been one of the Dark Lord's favourites, so perhaps the Carrows had been ordered to coddle the boy. Some people have all the luck, thought Draco, cursing his father again.
Jacob caught Draco looking at him and waved him over. "Malfoy," he said in a drawling voice. "I wondered if you'd be here today. What did you make of the ceremony?"
"Rather maudlin, I thought," Draco drawled in reply. "And overlong."
"I agree. So many speakers, and nearly all of them spoke last year as well. Maybe next year they'll have someone new—your mother perhaps. Apparently her role was decisive." Draco just glared at him, and Jacob said, "Oh, I'm not complaining about the outcome. Although I'd rather Potter had stayed dead. Did you really have to bring him here?"
"Don't blame me, blame Slughorn," said Draco loftily.
"Oh right, he worshipped Potter's mother, just like Snape." Curling his lip, he said, "When I think of the harm caused by a single Mudblood ..." He didn't finish his sentence but instead met Draco's eyes, in an obvious challenge.
"Muggle-born," said Draco coldly. "Really, Travers, try to keep up."
Jacob shrugged. "Why bother? It's not my job to bend to the current fashion, like some people do." His emphasis made it clear whom he meant. With a glance at Draco's lapel, he said, "Really, Malfoy, I'm surprised you aren't wearing a poppy."
His mates sniggered, and the witch who was fawning over him laughed out loud. But Draco was also amused—not by Travers's joke, but by how absurdly childish he seemed. "I was once like you," he remarked. "I'm glad I'm not anymore."
Draco left without waiting for a reply, and Harry returned soon after. "I'm ready to go when you are," said Harry, after dismissing his retinue. They left the common room together, and Harry asked about his plans for the rest of the day.
"Dinner with Vicki, but nothing until then. What about you? More adulation?"
"No, I'm done, thank Merlin. And frankly, I could use a break from the wizarding world."
A smile curled Draco's lips. "I know just the place."
Half an hour later they were in Sheffield, perched forwards on Draco's sofa playing Mario Kart. "Is it all right if Vicki sees us wearing robes?" asked Harry, never taking his eyes from the screen.
"Yes, and she loves them. I even bought her some dress robes to wear in private."
A quick sidelong glance. "But you never leave the flat, right?"
"Of course not. Although she keeps hinting at wearing them as fancy dress."
Harry inhaled audibly. "I dunno, Draco—that sounds a bit risky."
"Yes, that's why we haven't done it," said Draco, annoyed by Harry's tone, and for a while they played without speaking.
"Next time we should invite my cousin Dudley," said Harry. "I'm sure he knows all the cheat codes, and that sort of thing is right up your street."
"Cheat codes?" said Draco. "What are those?"
"Malfoy, you of all people should know what cheat codes are, considering how many you were born with." He explained what they were, and Draco was indignant.
"So that's how you're beating me! Even though you claim you've never played before!"
"I haven't," said Harry, hurling a banana at Draco's kart. "Seeker reflexes, remember?"
Draco gripped the controller even tighter. "I swear, Potter, there's a part of me that will always hate you."
"I guess some things will never change. Shall we tell Romulus Wynter?"
The afternoon passed quickly, and they only realised how late it was when Vicki arrived. "Harry!" she exclaimed. "How are you? It's been ages." They briefly caught up, and when Harry asked after Penelope, Vicki told him she had a new boyfriend. "He's a Mundane, of course, and I think she's a little disappointed about that."
"She shouldn't be," said Harry. "For one thing, I doubt he had to go to a war memorial today."
"No, but he can't just pop all over England like you and Draco do. And I don't see him taking her to Paris anytime soon."
"Paris?" said Harry, with a pointed look at Draco.
"We won't stay at my family's residence, obviously," said Draco. "And we're going by train, next month after her exams."
"He got a passport and everything," said Vicki. "Only he used a false name—Draco Black." She giggled and said, "Makes me feel like I'm travelling with a criminal."
"Well, actually..." said Harry, but Draco cut him off.
"Shouldn't you be leaving now?" he said sharply.
"Don't worry, Harry," said Vicki. "Draco told me everything. As much as he's allowed, anyway."
"And not a word more," said Draco, meeting Harry's eyes.
For a moment Harry was silent, then he said, "Don't make me regret covering for you, Malfoy."
"At worst it's a fine," said Draco dismissively. "And there's absolutely no risk."
Vicki said very little until after Harry left. "I'm sorry, Draco—I hope I didn't get you into trouble," she said, taking his hand.
"You didn't," he assured her. "Harry's just being an arse. We bring it out in each other, I think."
She sighed and said, "I don't want to go to Paris if you might get caught."
"We won't be. We're staying in a Mundane hotel, and we won't even set foot in the magical district."
"Is that where your family's 'residence' is?"
"Yes, there's a secret island, which I normally don't even leave when I'm in Paris. So I'm looking forward to seeing all the Mundane sites with you."
Draco knew he was revealing too much, but Vicki no longer seemed afraid of getting trapped within Faerie. And he still hadn't shown her his wand, which he felt was the true mark of a wizard. But magic itself wasn't unique, and he almost never said "Pass" anymore.
He had therefore broadened his range of wandless magic, to her ongoing delight. His latest trick was to unhook her bra from a distance by blowing a kiss, and he'd even done it in public once. She was clothed, but the look on her face was priceless, and she jumped him the moment they were alone.
Meanwhile, he still hadn't successfully cast the Patronus Charm. He soothed his hurt pride by remembering what Father used to say about it: "The real reason Dark wizards don't cast the Patronus is because it's beneath us. Obviously we're capable of it, but there's no real need. Dementors aren't drawn to us, after all, since our minds are so well protected—they'd much rather feast on undisciplined wizards who lack basic mental control."
And Father was right, at least at the time. The Dark Lord's alliance with the Dementors meant that they largely ignored wizards bearing the Dark Mark, except within Azkaban. But even in prison, Father withstood them surprisingly well, although things changed entirely after Voldemort's death. Draco counted himself lucky to have been jailed at the Ministry rather than Azkaban, since Father's sanity seemed to plummet during the same interval.
But still, the Patronus seemed superfluous now that Dementors were better contained. And Draco didn't need one for communication, since house-elves were much more discreet. No, learning wandless magic was a far better use of his time, and Vicki's delight was better than any glowing animal.
And yet it annoyed him to see his friends master it one by one. Blaise and Daphne were the first, and Theo followed soon after, with a crocodile of all things. The final blow was Pansy, who shocked them all with a ragged tomcat, missing an ear. Draco suspected it had to do with her secret boyfriend, but Pansy only smiled.
Harry had long since stopped asking him about it, which Draco took as an insult. Draco's competitive streak occasionally drove him to keep trying, but apparently that was the wrong motivation, because he still couldn't do it.
When Vicki left the following morning, Draco felt the familiar letdown, which he relieved by playing Nintendo. He was still upset over being outplayed by Harry—not just at Mario Kart but also WWF Wrestlemania 2000. But I'll definitely beat him at GoldenEye, Draco resolved, and he spent an enjoyable hour as James Bond before returning to the manor in a buoyant mood.
Mother was away, and the note she'd left with Nitta said she wouldn't be home until late. This lifted Draco's spirits even further, and he knew the Patronus was finally within reach. All his previous attempts had been in the smoking room, but with the entire manor to himself, he went outside to one of the gardens.
The air was rich with the scent of blossoms, carried by a gentle breeze. He felt the usual pride in his circumstances—I'm master of the loveliest house in all England—and for once it wasn't tainted by resentment towards Father, and how he'd nearly ruined everything.
Draco needed a moment to realise what had changed. Mrs Weasley, he thought. And Katie Bell. While his interaction with Katie had been mortifying, it was also a relief. But the exchange with Ginny's mother, and the encompassing warmth of her hug ...
I've truly been forgiven. I'm not like Father. I'm a Malfoy, and I'm my own man. A good man, even. He had a fleeting thought of Harry, but the tinge of annoyance was gone. We're equals, he thought with satisfaction. Vicki also came to mind, with another wave of absolution. She knows what I am, and she loves me.
Basking in their love and forgiveness, he raised his wand and cast the charm. "Expecto Patronum," he said clearly, unafraid of being heard. A bright puff escaped his wand, and he whooped with triumph. He didn't care that it wasn't corporeal, because clearly he'd got the knack. It was just a matter of repetition.
He kept at it all day, taking breaks as needed. Several times he thought he saw a shape (medium-sized? four legs?) but he didn't push himself too hard. It was the same with wandless magic—you didn't overcome the lack of a wand by pushing harder. Instead you needed to relax and give it more space.
The light was fading when he finally succeeded. The garden was growing cold, but Molly's hug still warmed him—she'd somehow become "Molly" in the intervening hours. At first he couldn't identify the corporeal form, since it was so bright, but when he did he dropped his wand.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" he cried, as the fawn tottered past on spindly legs and sniffed a flower. It was definitely a fawn, Draco knew, and not a full-grown deer. It might still grow antlers one day, but its coat was covered with spots like tiny suns, and its eyes were juvenile-large with absurdly long lashes. At least they aren't green, thought Draco with despair.
The blasted creature took its time before fading, unaffected by Draco's horror. "I'm not a groupie," he spat, addressing the glowing beast. "Some poseur wearing self-transfigured robes and flowers they nicked from a window box!"
The fawn replied by widening its eyes and tilting its head, clearly gloating over Draco's humiliation. "Oh, fuck off," said Draco, waving his hand in disgust. The fawn cantered off, finally fading at the edge of the garden, and Draco's mood turned pensive.
He wasn't a groupie, right? No, this had to do with their intertwined destinies—surely that was it.
And really, there was no reason to be upset. He'd proven he was capable of casting a Patronus, and its form could always change, perhaps when he married. After all, his future wife would be a queen among witches, particularly now that he had fully redeemed himself. She would be beautiful, cultured, and richly endowed with magic, as befitted a Malfoy bride.
But the witch he imagined, deep in his heart, wasn't a witch at all. She wore blue jeans and attended uni and aspired to work for the BBC. Her parents were middle class at best, and her ancestors were farmers, blacksmiths, and the occasional clerk. She was one-hundred percent Muggle, and while Draco wasn't exactly in love, he was thoroughly enchanted.