It was still long before dawn when a small crowd of five wizards and two goblins materialised in front of a secluded stone-clad house near a small pond. It was quiet and dark, and the lights were all out behind the large windows.
Ted Tonks walked across the cobblestone pathway right up to the front door. Draco saw his hand slowly rise and freeze inches from the wooden surface. The man was still having doubts, which was understandable. After all, who in their right mind would willingly allow a pair of literal serial killers into their own home (or anywhere near their family, for that matter)?
Draco had immediately regretted mentioning Ted's wife, as it had taken him quite some time to explain that it wasn't Andromeda Tonks, per se, he needed to see, but the Order. While Ted had adamantly denied her affiliation, Draco hadn't bought these lies for a second. They could reach their own daughter, for Merlin's sake.
Under normal circumstances, Ted probably would still never have agreed to bring them here. But in the darkness of the Snatchers' dungeon, with the looming threat of another backup overhead, he must have been desperate to get himself and the others to safety, wherever that might be.
Had Draco been a nobler man (nobler in the traditional sense of the word), he could have got them all out of there before asking for any favours. But Draco had long redefined his understanding of what it meant to be noble. So, he waited until Ted had given his word, and only then did he hand him a wand.
Finally, after dismantling the wards, collecting the scattered wands, and setting the building ablaze, Draco had Ted grudgingly Apparate them all here.
And here they all were, watching the man hesitantly knock on the door of his own house. When no one answered, he tried again, louder this time. At once, the lights in a room on the second floor lit up. In less than a minute, the front door opened, just a crack.
"Ted?" came the female voice from the inside, barely audible.
Ted began whispering something, but Draco couldn't hear what it was. After a pause, during which no one moved or even breathed, the woman crossed the doorstep and leapt into Ted's big arms.
While everyone was distracted by the happy reunion, Draco discreetly glamoured his wand: after walking right into a trap the day before, he knew better than to discard Snape's advice ever again.
Still embracing her husband and murmuring something into his ear, Mrs Tonks turned her attention to the crowd gathered on her lawn. She glanced blankly over the goblins, Dirk Criswell, and Dean, and then her eyes flickered to Draco and Ruth, who stood slightly further away from the group. As soon as her gaze landed on their masks, she gasped and took a step back. Ted glanced over his shoulder and whispered something to her. She whispered back. This time, the whispery back-and-forth went on for longer and appeared to be much more heated.
Draco took a step forward, intent on explaining the situation to the woman himself, but as soon as he did so, he felt a hand on his cloaked arm.
"Don't," he heard Ruth's distorted voice say.
He turned to peer at her quizzically.
"Leave it to me," she said, wiping her bloody lip with her cloak sleeve. "I'm not as scary."
"Like hell you aren't," he muttered as she turned and walked towards the Tonkses herself.
Mrs Tonks noticed Ruth approaching and fell silent, though she didn't shut the door in her face right away, so that was something. As Draco watched them, trying to make out the words, he heard sounds of commotion: Dean was taking a few hesitant steps towards him.
"What?" Draco asked.
Dean hugged himself with both his long arms. It occurred to Draco then that they might be freezing, standing there cloakless in the cold. For a second, he debated whether or not to cast the Warming Charm over them, but the hostile expression on Dirk's face made him think it was unnecessary.
"Uh," Dean began, shivering and not quite meeting Draco's eye, "I just... I just..."
"You just what?"
Dean's shoulders jolted slightly. Whether it was due to the cold or the way Draco's voice came out, Draco didn't know. He guessed the latter. As Ruth had said, his disguise was making him scary to even look at. Not even Gryffindors could handle the sight of him, he thought smugly. But then Dean looked up and stared directly into the foggy holes where Draco's eyes were supposed to be.
"I just want to thank you," he said. "For saving my life. All our lives. They won't say it, but they're grateful to you for that."
"Sure seems like it."
"No, really," Dean said, drawing closer. "If it weren't for you two, we'd end up either dead or in Azkaban. I just want you to know that we know that."
Draco swallowed and tried to think of an answer. None came.
Thankfully, he was spared from having to reply by Ruth, who was already walking back to them.
"They're inviting us in," she said tersely and waited for Dean to rejoin his cohort before adding, in a lowered voice, "She sent word to the Order. They're coming."
One look at her was enough for Draco to know that something was off.
"But that's... good?" he said, confused.
"Mhmm."
"Then why do you look so tense?"
"You didn't tell me that she... she, um..." Ruth trailed off, then shook her head. "Never mind."
The two of them were the last to enter the house. Ted closed the door behind them, watching them closely. As Mrs Tonks led them through the halls, lighting each lamp she passed, Draco could only see her straight back, with soft brown hair cascading over it.
The house of the Tonkses was filled with flowers to the brim. Every windowsill, every shelf, and every corner of every room was occupied by one plant or another. The house was cozy and warm, but rather modest, especially by the Black standards—the standards Mrs Tonks must have been used to at one point, now that he thought about it.
It was weird to regard her as one of the Blacks, and much weirder to think of her as his aunt by blood. Draco's father had always pretended she didn't exist. His mother had never mentioned her, and they were sisters! Used to be sisters, anyway. It had been Bellatrix's deranged rants that would remind him—from time to time—that he had another aunt. Outside of that, Draco barely remembered he was in any way related to this woman at all.
Mrs Tonks led them into the living room and elegantly gestured for them all to sit on the beige sofas. As she turned to face Draco, he froze at the doorstep. A wild thought crossed his mind but was immediately quashed by his rational mind. This was no Bellatrix. Of course not. It was only... her sister.
Shaking off his bewilderment before anyone could notice, Draco took a seat in one of the armchairs. Mrs Tonks herself sat down on a couch near Dirk and began tending to the bruise on his temple, which Draco hadn't noticed the man had.
All doubts about their familial connection vanished from his mind. Andromeda Tonks was, indubitably, one of the Blacks. The more he looked at her, the more he saw it. While her features reminded him of Bellatrix, her graceful demeanour and dignified posture—and even her apparent propensity for gardening—reminded him of his mother.
She walked around the room, offering blankets and healing salves, while Ted was making them tea. She approached Draco last.
"Do you want something?" she asked him in a steady voice.
His whole body ached—his arms and legs all bruised, his jaw still stinging—but he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
"I'm fine," he said, then added, "thank you."
The woman didn't move, taking a moment to look him over instead. Whatever she found there, it seemed to push the apprehension from her features.
"Ted told me you took quite the beating," she said, not unkindly. "Why don't you at least let me take a look at your hands?"
Draco looked down at his wrists. The skin was red, but there were no blisters. It was an insignificant burn, and with all his other injuries, he had almost forgotten about it.
Without waiting for his answer, Mrs Tonks took his left hand and pointed her wand at his wrist. Draco's other hand instantly moved to his sleeve, stopping it from rolling down further: he had no idea if the glamour charm over his Dark Mark still held.
The tip of her wand glowed softly as it touched his red skin, and a cool sensation spread across his wrist. The redness faded until his skin was as white and unblemished as it had been before. Once satisfied with the result, Mrs Tonks took his other hand, performing the same healing spell on it. The sensation was soothing, and for a moment, the sheer relief of it almost overshadowed all the other pain he was feeling.
"Thank you," Draco whispered, looking up at her.
"You're welcome," she said absent-mindedly, tilting her head and studying his new scar. "Can I take a look at that too?"
Immediately, Draco felt self-conscious. He hadn't had a chance to look in the mirror. It must have looked ugly. A scar covering half his face. There was no hiding that.
It took a great deal of effort to suppress the urge to cover it with his hand. There was no point in doing that. Clenching his teeth, Draco gave a single nod of agreement.
"Can you remove your mask?" she asked.
"No."
She thinned her lips. "It would be much easier if you did."
"Not yet," was all Draco said.
Mrs Tonks didn't push him further and flicked her wand over his jawline, performing some sort of diagnostic spell.
"This was no ordinary knife," she said thoughtfully, "and this is no ordinary scar. The pain will subside—I'll give you a salve to help with that—but the scar itself, I'm afraid, cannot be healed or removed."
Draco nodded gloomily. It was as he had expected, yet a part of him—a part that always hoped—was hit by a pang of disappointment all the same.
"They're here," said a quiet voice behind him.
It was Ted. He looked at Mrs Tonks, and she seemed to instantly understand what was left unsaid. Rising to her feet, she led the goblins, Dirk, and Dean to the guestrooms on the second floor. Ted also disappeared into the corridor, leaving Draco and Ruth alone in the living room.
Draco heard the front door burst open.
"Dad! Dad!" someone cried out.
Next, there were mixed sounds of quiet sobs and multiple voices talking all at once, which were silenced before Draco could hear anything important.
He exchanged glances with Ruth, who sat alone on the edge of a couch, her arms and legs crossed.
"I'm not so sure we're welcome here," she said.
Draco snorted. They most certainly were not. Still, that had been their final destination all along. They could have reached it sooner, of course, but it would have been pointless without a bargaining chip. Only yesterday, Draco had thought he'd failed to obtain it, but Ted Tonks and the others were bargaining chips personified. If he ever had a chance of securing pardons for his family, it was now.
Ruth started to say something else, but just then the door to the living room opened, and Mrs Tonks asked them to go with her.
She led them into the dining room, just one door down the corridor. As they entered the room, Draco felt like every working-class man would probably feel on their first job interview. There were three "interviewers", all standing behind a large wooden table: a very pregnant-looking young woman with spiky pink hair holding Ted by his arm (Auror Tonks, Mad-Eye's protégé, he'd heard of her); Draco's former professor, Remus Lupin, now sporting a rough, grey beard; and a tall, broad-shouldered wizard whose face Draco had seen once in the Ministry halls—Father must have told him the man's name; what was it?
Draco and Ruth awkwardly halted on the other side of the table, while Mrs Tonks departed into the adjacent room, which must have been the kitchen. No one said anything—not even a simple greeting. The Order members regarded the two of them with varying degrees of distrust and apprehension.
"So," Lupin broke the silence, "what do you want from us?"
Draco tried to adopt a more relaxed posture, taking a step closer and leaning against the side of a chair. He drawled, "I think you'll find it far more interesting what you might want from me."
"We want nothing from you," said the other wizard.
Draco recognised this slow, deep voice. That was Royal from Potterwatch. One memory triggered another: his father pointing the wizard out to him. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Also an Auror.
Ruth picked up a small cactus from one of the shelves and twirled it in her hands. "Really? Shall we return the men and the goblins back to their cells then?"
Shacklebolt looked affronted. The young woman clutched Ted's arm tighter, her hair—curiously—turning bright red.
"We're very grateful to you for the safe return of our friends," said Lupin calmly.
"Yes, we are," cut in Shacklebolt, "but if you did that to make us feel indebted to you—"
"Who do you take us for, Shacklebolt?" asked Draco. "A pair of Snatchers?"
The man narrowed his eyes at Draco's use of his name. "No," he said. "Someone far more dangerous."
Ever since Draco had started accompanying his father on Ministry-related business, he had always received little tips on negotiation. To this day, one piece of advice in particular had stayed with him. The strategy was simple: control the flow of the conversation, don't let it get derailed, and always keep the end goal in mind.
So, instead of defending himself, he chose to simply change the subject.
"We sought you out," he began slowly, "because we believe it would be beneficial for both of us if we joined our efforts. After all, we're pursuing the same goals. You don't owe us anything, true, and we never meant for you to feel like you do. But look, we've been helping you all the same—"
"Helping us?" repeated Lupin.
"You're delusional," said Shacklebolt. "Have you no idea how the public perceives the Order now? Look around you! You've done more harm than good."
Draco scoffed. "No one believes the Prophet. And those who do are fools whose opinions you needn't concern yourself with. What matters is that we win this war. What matters is bringing You-Know-Who to heel."
No one objected to this. Sensing the momentum on his side, Draco continued, "We've gotten rid of some of the Death Eaters: Avery, Travers, all of the Lestranges—they're gone now. We have eliminated the Snatchers; there will be no more of them after last night. We have saved many muggleborns. We have brought you all those wands. We can give you more."
Once again, everyone was silent. Mrs Tonks returned to the room, several bowls full of food floating beside her. Her daughter rushed to help her serve it.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Mrs Tonks said, "I did not expect guests, so that is all I can offer."
"Thank you, Dromeda, you're too kind." Lupin gave her a smile, then turned his gaze back to Draco, his expression thoughtful.
"Please, sit," Mrs Tonks said, addressing everyone.
But no one moved. Among the biscuits and fruits, Draco spotted a plate with steaming roast beef, and as its aroma filled his nostrils, his stomach spasmed. Oh, Salazar, he was so hungry.
"Suppose we agreed to work with you," said Lupin. "Such cooperation requires trust. And no trust can be built when we don't even know who we're dealing with."
"I agree," Draco said without missing a beat. "But revealing our identities requires trust as well. Can we trust you?"
Lupin looked around the room—first at the red-haired woman, then at Mr and Mrs Tonks, and finally at Shacklebolt—before turning back to Draco, his expression now firm and confident. "Your secret doesn't leave this room. I swear it."
Draco could have demanded an Unbreakable Vow—Merlin knows he wanted to—but the opening was small and fragile as it was. He needed to play his cards right. This was a huge risk he was about to take, one that would only make sense if the negotiations ended in his favour. They needed to end in his favour.
So this was it, then—the time for the big reveal.
No one was ready for that.
Ruth approached the table, coming to stand at Draco's side. They exchanged glances once more. Draco drew in a breath, then nodded. She nodded back. Slowly, they both reached for their masks.
Draco's fingers closed around the metal, carefully avoiding the scar. Gripping his wand with his other hand and watching everyone in the room, he laid himself bare before them.
There were no gasps of shock, just more of the tense silence. Except it wasn't the same. Every pair of eyes was on him, wide and unblinking. Disbelieving.
"Yep," said Draco in his own voice. "That's me."
This jolted the young Tonks out of her stupor. Whipping out her wand with incredible speed, she yelled, "Stupefy!"
He caught her Stunner with the tip of his wand—inches from his face—and shook it off like ash from a muggle cigarette.
"Rude, cousin."
"I'm no cousin to you," she spat.
He ignored this and turned to Mrs Tonks, whose face bore the least hostility.
"Aunt." He bowed, then nodded at the thunderstricken men. "Ted. Professor. Shacklebolt."
"But you... you were dead," said Mrs Tonks, her features settling into a troubled frown.
"I am, as far as the rest of the world is concerned."
The room broke into shouts.
"I don't believe it—"
"Get out!"
"But how—"
"Get out before I hex you!"
"Nymphadora!"
"Everyone, calm down!" boomed Ted.
All fell silent. Draco guessed it wasn't customary for Ted Tonks to raise his voice. Returning to a more reasonable volume, he continued, "We must hear the boy out."
"This boy," his daughter growled, "had let those Death Eaters into Hogwarts. This boy is the reason Dumbledore is dead!"
Draco tried his best to keep his face expressionless. He'd known this would happen. He'd prepared himself for it.
Seeing that he couldn't get away with changing the subject this time, he opened his mouth to address the accusations. But Mrs Tonks spoke first.
"Does your mother know?" she asked in a near-whisper. "Does she know you're alive, Draco?"
Draco averted his gaze, shifting his weight.
"I don't know," he replied quietly. "I haven't... I haven't seen her since July."
It came out more pitifully than he'd intended; he knew it did, for no one rushed to shout at him in the moments that followed.
Instead, Shacklebolt turned to Ruth, who'd been standing silently all this time, enjoying the show and occasionally stealing glances at the treacle tarts on the dining table.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Ruth gave a one-shouldered shrug. "No one you know."
"Just answer the question," he ground out.
She let out a dramatic sigh. "Ruth, of the most ancient and noble house of Cooper. Happy now?"
This was, understandably, met with collective confusion. Draco rolled his eyes.
"She's muggleborn," he said in a bored voice.
Shacklebolt crossed his arms. "And we're supposed to believe you've found a partner in a muggleborn witch?"
Draco propped both his hands on the chair's back and rocked back and forth slightly. "Let's put it this way: after I rose from the dead, I chose to... reinvent myself."
Shacklebolt let out a scoff and turned to the others. Lupin was still silent, his eyes unfocused, while the young woman named Nymphadora was furiously whispering something into her mother's ear.
"What do you think, Ted?" Shacklebolt asked. "You've seen more of him than we have."
Draco, along with the others, turned to peer at Ted. For a while, the man did nothing but cradle his drink, as if he hadn't heard the question. Draco remembered how disappointed Ted had been with him for killing that last Snatcher. What would he tell them now? Nothing good, most likely.
After a long pause, Ted looked up and found Draco's eyes.
"I don't think he holds any love for our enemy," he said simply.
"I don't think Malfoys know what love is," muttered his daughter.
At the same time, Shacklebolt asked him another question: "And do you believe this girl is a muggleborn?"
To everyone's surprise, Ted let out a snort. "Oh, this I don't doubt. I don't think I've ever met a pureblood who mentioned Jesus Christ quite so often."
Lupin regarded Draco with a curious look—a look Draco couldn't hold. How could he be the first to give Draco the benefit of the doubt, after Draco's father had kicked him out of Hogwarts, after Draco himself had shown him nothing but disrespect?
"Those things can easily be faked," said Shacklebolt. "But even if she really is a muggleborn, this doesn't give you bonus points, Malfoy—"
Draco was unimpressed. Nothing he did would ever earn him bonus points in this man's book. He suspected he had his father to thank for that.
"—and this doesn't make you less of a criminal."
"A criminal?" repeated Ruth, raising her eyebrows. "Have you heard of self-defence?"
"This was no self-defence," retorted Shacklebolt, stepping closer to the table and placing his fists on its edge. "This was savagery!"
Abandoning the idea of getting everyone to sit down and have a civil conversation, Mrs Tonks withdrew to a far corner of the room. Ted followed.
"Well, maybe savagery is what we need," said Draco, leaning over the table himself. "You cannot win a war playing defence."
"This is not a game!"
Draco let out a humourless laugh. "I'm not the one wielding wooden swords and dressing as a knight in shining armour. People are getting murdered out there! Tortured, mutilated, raped. All while you sit here and do nothing." He pointed his finger at Shacklebolt's chest. "You really think your protective enchantments over a few muggle areas make a hell of a difference? Well, they don't! The way I see it, we've done much more than all of you combined. Opposition, my arse! This war will not be won on its own—"
"You started this war!"
"I know! I know!" Draco shouted, his hands flying up. "That is why I'm trying so damn hard to end it!"
His words resounded through the room. Draco opened his eyes, which he had involuntarily squeezed shut a moment before, only to find everyone staring at him, stunned.
He swallowed and took a step back from the table, adjusting his cloak. His cheeks felt hot, and his hands trembled. He gripped the chair to hide this and breathed deeply, cursing himself as he tried to pull himself together.
Lupin, once again, was the first to break the silence.
"What do you suggest we do then?"
Draco looked up at him in surprise and found the others waiting for his answer.
Were these people for real? All he needed to do was outshout them?
Bloody Gryffindors.
Regaining his composure, he replied, "Switching to the offensive. Hit them where it truly hurts: their headquarters."
"And where would that be?" Shacklebolt asked sullenly.
"Why? Malfoy Manor, of course."
None of them seemed surprised.
Draco continued, "You-Know-Who will not be there. He's still travelling and—"
"How do you know that?" Nymphadora interrupted him.
"I have my sources," he replied in a business-like voice. "Believe it or not, you have more allies than you know."
The Order members exchanged pensive looks.
Before any of them could ask or even think about Snape, Draco was speaking again. "Just yesterday, a Death Eater tried to defect and join us." Ignoring the scepticism written all over their faces, he continued, "Unfortunately, he was not successful. He's probably dead now. But that's not the point. The point is, Death Eaters are wavering. They are weak. The time to strike is now. As I was saying, You-Know-Who will not be in the Manor, but a few high-ranking Death Eaters might be. Together, we can take them."
"And the wards?" asked Lupin.
Draco straightened his back. "I'm a Malfoy. The wards will let me through."
When the three of them still looked unsure, Draco added, "If that's not enough for you, think of all the prisoners you'll be freeing. I know for a fact that Ollivander is still being kept there."
The Order members stepped away from the table to discuss the matter among themselves. While they did that, Mrs Tonks fetched a salve for Draco's scar and handed it to him with a sad smile. He accepted it, thanking her humbly once again while watching Ruth sneak the unsupervised treacle tarts into her pockets behind Mrs Tonks' back.
"Would you consider staying the night?" the woman asked him. "Well, it's morning already, but still..."
Draco just looked at her, taken aback. She couldn't possibly have said what she just said. He was no one to her—worse than no one, in fact, having come from a family that had cast her out.
Regardless of the outcome of these negotiations, he couldn't imagine being a guest in this house. A house that, despite oozing warmth, could never compare to the Black family seat.
As Draco studied her soft features, he wondered, for the first time, how much courage it must have taken to do what she did—to stand up to her entire family and leave it all behind: her loved ones, her inheritance, her name. Draco might have terrorised half of magical Britain, but he never had this kind of courage. He had been tortured, both physically and mentally; forced to attempt an assassination of the Headmaster of Hogwarts; had his home invaded by a monster. Yet it wasn't until the path back home was closed that he chose to walk away. And this woman had left her family of her own volition.
"Um, no," he said, "we have to go home."
Mrs Tonks nodded in understanding.
"Take care," she told him before leaving the room with Ted by her side.
The moment they were out the door, Shacklebolt approached Draco and Ruth—a table still between them—and cleared his throat.
"We're willing to work with you," he said. "But we have a condition."
"Let's hear it," said Ruth.
"No more Straying, or whatever it is you were doing."
"Straying?" Draco repeated, bemused.
Shacklebolt's face remained as serious as ever. "No more murders. If we're to work together, we have to be on the same page. The goal is to take prisoners, not corpses."
"But—"
As Ruth began objecting, Draco stepped on her foot.
"Sounds good," he said, ignoring her glare. "You got it."
Looking decidedly unhappy, Nymphadora approached the table, followed by Lupin, who placed a tender hand on her arm and whispered something into her ear. Draco had only just noticed the matching rings on their fingers.
Huh.
"Shall we shake on it?" Lupin asked him.
"Not so fast. There's one more thing..."
"What now?" snapped Nymphadora.
Draco smiled at her. "I have conditions as well."
He flicked his wand over the empty plate and the cutlery nearest to him, transfiguring them into a piece of parchment and a quill with an inkwell. Taking his time, he sat down and scribbled on the parchment.
"What's this?" demanded Shacklebolt.
"This," said Draco, not taking his eyes off the paper, "is the list of people I want pardoned."
"Pardoned?" Lupin asked, his voice full of confusion. "What makes you think we have the power to make such a decision?"
"You don't." As Draco finished writing, he set down the quill and shifted his gaze to Shacklebolt. "You don't, but you will."
The expression on Shacklebolt's face was impenetrable; one could even say controlled.
"It's up to the Wizengamot," he said evenly. "After the war is over, there will be trials—"
"No, there will be no trials," Draco insisted. "The people on the list will be pardoned without ever setting foot in court."
"Who do you think you are—" began Nymphadora, but Draco cut her off.
"No pardons, no deal."
Shacklebolt pressed his lips together and took the paper from Draco's outstretched hand. Having only just begun reading the list, he threw it onto the table.
"This is preposterous! Lucius Malfoy cannot walk free, and you know it."
Draco shrugged. "That's my price."
"There is absolutely no way—"
"Why is this boy on the list?" asked Lupin, reading the list himself. "I know he's your friend, but why is he on the list?"
Draco clasped his hands together, pausing to consider how best to respond. Had he just incriminated Theo by writing down his name? Maybe he had. Or maybe his new status was bound to come to light anyway. Regardless, this was the only way he could help him.
Having decided on the phrasing, he began speaking, "It appears that You-Know-Who had completely lost it after Bellatrix's death. Shortly after, he began recruiting just about anyone, whether willing or unwilling. Theo... he had no choice. He may bear the Mark, but he didn't choose it. Besides, he's at Hogwarts now; he's not out there killing muggleborns."
"You ask for too much," said Nymphadora. "Four Death Eaters pardoned, are you insane?"
Shacklebolt nodded in agreement. "Even getting you two absolved of your war crimes is going to be difficult."
"What?" Draco perked up. "Why would Ruth need a pardon? All she did was fight for your cause. You wouldn't dare prosecute a muggleborn witch for winning your war for you."
Shacklebolt held up a hand. "Listen, you have to understand: war or not, there are boundaries we do not cross. A single use of any Unforgivable Curse is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban, regardless of circumstances."
"Wait, wait, wait." Draco rose to his feet. "Neither of us has ever cast the Cruciatus or the Killing Curse. Does that help?"
They looked up at him in surprise. Draco almost scoffed. Why would anyone need to resort to Killing Curses when there were so many easier ways to kill, both magical and muggle?
"A little," Shacklebolt conceded at last. "But is that also true of your parents? Or your friend?"
Draco had no idea how to answer that question. He knew only that he couldn't back down now.
Ruth placed a hand on his shoulder and took a small step forward, her frame pressing against the table.
"Look," she said sharply. "You can either agree to these terms and have us fight for you, or you can refuse, in which case we will—"
"You've sided with the wrong person," said Nymphadora, giving Draco a scathing look; it weighed on his shoulders like Sisyphus' boulder. "Malfoys are only looking out for themselves. He's using you to show us that he's changed. He hasn't. You shouldn't trust him."
Ruth almost laughed at this. "Shouldn't trust him? Draco Malfoy is the one person in the world I do trust."
Draco looked up at her, but she didn't meet his gaze. Instead, she squeezed his shoulder and continued speaking, her voice gaining strength with every word. "Even back when he was a bigoted jerk, he wasn't as bad as you make him out to be. He refused to kill me when his insane aunt ordered him to, even though that meant enduring more torture. And he saved my life, even though he didn't have to. He had an opportunity to run and disappear forever, yet he chose to stay and fight, to risk his life again and again and again. Does that sound like someone who's looking out for himself?"
Draco barely kept himself from interrupting her. She was painting him as some kind of hero, but he had never been one—not even now.
Ruth's voice softened as she finished her speech, "I may not have known him at his worst, but I know what kind of person he is now. So what if he made mistakes? He's put his life on the line to rectify them. He came here willingly to offer his help. Are you really going to turn him away over shit that doesn't even matter?"
With his eyes fixed on the floor, Draco kept shaking his head, ever so slightly. She was wrong. It did matter.
Shacklebolt was the first to reply, and when he did, his voice sounded almost apologetic. "We cannot accept these terms," he said, sliding the parchment across the table.
Draco stared at it. He couldn't leave this house without a deal. It would all be for nothing if he did. He'd revealed too much. Risked too much. He needed to get his parents out, and he needed to do it as soon as possible.
He wasn't leaving without a deal.
Draco took the quill and dipped it in the inkwell. His long fingers almost trembled as they hovered above the paper. They had a point. He'd gone overboard. Four names were a couple too many. Maybe even more than a couple.
With a heavy sigh, he crossed out one of the names. Theo was smart enough to stay out of trouble, and the Mark itself wasn't sufficient grounds for an Azkaban sentence anyway. He'd be fine.
But that didn't solve the problem, did it? Not in the least.
This is preposterous! Lucius Malfoy cannot walk free, and you know it.
His father. He was the problem.
This was no news, of course. After all, it was he who had dragged the Malfoys into this mess in the first place. How vain he'd been. How foolish. How selfish. It was all his fault.
Draco's hand froze next to his father's name. He only needed to cross it out, and the deal would be struck.
It sounded so easy. As if condemning his own father to a life in Azkaban could ever be easy.
His father, who had taught him how to ride a broomstick. His father, who had brought him sweets. His father, who only ever wanted the best for him.
The memories—bright and colourful—faded into grey. Draco remembered his father's ashen skin, his protruding bones, his vacant eyes marked with deep dark circles.
He couldn't endure another stint in Azkaban. It would kill him. And it would devastate Mother—his poor mother, who had already suffered enough.
With a deep sigh, Draco scratched out a name and slid the parchment back to Shacklebolt.
"Here," he said. "I will gladly go to Azkaban if I need to. But my parents... my parents stay out."
"What?!" Ruth exclaimed. "You can't do that!"
"This is the only thing I can do."
Draco's reply left her speechless. He turned to the Order members to see what their response would be. But none of them spoke. He couldn't quite decipher the looks they gave him. Their frowns didn't seem to be disapproving, but neither did they suggest anything else. And then there was another mystery: Nymphadora's spiky hair changing colour again—from bright red to soft violet.
Finally, Shacklebolt seemed to snap out of his stupor.
"Malfoy," he said patiently, "as I've already told you, I can't let your father walk free."
"You want my help? Leave my parents alone."
"I can't do that!"
"My father will not return to Azkaban, and that's final."
"Then, I'm sorry, but we must decline your offer."
Draco's legs felt weak beneath him. What had he done? Why had he come here? They would never agree to his terms, no matter what he did for them. They might have believed him or at least entertained the idea that he truly had changed, but his father's sins were his own.
With his sweating palm, Draco snatched up the parchment and crumpled it. It had been a mistake to come here. How could he have convinced himself otherwise?
Muttering some parting words, indistinguishable even to his ears, Draco turned to go and reached for the sleeve of Ruth's cloak.
"Wait," someone said.
His outstretched hand froze in the air.
"A prison sentence is not the only option," Lupin said slowly.
"What do you mean?" Draco and Shacklebolt asked simultaneously.
"There are other forms of punishment in Wizarding Britain. How about house arrest?"
"That is far too lenient!" Shacklebolt protested.
"Perhaps combined with a prohibition of wand use and a requirement for substantial reparations?"
Shacklebolt cut himself off mid-protest and furrowed his eyebrows.
Draco wondered what made him pause and actually consider this option. Was it the promise of money, or the satisfaction of imagining Lucius Malfoy living like a muggle? Little did he know that Draco's father hadn't held a wand for months.
Perhaps it was both. Public humiliation and reparations.
Reparations... Draco hadn't thought of that one. Father had bought his way out of prison after the First War. Could they do it again, but properly this time? So their Galleons wouldn't vanish into the pockets of the Wizengamot judges, but instead, would contribute to the rebuilding of a broken society?
It could be a good thing.
"Did you mean what you said?" Shacklebolt said at last, locking gazes with Draco. "Are you truly willing to go to Azkaban after this war is over?"
The weight of his own promise settled on Draco's shoulders, pressing him down. To go to prison alongside the Death Eaters he would help imprison. To go to prison in his father's stead. Was it the right thing to do? He didn't know.
What he did know was that he could take it. His father no longer could.
Draco's voice was quiet but firm. "I meant every word."
"Well then," said Shacklebolt. "In that case, this is my final offer regarding your father. Reparations in the sum of two hundred thousand Galleons. Five years of house arrest. And a probationary wandless period of ten years."
"Ten years?!" Draco exclaimed indignantly. "You won't remember how to use a wand in ten years!"
Shacklebolt's eyes were unwavering. "Don't push it, Malfoy."
Draco swallowed the curses lodged in his dry throat.
"And my mother?"
"Well, she doesn't have a Mark, does she? And provided her role in the war remains passive, I think we can issue a full pardon for her."
Draco gave a curt nod. "Good."
"Do we have a deal then?" Shacklebolt asked, as he extended his right hand to Draco.
With another deep breath, Draco shook it.
When Lupin walked them out of the house, the sun had already risen and had hidden itself behind a long cloud stretching across the horizon. They walked the short distance towards the Anti-Apparition barrier in silence, listening only to the chirping of the spring birds.
Once beyond the barrier, Draco turned to face his former professor, ready to bid him farewell, but before he could, Lupin asked him, "Draco... If you have survived that explosion back in July, how can we be certain—"
"Don't worry," Draco interrupted, "the Lestranges will not miraculously turn out to be alive, as I did."
Lupin studied his face, not letting him go just yet.
"Bellatrix Lestrange was a very powerful dark witch," he mused.
"Well, don't look at me. I didn't kill her."
Lupin's gaze shifted to Ruth. She lifted her chin defiantly.
"What's in it for you?" he asked.
"I have a personal stake in this," Ruth replied curtly. "I won't ask anything of you."
Lupin shook his head in disbelief.
"The Lestranges and Greyback, huh?"
Though he didn't pat them on the back, something in his expression told Draco that he didn't entirely disapprove of their actions. If that was the case, he was the only one.
With one last look at Draco's face and a remark—"It's good he wasn't the one who gave you this scar"—Lupin nodded them goodbye and turned to head back to the house.
Draco cursed under his breath. Just what exactly did his scar look like? Everyone had been staring at it for hours, and he hadn't even had the chance to glance at it.
Best to get it over with. Having yanked his pouch open, he summoned a small round mirror from its depths and held it up to his face, prepared for anything.
It felt ugly, but...
But it looked even worse.
It was ghastly—a red, rough, jagged line running along his jawline, from just below his right ear all the way to his chin.
Very eye-catching. Can't miss it, even if you're blind.
His face... It resembled that of an old doll—once handsome and well-groomed, now carelessly patched up, all smeared with blood and dirt. He would never be handsome again, if, in fact, he ever was.
Looking at it caused the cut to sting even more. As Draco thought of the salve Mrs Tonks had given him, he was reminded of the scar's permanent nature, which made him scowl.
But this was nothing new, was it? All his scars were permanent, from the white cuts across his torso to the black snake on his left arm. At least this one didn't serve as a reminder of how stupid and cowardly he had once been.
From the corner of his eye, Draco caught Ruth staring at it too. Tentatively, she reached out her hand. As it touched his other cheek, he flinched back: she was cold as ice.
Ruth dropped her hand and forced out through clenched teeth: "They have to pay for that."
"They already did, all of them."
"None of them suffered like you did."
Giving her an odd look, Draco said softly, "This isn't important."
He saw her fixed gaze and set jaw and frowned. Was she—mad?
"Let me get this straight," he said. "We've survived against impossible odds, disposed of the Snatchers for good, struck the deal with the Order, and you're angry?"
"Of course I'm angry!" she snapped. "Why did you let them do this to you?!"
"What? Are you angry at me?"
"I'm angry for you!"
As he tried to find an answer for that, he gazed away, and his eyes landed on one of the windows of the Tonks' house, and the shocked face of Dean Thomas behind it.
Without thinking, Draco grabbed Ruth's cold hand and Apparated them both away.
They crash-landed in the small kitchen of their house on wheels. As Draco let go of her, she stumbled back and nearly knocked the table over. It shook, and the two mugs went flying to the floor. Quick as a flash, Ruth whipped out her hand, pointing at the mugs.
They didn't hit the floor. Suspended mid-air, they hovered, enveloped in a translucent blackish aura. The same aura Draco had seen back in the Snatcher's dungeon. The same one he had caught a glimpse of a week earlier.
Both of them stared at it for a moment.
At last, Ruth moved her hand gently and returned the mugs to the table, the ethereal aura dissipating into the air.
She didn't appear much surprised by it.
"What's this?" he asked.
The clock ticked. The refrigerator buzzed. The birds outside continued to chirp. Keeping silent, Ruth didn't tear her eyes away from her hand.
"I've noticed it before." Her voice was quiet when she answered, so quiet it seemed as if she were talking to herself. "For a while now, actually. My magic... it's turning darker."
She turned to him, her features furrowed in a disturbed daze. "What does it mean?"
Draco gazed at the mugs, or rather at the spot where the black hazy substance supporting them had been just now.
"I have no idea."