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Chapter Text

Draco is only thirteen years old when Grandfather Cygnus passes away. 

He stands in a black suit under the scorching hot sun. The day is bright and clear, not a single cloud in the sky. The air smells of honeysuckle and roses, decadent and rich. There is an energy in the air that cannot be described. He doesn’t listen to the droning of the sermon as it washes over him, only stares transfixed at the deep dark grave that awaits his grandfather’s body. 

The plot of land had been picked out long ago. Nestled comfortably in between a whole litany of other highly esteemed members of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. If he flicks his eyes to the left he can see Great Aunt Elladora’s tombstone. And behind her, Walburga Black — that had been his grandfather’s sister. Draco can’t help but shiver at the thought of the old crone, though he barely remembers the times that his mother dragged him along with her to the London townhouse. 

The Black Abbey seemed a much finer home to Draco than Number 12 Grimmauld Place ever had — Cygnus had got the better side of the deal there, surely. The sprawling estate may not have been the ancestral seat of the house, but it was grand on a scale that the London house could never hope to be. A country estate that rivaled even Malfoy Manor for wealth and splendor. It seemed a much more proper place for Draco’s mother to have grown up, for his Grandfather to have lived out every long year of his life. 

He tilts his head as he gazes at the grave. How long had the earth been waiting to claim Cygnus Black for its own?

It always seemed odd to Draco that such an old man should live so very, very long. By all accounts, Cynus should have died years and years ago. He had already been ancient, rumor had it, when he took Druella Rosier to wife and produced his three daughters. 

Draco had always used to hate the days when his mother insisted they visit her father. Black Abbey may have been more comfortable than Number 12, but Grandfather Cygnus was just as intimidating as Great Aunt Walburga. The man looked more like an inferni than a living, breathing person. He was a solitary and singularly vicious man, the perfect picture of the Black Family’s inherent fury and madness. He doted on Draco, of course. The only grandson. The only grandchild that he would acknowledge at all. He doted on Narcissa too, for providing a boy that could make the family proud. 

‘Not like your whore sister,’ He would say, before Narcissa had the chance to cover her sons ears. 

Cygnus used to like to clutch at Draco with his cold, skeletal hands. He liked to touch Draco’s hair, look in his eyes. He liked to pass judgement on Draco in one way or another, mention how pretty he was, or how clever, or how he looked like Druella more than he looked like anyone else. No one left Draco alone in a room with him, and no one ever told him why.

Standing under the scorching hot sun at his grandfather’s funeral, Draco thinks he should be sadder. He should feel the grief like a sting in his chest. More than anything he feels like his grandfather has ruined what would otherwise be a beautiful summer day. When he looks at his mother’s face, she doesn’t look particularly sad either. Her face is a perfectly placid lake, smoothed over without a single ripple of grief. The only sign that she needs his support is the hand that stays fixed on Draco’s shoulder, keeping him beside her, keeping him there as something to lean against. 

She is the only reason he suffers through the day without complaint. He stands up straighter in her honor. If his mother needs strength, he has more than enough to give her. He will be the steady force that she needs him to be. So Draco doesn’t fidget, no matter how much he chafes under the heavy fabric of his black funeral robes. He doesn’t whine about how long the ceremony takes, doesn’t try to slip away from his mother and father when he sees Pansy in the crowd. Draco is steadfast in the face of his duty. 

But oh, Merlin, he wants to stop being steadfast. He wants it in particular when old Cantankerous Nott corners him. He speaks in his wizened old voice — rough and haggard and even more ancient than Cygnus had been — about how Draco was the last scion of a noble house, how it was Draco’s responsibility now to ensure that the line didn’t die out. Draco was sure that if the Nott’s had a daughter going around the same age as Draco, he would be pushing for a marriage contract. There was always Theo, he supposed — but he couldn’t see old Cantankerous going for that. It may have become more common, but two men marrying wasn’t often the done thing in pureblood circles. If nothing else, it made the point of heirs an absolute pain.

Being an heir truly was exhausting work. It was bad enough, to have the weight of the Malfoy family on his shoulders — but now he would be expected to name one of his children for House Black too. If he married Theo, they’d have to find some poor fool to birth three children for them, just to satisfy each and every family line that was needed. 

All of the esteemed guests gather inside the Abbey when the funeral is over. They nibble on food provided by the elves, they drink expensive wine and whiskey, and Draco remains by his mother’s side until the sun has long set and the Malfoys are the only family that remain in the building. Of course, just because the traditional, modern parade of grief had been preformed and finished, that didn’t mean that the night was done. There were rituals yet to be preformed, Black Family funeral rights that could never be spoken in the presence of outsiders. Those traditions were old. Most of the wizarding world had moved on from the old ways. Even the Malfoys didn’t favor them. But not the Blacks. Never the Blacks. 

His father almost looked blase, as he checked his pocket watch and observed the hand tick closer and closer to midnight. When the time grew near enough, he rose to his feet, brushing non-existent dust from his coat as he shifted. 

“I’d best leave you to it,” He said, in the particular way of his that betrayed his relief at having found an escape. “Come along, Draco.” 

His father is half way out the door, and Draco half way behind him, before Narcissa manages to speak. It is second nature to follow his father’s commands. His body had reacted before his mind could.

“Lucius.” His mother says, firm. 

Draco stops as if she had said his own name. He looks over his shoulder at her in hesitation. He is stuck half way between them, uncertain which to follow. Mother’s eyes meet fathers, long moments of silent contest. Narcissa breaks the silence first. She always does. In whatever contest of wills they have, she usually comes out on the bottom. He can’t blame her for that. He’s never won a staring contest with Father either. 

“Draco should take part in this.” She insists. “It will be important for him later, to know what needs to be done.” 

“He is a Malfoy.” His father says, finally, as if that should be the final word. 

Something flashes across her face. Something firm and defiant. He’s never seen that look before, and it makes his stomach twist. There will be trouble for this later, whatever the result may be. 

“He is a Black, too. The legal heir to this estate.” Her eyes are hard, cold. Father’s eyes flash too, and Draco swallows past the lump in his throat. 

“I’d like to stay with Mother.” He says, before he can think better of it. “She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.” 

A beat. A flash. 

Yes, there will be trouble for this later.

“As you like.” Father says, and leaves the room. 

The Black Family death rituals were intricate and exhausting in nature. Still, Draco couldn’t help but be utterly enamored by the practice of them. His mother and he, all alone against the backdrop of night, basking in the light of candles that had lit the way of centuries of Blacks off to the afterlife. 

The ritual circle was slim with only the two of them. That was part of the tragedy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They were the only two left, the way his mother had looked at it. Regulus buried, Andromeda disowned, Bellatrix and Sirius languishing in cells. The once prolific House of Black had diminished and dwindled until Draco and his Mother were the only two left to preform the burial rites. 

He wondered if the circle would be stronger, if they had more bodies to fill it out. The ancestral magic was potent enough that he could already feel it rushing through him when his mother called upon the Darkness to ease her father on the death journey. It swelled in his chest as they recited, in perfect tandem, a litany of names. Ancestors to take Cygnus Black by the hand and welcome him into the world beyond, where all was magic, where he could be reborn again in the celestial sphere. And when they blew out the candles, the ancestral magic faded, and the two of them remained alone. 

“You’ll have to remember this,” His mother told him, an arm around his shoulder when she guided him across the estate and back into the Abbey itself. “Someday, you and your children will be doing this for me.” 

He looked at her quickly, then shook his head. “No, never.” 

“You’ll break your mother’s heart, little dragon.” Slightly scolding, slightly amused. “Would you deny me the burial rights of my family?” 

He wonders if that’s a genuine fear for her. Would he shake off the yoke of the Black Family mantle and decide to follow exclusively in his father’s footsteps? Malfoy Pride wouldn’t let Lucius wish for anything else from the future Lord of his estate. To be a Malfoy was to be loyal to your family name above all else. 

“It isn’t that.” He tells her, shoulders stiffening. “You speak as if I’m ever going to let you die. I’ll have found a cure for mortality by then. You’re going to live forever.” 

A smile crossed Narcissa’s face. The first of the day. She looked softer when she smiled, she always had. She looked kind and warm and so full of love that Draco almost wanted to shy away from it. He didn’t know what to do with so much love. 

“Ah, I see.” She says, with a nod of her head. “In that case, you may forget the entire thing.” 

“I’ll never do that either.” He tells her, just to see the flicker of her smile again. 

Her arm unwraps from his shoulder as they step across the threshold of the house, but her smile continues. “You’re a good boy, Draco.” 

He hums, a soft thing. That compliment wasn’t rare from his mother, who doted and spoiled him with the best of them. It was rare from Father. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he got a compliment from the man who raised him. Not since before he started school, surely. From there on out it had been scoldings and punishments that Draco had earned by being second best. He considers it as he glances around the entryway, the inherent magic of Black Abbey coming to greet them both. The magic in this house felt warmer than that of Malfoy Manor, the phantom sensation of sitting before a roaring hearth and knowing you were safe. 

“Does that mean I can stay up a while longer?” He asks, trying his luck with his mother in her softened state. “I’m far too skittish for bed.” 

She glances back at him, her eyes examining his face. Her smile turns fonder, almost amused.

“Very well.” She tells him, with a nod, and ascends the stairs to the room where her and father will be spending the night tonight. 

The bottom two floors of Black Abbey become Draco’s playground in the dark hours of the night. Exploring a home like this was a rarity. On childhood visits Draco had been supervised at all times — and it would have been seen as uncouth to snoop around another’s house in search of secrets and treasures. 

Draco couldn’t deny that he had long been itching to explore the Abbey. He had a fascination with the house that had been stoked with every story his mother told him. This was the realm in which she had grown up, one of three sisters. It all sounded rather like a fairytale — his father the prince who came to whisk her away at the end of the story. This was a house that had held balls to rival all others. 

Legend had it, the Black Abbey was built on land once inhabited by Morgan la Fey. 

Draco explores with quiet footsteps, socked feet making hardly a sound against the sturdy hardwood floors. He examines slumbering portraits on the walls, and spends rather a long time gazing at the one that hung proudly in the foyer. Durella Black and her daughters. Narcissa was easy to spot, younger than Draco has ever seen her, ethereal and beautiful. She had her Druella’s colouring, pale and delicate, much like Draco himself. Bellatrix was a stark contrast to the other two figures in the picture. She had the classic Black looks. Hair as dark as midnight and sharp eyes. She was a great beauty, strong and vivid. 

Another starkly noticed detail was this: the gap between the two sisters where another should have been. Cygnus must have gone as far as to have the third sister — Andromeda, wasn’t it? — magically removed, or at least obscured. Andromeda was the elephant in the room during nearly every visit to this house. 

There were other portraits too, and photographs as well, with distant or long dead family members that smiled out at Draco. One photograph set atop a piano in a hidden drawing room. His mother again, smiling widely, arm in arm with a young, dark haired man. 

Far greater treasures that pictures and portraits can be revealed with careful enough exploration. He has long learned from Uncle Severus that if one wants to uncover the truth, one must leave no stone unturned. A curious spirit should always be encouraged. 

So Draco explores the Abbey with a single minded intensity. 

He hunts through drawing rooms and libraries, gazes with wide eyed wonder at the grand ballroom, acquaints himself with the house elves down in the kitchen. It’s when he’s on his way back up and through the foyer that he notices the door. 

Draco is fairly certain that the ornate double doors — gilded with gold, intricately carved with a star map so finely detailed that it almost makes him gasp — hadn’t been there before now. He has walked through this foyer a dozen times, throughout the day and night. The door is new. 

It’s new, and something about it seems to call to him. It’s like there’s pure magic coiling through his blood, encouraging his hand to reach out and touch the golden handle. It is warm to the touch, as if it has been bathed in sunlight. 

The door opens silently when he pushes; the hinges well oiled, allowing Draco to move as silently as a ghost. 

The room inside the door is just as lavishly gilded as the doorway that allowed entry to it. The heptagonal room is lined with gold framed mirrors from floor to ceiling, reflecting Draco after Draco back at him as he walks to the centre. 

The central focus of the room is what appears to be a telescope — far more expensive than any Draco has seen before, larger than any of the telescopes that they’ve used in astronomy class thus far. It’s crafted of scuffed, burnished gold. He glances up and finds that the roof of the room is a perfectly clear dome of glass. 

He rests a hand on the scope as he cranes his neck to look out at the night sky. The stars seem all the brighter now, as the clock strikes three am. The witching hour. He feels a sharp sting of pain and tears his hand away from the telescope. His palm is bloody when he looks at it, a small cut that seeps red. When he looks, accusingly, at the telescope, he can’t see anything sharp that may have inflicted the wound. Only the gold glitters back at him, wet with his own blood. 

The image of Draco in the mirrors moves with him during his examination. But when he glances up, he realizes that not all of the images are of him at all, anymore. Looking back at him from behind a mirror-image telescope is a young man with dark hair. It is then that he notices that every mirror is topped with a name. 

This one is Regulus. He gasps, and takes a step back, but the Regulus in the mirror doesn’t copy him. He only stands straighter and smiles a savage smile. 

He can only be Regulus Black — his mother’s cousin, most beloved and often spoken of. Regulus Black died in the late days of the last war with Voldemort. It was the death that had broken Walburga Black’s heart beyond repair. 

Draco cranes his neck around the room — and finds that not a single image reflects what he expects it to. Another man in one — Alphard, older than Regulus appeared. A tired looking woman in another — dressed in old fashioned clothing and standing under different stars. Aside from the singular mirror still reflecting his own body, all the others are showing him something different. His body shakes slightly as he turns through the loop of them, glancing at one after the other. Each mirror someone new, each inhabitant examines him with a cold kind of interest. When he finishes the loop in three-hundred and sixty degrees, he comes back to the first mirror. 

Regulus looks back at him with hawk-sharp eyes. The tilt of his head is otherworldly, yet familiar. He seems to straighten his shoulders as he examines Draco, determination settling in across the expanse of him. His eyes turn commanding, and elegant fingers point to the left, toward the only mirror in the room that shows Draco. Its shimmering around the edges now, he can see it out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too afraid to look at it straight on. He doesn’t want to see his own name painted on its apex, the dotted line on some devils contract that might tie him to the place forever.

Regulus’s lips shape a word, soundless in the mirror, yet Draco can still make it out —

“Look.” The ghost of a man is demanding of him. 

Over long years Draco has been taught well to respond to authority. As much as he doesn’t want to do it, he looks. Turns his head, and his body, to look in the mirror. The glimmering intensity of it, the way it warps and shifts and pulls at his mind, a cloying thing, until he’s stumbling forward. He only stops himself from falling against it by catching the weight of his body with a bloody hand. 

And there it was, like a name signed in blood. A devils contract indeed. 

Draco looks into the mirror, and the mirror looks back into him. 

This is what it sees in him: Black blood like poison in his veins, magical blood tracing up the lines of a family tree. There was power in blood like that, the natural fucking selection that made people treat the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black like pureblooded royalty. With power came gifts. They ran down along the tree and cropped up from generation to generation; the madness and the beauty, the ability to shift the details of ones face like a creature undergoing metamorphosis, and this, the most cursed gift of all, to look inside yourself and find only the future waiting for you. 

The gift clicks open in Draco like a long awaited Pandora’s Box, and with a frantic breath of air, the future comes spilling out.

Potter,

The letter begins like that. It would have felt too wrong for Draco’s hands to spell out the delicate letters of ‘Dear Harry,’ as etiquette might have demanded. His finger shook even has he wrote the single word instead. 

What was he supposed to say?

How was he supposed to do this, when it felt wrong down to his very core? Potter didn’t deserve anything from him, not when he had rejected Draco so solidly at the very first chance he got. Oh, but that still stung. Draco understood the root of his grudge was a childish one, and yet it still festered beneath his skin like poison. 

Potter,

You’re a proper twat, and I’ve always hated you. But as it turns out, prostrating myself before you and begging for forgiveness might be the best way of keeping my family alive in the coming years. Not that I need forgiveness from the likes of you—

He saw flashes of it now, again — aftershocks that had been plaguing him non-stop ever since they left Black Abbey. 

The darkness over Malfoy Manor, dark omens for dark times and the man with red eyes and a snake’s face that ruled over Draco’s world like he was a King. His mothers sobbing cries and the emptiness of his father’s eyes. The pain of the mark that burned itself into Draco’s skin, his own deranged grief and the way he cried when… 

He shakes himself away from the reverie and lets out a noise of discontent when he finds the already useless letter stained with his own tears. He is angry when he wipes the evidence of them away from his face. 

That is a future he doesn’t want. 

He doesn’t want to be trapped.

He doesn’t want to be in pain.

He doesn’t want to see Harry Potter’s dead body, at the end of an utter failure of his life. No. That least of all. Potter was infuriating. Potter had rejected him. Potter had a hero complex and constantly demanded attention, all because he had failed to die as a stupid baby. Potter was also Potter, who rushed into danger every chance he got, just because he felt like he needed to save everyone. 

The idea of Potter dying, even years from now, made Draco feel unsteady on his feet, like the world was going to fall apart beneith them. The phantom sense of dread from the vision still clouded his judgement, the secondhand emotions from a Draco far older than he currently was. 

Potter was a stubborn fool above all else, so he couldn’t be trusted to keep himself safe, to circumvent this future. He would need Draco to keep an eye on him. It would be a hell of a lot easier to do that if they weren’t spitting venom at each other with every breath. 

He picks up the quill and begins again.

Potter,

I’ve been a proper twat to you for the last three years, so I wouldn’t blame you if you tore this letter to shreds before reading it. I hope you’ll read what I need to say before indulging in any of those dramatic flights of fancy.

Though, the risks being what they are, I’d better cut right to the chase, hadn’t I? Here goes, then: 

Potter, I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done and said to you since the day we met. I’ve come to realise lately that I was wrong about all of it. I won’t try to make excuses, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for the things I’ve said and done. On the contrary, you would be perfectly within your rights to continue loathing me until the day I die.

So, I suppose, rather selfishly, this letter is more for me than it is for you. I suppose you aren’t surprised that I’m being selfish even now. I needed to say this to you; I need the apology to be out in the open air, mainly so I can hold myself accountable for all of it. That isn’t the kind of person I want to be anymore. I don’t like the path that it’s put me on. I want to be different. 

So, I’m sorry. I’ve been beating myself up about my afformentioned twattedness all day now, so if you’d like an itimised list of all the things that I am oh so very sorry for, I shall be happy to provide. When you come back to school three weeks from now you’ll find me to be much less of an annoyance. 

With respect,

(And a healthy does of repentence, of course.) 

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Draco sealed the letter the moment it was dry enough to fold over. He even went as far as using one of the decorative seals his mother had gifted him for his birthday — a Narcissus flower decorating the pale green wax that dripped and solidified onto the parchment. 

He didn’t let himself think on it any longer than he needed to before he walked to his owl and attached the letter to her leg.

Now wasn’t the time to second guess his choices. 

Now was the time for a leap of faith. 

For now, there were more letters to write — and then a conversation to be had with his parents regarding his classload for the coming year. 

A heavy sigh escaped him as he sat back down at his writing desk. The quill found its way back to his fingertips and he set it to paper again for another agonising apology. ‘Dear Granger’, his handwriting spilled out across the page.

“Divination.” The word came out of Severus Snape’s mouth with a sneer. “And Muggle Studies? Dare I ask what has inspired you to pursue subjects such as these?” 

They sat in the gardens of Malfoy Manor on delicately painted chairs wrought from iron. A full tea service had been laid for them, a flight of fancy that his mother had taken — an effort, he supposed, to make up for the fact that his birthday had been quite throughly overshadowed by the death of his Grandfather this summer. When he had requested a conversation with his Godfather to discuss his classes for the coming year, she had insisted on making quite the affair out of it.

The fact that Severus had gone along with the ordeal and taken the offered tea and cakes revealed more than it should have about his regard for Narcissa Malfoy and her son. Severus was an aloof man at the best of times, but on days like this it was impossible to forget how deeply he cared for his godchild. 

Draco takes a long sip of his tea as he considers it. The derision in Severus’s tone had been unmissable. He thought the subjects beneath him, and therefore beneath Draco. He considered it. What lie could he tell Severus to explain his sudden change of heart on the matter? Months ago he would have laughed in your face if you suggested that he take up Divination. But months ago, he hadn’t seen the future in a mirror.

His eyes flicked toward the french doors back into the Manor, as if he might see his father lurking behind them and ready to accuse Draco of bad behaviour. He hadn’t told anyone what happened that day at Black Abbey. His father, because he was afraid. His mother, because he knew she would be. 

“Draco,” Severus’s voice softens on the word. Apparently he had been silent for long enough to convince Severus to barrel onwards without a reply. “I believe you much more suited to the study of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, as we had previously planned. They will serve you far better in the long run than anything else you might learn in these other endeavors.” 

“Oh,” Draco said, with a surprised laugh. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I still want to take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes. I’d like to take every elective this year.” 

“Every elective.” 

“Just so.” Draco hummed, with a sip of his tea. “I know the workload will be a large one, but I assure you I’m more than capable. I’ve been studying half of these subjects since I was still in diapers. I would be able to handle it.” 

“I have no doubt about your capabilities, Draco.” Severus assures him, though he sounds like his teeth are being pulled with every syllable. “What I am concerned about is your sanity.” 

Draco rolls his eyes, and is promptly hit with the gentlest of stinging hexes. That was rather cute, when he thought about it. His godfather had such a soft hand when it came to disciplining him. A stinging hex couldn’t hold a candle to what Lucius Malfoy conjured up when the need arose. 

“Why, Draco, do you suddenly want to take Divination?” Severus asks him. “I will not abandon the subject until I have heard the truth, so do not presume to think that you can worm your way out of this conversation.” 

“Oh, but I never presume.” He looks down at his teacup. Just dregs of liquid and tea-leaves staining the white percaline. A sigh escapes him. “You won’t tell my father, will you? I don’t want him to know why.” 

Severus studies him. Sharp eyes. Intense and dark behind the rest of his face. 

“I won’t tell your father.” The promise sounds grave. Draco believes it in an instant. 

“Something happened, while I was at Black Abbey for Grandfather’s funeral.” The truth feels like damnation on his tongue, the secondhand fear of the experience causing his hand to shake slightly as he lowers the teacup back down onto its matching saucer. “I think — I think that I had a vision.”

That was an understatement. A vision would have been brief. It would have been a flash, or something… less, than what Draco experienced. He couldn’t even process half of the things he had seen when he looked in that mirror. The memory of it still shakes him. And he knows — he knows down to his core that those things are going to happen unless something big changes. 

“And what did you see, in this vision?” There’s a terse edge to Sev’s voice. A worry. 

“The future.” 

“Do not be a brat, Draco.” 

He shakes his head, a small gesture. “Things I don’t want to be true. A person I don’t want to become. Your fate, mine, my mother’s — I don’t want any of it to happen. And if i’m going to prevent it, i’m going to have to… do things I never expected I would. That starts with learning how to…understand all of this.”

“Therefore: Divination.” 

“Quite.” A breath “So. Twelve O.W.L’s. Can we make that happen?” 

“If it can be arranged for Miss Granger, I don’t see why the same can’t be arranged for you.” Severus sounded exhausted as he said the words. His fingers drummed against the table. 

“Of course Granger is taking twelve subjects. Swot.” 

He said it half to see the way Severus would fight a smile. To diffuse the tension. Sev didn’t push the subject further, didn’t push for more information. He trusted Draco enough, somehow, to know that Draco would tell him more of the truth when he was ready.

For now, he allowed Draco to pour him a second cup of tea, and began to complain about the forthcoming batch of first years that were bound to make him miserable. 

There was a muggle saying that Draco had become familiar with during his time at Hogwarts: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. 

Draco had rather a different view of the matter when he was at home for the summer. Breakfast seemed to be the most exhausting meal of the day. Breakfast was when Draco was too tired to have all of his walls up; too sensitive to stand up to his fathers poking and prodding.

It’s worse, now.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, since Black Abbey. 

“Stop slouching, Draco.” His father commands from behind his copy of the Daily Prophet. 

Father always semes to know when Draco’s posture is less than perfect. As Draco straightens his back and sits up properly, he wonders if Lucius gets a little shiver down his spine when Draco slouches at Hogwarts. Can he sense it from miles and miles away? Draco wouldn’t be surprised. 

“Yes, Father.” He intoned, dutiful. 

It was as he picked up his teacup, which knew to magically refill itself with his favourite blend at least thrice at breakfast, that the picture on the front of the Daily Prophet caught his eye. 

Sirius Black, feral and screaming silently from the page. He did a double take. 

He saw the flash of it. The less-feral and significantly better groomed version of Sirius Black caught in the middle of a duel with his father. Dark hair bathed in flashes of red and green. That was the future.

The present was this: Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban several weeks ago, and the Ministry had been running itself ragged to try and catch him ever since. 

The flash of the future reminding Draco of its presence inside his head shook him. His teacup shattered against the table before he could catch it. The delicate glass had been part of the Malfoy heirloom collection since the mid 1800’s. A soft gasp escaped Draco as the scalding hot liquid spilled onto his lap. He pushed back from the table at the same moment that the Daily Prophet was slammed down on its dark wooden surface, obfuscating the view of Sirius Black. 

Draco stood frozen for seconds too long, as he received one of his Father’s coldest looks. “I’m sorry, Father.” He stumbled over it. “I’m not sure what came over me.” 

“Oh, Darling.” Narcissa cuts in, far too quick. “The tea must have burned you through the cup. Tipsy charmed it too hot again, undoubtedly.” 

It was a lie. The tea was the perfect temperature, down to their exact specifications. She was trying to save his skin, trying to cover up his own mistake and blame it on someone else. Part of him hated that she needed to do such a thing. Another part of him was grateful that she cared enough about him to lie. In other houses, he would have already been at the other end of a whipping — if the stories about the various Lords and Ladies of the Black Family had been true, Walburga would have already had him under the cruciatus curse. 

Lucius huffed out a displeased noise, even as Draco began to nod his head. 

“Yes,” Draco said. “That’s it, Mother.” 

“A boy your age should be more disciplined than that, Draco.” Father told him, stern voiced and stern eyed. Punishment had not been wiped completely from the agenda, Draco knew his father well enough to glean that from the first word. “If a bit if pain is enough to make you cause a scene like this at your age, I shudder to think how you’ll be behaving as the head of this house.” 

Draco watched him as his father pushed away from the table, chair scraping against the cold hardwood floors. His mother had fallen silent. He couldn’t blame her for that. The smart thing was to know when your battle had been lost. 

“Your mothers House may have been prone to its fits of dramatics, but Malfoys are more restrained than that. I will not have you inheriting bad habits, Draco.” 

Yes, Draco knew what he was supposed to be. Restraiend. Calm. Proud. He remembers his mothers face at the funeral, a placid lake, and tries to school his own expression to match her. A placid lake. Smooth. Iced over. Nothing underneath. 

It was just an accident, the child in him longed to say. But there was no room for accidents in the Malfoy family. Accidents were for children and fools, and Draco could be counted among neither if he was meant to inherit the family name and fortune. 

Were you restrained when you tried to kill Harry Potter last year? A traitorous part of him longed to say. No, his father had not been the perfect picture of the calm and dutiful Malfoy Lord. Now those were words that would easily earn him a bout of cruciatus. Those words were poison. That was the Black in him, perhaps. Fits of dramatics indeed. He knew the reputation the Black Family had: 

Beautiful, sharp, powerful. Spitting mad, spitting fire, and like stars they glowed brightly until they either burned out or exploded. No restraint. Nothing calm. Though yes, they were exceedingly proud. There were so few of them left now, and deep down Draco knew his father detested the fact that Draco would always be counted among their number. The last hope of dying line, with duty beyond that of his father’s house. 

He swallows past the poison trying to claw his way up his throat. He wonders if this is how Mother feels. Denying herself the fury that was her birthright. When he looks at her, she is a calm and placid lake again, but her eyes betray her fear. 

“I’m sorry, Father.” He says, again, the picture of restraint. “I’ll do better from now on, I swear it.” 

Lucius Malfoy smiled at him, but it wasn’t gentle. There was malice in that grin, a cold kind of joy. This was no benevolent father offering forgiveness. “Of course you’ll do better, my dear son. I’ll teach you how.” 

He extended a hand to prompt Draco to walk beside him, out of the dining room and into his father’s study. 

Draco didn’t need to see the future to know that this was a lesson that would hurt. 

Chapter Text

“It’s got to be some sort of trick, hasn’t it?” Ronald Weasley’s voice informed him. Of course, Ronald Weasley didn’t know that Draco was well within earshot of their little conversation. 

From behind the bookshelf of Flourish and Blotts, he could hear every word that Weasley and Granger were saying to each other. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on them, of course — Draco was here under perfectly normal circumstances, spending his time carefully examining the Divination section while Pansy stocked up on hair potions and beauty supplies at one of the little boutiques down the street. 

It was one of the privileges they had earned, as new thirteen year olds, to roam Diagon Alley on their own while their mothers shared a cup of tea at The Three Broomsticks. Between the two of them, Pansy and Draco had come to an understand that ‘a cup of tea’ meant several glasses of mediocre wine. 

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It was just so easy when Ronald Weasley talked so damn loudly. 

“He’s barking mad if he thinks we’re going to just accept the ‘I feel bad for being a raging, blood supremacist bigot’ act at the drop of a hat. Barking. He’s an utter git.” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hermione Granger sounded strung out. “I don’t know what to think. It seemed earnest enough, what he wrote.” 

“Dear Weasley, Sorry for all those jokes about your family. I promise I’ll never say them to your face again. Sincerely, Draco Malfoy?” 

Draco smiled down at the books on the shelf. Alright. Perhaps his letter to Weasley hadn’t been his finest work. But he didn’t think he could rightly be blamed for the animosity between their two families: not when the Weasleys and Malfoys had engaged in at least seven different blood feuds throughout the centuries. Still — He could have pretended to be sorry a little bit better when the time had come to put quill to parchment and pen out his apology. 

“Well, what he wrote to me seemed earnest. He actually apologized for a lot of different things. Took accountability.” She huffed. “Look, I don’t trust it either. It’s one of those ‘i’ll believe it when I see it’ things.” 

“I’ll believe it when hell freezes over.” Ronald told her. “Or when he buys me a Nimbus 2001. Worst thing is, Harry is going to drive us balmy about this.” 

“You’re rid — Oh, hello, Sir. Yes, third years. We’ll need two copies of…” 

The manager of Flourish and Blotts made a slightly anguished sound as Hermione trailed off. He heard the rustling of parchment, as if the bushy haired girl was checking her school book list to ensure she told the man the correct title. 

“Let me get my gloves.” The manager told her, muttering as he walked away from them about the bloody fucking Monster Book of Monsters. Draco’s own copy was already safely tucked away in his trunk back home. 

Hermione and Ronald began to talk again, but Draco didn’t care to stay and listen to their autopsy of his sudden change of heart. He didn’t need to know what brand of insanity or delusion they were going to diagnose him with. He knew the flavor of his newfound insanity; it tasted like the future, it tasted like damnation, and the ever growing desperation to escape. Moreso, now, there was also the every growing desperation to understand. 

He had questions that had grown and bloomed inside his chest for weeks now; with no one to turn to that could truly answer all of his questions, Draco was left to his own devices. Hence, the books. Maybe the pages, finely printed and with that lovely new-book smell, would illuminate what was happening to him. 

Yes, there were bigger and better things to worry about than Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. The time for them would come later. 

He took his small pile of Divination books to the counter to be rang up, and hoped that he would miraculously avoid running into any member of the golden trio again that day. 

It was only Pansy who awaited him when he excited Flourish and Blotts, stepping into the sun-soaked street of Diagon Alley. She had several bags in her hands, and she smiled when she saw him. He liked that about Pansy. She was one of the small number of people who actually enjoyed it when Draco was around. It had been that way forever, all the way back to when they had been toddlers playing in the same drawing rooms. His mother and Lady Parkinson hadn’t been close before they both fell pregnant, but when they both discovered their children were due to be born within weeks of each other, they quickly became far closer. 

Draco had been born, and two days later along had come Pansy, and the rest was history. Theo Nott had joined two weeks after Pansy, and the three of them had basically been raised in one room. Joined at the hip. Pansy was, in every way, his best friend. 

“You’ve purchased a whole library, Draco.” She teased him, a slow drawl. “Don’t tell me you’re going to turn all studious and boring, obsessed with your books.” 

“Not boring,” He assured her, “I’d never be boring.” 

“Why the haul, then?” She peered inside his bag, her nose wrinkling up as she skimmed over the titles inside. “Omens & Oracles? Xylomancy? The Horomancers Guide to Telling the Future? I definitely don’t recall seeing those on the book-list for Divination Class.”

Her eyes turned slightly sharper as she looked back up at him, and sharper still when he fixed an utterly innocent smile upon his face. “You’re hiding something.” She accused, managing to sound pouty and stern all at once. 

“I’m always hiding something.” Draco says, and with a shrug of his shoulder he hooks an arm through her own and begins to pull her down the street toward the ice cream parlor. They deserved a sweet treat before their mothers came looking for them. “I’ll tell you what the secret is,” He offers her, “If you promise that it stays between the two of us.” 

“The two of us.” She stated back, as if thinking it over. Pansy was really an insufferable gossip, but when it came to keeping the really important secrets she could be as tight as a Gringotts vault. Slytherin’s protected each other, and Pansy and Draco always put themselves above everyone else. “You won’t tell Blaise? Or Theo? You always tell Theo.” 

Just as Draco had expected: the idea of having a part of Draco that was hers and only hers would likely outweigh the urge to tell his secret to everyone who would listen. She didn’t even deign to mention Vince and Greg. Those two could never be trusted as part of a secret circle. 

“No,” He confirmed. “They can’t know. Not yet.” 

Her eyes glimmered under the blue sky, her smile widened slightly when they reached the door to Fortescue’s and he shifted to hold the door open for her. 

“I promise. I won’t tell anyone, Draco. I’ll take it to my grave, Draco. I’ll kill anyone who tries to force me to tell them your delicious, delicious secrets.” Her excitement grew with every word, pulling a bright smile onto Draco’s own face. “I won’t even let Theo pull it out of me, with those big puppy dog eyes of his. He can try to bribe me all he wants, but I won’t give in.” 

“Alright, then.” He nods. “Let’s shake on it.” 

With anyone else in Slytherin, Draco might have insisted on a blood vow. The pricking of fingers so that the promise was written in magic. He didn’t need that with Pansy. Her word was her bond. He knew he could trust her; just as she knew that she could trust him. They did their secret handshake, and considered it good enough. 

Telling Pansy a story was always a delightful thing. She loved paying attention to Draco. She loved being included. She latched on to every word and he knew that when he had long forgotten the details of what he told her, she would remember it. She had a wonderful memory like that. 

So Draco tells her about Black Abbey; about the sprawling estate and the secrets held inside the walls, about the gilded room crafted from mirrors and star charts. He told her about the future; though in this case he left out several of the largest details. By the end of his story, her face had grown graver and more serious. 

This was not Pansy, joking around with him, not anymore. 

This was Pansy, worried for him. Pansy, who shook off the mask she wore of a silly little girl and leaned back in her seat. She spooned a scoop of chocolate ice cream into her mouth as she listened to Draco trail off, the story over and done with. 

“Well,” She said, when the plastic spoon slipped away from her lips. “Fuck.” 

“Quite.” Draco agreed. 

“That sounds decidedly depressing. The whole thing.” 

“Yes, I agree.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me that life is going to be sunshine and rainbows and party dresses.” Her eyes sharpen, because they both know that would never have been true, regardless of what Draco saw. “Not… the end of the world as we know it.” 

“Its not going to be the end of the world.” He assures her, taking on the air of someone who is utterly certain, and not at all secretly a scared thirteen year old boy. “I’ve decided that none of it is going to come true.” 

“You’re going to try and change the future?” 

“Just so.” 

“Draco, darling.” She sighed, a sigh that meant she was about to be utterly rude to him. “You’re such a fucking idiot.” 

“Rude.” 

“You are. You’re an idiot. You’re a beautiful, delusional idiot, with very pretty hair. You’re my beloved, my soulmate, my best friend in the whole wide world, but you’re an idiot.” 

“I like the part about my pretty hair, can you start focusing on that instead of the idiot thing?” 

“A vain idiot. A delusional, vain, idiot.” The last scoop of her ice cream disappears. His idiocy hasn’t put her off the treat, so it couldn’t be all that bad. “Thinking you can change the future is like, literally the stupidest thing a seer can think. That’s the thing about prophecy’s, isn’t it? Aren’t they kind of set in stone?” 

“Well.” She had a point, but Draco wasn’t going to tell her that. “I’m not sure you could call it a real prophecy. It seems to me that most true prophecy’s are… you know. More specific. This was more of a general, you know. Glimpse. Into a foggy future.” 

Pansy with tears streaming down her cheeks. Pansy’s fingers tracing the shape of the Dark Mark where it had been burned into Draco’s skin. Pansy, hurt and afraid. 

“It isn’t a Prophecy, with a capital P. Those need to be witnessed, I’m pretty sure. Recorded by the Ministry. So it’s not a prophecy in the whole ‘Prophecy, comma, Hall Of’ sense.” 

“So you’re a shit seer, then?” A tilt of her head. “Or you’ve lost your mind. Or, wizarding society as we know it is utterly doomed because our fathers…” She leaned closer, she whispered the way he had when he was telling her the guts of what he had seen, “Because our fathers are homicidal maniacs who would do anything for blood purity? You’re really going to try and stand up against that, against them? It’s signing your death warrant, Draco.”

“They’re not going to kill me.” He whispered back. “They’re not going to find out, and none of it is ever going to come true. I won’t let it.”

Doubt crossed her face. “Because your plans always go so perfectly well, don’t they?” 

“My other plans were evil, nefarious plans.” Draco tells her, slightly stung by her lack of faith in his determination. “Of course the universe was going to damn them before they ever got off the ground. No, apparently in this world, only the good guys get to win.” 

“Meaning Potter and his band of merry idiots.” 

“Well.” A beat. “You did say I was an idiot. Birds of a feather, and all that.” 

Pansy looks at him. Her mouth opens, and then closes again. She looks at him for a moment longer. “Tell me you’re not going to try and join his little club.” 

“I’m not going to try and join his little club.” Draco lied, spooning his own ice cream — bubblegum, bright blue — into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say another word. 

He was the picture of innocence, he thought, and therefore couldn’t be the reason for Pansy’s sudden huff of annoyance. He tracked her eyes and found himself looking out the window of the ice cream parlor, catching sight of the last thing he wanted to see today. 

Potter, Weasley, and Granger, like bad knuts that kept showing up on your pockets. The problem was, Draco needed them, in one way or another. Draco tried to screw his courage to the sticking point. With a quick breath, he admitted it: “Pansy, I need to make friends with Harry Potter.” 

“Idiot.” She hissed.

He watched the three of them through the window. They smiled and laughed together, heads thrown back. All of them had grown over the summer, the same kind of teenage growth spurt that had hit Pansy and Draco like a train this year. Some of the baby fat melting away and leaving them all a little gangly and a little awkward.

Draco hated it, but he found himself scared. He needed to make friends with them. He needed to make sure they didn’t hate him, so he could do whatever it took to set things on the right path this year. There was a vulnerability in that. Draco hated to feel vulnerable. 

He slumped in his chair a little bit, looking away from the sight of them. The easy and calm friendship that always encompassed them. 

“Idiot,” She said again, but there was a returning softness in the shape of it. “But my idiot. So…” 

“You’ll help me?” 

“I won’t shoot you in the foot. But you can’t possibly expect me to make friends with… Granger.” A sneer, the wrinkling of her nose. 

Draco held back the sound of a sigh, the argument that wanted to claw its way up his chest. He would have said the same thing last year. 

One step at a time, that was how this needed to go.

“I’ll take it.” He told her, and smiled. It only took a few moments for Pansy to smile back. “They’re a problem that can wait for school, anyway.” 

It’s three in the morning, and Draco needs to be awake in just a handful of hours so that his parents can take him to Platform 9 and 3/4 for the train to school. 

It’s three in the morning, and Draco is gazing at the painted ceiling of his bedroom in Malfoy Manor, wide awake. During the day time, pale clouds and blue sky’s scatter themselves against the expanse of the ceiling. Now, it’s the cold expanse of a night-time sky. Constellations glitter and glimmer before his eyes, attempting to lull him into a sleep that feels impossibly far away. 

Usually, he finds the stars comforting.

Now, all they do is remind him of that room at Black Abbey. Regulus Black’s face in the mirror. The telescope that cut him. He raises his hand so he can look at the palm, the thin silver scar that has settled in where blood had been drawn. 

Something tugs at his gut. 

He feels like he needs to go back there. He feels like he needs to see the golden expanse of it again, before he leaves for Hogwarts. 

Draco pulls the bed-sheets away from his body and sits up, letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed, his toes skim the plush rug beneath. He bites his lip, a nervous habit, stopping just short of drawing blood. 

He needed to see that room again. But how? He couldn’t exactly walk out the front door and apparate all the way to Somerset. There was his broom, of course, but Draco would never make it there and back again before Tipsy rang the bell for breakfast. 

Tipsy.

Now, there was an idea. 

His feet hit the rug as he stood. They made very little sound as he began to pace back and forth along the length of the room. This was a habit too, one he had picked up from his Father. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that, but he had to admit that it made thinking through problems much easier. 

Tipsy could bring him to Somerset. She could do it in a flash. She likely would do it, if Draco asked her to, if he made it a command. But there was danger in it. At the end of the day, Tipsy would always be his father’s creature. She was loyal to the Lord Malfoy and no one else. If he made Tipsy bring him to Somerset the risk was extremely high that his father would find out. 

Father would find, out, and then there would be questions. He would hurt Draco for breaking the rules; and he’d probably do much worse to the elf. Draco was used to the way the elves needed to punish themselves at his Father’s command, but he wasn’t sure he could stomach their punishment being his fault. 

Tipsy wouldn’t do. 

He stopped short in his pacing. 

He couldn’t ask Tipsy. No, he needed a creature of his own.

“Kreacher.” He whispered, wondering. That was the elf bound to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His mother’s house. The Estate that Draco himself would inherit on the day he turned seventeen. Did that mean that the elf was bound to serve him? He swallows thickly around the idea, and forces the word to escape his mouth again, firmer the second time. “Kreacher. Come here.” 

There is a long moment of silence. And then; 

Pop. 

The ragged creature looked even worse than Draco remembered. He had often been seen clinging to Great Aunt Walburga’s side, in the final days of her life, during the visits that his mother had insisted on. If he had looked ancient and poorly then, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. 

“Hello,” Draco greeted him, as the elf looked up and at his face with wide, wet eyes. “I’m —” 

“Young Mistress Narcissa’s son. Oh, it is an honor. An honor, Young Master Black, to have been summoned after so long.” 

“An honor, yes.” Draco nodded along. This was good. This could work. “Er, well. I called you here because I was wondering… I know I haven’t inherited anything yet, but Mother always says that I will someday soon. And I need…someone I can trust. Someone like you, to help me with something.” 

“Young Master Draco can trust Kreacher. Kreacher will be honored to help the Young Master with whatever he needs.”

“And you won’t have to tell my father about it? He would punish me if he ever found out.” 

“Kreacher is not serving the Malfoy Lord.” The elf said, low and quiet, almost as if the very idea of it offended him. “Kreacher is belonging to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Mr Lucius Malfoy cannot command Kreacher to be telling him anything.” 

Draco allowed himself a smile, then. It seemed like some kind of revenge, to have someone on his side now. Someone who Lucius could never touch. It may be a decrepit old elf, but it was something. “Splendid. That’s simply splendid, Kreacher. I’m so pleased to hear it, and honored in return to be part of such a great house.” 

Kreacher’s eyes grew wider and wetter as he looks up at Draco. “What can Kreacher be doing for the Young Master?” 

Draco crouched to get himself down to the same height as Kreacher, to look into his eyes. The more Kreacher loved him for existing, the better things would be. “There’s a room in Black Abbey. The house in South Somerset. It has…mirrors, and a telescope. I need to go there.” 

“Master Draco is wanting to visit the Cosmoscope?” 

Cosmoscope. Something about the word latched on to Draco, fanning the flames of his desire to visit that place again. 

“Yes. Master Draco is very much wanting to visit the Cosmoscope.” Draco nodded, insistent. “Can you take me there? Is it possible?” 

The small head before him began to nod up and down. His small hand reached out, held flat so that Draco could take hold of it. “Kreacher can do this.” 

He slipped his hand into the elves and wrapped his fingers around it. 

With a flash and a crack, Draco was no longer in his bedroom at Malfoy Manor. He was crouched down in the exact same position, looking in the exact same eyes, only now they were in the foyer of Black Abbey. When he turned his head, he could see the gilded doors of the Cosmoscope waiting for him. They glinted in the moonlight that streamed in through the wide windows of the foyer. 

“Thank you,” He told the elf, a small smile crossing his face. “Will you wait here for me, until I’m done? I’ll need you to bring me back home before anyone wakes up.” 

“Yes, Young Master. Kreacher will be waiting.” 

“Thank you.” He said it again, because he meant it, because it needed to be said. Something told him that Kreacher’s loyalty would be one of his most valuable assets in life, if he could earn it and keep it. 

He stepped away in silence, after that. Once again his hand came up to touch the ornate handle of the door. Once again, it opened for him without even a whisper of noise. Once again, he was met with moonlight streaming down from the domed glass ceiling and reflecting off the silver mirrors held within. 

Much like the first time Draco stepped foot in the Cosmoscope, he only sees himself reflected along the walls. He soft huff of air escapes him. Perhaps the images of other people had been a hallucination of some kind. 

The scope itself is still there, gleaming golden in the moonlight. He circles it, examining it with a critical eye. He doesn’t see any sharp edges. But this time he does note its uniqueness. It’s a well crafted beast, equatorially mounted. There are dials inlaid amongst the counterweight to set the coordinates of the celestial body you want to track. And another dial, something that looks like…a time setting. 

“So, the prodigal son returns.” A voice speaks. It sounds distorted somehow, as if coming from very far away. He turns his head, and there sits Regulus, in his mirror. 

“You’re very dramatic.” Draco tells him. He refuses to be shaken by this for the second time in a row. 

“You’re very blond, for a member of my family. Which you must be, if you’ve earned a place among us.” The man took a step closer in the mirror, leaning a palm against it from the other side. “But then again… yes, that’s it. You must be Narcissa’s son. She always was the pale haired sheep in our very Black flock.” 

“Draco Malfoy.” He nods, “Utterly charmed, I’m sure. Cousin Regulus, is it?” A flick of his eyes up to the mirror, where the delicately painted name resides against the ornate frame. 

“The very same.” A nod in return. “Pleased to meet you at last, cousin. Though not at all pleased to learn that my dearest Cissy actually married that damnable Malfoy. No offense meant to your esteemed personage, of course.” 

“None taken.” 

“You’re a good sport.” 

“You’re… a dead man in a mirror. I’m not sure there’s much of a point taking offense in anything you say.” Draco makes a show of taking the cap off of the lens attached to the scope, examining it to look for any damage. “I could always shatter you if I really thought you were an annoyance.” 

“A fair point, well made. You’ll fit in around here.” 

A soft hum left Draco’s lips, as he set the latitude and longitude to show him Regulus-the-star, instead of Regulus-the-person. He pressed his eye to the lens, and then pulled away with a wrinkled frown. “Your telescope isn’t collimated right.” 

“It has just been sitting there for fourteen years. Not many people to keep it in proper working order after my…untimely passing.” 

“Grandfather never used it?” Draco inquired, genuine curiosity getting the better of him for a moment. 

“Oh, no. Never.” 

“Why have an entire observatory in your house if you aren’t going to use it?” 

“The room would never open for him. Alphard claimed it long before Cygnus ever got the chance to.” 

Draco’s eyes skimmed to the next mirror along, the one next to Regulus’s. The name on top declared that it belonged to Alphard Black. It remained curiously empty. The only two reflections in the room were Draco and Regulus. “I’ve never heard of an Alphard Black.” Draco pondered. “Mother has taught me most of the family tree, but she never mentioned him.” 

“He was disowned.” Casual as anything, as if the very idea wasn’t a terrifying one. “For being a muggle loving degenerate. And for being in love with a man. But I think the ‘in love with a man’ thing would have been overlooked, if he could have settled down with an upstanding wizarding gentleman instead of running off with his muggle lover.” 

A muggle loving degenerate. A man who felt the need to run away with people instead of following the straightforward path laid out before him by virtue of his birth. Draco’s mouth went dry at the thought, an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Running away with a man was starting to sound like something Draco might want. All that business of inheritances and heirs, the number of children he would need to start pumping out when he came of age. 

“Right.” He fixes the cap back on the lens. “But he got here first. So it’s a… once in a generation thing? This room. The mirrors. The —” 

“The prophecies?” 

“Yes.”

“Not quite once in a generation, there are some gaps far too wide for that. It’s more like… one at a time, at the very least. Alphard had been dead…oh, I don’t know. I was sixteen when I found this room. So he had been dead for a few months at least before I stumbled in and inherited our gift.” The way he said the word betrayed his true feelings. This was no gift at all. This was just what Draco had imagined it to be. A devils pact. A curse. “There hadn’t been a seer in the family for decades and decades before he took up the mantle.” 

Draco could see Regulus move out of the corner of his eye, see Regulus pull away from the edge of the mirror to begin pacing the room on the other side of it, the perfect reflection of Draco’s own space. He polished the reflection of the telescope with his sleeve. 

“You look younger than sixteen.” Regulus states, not looking at Draco either. 

“I’m thirteen.” Draco tells him. “I just turned thirteen, this summer.” 

“So young.” There’s an emotion in Regulus’s distant voice that Draco can’t quite name. Something like regret, or sadness, but too cleverly monotone that he can’t be sure of it. “You might be the youngest yet, dear cousin. I’m very sorry for it, whatever doom the Cosmoscope decided to present to you as your trial by fire.” 

“Can I change it?” Draco asked, allowing a hint of much detested vulnerability to creep into his voice. “I’ve been walking around since that night, thinking about all the things I could do to make things turn out differently. I could… make friends with Granger and Weasley, I could stop the Dark Lord from rising again. I could stop Potter from dying. But…could I? Is it set in stone now that I’ve seen it?” 

Silence reigns within the room for a long minute. When he looks, Regulus’s eyes are settled on his own telescope. “Potter?” He asks, after far longer than Draco would have expected. 

“Harry Potter.” There is a moment of hesitance. “He killed the Dark Lord, the first time around.” 

Regulus turns to look him in the eye. The careful monotony of his voice breaks. “Harry Potter.” Slightly ponderous. And them, a beat of silence before the man carried on. “The future is never set in stone, Draco. You can always try to change it. But the risks and obstacles are bigger and more perilous the further you walk down that path. It may lead to your own doom.” 

“I’m doomed either way, aren’t I?” 

“Then you’re doing the right thing by trying. The good news is, you’ll have our cohort for guidance. The Cosmoscope will help you, Draco — but…” 

“I hate buts.” 

“But it can’t help you yet.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. 

“The Cosmoscope is a powerful tool. It can enhance your inherent talents in Divination. It’s like a focus, like a wand. It just can’t help you yet. You’ll need to learn how to use it. How to hone your gift into a blade that you can wield with precision. You need to become something sharp. Something determined. Something discerning. Someday you’ll be ready, but you aren’t yet.”

“I don’t think I like you very much.” Draco tells him, and watches the savage smile that spreads across Regulus’s face. 

“Run along home, little cousin, and start practicing. Next time you see me, there will be a test.” 

Walking down the thin hallway of the Hogwarts Express searching for a snake was not what Draco expected to be doing on his journey. 

It was embarrassing, frankly. It made him feel like an off brand version of Neville Longbottom, like when he had lost his toad in first year. He cursed Greg and Vince as they followed him down the narrow hallway between the compartments. 

“How could you be so utterly stupid?” He scolded Vince. “Rule one of snake transportation, make sure the bloody latch of the bloody enclosure is properly sealed.” 

“I thought it was, Dray, honest.” Vince tells him, with an acceptable level of repentance in his voice. He was casting his gaze around every inch of the hallway, looking for the vibrant burst of green that would pinpoint the snake’s location. 

“If it’s crawled out a window, or gotten lost on the platform back in London, I swear to Morgana I’ll kill you.” He whirled around to look Vince in the eye. “Or worse, I’ll set Professor Snape on you, and then you’ll regret being such an utter —” 

“Alright, Draco.” Gregory said, with a weary kind of acceptance. “We’re idiots. You don’t have to say it again.” 

“He’s only worried.” Vince said, and Draco once again thought that his friends were far too good for him. He knew deep down that Greg and Vince would bend over backwards to do anything that Draco told them to do. He wasn’t sure he deserved loyalty like that. “You know he loves the little guy.” 

“I don’t love him.” Draco erupted. “I don’t love anything.” 

He whirled back around, throwing open the closest compartment door, only to instantly deflate when he saw who was inside it. Three sets of eyes turned to look at him. He could feel the warmth of Vince and Greg on either side of him, but somehow they weren’t comforting in the face of the golden children of Gryffindor. 

“Well, look who it is.” He drawled, and then panicked at the slightly antagonistic tone of his own voice. Force of habit, muscle memory that was harder to forget than he anticipated it would be, when he had vowed to be a kinder person toward the trio this year. “Potter, Weasley, Granger. Splendid to see you all in good health.” 

“Er,” Greg said, from his left. 

“Is it?” Vince whispered, quiet enough for Greg and Draco to hear. 

“Who’s that?” Draco asked, squinting at the man sleeping in the corner. 

The three Gryffindor’s looked at each other. Silent words seemed to pass between them. Clearly Draco was a topic they had discussed more than once in the last few days since their reunion. There was doubt in their eyes, the inherent mistrust they would surely always feel around him. 

“New Professor. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Now, what do you want, Malfoy?” Harry Potter asked, terse and tense. He looked up to meet Draco’s eyes with a challenging air. He knew that Draco wouldn’t cause any real problems when there was a professor in the room with them. 

Merlin, the boy needed to do something about his hair. It seemed to have grown even messier over the summer. A ravens nest. It made him look all the more striking, with his dark skin and the lightning bolt scar that ran jagged along his face. Draco forced himself to look into those green eyes, and similarly forced himself not to get lost in them. 

“Vincent has lost our snake.” He states, straight to the point now the challenge has been thrown down. He needs a reason to be here, and a way to prove he isn’t being needlessly antagonistic. Luckily, he has both. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen one?” 

“A snake?” Ronald exclaimed. He pulled his feet off the ground. The red-headed boy was cradling his own shirt pocket, where it seemed his rat had curled up to sleep, or to hide from the rather mangy cat that Granger was clutching onto. “What the bloody hell have you got a snake for?” 

“Oh, do calm down, Weasley.” Draco drawled. “Salazar isn’t big enough to eat you.” 

“You named your snake Salazar?” Harry questioned, as if that was the important aspect here. “Isn’t that a bit…” 

“Snakes aren’t even allowed at Hogwarts.” Hermione cut across Harry’s words. Of course she was more concerned about the rules than she was the creature that was possibly roaming the halls of the train. 

“It’s a dorm pet. For the whole house. We had to get special permission from —” 

“Let me guess,” Harry’s dull and already judgemental voice. “Snape.” 

Draco felt that he was putting in a valiant effort to be calm and friendly, in the face of their outright hostility. Still, he couldn’t help but straighten his back further and cut a hint of a glare in. “Professor Snape, to you. Do show him some respect, won’t you? But that’s beside the point. It was Professor McGonagall who signed off on it. She is the deputy Headmistress, in case you weren’t aware. She didn’t see anything wrong with it as long as we didn’t allow Sal to roam the halls.” 

Potter looked slightly taken aback by that. It wasn’t often that Draco could say he had actually followed the rules to the letter. He watched the expression on Granger’s face shift as well, slightly less judgemental of his perceived transgression. 

“Look,” Draco said, before any of them could launch at him with another accusation. “I’m really not here to cause trouble. We’re worried about our snake. He’s still a youngling, you see. Quite small and delicate, and stressed out from the traveling. It isn’t good for him. So I’d like to get him back in his enclosure before anything bad can happen to him. Have you seen anything?” 

“No, we haven’t.” Granger shakes her head. “What does he look like?” 

“He’s green.” Vince supplied for her. “He’s an, erm, what’s it called?” 

“An emerald tree boa.” Draco told them. “Bright green with white spots.” 

“We’ll keep an eye out for him.” Granger told him, the words sounding kind of stiff as they escaped her mouth. The stiffness only grew further as Draco gave her a genuine smile. 

“Thank you. I’ll be in your debt, Miss Granger.” 

“Right.” She nods. 

“Right.” Harry echoes.

“Uh huh.” Weasley is looking at Draco like Draco is possessed. Like he’s lost his entire mind. 

There was still years of tension between them all. But this, at the very least, was proof that they could spend two minutes in each other’s company without starting a brawl. Draco didn’t want to push his luck. He straightened his back again and nodded at them all. “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Clearly no snakes in here. Come along, Vin—” 

They heard the sound of yelping and a scream from several compartments down. ‘What the fuck?’ a distant voice had called, and a louder ‘Is that a fucking snake?’. Draco paled slightly, and even before he could start to run for the compartment, Potter had pushed past to take the lead. 

Typical Potter. Typical hero moment. Draco let out a huff of annoyance as he followed the dark haired boy, watching as the door slid open and several sixth year Hufflepuff’s and Ravenclaw’s exited the compartment. Cedric Diggory was among them, and Draco took a moment to admire the strong expanse of his arms and the way his hair fell across his forehead. Merlin, but it was unfair that a Hufflepuff should get to be so handsome. 

“Careful there, Potter.” Diggory warned, “Nasty looking snake in there.” 

“Erm,” Harry said, in-eloquent as ever. “I’m not too scared of snakes.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. He peeked around them, and saw Salazar slithering along the curtain rod. He smiled, a bright thing, because the little guy looked safe enough. “That’s him!” He declared, twisting around to smile at Greg and Vince. “I found him, go tell Theo to call off the search.” 

The snake flicked his tongue out, tiny head turning in Potter’s direction. He heard a small hiss escape. His body language was distinctly aggressive. Potter may not be scared of snakes, but Draco’s snake didn’t seem to like Potter much. He inwardly preened. It seemed that Salazar had good taste. 

Of course, he had all but forgotten the fact that when a snake hissed at Harry Potter, Harry Potter could hiss right back. It’s just as intensely interesting as the first time he’d seen Potter do it. The sound of it was shiver inducing. The way Potter looked at Salazar with such intensity… 

Draco was unaffected by it, of course. It didn’t make him feel anything at all. And he certainly wasn’t offended when Salazar’s body language relaxed. When Draco approached the snake, Salazar came happily away from the curtain rod to curl around Draco’s wrist and up his arm. He always liked to climb up Draco’s sleeve and bask against his body heat. 

“Thank you.” He said, tersely. Not that Potter had done much to earn a thank you from Draco. It was said more to come across as kind and inoffensive than to express any form of real gratitude to Harry. 

“Not a problem.” Harry told him. “I didn’t really do anything.” 

“No, just leaped up to save the day faster than anyone else could. Thank you, regardless.” 

Granger and Weasley appeared to flank Potter just in time to catch the second show of unneeded gratitude. The three of them shared another look. 

“I’m glad you found him.” Granger says, like pulling teeth. 

“Before he savaged anyone, you mean?” Draco asks, with another innocent smile.

“He does look a little too small for savaging, I suppose.” Ron seemed to admit, reluctantly. Salazar’s head was resting now against the back of Draco’s hand. Small and delicate and utterly darling as his tongue flicked out to taste Draco’s skin. 

“For now.” Draco nodded, because he couldn’t help being a little bit ominous, just to see Weasley squirm. “I’d better get him back into his enclosure. We’re not far off from Hogwarts, now.” 

The three of them nodded, and parted like the red sea to let Draco pass by them. 

He was several steps away when he heard Potter’s voice.

“Malfoy,” He called, leaning out of the compartment to watch Draco leave. Draco glanced over his shoulder to look at him. “Your snake is a girl. Just thought you might want to know.” 

Draco froze for only a moment. “Sod off, Potter.” He said, without a hint of venom in it, and started to walk back to his own compartment. He raises his hand up so that he can look in Sal’s eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks the snake. Sal hisses again, a soft sound that Draco can’t even hope to understand. “Traitorous wench.” 

He was glad that Salazar had been found, especially when twenty minutes later a chill settled over the entire train as it ground to a halt. The snake was safely back inside its heated enclosure, which was a good thing — from the look of the ice that was quickly spreading across the widows, it would have been far too cold on the curtain-rod perch that Sal had found for the snake to survive long. 

“Why has the train stopped?” Pansy asks, looking out the window. “We’re not in Hogsmeade yet.” 

She and Draco were flanked, as they always were, by the usual suspects. Theo sat beside Draco, Pansy and Blaise across from them, with Vince and Greg in the seats closest to the door. 

“Not sure.” Theo said, squinting out the window, though he had to lean slightly over Draco to see anything. “Father told me that the Azkaban guards would be haunting the grounds and the village for the year, until they find Black. Must be checking the train to see if he’s snuck on board somehow.” 

Blaise plastered a smile onto his handsome face. “Draco’s family ruins another lovely afternoon.” 

It made Draco smile too, despite himself. He felt more than heard the soft huff of Theo’s laughter as the boy shifted to sit back properly in his seat. Even Pansy’s lips quirked up. “Typical Draco.” She said, though he could see the way she was starting to shiver.

“It does make you wonder how the poor chap will turn out.” Theo mused. “What do say, Draco? Are you at risk of becoming a homicidal maniac like your cousin?” 

“I’m at risk of hexing you, if you don’t shut up.” Draco told them all, inspiring a burst of laughter from all five of them. 

The lights flickered out. The air grew colder still, and none of them were laughing or smiling anymore when the door slid open. No, they all froze instead. There was movement outside the door. A thin hand pressed against the glass of the door, nudging it open bit by bit. Every single one of them averted their gaze. 

They hadn’t done anything wrong. If this was an Azkaban guard, it would know that, and leave them alone. The thing at the door drew in a rasping, rattling breath. It leaned closer, as if to get a closer look at them. It focused and leaned closer again, crowding up against Draco and Theo where they sat beside the window. 

Draco held his breath. 

The thing, the Dementor, drew in another.

After what felt like eternity, the Dementor pulled away again. Greg was quick to close the door when the figure moved on to the next compartment down. The lights remained dim, the air remained icy cold. 

“Fuck,” Pansy breathed, a half-relieved sigh. 

Draco let out a shaky breath, finally letting himself draw in air again. In the dark of the compartment, he felt Theo take his shaking hand and give it a comforting squeeze, a brief moment of contact that did wonders to warm Draco’s frigidly cold body.

“Your cousin is a fucking twat, Draco.” Theo said, as he pulled his hand away again. “Inflicting this whole mess upon us.”

“I’ll make sure to pass on the message if I ever have the honor to meet him.” Draco told him, and hoped that he hadn’t just jinxed himself. 

Chapter Text

One thought occurred to Draco when he leaned forward to whisper to Harry Potter, as they ascended the steps outside the entrance hall; old habits truly did die hard. 

“Is it true, what Longbottom is saying?” There’s a smile in his voice. “Did you faint on the train, when the Dementor came along?” 

Perhaps if Draco could have sounded less pleased about the subject, Potter would have received his friendly enquiry better. It was the curse of sounding like an utter bitch 90% of the time. 

“Shove off, Malfoy.” Weasley told him, as Potter’s face flushed with embarrassment. 

“There’s no shame in it. Those Dementors are very, very scary. I wouldn’t blame anyone for being frightened of them.” There. That was the nice thing to say. Though, Draco wasn’t quite sure that he mastered the friendly tone he was going for. Clearly not, as he heard Blaise’s muffled laughter from behind his own back. 

“Is there a problem?” A voice asked. Draco whirled to look at it, and froze at his first proper look at the new professors face. Did he recognise those features? There was something eery about it, a touch of destiny about the man, and Draco wondered if this had been one of the quick flashes of Future that were difficult to hold on to. 

“Not at all, Professor. I was just commiserating with Potter here about how terribly frightening those Dementors are.” 

“It is not a topic that should be joked about, Mr Malfoy.” The Professor scolded, and Draco couldn’t help feeling taken aback by it. He hadn’t been joking. 

“I wasn’t.” He said, rather quietly, as everyone else was already moving on around him. 

Bloody hell, but lions were far too sensitive to survive in this world if they thought that something as simple as that had been bullying. Even the Hufflepuffs tended to have more backbone. Only Pansy remained next to him as the flow of students continued on. 

“I wasn’t joking.” He told her, again, because she was the only one who listened. 

“I know.” She told him, with an indulgent smile. “They’re programed to assume the worst of you, Draco. You’re delusional if you think they’ll ever do anything else.” 

He felt his shoulders slump. He gazed at them, the back of their heads as they ascended the steps into the great hall. Harry Potter walking away from him, again. When all Draco had been trying to do was be friendly, again. A huff escaped him. Pouting about the misunderstanding wouldn’t help — but Draco couldn’t help feeling the sting of it. 

Vulnerability. It was a terrible thing.

He straightened his shoulder and raised his head. A Malfoy was never vulnerable. He sculpted his features into something calm and cold, and began pushing through the crowd to enter the hall. The sooner he could be sitting down at dinner, the better it would be. 

Of course, a Gryffindor had to go ahead and ruin his day. 

“Potter, Granger, Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall called. “I’d like to see you in my office, if you please.” 

“You can’t be in trouble already.” Pansy half laughed, half wined, as she gently nudged Draco’s shoulder toward McGonagall. Draco raised his middle finger to her as he swerved off his planned path, keeping his head held high as he approached McGonagall, who was trying to encourage Weasley to go ahead into the great hall for the sorting ceremony.

It was typical that Weasley tried to argue when someone told him he couldn’t follow Potter around like a lost little puppy dog. Draco gave McGonagall a kind little smile — against his better judgement, he liked her — and stayed silent as she shooed the red-headed boy away. All three of them were silent as they followed McGonagall through the halls and into her cozy little office. 

Severus would strangle Draco if he knew Draco had the thought; but he couldn’t help but muse on the feeling both of their offices had. Both teachers were strict, both teachers could be kind if you had earned it, and both of their offices made Draco feel oddly safe. If McGonagall could tone down the red drapery, he may even say he liked her office better. It was certainly warmer than Severus’s dungeon abode, with the welcoming fire flickering already in the hearth. 

The professor gestured for her students to take a seat, and Draco — ever the gentleman — pulled out a chair for Hermione to sit in. She looked at him, once again, like he had grown a second head over the summer. Clearly the girl didn’t want to make a scene when Draco hadn’t done anything evil, so she sat down and allowed Draco to get on with it. 

McGonagall herself sat behind her desk, and looked at Potter specifically. “Professor Lupin has informed us that you were taken ill on the train, Potter.” 

Draco wondered if he was somehow going to be blamed for this, or punished for his perceived mockery of Potter over his fainting spell. He was already cursing himself for getting involved at all when the door opened to present Madam Pomfrey. 

For his part, Potter seemed to be thoroughly embarrassed by this entire encounter. Red was rising up on his cheeks, making him look far more lively than he had as he ascended the steps to the castle. Draco watched the colour spread on his cheeks, watched him stumble through his reply: 

“I’m fine.” Potter argued, words that surely escaped his lips more often than was proper. There was always some kind of drama with Potter, always some incident that had the adults in the castle fussing and fawning over him. Potter was the perpetual golden child; none of them ever wanted to see him hurt. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Really, Professor. I’m alright. I don’t —” 

“Harry Potter again, is it?” Pomfrey scolded, though her words were laced with an endless kind of fondness. Draco couldn’t actually begrudge her that. She seemed equally worried and fond of every student who crossed her path. “What antics did you get into this time, young lad? You don’t look like you’re bleeding anywhere. All your bones still in one piece?” She asked, tutting at him as she took him in. 

“It was a dementor, Poppy.” Professor McGonagall told Pomfrey. There was a sharp hint of disapproval in her voice. It seemed that the professors were just as unhappy about the dementors presence at Hogwarts as the students were. They were nasty creatures. Draco shivered at the very thought of them, the memory of their rattling breaths on the train. 

Pomfrey muttered disapprovingly about the dementors as she fussed over Potter, checking his temperature and mussing his hair even further. “Terrible creatures. The affect they have on people…particularly those who are already delicate.” 

Draco had to stifle a smile at that, fighting to keep his expression carefully blank. Potter, for his part, looked as if he was a step away from batting Pomfreys hand away. 

“I’m not delicate!” The dark haired boy argued, the flush on his cheeks growing all the darker. Draco was slightly vindicated when he saw Hermione fighting back her own smile, where she sat next to him. He supposed she would have been allowed to tease Potter, seeing as the two were thick as thieves. Harry glanced at them, at Hermione and then at Draco. He grew redder still when he met Draco’s eyes. “I’m not delicate.” A second demand. 

“I’m fine.” Potter insisted, voice strained with something that must have been embarrassment. “Got all my blood, got all my bones. Professor Lupin even gave me some chocolate on the train. I feel fine.” 

“Finally, a competent defense professor.” Pomfrey gave McGonagall a significant look over her shoulder, before heaving out a weary sigh. “Very well, Mr. Potter, but you are to report to me if you start feeling in any way poorly during the night.” 

McGonagall seemed to study Potter for a long moment, before she nodded her head. It was only the slightest movement, as if she was assuring herself that Potter really was okay. “You may wait outside, Potter, while I discuss class schedules with Granger and Malfoy here. It shouldn’t take long.” 

Potter seemed as if he wanted to argue with that as well — Gryffindors were so argumentative, it was a marvel that they got anything done at all — but he visibly stifled whatever words may have spilled out of his mouth. Potter rose with a nod of his head, and a quickly murmured: “Thank you, Professor.” 

Pomfrey and Potter left the room, McGonagall’s hawk-like eyes watching their movements until the solid wooden door had closed behind them. Potter won’t have gone far, Draco assumed. All he could do was continue to wait patiently, with his hands folded in his lap, for McGonagall to get on with it. The sharp gaze turned to Granger and him, the woman peering at them over her glasses. 

“I would like to impart to you both what an honor you are about to recieve.” She began, stern voiced. “You are the two brightest students in your year — and in fact, you may give the current fourth years a run for their money. It is because of this that the Headmaster has seen fit to approve your rather expansive roster of study for this school year.” 

Granger and Draco shared a quick look. She looked rather surprised. No one had been there to warn her that Draco would also be taking all twelve subjects this year, whereas Draco had the inside knowledge he had gained from his teatime gossip session with Severus. 

“I’m very glad to hear that, Professor.” Draco told her, with a smile, deciding that this was another situation in which he should really be on his best behaviour. “Seve — Professor Snape, that is, wasn’t sure that it would work out entirely right with my schedule.” 

“Yes,” McGonagall sighed, “There are only so many hours in a day during which students can be permitted to take classes. Headmaster Dumbledore has arranged with the Ministry of Magic for the two of you to make use of a Time Turner—”

A quiet, yet sharp, gasp escaped from Granger, and Draco could see her sit up even straighter in her seat. 

“— which will allow you to attend all of your classes. Professor Snape and I have arranged the Gryffindor and Slytherin timetables to allow you both to attend the same classes. I am sure I do not need to express to you the level of responsibility you will need to have, over the course of this year. The work load will be heavy, and we shall all be keeping a careful eye on the both of you to ensure that this artifact is not misused for childish purposes.” 

“Of course, Professor.” The two of them said, almost in perfect unison. They shared another look. Draco wasn’t sure if he should be freaked out or not — Morgana forbid that him and Granger actually had similarities. 

McGonagall gave them both a discerning look. “You will use the time turner for the attendance of classes, and at no other time. You will share the time turner between the two of you. If you are caught by a Professor engaging in any untoward behaviour, the privilege of using the time turner will be revoked. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Professor.” Another echo of their voices in the air. 

A nod. 

“Very well. You will both report back to my office tomorrow morning, before breakfast, and I will explain the intricacies of its use to you then.” 

So the meeting was done, and McGonagall, along with three of her students, walked to the great hall in relative silence. 

The welcome feast went along in the same fashion as it always did, from what Draco had gleaned from his classmates when he finally arrived to the Slytherin table after his meeting with Professor McGonagall. The sorting ceremony had finished already when he took his seat, and all Draco could do was peer curiously down at the first years for a moment. They seemed to get smaller and smaller every year, he thought. Daphne Greengrass had excitedly pointed out her little sister, Astoria, and all of Draco’s friends smiled and waved at her. This made Astoria preen, and the rest of her new first year cohort look on at her with a strange kind of awe. 

His friends only interrogated him in the mildest sense. His excuse of needing to talk to McGonagall about his schedule for the year was accepted with curious looks and shrugged shoulders. There were more important things to worry about, when most of the house was in the middle of a reunion — new gossip to be shared, stories from summer spilling out from lips, warnings from the current fourth years about certain electives which they themselves had experienced for the first time last year. 

Draco allowed himself to get lost in the warmth of the conversations around him. This was one of his favourite places to be. The Great Hall, surrounded by his friends. They swept him along in their drama and gossip, all the way through dinner and down into the common room, stuffed full and ready for bed. They split with the girls on the staircase down into the dorm rooms to get ready for bed. Theo and Blaise were in the midst of some debate or another that Draco hadn’t managed to keep track of, so when they turned to him for his opinion, Draco said what he always said;

“I agree with Theo.” As if the opinion was an obvious one. 

Blaise rolled his eyes with thinly disguised fondness. “Draco isn’t allowed be tie breaker anymore.” He declared. “He isn’t beyond blatant favoritism.” 

Draco only hummed as he buttoned up his pajama shirt. “But I am amenable to bribes, if you’d like to try and change my mind.” 

“Morally corrupt.” Theo stated. 

“And proud of it.” With a quick smile, Draco opened the curtains of his bed. “I’m off to sleep. Don’t try and strangle each other in the night.” 

Year after year, Draco had witnessed the struggle of his classmates to readjust to the schedule of school. Draco himself never managed to join their ranks. It would seem that while Blaise’s mother was content to let him sleep until nearly noon during the holidays, Draco was forced to rise with the sun. 

Summer was less of a vacation, and more of a continuation of expected events. 

With sunrise came tutors, the old men and woman who had taught Draco diligently before he departed for Hogwarts during his eleventh year of life. 

There was Mrs. Smythe-Smith, who lectured Draco for hours about politics and history and etiquette, for a Malfoy Heir must be knowledgeable and well-mannered at all times. Draco could calmly recite the details of every war in the last three centuries, while balancing books upon his head as he paced the room. 

There was also Mr. Albrecht, sternly German, who tutored Draco in several different languages. It was important for a well-bred wizard to be near-fluent in as many languages as he could hold in his head. It made learning magic easier, so they said, or at the very least widened the possibilities of one’s talents when entertaining guests from foreign ports. Draco himself was doing rather well with both German and French, as well as the added Korean, at the insistence of his mother. A natural born polyglot, or so Mr. Albrecht told his father, despite watching Draco struggle with verb-tenses for weeks at a time. 

Draco’s favourite tutor really should have been his Godfather, who descended upon the halls of Malfoy Manor twice a week to make sure Draco was keeping his potion-making skills up to snuff. Severus would likely be betrayed if Draco told him that wasn’t the case at all. His favourite had always been the rather refined Miss. Antonia Selywn, long a spinster despite her family’s efforts to marry her off. Miss. Selwyn taught the Draco how to play the pianoforte. This was another subject his mother had insisted upon, for she herself had learned to play the pianoforte as a child and found great comfort in hearing the music filling the hallways of Malfoy Manor. 

Draco’s summer days were filled with lessons — and only the most minimal of time was spent outside of them, during which Draco was allowed to do frivolous things like spending time with his friends. He was half certain that his father only allowed it because Draco was ‘building powerful connections’ that would work in his favor later in life. 

That was all well and good, Draco thought, except his powerful connections were still snoring loudly while he got up and dressed himself for the day — he’d rather be sleeping like them, instead of getting up even earlier than normal to go and meet McGonagall and Granger before breakfast. He let out a quiet, weary sigh, as he tied his tie and ascended from the depths of the Slytherin dormitories. 

Professor Snape fell into step beside him not long after he exited into the dungeons proper. They exchanged pleasant greetings, indulgently soft with no other students around to witness it. It added as sense of peace to the journey, and Draco thought that walking the sleep-quiet corridors of Hogwarts with Severus at his sides would be one of the things he remembered for comfort on his deathbed, whenever that day came. 

“We will take tea in my quarters, Saturday morning.” Severus stated, as they made the approach to McGonagall’ office. Once upon a time it would have been a request, but the meeting had long been established. Draco and Severus met for tea once a week, every week, usually on Saturday mornings, since Draco’s first year at the school. 

“I shall try to pencil you in to my busy schedule.” 

“Brat.”

“Bore.” 

“Insolent whelp.” 

“Control freak.” 

Draco caught the flash of a smile on Severus’s face. The two of them stopped just outside of the heavy wooden door to the office they had been hunting for. “Stand up straight. I won’t have you embarrassing me in front of a fellow head of house.” 

With a sweeping movement, Snape gave one hard knock on the door, and swung it open. McGonagall and Granger were inside already, and greetings were exchanged between the two teachers before they both began a reiterated lecture on responsibility and privilege. All gentleness had retreated back below the surface of Severus’s demeanor, leaving him every inch the stern professor the rest of the world knew him as. The lesson on how to use the time turner, and the dictation of their rules for Draco and Granger, was even more fascinating than Draco had expected. 

There was only one time turner, and when the question of who should hold onto it came up, Draco thought it best to give up before any arguments could unfold. “Granger should keep hold of it.” He told the room. “I’d be too tempted to use it for an extra hour of sleep.” 

Granger looked rather surprised, but the Professors didn’t question it, though he did recieve a rather disapproving look from Professor Snape. 

When the lesson had been taught and the time turner tucked carefully beneath the collar of Granger’s shirt, the professors deposited Granger and Draco outside the office door, staying inside themselves for final adjustments to the class schedules they would be handing out at breakfast this morning. It left him and Granger standing in awkward silence for a moment. 

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other this year.” Draco said, attempting to break that awkward silence. 

“It seems so.” 

Granger couldn’t quite hide the trepidation in her voice, as the two of them began to slowly walk toward the great hall. He couldn’t blame her for that, he supposed. If he’d been a dick to Potter, he had been an outright menace to Hermione Granger. 

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, so I’d like to…reiterate, what I wrote in that letter to you. I know i’ve been awful, and I’m…” He found the words harder to say out loud than they had been to write. “I’m very sorry for how I’ve behaved toward you. It was unnecessary and cruel. I promise to never do it again.” 

Granger didn’t say anything, just kept taking those quiet steps next to him. 

“And…” Draco searched for something else to say. “And I only said half of it because I was insecure, because I hated that you’re smarter than me.” 

“Because I’m a muggleborn?” 

“No.” He admitted, and found that it was the truth. “Because my father thinks that a Malfoy should be second to no one. Because he’s been hiring tutors since I was old enough to read, and I do nothing all summer but slave away over books, and you’re smarter than me anyway, and I don’t enjoy receiving his ire when I come home with second place. I’d hate Blaise if it was him getting top marks in our year, too.” 

She looked at him properly now, those sharp eyes of her searching his face for a hint of a lie. She looked curious, intrigued, and that was something. “What made you change your mind, then? You can’t blame us for being suspicious about your sudden change of heart. I mean, last year you were shouting slurs at me, and now you’re apologizing. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“I —” He puffed out his cheeks. He really should have prepared an explanation in advance. That was what someone clever would have done. Granger probably would have had her lie carefully planned out and rehearsed. 

“It’s all well and good to say that you’re sorry, but you must understand how hard it is to believe you when you can’t even explain to me why you’ve started thinking differently than you did before.” She barreled on, and it gave him time to think. 

“My grandfather died.” He said, half blurting it out during the first gap in her train of thought. “And I learned some things, about my mother’s family. Did you know that my Aunt Andromeda was disowned for marrying a mu— a muggleborn?” 

“That’s awful.” Granger frowned. 

“And she’s not the only one. I was looking through some of the empty rooms in his house, and they disowned his brother, my great-uncle, because he ran off with a muggle man. I’d never even heard his name before.” 

Her frown deepened. 

“It made me feel sick to find out.” He pretended, believing it best to stick to half truths. “But… not for the reasons I thought it would. I suppose it all just seemed unfair. It all made me realise that… my father was never going to be happy with me, no matter how hard I tried, and that I’d been making myself, as well as all of you, miserable for no good reason. Just because my family had decided I should.” 

“I see.” 

“Like I said in my letter, you don’t have to accept it. It’s just… important to me not to waste time on being toxic this year.” 

Her brow wrinkled at that. “Then why have you still been bullying Harry?” 

It was Draco’s turn to frown. “I haven’t been? I thought I was rather cordial on the train.” 

“You were fine on the train.” She said, exasperated. “It was after the train we’re taking issue with. You’ve been acting so mean about the dementors.” 

A startled laugh escaped Draco. She gave him a harsh glare, and he raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just — I really wasn’t trying to be. I thought that was more, you know…friendly ribbing.” 

“Making fun of him isn’t friendly. How could you possibly believe that?” 

“It’s just how Slytherin’s talk to each other, really. Especially when you’re close friends.” 

“You make fun of each other?” 

“Endlessly.” 

“You say mean things to each other?”

“All the time.” 

“That’s awful.” 

“It’s funny.” He said. “And its well meaning. Seriously, you should have heard them on the train. I think Vince nearly pissed himself when the dementors came into our carriage. And then they spent the entire way to the castle telling me that I was awful, and this was all my fault.” 

That curious look lit up her eyes again. “Why would the dementors be your fault?” 

She didn’t know, he realised. It made sense. There was absolutely no reason for Granger to have memorized every pureblood family tree of her classmates, and no reason for her to know that Sirius Black was in any way related to Draco. She didn’t know the burdens of his blood or the madness that ran inside him, didn’t know the crimes that his family had committed in the name of a Dark Lord that had destroyed her precious Harry Potter’s entire family. 

He flushed slightly. “Oh, no reason.” 

He was saved by the fact that they had reached the great hall. They stopped outside the doors. The tables were relatively empty, except for one or two early risers. Granger let out a huff of a sigh. “I’ll accept your apology for now.” She stated, “But if I catch you acting like a prat again, don’t expect me to keep being friendly.” 

A dazzling smile graced Draco’s face. He hoped it looked appropriately charming. “You won’t regret that, Granger.” 

“We’ll see.” She commented, before sweeping toward the Gryffindor table. She didn’t look back at him, and he kept his smile firmly in place as he went to take his own seat at Slytherin. 

Things were looking up for operation ‘make sure the Golden Trio succumb to my charms and stop hating me this year.’ 

Chapter Text

“But it’s impossible, Draco.” Pansy’s voice told him, as she poured over his schedule.

She seemed rather perky this morning — Pansy, social butterfly that she was, always felt rather excited on the first day of classes. Daphne and Millicent flanked her on either side, while Blaise and Theo sat half-asleep next to Draco. 

“Improbable, perhaps. Impossible? I think not.” 

Daphne glanced curiously down to the side, where she could skim her eyes over the schedule that Pansy had clutched in her delicate hands. “I hate to say it, but just this once… I think Pansy may be right.” 

A snort escaped Blaise, incredulous, and then a louder yelp where Pansy had clearly kicked him underneath the table. When he glared at her, she gave him a beatific smile. “Would you like to explain, then, my dearest Blaise, how exactly Draco is supposed to be in Divination with you at the exact same time he is supposed to be in Ancient Runes with dearest Theodore?” 

“What?” Theo asked, and having finally finished his first cup of tea, finally felt up for reaching across the table and snatching Draco’s schedule from Pansy’s fingertips. 

“It’s impossible!” She declared, again, letting the paper go. 

Draco scrambled to try and pull it away from Theo, but the mousey-haired boy beside him had a deceptive kind of strength, and a much longer wingspan than Draco himself had. He would have been a beauty out on the Quidditch pitch, quick on a broom — but Theo had always had the lamentable trait of not caring one fig about Quidditch, except as far as he went to games to cheer on his friends. 

The good thing about him was that he wasn’t usually a drama queen, either. He eyed Draco with a careful and critical gaze, and Draco lived in the fear that this was the year where Theo would learn how to make a scene. “You told me you didn’t want to take Divination.” Theo stated, accusatory, as if he believed that Draco was somehow picking Blaise over him. 

“I’m taking both.” Draco explained, rather calmly. 

“And Arithmancy?” 

“Yes.” 

“Impossible.” Pansy objected. 

“Look —” Draco straightened himself, letting his cutlery clatter down to his plate. “Its all cleared with Professor Snape. I’ll attend some classes, and do the rest of my coursework as a kind of…independent study.” 

“Where will you get the time?” Millicent asked, her first foray into the conversation. She was giving him a suspicious look as she carved into her morning fry-up. “Twelve classes, and you know Flint is going to run you ragged on the pitch this year. He’s desperate to win the cup.” 

Millicent, unlike Theo, had an unending appetite for discussing Quidditch. It was one of the only reasons that Draco liked her. One of the reasons he usually hated her came bundled in with the same statements she had just made. She had a way of drawing out exactly the things that Draco didn’t want to discuss. 

While he had explanations and excuses for his class load this year, he didn’t have an excuse for the Quidditch thing. He took a long sip of his tea, before he brought himself to look back up at his friends.

“About that.” He commented, trying to sound endlessly casual. He couldn’t quite manage it. Quitting the team seemed like a logical thing to do this summer, when he realised how many other things he would have to worry about — but now his heart ached as he thought of it. He loved Quidditch. He loved flying. He loved it more than he loved nearly everything else in his life — it was a thrill, when everything else was a duty. “I’m far too busy for the team this year. So — Daph, you should try out.” 

“What?” The word assaulted his ears again, but it came from several voices this time. Millicent, Daphne, as well as Vince and Greg. Theo settled for looking at him like he had grown another head, and it was Blaise whose hand found its way to Draco’s forehead to check him for a temperature. He batted Blaise away. 

“He’s been replaced by some sort of copy.” Blaise declared. “We should have known when he only spent half an hour primping himself on the train.” 

“Very funny.” 

“You can’t quit the team.” Millicent argued, barreling roughly through everyone else’s comments. “You can’t.” 

“I already have.” 

“But you’re the best flyer we have.” 

“Well, that can’t be true.” 

“Draco —” 

His cutlery slammed down again, and he wrote breakfast off as a lost cause. “I don’t want to talk about fucking Quidditch anymore.” He snapped. “The next person who talks to me about classes, or brooms, or flying, I will feed them to Salazar. Am I understood?” 

Pansy shared a look with their classmates, and nodded her head. Part of Draco knew that the peace accord couldn’t last forever, but he was grateful for the moment to have passed for now. 

Gryffindor’s golden trio were very nearly late to Divination class that morning. Draco watched them approach and wondered how they could possibly navigate the world the way they did, seemingly clueless as to the layout of the castle they had spent so much time in. 

He sent a conspiratorial wink in Granger’s direction, as the trio joined the rest of the waiting class below the trap door. She took it in her stride, but he saw Weasley and Potter floundering at the very sight of it, before they craned their necks to look up at the door above. 

“How are we supposed to—” Harry began to ask, as if he’d never seen a trap door before, nor heard of a ladder; the latter of which descended down from the trap door almost the exact moment that Potter vocalized his question. 

Draco couldn’t help but wonder if Professor Trelawney had been waiting just above, waiting for someone to voice the question so that she could unveil the silvery ladder in a flair of dramatics. 

He watched his classmates begin to ascend. When it came to Granger’s turn, she eyed the ladder with trepidation. The gentlemanly thing to do was this; stepping forward, he held the ladder steady so it wouldn’t shift as much when she began to climb. “Up you go, Granger.” He said, hoping that no one would comment on his new chivalrous streak. 

A half-smile flickered on her face. She began to climb. He was left with Potter and Weasley looking at him, thinly disguised shock still painting their faces. Draco arched an eyebrow at them in silent scorn. They could have been the ones to hold the ladder, if they had thought to do something kind for a nervous friend. 

“Do you need a hand too, Weasley?” He asked, innocently pleasant, smile painting across his face. 

“After you.” Weasley allowed, and Draco heard him muttering all during his own climb. “As if,” Weasley whispered to Potter. “He’d probably cut the ropes while I was half way up.” 

Draco smiled again at the image. 

The classroom that awaited him on the other side of the trap door might have been a wondrous sight, if you were anyone else other than Draco Malfoy. The room was full of small circular tables, each covered in an intricately patterned tablecloth. Draco felt pulled to a table covered in a silky, deep blue, portraying stars and planets in yellow and gold. All of the seats were armchairs and comfortable looking poufs. He rather liked it, the cozy atmosphere sinking into his bones. With the curtains closed and the lamps draped, it felt more like late evening than nine in the morning. 

The walls were stacked tall with shelves, upon which sat any number of future telling accouterments. He recognised crystal balls, well worn tarot decks, rune-stones and scrying bones. And then there were the teacups, which Draco thought looked rather cheap. 

The room was drawn together by the heavy smell and the light gauzy smoke of incense. He breathed it in, since there wasn’t anything else to do, and found it tickled something at the back of his nose. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Hermione Granger asked him, even as he was wriggling said nose to try and dispel the tickle. She looked curious, cautious, as if she was testing him. Draco had never met a test he couldn’t pass, and since Potter and Weasley had already taken a seat at the next table over, he fixed his blinding smile on Granger. 

“Of course you may.” He nodded, and the bushy haired girl settled delicately onto the pouf on the other side of the table. Blaise haunted the space behind her, giving Draco a rather betrayed look once he realised that they wouldn’t be sitting next to each other in class. He wouldn’t argue about it in public — one of the blessings of Slytherin house was that they always felt the need to present a united front when in mixed company. 

Draco felt rather bad, despite himself. It would have been fun to partner with Blaise, whose flair for the dramatic and good sense of humour uplifted any situation one found themself in. Still, Draco had a plan, and if Hermione approached him there was no world in which he could turn her down. 

Blaise recovered quickly, shifting to sit at the available seat next to Neville Longbottom, his usually perfect smile rather strained. 

“It’s a little cliche, don’t you think?” Granger asked him, finger running around the delicate moonscape depicted on her side of the tablecloth. “Like a fortune teller on television.” 

Draco tilted his head at her. “What’s television?” He asked, utterly earnest. “Is it like a drug, to help you see the future?” 

Granger’s mouth opened half way to an explanation, before she was cut short by the Professor. Trelawney was a thin woman with large glasses, dressed in velvet and satin that looked terribly warm, given the stifling atmosphere of the room. Draco himself was already starting to feel a little too hot underneath his school robes. She was a rather dramatic woman, and as Draco listened to her talk he cast his gaze around the room — he could see a lot of the students falling under the spell of her dramatics. 

Draco wondered if it was the incense, making his head feel slightly clouded as she talked of her Inner Eye. He had read in The Unseen Arts that certain blends could loosen the souls from the body and encourage more clarity in the practice of Divination. Draco rather liked his soul exactly where it was, so he hoped that particular depiction had been an exaggeration. 

He was startled to learn that the words had been washing over him without actually sinking in, as when he glanced around Potter and Weasley were glancing at Granger and letting out a little laugh. 

He steeled himself. He wouldn’t let this Trelawney drive him to distraction. He would keep his wits about him. He tracked her intensely with his eyes, watching as she settled beside Neville and enquired about the health of his grandmother. Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes slightly at that. It was a cheap trick, calling out Neville, when everyone knew that his grandmother was getting older by the minute. More fool Trelawney would be at the end of the day, when she realised that Augusta Longbottom was stronger and healthier than his fathers prized stallions. More and more predictions spilled from her lips as she paced the room, some directed at specific students. 

She paused beside Draco, and he flicked his gaze up to meet hers. She had a motherly kind of smile. “Your aura is particularly bright, child. Do you feel the energies moving through you?” 

It was Granger’s turn to roll her eyes again, and Draco would have quite liked to join her. “Oh, yes, Professor. I find the energies particularly potent today, do you agree?” 

The motherly smile grew, and Draco preened in his seat. 

“Kissass.” He heard Weasley mutter, and Granger turned to shoot her friend a scathing look. 

“The energy in the room today,” Trelawney carried on, to the class at large this time, as if she hadn’t heard Weasley’s little comment at all, “Will be well suited to the study of tasseography — that is, the art of reading tea leaves.” 

Trelawney directed Lavender Brown, a rather pretty Gryffindor girl, to fetch her the largest silver teapot from the shelf, and delivered another ill omen for good measure. 

“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs remain. Swill these around the cup three times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup to your partner to read...” 

Hermione looked at Draco as Trelawney spoke, apparently realising that by choosing to sit with him, she had doomed herself to being his partner in the subject for the foreseeable future. Trelawney continued to speak, more instructions spilling out, but Draco leaned in close to whisper to Hermione: “I won’t be offended if you want to swap seats with someone.” 

She sat straighter, as if offended to think that he thought she needed to run away from him. “It’s fine.” She whispered back, and they both tuned back in to hear Trelawney give a warning to Neville Longbottom about his choice in teacups. 

Hermione and Draco got up in perfect tandem to pick their own cups, when prompted. She picked a rather pretty blue one, and he shared a cheeky smile with Blaise as he picked the pink — he hoped that the smile would be enough to win the boy back over, but Blaise still had a distinctly grumpy look in his eye. The look grew darker when Neville apparently fulfilled Trelawney’s latest prophecy, smashing his cup against the ground when it fumbled out of his fingers. “Sorry,” Draco mouthed, almost silently, to Blaise, before he turned to get his own teacup filled by Professor Trelawney. 

Draco drank his tea as quickly as possible — it was a rather cheap blend, nothing like what his mother would have supplied, and it took every inch of him not to complain about it to Granger. He got the distinct impression that the complaint would fall on deaf ears. He drank, and drank, and felt that slightly hazy feeling creeping back in. When they had both finished, they followed the instructions given and turned their teacups upside-down to let the dregs seep away. They turned their cups, and swapped. 

Draco squinted down at Granger’s cup, when he turned it upright. He flicked his eyes up to meet hers. She had a distinctly unimpressed look on her face. Granger clearly didn’t appreciate the less solid forms of magic, the things that you had to believe in without seeing sparks and colours. She might have been more impressed if the class came along with a proper history lesson to accompany what they were doing, but Trelawney hadn’t wasted any time explaining the history or background of tasseography. 

“What do you see?” He asked her, and Granger took another look inside his cup. 

“I see…” She squinted, and turned it, before consulting the pages of their textbook. “I see, well, it looks like a bunch of splotchy circles.” 

“Money or presents.” Draco translated for her, before she could find the relevant entry. “I suppose that’s always going to be a case, with Mother’s care packages.” 

“You can’t have memorized all the symbols.” Hermione challenged. 

He quirked a smile. “Try me, Granger. What else do you see?” 

“Um,” A long silence. “A snake?” 

“A bad omen. It means I need to be cautious.” He wrinkled his brow. “Rather prejudiced, if you ask me. Snakes are perfectly lovely creatures.” 

“There’s some that look like little earthworms, but the rest is all smudges.” 

“Secret enemies.” He translated. “How very dramatic.” 

The look she fixed him with then was a curious one. “You memorized the book. You didn’t even know we would be studying tea-leaves today.” 

“I wouldn’t say memorized.” He brushed off. “Now, do you want me to read yours, or not?” 

“Go on, then.” Hermione allowed, as if she thought the entire thing was rubbish. He wasn’t sure she’d enjoy this class all that much, when she clearly didn’t respect the art form even in an abstract sense. 

“Okay,” He examined the tea-leaves that rested within her cup. There was an instinct that Draco always had, something that pushed him to run into situations before he had thought them through. He doesn’t do that now. He studies the shapes, and tries to discern what he sees, twisting it all the while to see it from every angle. “You have a butterfly, and a candle. The butterfly means success, the candle is enlightenment. Based on where they’re situated and their proximity to each other, I’d say that means that your search for enlightenment through your studies this year will be particularly successful.” He grinned at her, and saw that she was skimming the pages of her book along with him as he spoke, as if to test him. 

“There’s also a…” He tilted his head. “A pair of scissors, I think. Arguments ahead. That one there is a rat, it means you’re going to lose something to an enemy. And a sword, more arguments. Crikey, Granger, you must love fighting. I think there’s also…” He trailed off, that fuzzy feeling twisting in his stomach, his eyes tracking the tea-leaves. He thought the saw a Kettle, but before he could say the word he heard a startled burst of laughter from Potter. It jostled him, and drew his attention away for a second. Potter was laughing at something Weasley had said, and Trelawney had taken notice. 

“Let me see, my child.” She said to Weasley, plucking the dainty teacup from his grasp and gazing down at the leaves. “Ah, ah, ah.” She turned the cup, “Oh dear, the falcon — a predator, my dear, you have a very powerful foe hunting you.” 

Hermione huffed out an amused laugh. “But everyone knows that.” 

Professor Trelawny stared at Hermione, and she doubled down in her tirade. “Well, they do. Everybody knows about Harry and You-Know-Who.” 

Draco swallowed, slightly. The fuzzy feeling in his chest grew all the wider. His head pounded suddenly with the residual memory of his first vision — 

The cackle of laughter, the cold face, the sound of Harry Potter screaming. 

He shook himself, bit his lip to ground himself, and carefully set Hermione’s tea cup down on the saucer before it fell from his grasp and smashed. 

Trelawney carried on, ignoring Hermione, more and more bad signs spilling from her lips. The club, the skull, and — 

And something she made quite a show of not wanting to say. It could only be a bad omen. From the way her story had been going, it could only be a death omen. He glanced down at Hermione’s cup again, the kettle staring out at him. Two death omens in one class. This would not be a peaceful year for the Gryffindor’s. He reached out and smudged the Kettle away before anyone else could see it, as if the act of removing the omen would remove the danger. The Gryffindors, Dean Thomas in particular, had managed to cajole Trelawney into revealing what she had seen. 

She was in her armchair now, cradling the tea cup Harry had chosen to her chest. “You have the Grim, my poor boy. The graveyard hound. An omen of death.” 

Draco slumped in his seat. Oh, it wasn’t all that bad, he supposed. Much like a banshee’s cry, the sight of the Grim only meant that death was coming. It didn’t necessarily mean that Harry Potter would be the one to die. Several members of the glass rose from their seats to see what shape the Grim had taken in Harry’s cup. Even Hermione rushed to see. 

Draco tracked her expression, unapproving and still unimpressed. 

“I don’t think it looks like a Grim.” She told the class, and received a disapproving look from Trelawney. Draco lifted himself from his chair, so he could see it for himself.

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future.”

He leaned over and looked at the cup, looked at the various shapes. He swallowed, and then, unsure why he was doing it, Draco began to lie. 

“It looks more like a Greyhound to me, ma’am.” Draco said, ripping his eyes away from the clear depiction of the Grim in Harry Potter’s teacup. When his gaze flicks up, he catches sight of Harry’s green eyes in the throng of students. Vivid green. Deep, with a burgeoning kind of fear in them. The idea of the Grim had hit Harry exactly as hard as it was meant to. That wouldn’t do — if Harry worried too much about a death omen, he would end up manifesting more and more of them in some kind of negative feedback loop. 

“A greyhound?” Trelawney asked, knowing that she couldn’t insult Draco’s aura when she had opened the class by complimenting it. 

He smiled, a gentle smile. “A greyhound. Something about the elongation of its body, it feels right to me. And there, aren’t those clouds near the rim. So that does mean that Potter has some serious troubles ahead of him. And oh, there’s that club you mentioned, I see it now. An attack, and there’s a Dagger — that means help from friends. And the greyhound nearer the bottom of the cup.” 

“What does the greyhound mean?” Parvati Patil asked, looking between Draco and Trelawney with some shared kind of awe. He caught sight of Blaise behind her, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Draco with an expectant look. 

“Hard work paying off with good fortune.” Draco announced. “I suppose it means that Potter is going to worm his way out of a life and death situation for the third year in a row. Jolly good show, Potter, you must teach the rest of us how you do it.” 

Harry’s gaze was boring in to Draco, heavy and wondering. Draco refused to return it, simply returning to his comfortable armchair and throwing himself back down. “May I have another cup of tea, Professor?” He asked, sweetly, “It’s such a lovely blend.” 

The class carried on, though none of the students spent much more time attempting to perfect the art of reading each other’s tea leaves. Potter looked distinctly embarrassed, and still vaguely worried — but Draco was counting the class as a success, because when they all filed out of the room, Potter actually leaned in to whisper something to him. 

“Thank you, Malfoy.” He said, rough and quiet enough that only Draco could hear it. Draco finally caught his eye again, and gave a small shrug of his shoulder, before descending down the ladder and out into the hallway. 

“When Pansy said you were trying to make friends with the Gryffindor Idiots this year, I didn’t believe her.” Blaise told him over lunch that day. 

Draco was ravenous. He had never been hungrier in his life. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that Granger and he had already sat through two extra hours of classes before lunchtime even began. Next time, Draco was going to be packing snacks that he could scarf down between classes. 

He struggled to swallow the large bite he had just taken, and considered what to say to Blaise. “Well.” He started, washing down the food with a sip of pumpkin juice. “Did she say why I wanted to befriend them?” 

“No.”

“Good.” Draco nodded. “Just trust me, okay? I have my reasons.” 

“Are they at least nefarious?” 

“They’re necessary.” 

“I don’t like it.” Blaise said, with a sigh. It surprised Draco more than he thought it would. He had expected arguments from Pansy, and he knew that Theo would have endless questions when they returned to the privacy of their dorms tonight — but Pansy and Theo had been raised in the exact same way Draco had. It was all blood supremacy, all endless lectures on how they were better than everyone else around them. They were members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and that meant that they were basically gods among ment. 

The Zabini’s were pureblood too, of course — but they weren’t Sacred. They were too new. New blood, new money, and only just powerful enough that Draco’s father approved of his friendship with the boy beside him. Blaise had been raised in a different world. He didn’t hate muggles, not really. He didn’t think muggle-born wizards were worse that the dirt beneath his boot. 

“I didn’t think you believed in all that prejudice.” 

Blaise’s eyes stayed fixed on his, examining Draco’s face. “It’s not about that.” He said, “You always get particularly mopey when Potter rejects you and breaks your heart. I don’t want to have to deal with you pouting about how much he dislikes you for the next four months.” 

“You don’t want me to get my feelings hurt.” Draco translated, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. 

“I didn’t say that.” Blaise, monotone now, face growing even more carefully blank when Theo and Pansy finally joined them at the table. 

“What are you smiling about?” Pansy asked.

“Blaise likes me. He wants me to be happy.”

“How very adorable.” Theo allowed. “Tell me, when will the wedding be?” 

“June, I should think. The flowers from Mothers garden will be so wonderfully in bloom by then. And it will give father plenty of time to draft up the betrothal contract.” 

“Quite the win for you, Blaise.” Theo’s grin was small, and his words were quiet. “Marrying up is rather difficult to achieve, in our circles.” 

Blaise returned the smile, but his was laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Choke and die.” He offered to Theo, with the same sweetness that one might tell another to ‘have a good day.’ 

Draco and Pansy laughed. Loud, boisterous, not holding any of their amusement back. It felt good to be laughing with his friends, after a long summer away from school. Laughing like this at a lunch table would have swiftly garnered punishment from any and all of their parents, but at Hogwarts they were free to do what they liked. Even Theo, usually rather restrained, cracked a wider smile. 

He was still laughing when he noticed the eyes that were watching him. Green eyes, from across a sea of students. Harry’s eyes, studying him as if Draco contained the answer to a million unasked questions. 

Draco spent the walk down to Care of Magical creatures regaling Vince and Greg with all the jokes they had missed, at the expense of Blaise, at lunch. They’d been sharing the meal with Millicent, the friendship between the three of them had grown rather strong over the summer. He was rather chuffed to hear them laughing at the retelling of the jokes as if they had been there themselves. 

Hagrid, the massive man that he was, led them nearly to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. For one heart-stopping moment Draco was afraid they would be led all the way inside. He hadn’t forgotten that one faithful detention he had shared with Potter, back in first year. He was ashamed of it, but the forest had always been terrifying to him since that day. Sometimes, he still dreamed of the dead unicorn and the specter they had caught drinking it’s blood. He breathed out a small sigh of relief when they stopped near the treeline, only a few scattered saplings surrounding them. It was some kind of paddock, built to pen in… strange, bird like creatures. 

Draco had already mentally written off this class when he realised that Hagrid would be teaching it. By all accounts, the man was an utter oaf. If his father had known the man would be teaching, he probably would have dissuaded Draco from signing up for the elective. He had a million snappy comments that popped into his head, as Hagrid introduced the class, and it took every ounce of restraint not to say any of it. Of course, the man telling them to open their books did summon something from Draco. 

“How?” He asked, cold and calm. Surely Hagrid knew the books had teeth. 

He pulled his book out, the snapping creature bound tightly with a length of rope. His mother had done it for him almost the second that they purchased it, binding it tightly with a quick flick of her wand. He hadn’t made any attempt to open it as the summer went on. While all the rest of his books had been studied carefully before he boarded the Hogwarts Express, Draco had left the Monster Book of Monsters exactly where it was, tidily packed away in his trunk. 

"Eh?” asked Hagrid, not tracking what Draco was asking him. Draco restrained a sigh.

“How do we open our books?” He enquired again, trying to keep some of the ice out of his tone. Potter and his friends were only steps away, and he knew that they were rather friendly with Hagrid. As much as Draco looked down on the man, he tried to reign it in. They would be come defensive if Draco was too rude. 

It was a blessing, then, that this was clearly a question that the entire class had. It turned out that not a single one of his classmates had made any progress getting the damned books to calm down for long enough that they could open them to read the words printed on the pages. Hagrid looked crestfallen when the news came to light, clearly he hadn’t been expecting this. 
It was so strange to Draco — what kind of life was Hagrid leading, where a book that tried to bite you was a normal thing? He supposed it spoke to some sort of greater understanding on Hagrid’s part, the way he saw everyone and everything as a creature that needed to be coddled and cared for. 

He bit back his more sarcastic comments as Hagrid demonstrated for them. He had taken Hermione’s book from her and began stroking it, gentle movements down the furry spine. The book shivered in his hands, and fell open. A dozen snarky little sayings were waiting on the back of his tongue, but one glance toward Potter dissuaded him. 

He wouldn’t cause a scene. 

He couldn’t cause a scene. 

He remained stonily silent instead, watching as Hagrid led them closer to the… creatures. Hippogriffs. Half horse, half bird things. They were rather ugly, Draco thought, as he took them in with a tilt of his head. 

He really should have known better than to say it out loud, when Hagrid put him face to face with one. So much for not causing a scene. 

He hadn’t meant to scream, when he saw the blood. The beast had savaged him, and the talons had hurt when they cut skin, but still — he shouldn’t have screamed. 

A Malfoy was above screaming. A Malfoy was restrained. A Malfoy stayed calm. 

“It really is just a scratch.” He assured everyone, as they fluttered around him in the Hospital wing. “You can tell my father to leave.” 

“He is quite determined to see you.” Severus tells him, as Pomfrey secures the last of the bandages around his arm. The healing salve is already working, he can feel it. 

“Dangerous creatures around third years,” Pomfrey was tutting, even as she wandered away to see to the other students who had managed to hurt themselves before the first day of classes was even finished. “And I thought we had a quiet year ahead of us.” 

“It was my fault, really.” Draco assured again. “I insulted the bird. He warned us not to.” 

“I’m sure your father will be glad to hear that your injury is the result of your own recklessness.” 

“You could turn him away.” 

“I couldn’t.” Severus said, a more serious tone in his voice. “Draco, your father will see you. He has demanded it.” 

“Why did you tell him?” His tone is decidedly sharp, a childish hint of annoyance in it. He doesn’t feel like he’s above screaming, he doesn’t feel restrained, he doesn’t feel calm. He feels like there’s too much blood in his body, he feels trapped, he feels like he wants to run away. The dramatics of the Black Family rearing their ugly head. He was supposed to be free until Christmas at least. He wasn’t supposed to have disappointed his father already. 

“It is protocol to report any injuries, no matter how petty, to the parents of those involved. Particularly injuries sustained during class.” 

Another argument was on the tip of Draco’s tongue when the doors to the hospital wing burst open. There came his father, in all his glory. Lucius Malfoy had a thunderous expression on his face, and his critical eyes ran all over Draco’s body when he reached the bed that Draco was sitting on. 

“He seems to be all in one piece.” Lucius said, critical. His eyes tracked the bandages up the length of Draco’s arm. “What beast was it that savaged you, boy?” 

“A hippogriff, father.” Draco told him. “It was just a scratch.” 

“A wild animal attacked you.” 

“Yes, father, but —” 

Lucius raised a hand to silence him, and Draco fell silent. His silence was a practiced thing. He knew when to stop digging himself a hole. 

“This is what happens when Dumbledore sees fit to employ a monster. A beast such as that teaching my son. It’s unbecoming.” 

Draco kept his face calm. A placid lake. He swallows past the scream that stays perched at the back of his throat, clenches his fingers around the bedsheets to keep him anchored to the place, avoiding the terrible desire to run. A Malfoy stayed solid in the face of adversity. 

“I have already reported the incident to the headmaster.” Severus told his father, voice drawling and unimpressed. “The matter will be dealt with.” 

“Oh, it shall indeed be dealt with.” Lucius gave a savage smile. “This is an opportunity to put Dumbledore in his place, Severus. I shall be taking this matter much further.” 

Further than the headmaster — that meant getting the Ministry involved, which meant that his father was likely trying to get Hagrid sacked. That was sure to make Draco very unpopular among the Gryffindor’s. He couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let his father ruin everything. 

“Father —” He started to argue, and reigned himself back in. He altered the tone of his own voice to sound less antagonistic. “It was my fault, father. I didn’t listen. You can’t blame Hagrid for my own mistake.” 

“Fault, and punishment, those things will be discussed when you return to the Manor for Christmas. Your ability to embarrass our family at every turn is not the subject for today.” Lucius gave him a hard look, and the fire in Draco’s blood flared for a moment. 

“It will only be embarrassing if you cause a scene about it, Father.” He said, before he could think better of it, and his eyes widened at the sound of the words hitting the air. Behind his father, he saw Severus’s eyes widen in return. Lucius himself seemed to freeze, his critical gaze hitting Draco all the harder. 

“The oaf will be fired, Draco. My heir will not be endangered again.” His cain hit the ground with a click that made Draco flinch. “That is the end of the story. We will discuss this further when you return home.” 

His father whisked away, “Come with me, Severus. We have more to discuss.” 

Severus gave Draco what could only be described as a sympathetic look, as he followed Lucius Malfoy away from the hospital wing. Draco watched them go, their retreating backs disappearing down the hallway. Even when they were gone, he kept his gaze fixed in that direction. 

It made it all the more surprising, when Harry Potter seemed to appear from nowhere. The boy had a bad habit of doing that. It was like there was a siren that went off in his head, drawing him into places he shouldn’t be during times where he shouldn’t be there. One moment; Draco was looking down the hallway at his father. The next moment; Harry Potter was peeking his head around the door to the hospital wing and peering in at him. 

“Eavesdropping, then?” Draco asks, voice stiff with discomfort. It’s awful, but he feels embarrassed about it. Embarrassed that the stupid bird savaged him, embarrassed that his father had come, embarrassed that Potter was looking at him now during his moment of weakness. 

“I wasn’t trying to.” Potter half admitted. 

“Oh, I see.” Draco slipped down from the bed, pulling his school shirt back on and beginning to button it up. His arm twinged awfully when he moved, the still healing skin tugging at itself and trying to reopen. It didn’t, and he was glad for it. “As long as it was accidental, I’m sure that makes it okay.” 

He couldn’t help the sarcasm. He felt he had earned it. 

“You defended Hagrid.” Potter said, a moment later. “To your father. You said it wasn’t Hagrid’s fault.” It seemed rather a severe non-sequitur to Draco. He looked at Potter like he had said something stupid, with a carefully arched eyebrow. Potter looked back at him, green eyes gleaming in the light of the room. It was still bright out. Dinner likely hadn’t even started yet. 

“Did you think I would beg my father to get him fired?” Draco asked, trying his best to sound as offended as he felt. He held his school jumper in his hands, and decided he didn’t have the energy to pull it back on quite yet, not when the pain was still bothering him. He craned his neck around instead, and found the matron. “May I go, Madam Pomfrey?” 

Her eyes flicked over him, and he saw some doubt in her gaze. “Yes,” She finally agreed. “You will apply the salve again tonight and come back in two days time, so I can ensure the wounds have closed properly. There’s always a risk of scarring with wounds caused by magical creatures.” 

He held up the salve to show her, the little blue glass vial of it gleaming in his hand, as if to sooth her own worries, and she didn’t stop him when he began to walk out of the room. 

Potter fell into step beside him, and Draco gave him that look again, like he was being an idiot. 

“Ron was sure you’d be on the warpath.” Potter said, after an awkward moment of just looking at Draco. 

“Weasley doesn’t know me all that well.” Perhaps that wasn’t fair — another year, Draco might have begged his father to get revenge on his behalf. This year, there were more important battles to fight and bigger things to worry about. “But by all means, if you’d like me to prove him right, I can call my father back and recant my claims of being in the wrong.” 

“No,” Potter said, the word tumbling out of him quickly. “Don’t.” 

Draco huffed out an amused breath. “Yes, that’s what I thought.” A beat, “I can’t promise he won’t have Hagrid sacked, you know. He was rather unhappy all on his own.” 

“Yeah, I heard.” 

“While you were eavesdropping.” 

“Accidentally.” 

“Right, accidentally.” 

Potter is still looking at him, still walking in time with him. Potter has followed him now, down two steps of stairs, officially in the opposite direction to Gryffindor tower. Draco glances at his watch. Classes are done for the day, but there’s still forty minutes before anyone needs to appear at dinner. 

“Potter,” He says, and watches Potter perk up like a lost little puppy. “Why are you following me?”

“Er,” Potter says, eloquent. “I thought you were up to something.” 

Draco arches an eyebrow again. “In the hospital wing? On the warpath?” 

“Yeah,” Potter agrees. “And, I mean — in general, too.” 

“Ah, yes. My nefarious, evil plans that involve… not being as much as an asshole as I usually am.” 

“Yeah, that.” Potter nodded. “Only, I’m starting to think it might not be an evil plan.” 

Something happy unfurled in Draco’s chest. It was a dangerous feeling. It was hope. Hope that he could be successful here, hope that he really could trick Potter and his gang into liking him. Hope that the future wasn’t set in stone. In the future, they were enemies. In the future, they still hated each other. In the future, Harry Potter was going to die. Draco didn’t want to see that future. If it was possible for Potter to believe him different now, if it was possible for Potter to see him as someone in the midst of a grand redemption… then the future really was Draco’s to change as he saw fit. 

“Is that so?” Draco queried, trying to stamp the fleeting hope down in his chest. It would be foolish to wish too hard for something that wasn’t yet guaranteed. “And what, pray tell, has convinced you of my earnestness?”

“A lot of things.” Potter started. “You were nice to Hermione, today. She showed us that letter you wrote her, and you sat with her in class.”

“Hm, I did.” 

“And you made up that prediction in front of everyone, the thing with the greyhound.” 

“Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’m just amazing at reading tea-leaves.” 

“You made it up. I know what it looks like when you’re lying, Malfoy.” 

The warm flush inside him was back. The dangerous flush, because Potter sounded — almost amused? 

“You’re nice to Hermione. You defend me in class. You tell your father not to blame Hagrid for what happened today. One plus one plus one isn’t adding up to evil plans. Only it’s hard to tell, in the long run, because you’re so —” 

“So?” 

“So you.” 

Draco stopped short, when they made it to the entrance hall. It was a cavernous room, towering around them. This was the longest they had ever spent in each others company. It was certainly the longest they had ever spent in each others company without coming to blows with one another. 

“I know,” Draco sighed. “My friends lament the fact that I’m ‘so me’ every day. Its a tone issue, I think.” Fingers raised to his own lips. “It’s very hard for me to not sound like a sarcastic prat. Something I’m working on.” 

“Hermione said that… that you Slytherins apparently just talk like that.” 

Draco arched an eyebrow again. “Does Granger tell you everything I say to her?” 

“She likes to talk through the problems that she’s trying to figure out.” 

“And I’m a problem, am I?” 

“You’ve always been a problem.” Potter says, though there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. It looks as if the expression has taken even him by surprise. “You’ll always be a problem.” 

“That’s flattering.” He says, thoroughly sarcastic and not even trying to hide it. 

The half smile on Potter’s face grows wider. “I wasn’t trying to flatter you.” 

“Well, there’s your first mistake. I’m much more agreeable when I’m flattered.” 

“You’re weird.” 

“Ouch, another wound. By Merlin and Morgana, Potter, haven’t I been savaged enough for one day?” 

“You’re so weird. Why are you acting so weird lately?” 

It was horrible, talking to Potter without fighting. It was horrible because it was lovely. It was horrible because that stupid, hopeful feeling wouldn’t go away. It squirmed in the pit of his stomach, breeding with itself, duplicating until he felt full of squirming horrible hopefulness. 

“Well, because i’m up to something, obviously. A horrible, evil plan you’ll have to thwart.” 

“Lying again.” 

“Pathologically.” 

A beat.

“I think I like you weird.” 

Draco’s heart stopped for a second. The squirming grew immensely more squirmy. “Oh,” He said, eloquent. “That’s nice. I’ll be hanging out with Loony Lovegood from here on, then.” 

“Who?” 

A huff. “Do you pay attention to anyone outside your little circle of lions, Potter?” 

“Not really,” He admitted. “I’ve got a lot going on, most of the time.” 

“Your rich inner life?” 

“More like my murderous outer life.” 

“Bound to keep you busy.” His stomach is squirming, his hopefulness is reaching a peak, and Draco says. “I really did mean it. That I’m sorry.” 

Potter looked at him, looked around the entrance hall. It was empty. It was just them, alone in the world. Something unnamed and awkward seemed to be flowing between them now. “That’s alright, then.” Potter said, with a nod of his head. “Apology accepted.” 

“Really? That easy?” 

“That easy.” 

“You don’t want to get one last punch in? You could call me weird again, if you’d like. Push me down, steal my snake?” 

“I don’t want your snake.” Potter half laughed. “How is she, anyway?” 

“Reeling from being so callously outed as a woman in front of an entire train.” Draco said it easily, quickly, another farce flowing from his lips. It wasn’t all that different than joking around with Blaise. “There was some talk about moving her to the girls dormitory and renaming her Sally, but I put my foot down. She’d lose her mind with boredom having to listen to Pansy and Daphne’s insipid gossip all day long. Not like with us boys, whose gossip is riveting as opposed to insipid.”

Potter had a rather bemused look on his face. “Do you always talk this much?” 

“Only when I’m particularly nervous.” 

“Lying again.” 

“Alright. Fine, yes, always.” 

A smile crossed Potter’s lips. Draco found himself returning it. “Does this…rather valiant acceptance of my apology mean that…” He paused for a moment, wondering if it was too much, if he was asking for far more than he deserved. “Could we start over, do you think?” 

He watched Potter watch him, certain that Potter would laugh in his face at any moment. Certain that Potter would now take him up on the offer and punch him, or push him over, or steal his snake. None of it came. Only Potter’s hand extended outward, ready for Draco to shake. 

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He smiled, a gentle smile, and took the offered hand. “Draco Malfoy. I’m very weird, I hope you won’t hold it against me.” 

A laugh broke out of Potter’s chest. It was warm and rough and just for Draco — and suddenly Draco thought that he would do anything to make Harry laugh like that again. Thoughts like that were dangerous, almost as dangerous as the squirming hopeful feeling. Here he was, already changing his entire life to try and prevent a future where Harry Potter died, and now he wanted to hear him laugh too. 

This will ruin me, Draco thinks. This will kill me. He thought of Cousin Regulus, the words that had been spoken that night when Draco stood before the mirror. The future is never set in stone, but the risks get bigger the more you try to change it. His palm clasped against Harry Potter’s felt like another devils pact, like a hand leading him down a path paved in good intentions, a path that could only lead to his own doom. 

He remembered, too, what he had said to Regulus in return. 

I’m doomed either way. 

So he smiles at Harry Potter. He lets the hand go after a moment too long. 

“Can you fuck off now,” He asks, with that warm sunshine lacing his voice, “so i can go down and change for dinner? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Potter, but there is literal muck on my trousers.” 

“Right,” Harry says, amused still, annoyed probably, but smiling all the while. “I’ll just fuck off, then.” 

And he did, taking the stairs back up toward the Gryffindor common room two at a time. Draco watched him as he disappeared from sight, holding his breath before he descended down into the depths of the castle himself. 

If Harry Potter was going to offer him friendship so easily, Draco was going to take it. If doom was waiting, he might as well make the most of it — and damn it, but he was going to do everything in his power to protect that oaf Hagrid from getting sacked, just so he wouldn’t have to see the despondent look on Potter’s face when it happened. 

Chapter Text

One — Remus

Remus Lupin was tired. He had been tired, in one way or another, for the last thirteen years. Exhaustion was an old friend, a pet that curled up in his lap and fell asleep, mocking him for his eternal wakefulness. 

He had known that his return to Hogwarts wouldn’t be an easy one. Those hallowed halls were haunted by memories of friends long passed — a reminder lurked around every corner, inspiring memories of the golden days of childhood. 

He saw the past at every turn, with every step through the train and the castle. There was the favored compartment of Dorcas Meadowes and her entourage of Slytherins, Evan Rosier and the others, before Darkness had ripped them all apart. Here was where Peter had first smiled at him, offering friendship and sweets as if kindness were second nature. There was the place where James and Sirius had carved their names into the wooden frame of a door. Here was Lily’s favored seat in the Library, the table that she had allowed him to haunt alongside her. There was the tree under which Marlene McKinnon had taught Sirius to do a handstand. Here was the hallway where James had punched a boy square in the jaw for bullying Remus. There were the seats where they had sat at dinner, the secret passages that they had wandered like feral beasts, the places where they had laughed and loved and lost. 

And worst of all, there were Lily Evans eyes, glinting under candlelight once again.

He tried not to make a habit of staring at Harry. It would look strange. It would make the boy uncomfortable. Remus made due with quick glances, up and away, checking that Harry was eating enough, checking that Harry was breathing.

The very sight of Harry made him ache. A grief, a longing, a feeling of failure. He was sure that James would be disappointed in him — Remus, his last free and living friend, should have known Harry better than this. Remus should have cared for him, should have been there to sooth his cries at night. 

But it had been made clear a long time ago that Remus was not what was best for Harry. It was fair, he supposed — who in their right minds would place The Boy Who Lived in the scarred hands of a werewolf? 

No, the boy was better off without Remus. He was once a child who had laughed at Remus, pulled his hair, fell asleep in his arms. Those days were over and Remus could never get them back. There would be no Uncle Moony, not every again. There would just be Professor Remus Lupin, who watched the world with careful eyes in case a monster came for him. 

By the Thursday of his first week at Hogwarts, Remus has almost gotten used to the constant reminders, the constant assault on his heart. He’s able to smile when he sees Fred and George Weasley pull a prank. He’s able to spare a kind smile for Neville Longbottom and get the entire Gryffindor third year class laughing at the image of Severus Snape dressed like Augusta Longbottom. If his heart almost beats out of his chest at the sight of Harry laughing, there’s no one around to know about it. If it aches, and aches, and aches so hard he thinks its breaking, that’s only for him to know.

He’s able to pack away his aching heart and get on with it, able to throw himself of Harry Potter’s boggart before it can take a shape they all fear the most. It only takes a fleeting moment, with the moon hanging over his head, to banish the boggart back into the wardrobe. 

His aching heart isn’t much in it, later that day, when the Slytherins get their turn. They’re serious faced and snickering in equal measure. Children, just children, who have been raised with so many of the wrong ideas in their head. They don’t respect him yet — they likely never will, this poor man with not a penny to his name, without the pure blood they look to like a beacon of righteousness. They don’t need to respect him, he just has to teach them. 

He expects the class to be easy, in comparison to watching Harry face his fear. He expects it all to be commonplace. Pansy Parkinson fears vampires. Blaise Zabini is terrified of wasps. Daphne Greengrass hates spiders. On and on they go, fear after fear, laughter bursting out of their chests like it’s alien to them. They’re enjoying the class. They’re still laughing when Theodore Nott pushes Draco Malfoy forward. 

They stop laughing when Lucius Malfoy forms, stern faced, and Draco’s face pales. 

This was Narcissa Black’s son — the girl who had been Head Girl during Remus’s first year as a prefect. He remembers being fifteen and thinking that Narcissa Black was terrifying. She was cold and perfect. She was gentle with the first years. She was a powerful witch with a perfect record, raw power that you could practically taste in the air around her, like the crackling of electricity in the air before a storm.

(She had come to him, during the fight to end all fights he was having with Sirius, and strangely not spoken in her cousins favor yet somehow placed the blame on Remus regardless. ‘Whatever he did,’ she had told him, ‘you shouldn’t have been surprised. He’s a scorpion. It’s in his nature.’) 

This was her son, with familiar grey eyes, who froze at the sight of his father. 

And Remus should have known, really, that a class of Slytherins would have at least one case like this. He had shared a dorm with one of those pureblood elite for seven years, and been there the day that Professor Dodds put them in front of a Boggart, watching Walburga Black advance on her son with a face of fury. 

The shadow of Lucius Malfoy had no face of fury. Only cold disapproval and the click of his cane on the worn wooden floor as he advanced on his son. Remus was prepared to move, ready to once again step in front of a boy’s worst fear today. He didn’t have to — it was a truth universally acknowledged that Slytherins took care of each other. 

Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott both moved to step in front of Draco at the same time, and so throughly confused the Boggart that it became some grotesque and undefinable blob of horror. Remus moved it back to the wardrobe, and class was done. 

With thirty minutes before lunch began in the great hall, Remus felt something overtake him. “A moment, Draco.” He called, stopping the stern-faced boy from leaving class with the others.

The third year Slytherins filed away, with Draco’s friends looking disapproving as Draco stayed in place. Remus gave him a kind smile inclined his head. “Lets have a cup of tea, shall we?” 

Draco Malfoy blinked at him, some unreadable emotion passing over his face. “If you’d like, sir.” He agreed, though Remus could sense the reluctance in it.

Five minutes later, Draco was sipping scalding hot tea out of a chipped mug, sitting in Remus’s office. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, as Remus settled onto the armchair across from him. 

“How’s your arm healing?” He asked, because all had heard of the disastrous first lesson Hagrid had given the third years. 

Draco’s expression flickered. “Well.” He allowed.

“No scarring? Madam Pomfrey was worried.” 

“A little bit, but it’s fine, really.” 

“That’s good to hear, Draco.” 

The boy sipped his tea. A delicate movement. When he looked back up at Remus there was a flash of something in his eyes. Familiar eyes. 

“Can you get to the point of this, please, Professor?” He asked, posh voiced and impatient. It almost, almost, made Remus laugh. An imperious child. “If you’re going to do the concerned Professor song and dance, I’d rather you be straightforward about it.” 

Remus nods his head, takes a slow sip of his own tea. “Alright,” He says, with slow consideration. “Is everything alright at home, Draco?” 

“Splendid.” He replies. “I live a blessed life.” 

“Why are you so deeply afraid of your father?” 

“What son isn’t, at one time or another?” 

“In this time, right now, I’m asking you why you are.” 

“Oh, you know how it is.” A shrug of his young shoulder. “One would hate to disappoint one’s father.” 

“One would.” A tilt of his own head, as he studies Draco. The set of his shoulders, the carefully blank expression on his face, his talent for talking around each and every problem. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, hands folded together in front of him as he studies Draco. Draco meets his eyes, unflinching. “Does your father hurt you, Draco?” 

It was a question no one had asked the Black Brothers — not soon enough to make a difference. The Draco that sits before him now is like Regulus reborn, stiff upper lip and stern faced, disapproving. Something glints in those grey eyes again, unreadable. 

“Did your father hurt you?” Draco asks him, blunt and lacking all sense of tact. 

Remus pauses. A lengthy one, before he carries on; “‘I don’t want to talk to you about that’ is an acceptable answer to questions such as these, Draco. I won’t force you to answer.” 

The smile Draco fixes him with is a hollow one. “I don’t want to talk to you about that.” 

“That’s alright, then.” He leans back in his seat. It may be a mistake, to waste his time trying to pry Draco Malfoy open — but it would be better, wouldn’t it, if he knew there was someone he could come and talk to if he ever needed to. “Lets talk about you instead. You play Quidditch.” 

“I used to.” 

“But not anymore?” 

“No, not anymore. I’m focusing on my studies this year.” 

“And how are you finding your course load?” 

“It’s fine.” Draco told him, “I’m enjoying it so far, but i’ll probably regret my decisions when the assignments start building up.” 

“I’m sorry to have added to your burdens already, in that case.” 

Draco shakes his head, a slight movement. “It will be an interesting assignment to research.” A pause. “I did wonder something, Professor, if you’d indulge a more academic topic of conversation.” 

“Please, wonder away.” 

“Is there any other way to get rid of a Boggart? Other than the Riddikulus charm and laughter.” 

“None as effective. Why do you ask?” 

“I just think —” Another pause. “It’s silly.” 

“Please, share.” 

“Don’t they get scared? Does it hurt them? It takes so long, so drawn out… Wouldn’t something quick and clean be kinder?” 

Remus took a long moment to consider this. “They’re not really creatures, not alive like you and I are. I don’t think they feel fear.” 

“They can be confused, though.” 

“Yes,” Drawn out, as if waiting for Draco to explain himself further. 

“They can be confused. They can panic in indecision. If a Boggart can feel enough to get confused, or panicked, why couldn’t they feel fear? Their own fear, not ours. It seems to me like they just want somewhere dark and dim to hide away and we’re torturing them to get them to go away.”

“You’re trying to empathize with an amortal being, Draco. A creature that can’t die, because it isn’t really alive. A Boggart is fear manifest — that’s all it is.”

“But they don’t hunt us down and force themselves upon us. They hide away until we bother them. Their manifestation of our fears is a self defense mechanism. They hurt us to save themselves.” 

Remus paused, he took a sip of his own tea. It was a smokey, spiced blend that Euphemia Potter had once favored. It brought him comfort in the way her presence used to, a steadying effect when faced with the strangeness of Draco Malfoy’s argument. “I have some philosophy and ethics texts that may be of great interest to you, Draco.” He said, finally, as if arming Draco with more weapons to use against him in arguments was the wise thing to do.

Two — Harry 

Third Year was gearing up to be exactly as weird as every other year at Hogwarts had been. A mass murderer on the run, Dementors guarding the school, and Draco Malfoy in the midst of a full personality makeover. Harry really should have been spending more time worrying about the two former subjects, as opposed to obsessing over the latter. 

“I still think he’s gone barking mad.” Ron said, gloomily gazing across the great hall at Draco and his gang of Slytherin friends. Pansy Parkisnon was laughing particularly hard at a joke Draco must have told — simpering and fawning as she always seemed to. 

“Maybe,” Harry agreed, caught up in the sight of them just as intensely as Ron seemed to be. “I’m still not convinced he isn’t up to something.” 

“Always up to something, that Malfoy.” Ron agreed in turn. They shared a dark look, remembering every negative interaction with Malfoy they’d had over the last two years. 

Only, it wasn’t that easy anymore, was it? In the last week Draco had apologized several times, joked with Harry, remained more or less friendly. He had shaken Harry’s hands and agreed to let bygones be bygones. 

“Honestly, you two.” Hermione sighed, and Ron and Harry both did a double take. Harry was fairly certain that Hermione hadn’t been sitting there a moment ago, but there she was now, slightly out of breath and loading her plate up with dinner. “If you spent half as much time studying as you spend obsessing over Draco, you’d be getting better marks than I am.” 

“Draco?” Ron asked, slightly incredulous. “Since when are we calling him Draco?”

Hermione’s eyes rolled, giving Ron a condescending look. “He’s not our mortal enemy. He’s agreed to call me Hermione from now on, too. We just talked about it in the Library.”

“When did you get time to go to the library between classes and now?” 

Harry wondered the same thing — but he did have one more important topic on his mind. He leaned in close, so the two of them could hear him. “Did you see his face when Seamus brought up Sirius Black during potions class today?” 

“Super weird.” Ron agreed. 

“It looked like he wanted to say something, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.” 

Hermione frowned, looking back and forth between them. “What on earth could Draco know about Sirius Black that the rest of us don’t.” 

“A fair bit, I’d say.” Neville Longbottom’s voice interrupted them, causing Harry to freeze for a moment. He sounded darkly glum as he spoke. 

Hermione’s frown deepened. “What makes you say that?” 

Neville gulped, and looked between the three of them. “Well, I—” He stuttered, and swallowed, before he shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t say.” 

“Neville,” Harry leveled at the other boy, “What does Malfoy know about Sirius Black?” 

Neville swallowed. “Well… there’s the family connection, isn’t there?” 

“Family connection?” The words tumbled out of Harry’s mouth, half numb. 

“They’re cousins, or something. Second cousins, I think. Gran had me memorizing half the family trees over the summer and, well — It’s his mum, right? Narcissa Malfoy was Narcissa Black before she was married. I think, I… I think her dad and Sirius Black’s mum were siblings, which makes Malfoys mum Sirius Black’s cousin, which makes Draco…” 

“Which makes Draco his second cousin.” Hermione confirmed, wonder in her tone. “Oh my god.” 

“Knew it.” Ron said, darkly. “Crazy runs in the family.” 

“Ronald.” Hermione scolded.

But Neville came to Ron’s defence. “He’s right, Hermione. The Black Family are infamous for how many of them turned, well…” 

“Incredibly, intensely insane.” Ron finished. “Blimey, I didn’t realise Malfoy was related. Mum’s not into tracking all that stuff. But it makes sense now.” 

A soft gasp escaped Hermione, as if she had just realised something. “Oh no.”

“What?” Harry asked, grim, already expecting the worst. 

“He said something weird, the first night we were back.” She explains, slow, as if she’s trying to make sure her own memory is accurate. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but he said…” 

“What?” Ron asked, more urgently. Neville looked equally as interested. 

“He said that the Slytherins were teasing him about the dementors; about how it was his fault the dementors were here in the first place. What if —” 

Harry thought about it. Lucius Malfoy with the diary that held a piece of Voldemorts soul. Lucius Malfoy who had clearly served Voldemort just as loyally as Sirius Black had, only Lucius knew how to worm out of it and Black didn’t. “His family could be helping Black now that he’s escaped.” He finished for her.

Ron looked pale. “He could be trying to get close to you, so he can lure you to Black. That’s what he’s up to.” 

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Hermione argued. 

“The conclusion we shouldn’t have jumped to was the one where you walked around saying that Malfoy is warm and cuddly now, as if that could ever be true.” Ron argued back. “First that demented cat of yours, and now you’ve adopted a snake.” 

“Crookshanks is not demented!” 

“He’s evil!” 

Their arguing continued, familiar background noise that washed over Harry as he considered the new information. Could Malfoy’s newfound niceness really be part of some ploy to lure Harry into danger? Could he really be helping Sirius Black? It was easier to believe than the alternative. They said that old dogs couldn’t learn new tricks, so maybe Malfoy was still up to all of his old nonsense, except now he had learned to take after his father. 

He looked up, across the tables, toward the Slytherins. Draco was laughing again, so hard that his cheeks dimpled and his eyes lit up. What were they joking about that was so funny? Was he relaying all his tricks to his friends, letting them laugh over how thoroughly he had convinced Harry and Hermione of his innocence? After a moment of staring, Draco seemed to catch on — his eyes met Harrys, but there was nothing malicious in that gaze. He even raised a hand to give a little wave. 

If Malfoy was helping Black, he had gotten a hell of a lot better at lying over the summer.

“Maybe its not all an act.” Neville said, trying to be comforting. “He helped me in potions today, and he doesn’t want to feed me to a murderer, I’m pretty sure.” 

That was true. With Snape had set in and began bullying Neville, Malfoy and Hermione had been able to whisper enough help to him to save him by the end of class. There was no possible reason that Malfoy would need to be nice to Neville Longbottom just to get close to the boy who lived. 

Harry gave his friend a small smile. “Thanks, Nev.” 

Neville smiled back at him, and they chatted throughout dinner, Hermione and Ron arguing none stop beside them. 

Three — Pansy 

“Those Gryffindors are absolute beasts.” Pansy complained, slumping down into an armchair in the common room. She had needed to chase a group of upstart little firsties away from the spot that the third years had claimed this year. 

Really, she was being kind by teaching them the way of things.

Slytherin House was built upon several different hierarchies. First years were the bottom of the heap. The Seventh years claimed the best seats, right beside the biggest fireplace, with some particularly gifted and popular sixth years amongst them. The older you were the more rights you had when it came to pushing other people around. Similarly, the purer are more respected your bloodline was, the more untouchable you became. 

Of course, this meant that Pansy and her friends were particularly blessed. The fourth and fifth years were a bunch of no-names. Pureblood in the mildest sense. It wasn’t until you got to the sixth years that you started running into the truly pure families again. Ophelia Burke and Priscilla Rowle ruled that year with an iron fist, and Pansy looked up to them a great deal. 

Her year, her friends, they were the blessed ones — the post war baby boom had done wonders for her social circle. Parkinson, Greengrass, Bulstrode, Nott — and then there was the gleaming jewel in the crown of Slytherin; Draco sodding Malfoy, heir to two houses, not to mention his marital relation to the Lestrange family. He was an inheritor through and through, rumor was that even Rodolphus Lestrange had named Draco his heir, should he had his brother fail to produce any themselves. 

And he was lovely, on top of it all. Draco was beautiful, and clever, and so wonderful it almost ached. She loved him; he was her best friend. She only wished she could love him in the way her mother wanted. When she indulged in romantic fantasy, it wasn’t Draco she imagined riding in on a white horse to save her. Draco was too untouchable, too… too himself. 

She loved him, but she could never be in love with him. It didn’t mean their friendship didn’t boarder on obsessive and intensely macabre at the worst of times. Twin flames who always pushed each other to burn a little too brightly. 

“They’re awful,” She continued, gazing at the other armchair, where Draco was deep in a book. She wanted his attention. She’d do anything to get his attention. “I don’t know how you stand them, Draco.” 

“Hm?” He hummed, looking up briefly from his book. “What’s that, Pans?” 

“The Gryffindors. How can you stand them when they’re walking around gossiping about Professor Snape like that.” 

A moody look flickered across his face. “Disrespectful lot.” He said, a lofty agreement, as his eyes flickered back down to the page. “If I was going to imagine Sev in woman’s clothes, I’d at least make sure they weren’t an eyesore.” 

“Draco.” 

He was doing that thing again — multitasking, where he thought he could read and talk to her and do either one of them well enough to pass muster. “Like my mothers gowns, he’d look fetching.” 

“They’re blabbermouths.” 

“Of the worst kind.” 

“Where is their sense of house unity? Walking around talking about their biggest fears as if it can’t be used against them all? Professor Snape has been in a mood all week since hearing about Longbottom and that Boggart.” 

“Such a bad mood.”

“Imagine if we walked around talking like that. Everyone would know about you and your—” 

That got his attention. His book snapped closed, and he looked up at her with something deadly behind his eyes. “But you wouldn’t.” 

“Of course not. Which makes us better people than them.” 

“What are you trying to get at, Pansy?” 

“You shouldn’t be friends with them.” She said, finally. It was the truth, the way she saw it. Befriending lions was a waste of time that was only going to tear apart their carefully crafted ecosystem. 

“Because they’re gossips?” He asked, sitting up and setting the book aside fully. “No, we’re gossips. Because they’re reckless idiots who don’t know how to whisper?” 

“If they found out about your father, the whole school would know the next day.” 

“Shut up,” He said, a shake of his head. “I told you why I needed to do this. Don’t you remember.” 

“I think its stupid.” 

“Yes, you said.” A sigh. “You also said that you wouldn’t stand in my way.” 

“That was before I realised how bad it could go.” 

“More like: before Blaise started talking to you about it. You’d do anything to get him to like you.” 

“Blaise likes me all on his own.” 

“Blaise likes me. He likes Daphne. He tolerates you and Theo. Has done ever since you told him he wasn’t good enough in first year.”

It was true. Pansy had been utterly cruel to Blaise in first year. He wasn’t one of them, he was an outsider with a family name she had never heard of before. He was pure, yes, but that wasn’t the kind of boy her mother had told her to get close to. 

“And you just want Potter to like you.” She snaps, a self defense mechanism. “You’ve been obsessed with him since you could walk. I remember, you know, when you were eight years old and you said that you wanted to marry Harry Potter when you grew up.” 

“Every eight year old wanted to marry Potter.” 

“Not like you did. And now you’ve seen a way to get in with him, and you’re going to change everything about yourself to make it happen. I hate it. I think its stupid.” 

She watched as Draco’s throat worked. Watched as he swallowed past the anger that was clearly building up inside him. Draco had a fury that could overtake him if he wasn’t careful, a fire in his guts that almost killed him sometimes. 

“I’m not changing.” He finally said. “I’m being myself, just with less bullying. Is that not okay?” 

“You’ve been spending all your free time with Granger in the library. You would have set yourself on fire last year, rather than do that.” 

“You can come with us, next time.” He said. 

“I don’t want to study with her.” Pansy argued. “She’s a mudblood.” 

Draco’s face shifted. He looked defeated. Pansy thought he was a fool if he thought his friends would just accept this, if they would sit back and let him damn himself. Most of them didn’t even know why he was doing it. 

But Pansy knew. He had told her. 

The future was a mystery to everyone normal. But Draco wasn’t normal. He had seen something that scared him, and now he was running and hiding and scrambling to change it. She could understand why. She didn’t want to hurt, she didn’t want to be in pain, and the world he described sounded awful. But she still thought his solution was wrong. 

“It isn’t catching, you know?” He said. “Being a…” 

“Mudblood.” She said, frustrated. That was part of the problem, another way that Draco had changed. He wouldn’t even say the word now. 

“Well, yes. It isn’t contagious. You won’t catch impure blood by sitting near her in the library. You may even learn something.” 

“Like what, how to be ugly and annoying?” 

“That isn’t fair, Pansy.” He said, with that thinly veiled anger. She watched him, watched it process, watched his face flicker as someone approached. 

Theo. Of course, he always shifted when Theo came into a room. If Draco was a sun, then Theo was his favourite planet to shine upon. 

“What are you two arguing about this time?” The boy asked, slipping in to the last empty chair. Pansy watched him as he leaned to glance at the book Draco had been reading; it wasn’t one of their textbooks. Theo made a thoughtful sound as he plucked it from the side table and flicked through the pages. 

“I was inviting Pansy to come and study with Granger and I tomorrow night.” Draco began, a brazen half truth that hid the facts of their arguments. She hated it, that way he had with words, the way his personality could shift on a dime when the situation demanded it. Draco was becoming a shapeshifter, learning how to blend in with everyone he saw. 

Theo froze in his study of the book, gaze flicking back up. She watched his gaze fix on Draco, and then flicker over until he met her eyes. He was catching up to the off centre energy between them. They had always been a trio. Born together, grown together, and they always said they would die together too. The loyalty they had for each other was unflagging and unflinching, and it was the only reason that Pansy didn’t spill all of Draco’s secrets out right then and there. 

She wanted to. She wanted to tell. But they had done their secret handshake, and that was final.

“And what did Pansy think of that?” Theo asks, cautious. 

“Pansy thinks that Draco is insane.” Pansy said, on her own behalf. 

Theo quirked a smile. “Theo agrees with Pansy on that topic.” He said. 

“Draco thinks that people who talk in the third person should be burned at the stake.” Draco said, snatching the book from Theo’s hands and leaning back in his chair to begin reading it once again. 

Theo and Pansy looked at each other, letting him begin to ignore them. His eyes were questioning when they met hers. He knew that they had been fighting about something far bigger than that. Pansy hated him too; because he could read her like a book. She was open when it came to him. All she could do was shake her head and slump back in her own armchair. 

She hated fighting with Draco; but there was a comfort in it too, because she knew that no matter how vicious their fights were, Draco and her would always be friends again by breakfast. 

Chapter Text

Days crept by as they always tended to, the first few weeks of September disappearing before Draco knew what to do with them. It was an often frantic blur of classes — most shared with Hermione, who several times a day looped the golden chain of the time turner around both their necks and sent them back an hour so they could attend yet another lecture. 

Draco was starting to feel the effects of the time turners use creep up on him. Every day felt like an eternity; so many of them took him far longer than twenty-four hours to get through. He felt ravenously hungry most of the time, and short-tempered more often than he liked. 

His determination remained unflagging, even as his energy started to strain. He carried on with his head held high; grateful only that he hadn’t had another damned vision to give him yet more things to worry about. He attended his classes, he smoothed things over with Pansy whenever she got the urge to fight with him, and he continued being sickeningly nice to the Gryffindors. 

Niceness seemed particularly effective, that first week of September. Its effects, however, seemed to dampen as time went on. The Harry who had so easily bantered with him in the Great Hall disappeared almost as quickly as he had come into existence, leaving behind a still kind but far more restrained Potter in his place. They didn’t fight anymore, but Harry didn’t run to talk to him either. He seemed to have decided that merely tolerating Draco was better than being his friend. Hermione was less restrained, but he could feel the coldness from her on occasion too. 

He tried not to ponder it too much. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all. Still, he couldn’t help but consider their behaviour as he lay awake at night. Did he say something else wrong? What fault had they found in him between one day and the next? Perhaps it had been a case of shock and awe that allowed them to warm to him in the first place, only for common sense to creep back in once they had enough time to properly consider his offer of friendship. 

It was pathetic to waste so much time thinking about Potter and Granger, of all people. Muscle memory told Draco that he was above them. Something deep in his heart wished that he would be good enough for them to actually care about him. 

The tail end of September left Draco in a labyrinth of his own design, and he could only resign himself to resolutely carrying on as he had done before. 

Arithmancy came easily to Draco, and he always excelled in potions. The classes blurred together with how quickly he and Hermione seemed to run from room to room. Divination always left Draco with a slightly foggy feeling in his head and Hermione with a deep frown on her face, muttering about how the entire practice was ridiculous. At night, he poured over his homework as if it was the most important thing in the world. 

He had been right in his insistence that he was far too busy this year for Quidditch. Still, as he gazed out of the library window at the little green figures circling the pitch during Slytherin practice, he felt a twinge of regret. Daphne had succeeded in taking his place as the Slytherin Seeker, and jokes had abounded about Flint trading one blonde for another. Draco was sure that she would do well — she was quick, and with her brand new broomstick she would easily keep up with the likes of Chang or Diggory. No one could hope to keep up with Harry, who was as fast as lightning even on his old Nimbus 2000. 

Tensions were rising between the Gryffindors throughout the month — Draco only gleaned snippets of the drama. It seemed that Granger’s cat had a particular taste for hunting rats, and had it out for the mangy little thing that Weasley carried around with him. Draco was firmly of the opinion that she was better off without Weasley. Hermione was a clever girl. She’d go far in life, if she managed to shake off the weights tying her down. He was also of the opinion that cats were beautiful, delicate creatures, who had the right to do anything they liked, especially if it was ridding the castle of unsightly rats. 

When things were particularly bad between Weasley and Granger, you could find her haunting the library at all hours of the day. It was the one place she could escape the red headed boys constant whining. Therefore, when Draco decided to try his hand at once again spending actual time becoming friends with the girl, that was where he looked for her. 

He found her among the stacks, browsing the books. His quiet footsteps carried him to her side. 

“A Record of the Ancient Bloodlines of Magical Britain?” Draco read the title that Granger was examining on the shelf. “Why, Hermione, your interests are certainly expanding. May I ask what has inspired your new topic of study?” 

“Just curiosity,” She said, evasion in every word. “It’s useless, anyway. That book hasn’t been updated since 1956.” 

Draco reached up to pluck the book down with delicate fingertips. “I can help you fill in the blanks, if you’d like.” A weary sigh escaped him. “My father was always particularly intense about me memorising things like this. God forbid I talk to someone at a ball and not know that they’re my third something-or-other on my grandfather’s side.” 

“Well, I—” She paused. “That’s alright, but thank you. I’m sure you have other work you need to be doing.” 

“I really wouldn’t mind.” He told her, meeting her eyes. He was going for earnest — something he was getting far better at landing on these days. A hint of excitement laced his next words. “Maybe you can tell me about how televisions work, as a trade.”

Draco had been thoroughly enjoying Muggle Studies, which surprised him to no end. They had invented so many wonderful things, engaged in such messy warfare. They were interesting, and he found himself wanting to know more and more about them with every passing lecture. 

Hermione looked at him for a long second. It seemed like once again, she was trying to read him, trying to understand what kind of game he was playing. “Oh, alright.” She said, finally, and they made themselves comfortable at Hermione’s usual table. 

He realised what was happening; the real focus of Hermione’s new interest in ancient magical bloodlines, about twenty minutes in to their time at the table. He had been listing out all of the Parkinsons for her on a carefully drawn family tree, when she had finally looked him in the eye. “Lets do your family, now.” She said. 

“Right, right.” He replied, finding a new scrap of parchment. “So the book ends with Abraxas Malfoy, we’re not missing much—”

“I didn’t mean the Malfoys.” She says, brave, stern. “I want to know about the Black’s.” 

The hand holding his quill stills, ink dripping down and thoroughly ruining the parchment. He was frozen for a second, before a smile slipped back on his face. He hoped it didn’t look strained. “Right.” He said. “I see.” 

“That’s your mothers family, isn’t it? The one you learned so much about during the summer.” 

“Yes.” He said, again. Something fluttered in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, but Draco very suddenly felt cornered. He felt like he had been trapped into something, like Hermione was expecting him to admit some kind of guilt. He looked at her, meeting her eyes over the parchment. She was studying him, and he didn’t like it much. “Yes,” He repeated. His words were overly polite, not as warm and casual as they had been as he spoke of Abraxas Malfoy. “The Blacks are my mothers family. What would you like to know about them?” 

“Everything.” She said, firmly.

“I see,” He said, again. “Well. Fine, of course.” 

The parchment was still stained with splotches of the ink that had dripped from the tip of his quill. Three splotches, seeping into the parchment. He set his quill down again, and began to draw a family tree. The three dark spots alined perfectly with the rest of the family. He labelled one Andromeda, one Alphard, and one Sirius. When he was finished sketching the family out back to his great-grandfather’s generation, he spun the parchment around for her to look. 

He pointed at the one name she was clearly fascinated by. Her eyes fixed on it, as if she wanted to memorise the entire thing. 

“There’s Sirius Black, son of Orion and Walburga Black, brother of Regulus Black. They disowned him when he was sixteen. Mother never talks about him, on account of how bringing up mass murderers at dinner is a bit gauche.” 

“Why?” She asks, far too vaguely.

“I just said. Its gauche.” 

“No, I mean — why did they disown him? By all accounts he was… I mean…” 

A soft huff of a laugh escaped him. “A vicious, evil, dark wizard, simpering and fawning over the Dark Lord?” 

“I—”

“Just like the rest of my family.” He lets it hang there, lets Hermione have a moment to deny it. His head nods then in a painful kind of understanding, letting himself go blank. “I’ve never even met him, you know? Not when I was a baby, and certainly not since then.” 

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” She tells him, and there is something gentle in it.

“No, of course not.” A nod. “You just want to know how intimately acquainted with my cousin I really am. Let me guess; because Potter and Weasley have decided that I too have an overwhelming longing to murder muggles at every turn. I must be oh so chuffed that just the man best suited for teaching me how has recently escaped Azkaban.” 

“Draco,” She says, somehow managing to sound level and balanced and rational, when Draco feels every single one of those traits slipping away from him. “I haven’t said any of that; and frankly, I haven’t been thinking it, regardless of what Harry and Ron may have convinced themselves.” 

He nods his head again, though he doesn’t quite believe her.

They’re saved from more of any discomfort over that particular topic, strangely, by Theo. He slides into the third chair at their little table with a practiced air of nonchalance — as if it were a perfectly ordinary thing to do. Draco recognizes the cold indifference of a Slytherin closing ranks. Theo must have spotted them and seen something on Draco’s face that implied a cry for help.

Hermione, to her credit, looks entirely baffled by Theo’s sudden appearance at the table. She watches him as he begins to pull his books out of his bag, utterly casual. “Draco.” He greets, and then, “Granger, I’ve heard you’re particularly adept at charms work. Can you explain what Flitwick was talking about today? I’ve almost finished my essay but I want to make sure I haven’t misunderstood him.” 

Draco ignores the fact that charms is his own best subject, and pulls his own textbook out, watching carefully to see what Hermione will say. 

“I—” She almost stumbles, glancing at Draco before seeming to give in to the strangeness and accept it. “I suppose so.” 

September bleeds into October, bringing with it the crunch of leaves and the slight chill of a northern autumn. Theo continues to appear at Draco’s side in the Library. The three of them haunt the same table, and Hermione seems too bashful to bring up Sirius Black again — At least, not to Draco’s face. 

He gets the distinct impression, as the weeks move by, that the Gryffindor trio are spending rather a lot of time talking about him, and Draco too. He can’t imagine what kinds of insane conspiracy theories those three are cooking up, and he doesn’t deign to bother them about it. 

They’ll grow out of childish wondering. Give them some time, and they’ll realise that the idea of Draco being in cahoots with a mass murderer is simply ridiculous. 

They’ll realise. He’s certain of it. 

Halloween morning bloomed, crisp and cold, greeting excited third years all over the castle. 

Even the Slytherins weren’t immune to the excitement of their first Hogsmeade weekend. The older students were indulgent of them as they excitedly chattered about their plans for the day over breakfast. Ophelia Burke even deigned to regale Pansy and Daphne with the romantic plans she had with her betrothed, who was coming to Hogsmeade to meet her for the day. The girls spent rather a long time giggling about the idea of romantic dates and marriage, which Draco rightfully couldn’t understand. The idea of being betrothed to some eighteen year old weirdo like Otto Mulciber didn’t seem particularly appealing to him. 

Dating always seemed to Draco like a waste. He didn’t understand crushes. He didn’t understand losing your entire mind over someone, when the chances were that it would just end in a disaster. 

What he did understand was the incessant longing for some semblance of freedom. He supposed that was what Hogsmeade was supposed to represent. 

He’d had a taste of freedom this year. Freedom over time. The taste of it was a tantalising thing, the flavour resting at the tip of his tongue and making him desire more. 

It would be so easy to take and take and take. To find freedom in every inch of added time, with every tick of a clock hand. Hermione and him could slip a necklace around their necks and travel back hours — they had been warned not to misuse this gift, but Draco was starting to wonder how anyone would know if they did. 

That was part of the temptation of time travel, he supposed; you started to think you could get away with anything. Thoughts like that were dangerous for Draco, the kind of thing that always lingered in the back of his mind with untold temptation. It was the kind of thought that haunted him as he trudged back up from the Dungeons to find his friends before they departed for Hogsmeade.

He blames the lack of sleep for the fact that he had forgotten to bring his scarf to breakfast. The chill has firmly settled in, leaving a crisp day. Pansy always teases him for it, but Draco is prone to catching colds at this time of year. The scarf is a necessity. 

He’s winding it around his neck as he steps into the entrance hall. The green and grey fabric is cosy, luxuriously soft against his skin — but it doesn’t hold his attention, not when there’s a whole mess of dark hair and green eyes to look at. 

Potter is gazing at Granger and Weasley as they depart, down the long path to the front gates and out into Hogsmeade proper. He looks sad. Longing. Like he’s being deprived of something. 

Draco’s own friends are waiting outside the doors, impatient, no doubt cursing his name for keeping them waiting this much longer, when they could have already been buying sweets at Honeydukes by now. Still, Draco can’t resist the urge to linger longer.

“Not joining us today, Potter?” He asks, with genuine curiosity. He would have imagined that Potter was just as eager to get out of the castle as the rest of them were. 

Harry does a slight double-take, looking at Draco intently. Draco tries a smile, just to see what Potter will do with it now. Potter’s returning smile looks more like a grimace than anything else.

“No permission slip.” Potter tells him. “I couldn’t get anyone to sign it.” 

Huh. That seemed odd. It always seemed to Draco like Harry Potter was a man who had everything, a boy who could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it. He’d been given practical free reign of the castle every year so far, and rewarded for most of the rules he had broken. 

“That’s crap.” Draco tells him, with a startling kind of authenticity. “They’re depriving you of a treasured rite of passage.” 

Something like surprise flits over Potter’s face, and something like regret, too. 

“Oh,” Draco says, before Potter can say anything. “Shite, I’m probably supposed to be telling you that Hogsmeade is shite, and you wouldn’t want to see it anyway.” 

The grimace looks more like a smile, then. 

“I’ve heard that speech. I didn’t believe it.” 

“Of course you didn’t. You’re the human lie-detector.” 

And there it is, some proper mirth behind the quirk of Potter’s lips. Draco is once again struck by how strange it is to have a conversation with Potter without wanting to strangle him to death, the novelty of it hasn’t worn off yet and isn’t likely to wear off any time soon.

“I mainly think they’re afraid Sirius Black is going to jump out from behind a bin and try to curse me.” Harry says, finally, with a world weary tone. 

There the name was again, the spectre that haunted their days, Draco’s most accursed of relatives. Sirius Black may have been out to get Harry, but Draco rather selfishly thought that madman was ruining his life more than anyone else’s. The Gryffindors couldn’t forget about Black, and they couldn’t seem to forget that Draco was part of that same disastrous lineage.

“Well, he might.” He tries to joke, “But I rather think it would be more his style to break in and try kill you in your sleep. It’s how I’d do it. Us purebloods loathe hiding behind bins.” 

“Right,” Harry said. “Think about killing me in my sleep a lot, then?” 

“Constantly.” 

A beat, the air between them growing stagnant. 

“That was a joke, just so you know.” Draco tells him, feels the need to say it. 

“I don’t think it was a very funny one.” 

“You Gryffindors.” A shake of Draco’s head. “You have no sense of humour. Well, I’ll be off. I’ll try not to bring you back any homicidal maniacs.” 

“Goodbye, Malfoy.” Harry said, and Draco graced him with one last stubborn smile before he joined his friends outside. 

Hogsmeade in Autumn is a riot of colour. Auburns and reds, the deep browns of tree trunks and the orange of pumpkins carved on every stoop. All of the little children who live in the village are dressed up in the intricate masks of the occasions, and Draco can see the preparations for a bonfire on the outskirts of the town.

More than anything else, it makes Draco ache for home, ache for his mother. The veil between worlds was thin today, and he knew that back at Malfoy Manor his mother would be preparing to welcome the spirits of their ancestors into the home. The dumb supper would be laid, the invitations made to those long dead. His fingers itch with the memory of opening every door and window in the manor, places where spirits could slip in and out and join the celebration. 

His father didn’t like it, but he was indulgent in the spirit of the season. His mother was free to celebrate her sabbat days, granted that she upheld her end of the bargain and played the part of the perfect wife. 

Draco missed her. The blonde of her hair, the gentle feeling of her hands, the glow of candlelight as it cut across her features — it made her look like a witch from ancient times, alive with an unnamable power, the kind of person you would burn at the stake out of fear. Beautiful and terrible. She was the best woman who had ever existed, and he was lucky that she was his mother. He just wished he was lucky enough that he could be with her now. 

He trails behind Blaise and Theo, his arm linked with Pansy. She talks and talks and talks, and seemingly doesn’t expect Draco to say much at all, content with his nods and soft sounds of agreement. She’s used to him being a little quiet on sabbat days. Blaise is the only one who doesn’t quite understand Draco’s strange nostalgia, his strange longing for a different place in time. 

Blaise doesn’t miss his mother much, from what Draco can tell. He doesn’t get homesick the way that Draco does. He drags Draco by the hand all the way to Honeydukes at a certain point, trying to coax him into laughter with gummy-spiders and caramel snakes. It draws a smile from Draco, a soft one. 

Not big enough for Blaise, it seems. 

“Come on, Draco. Halloween is about fun, and chocolate, and fun.”

“Actually —” Draco starts.

“Fun. Its about fun.”

“Samhain is about appeasing the creatures of the Otherworld and paying respects to the dead, actually.” He insists. “So unless you’re going to ritually sacrifice the the caramel snakes, I’m not really that interested.” 

Blaise grabs a whole bag of them, and shoves it into Draco’s arms. His smile is savage and sweet all at the same time. “You can ritually sacrifice them by eating the entire bag with me after dinner.” 

Draco, too fond to start a fight, concedes the point with as much grace as he can muster. 

Daphne and Millicent join them outside the sweet shop — Daphne laden down books on Quidditch strategy, and a brand new broomstick polishing kit. The girls insisted on a trip to the three broomsticks so that they could all get off their feet. Draco, for his part, didn’t think he could stomach an hour of Daph and Millie talking about Quidditch, not when his heart still ached a little bit. 

“I’ll catch you up,” He told them. “There’s something I want to check for.” 

Pansy gave him a critical look. 

“It’s a surprise.” He was forced to lie, “You won’t want it spoiled for you.” 

“I do love surprises.” She agreed, with some reluctance lingering in her voice. “I’ll see you soon.” 

With a nod, he turned away back the way they had come. Draco hadn’t really had a location in mind as he urged the rest of his friends to carry on without him — but now he was burdened with the need to buy Pansy a present so that she wouldn’t give him hell for ditching them. This led to Draco walking down the street with a slow pace, examining the storefronts he walked by in case anything caught his eye that Pansy might like. 

The small shop, cramped and tucked in between the Haydens Haberdashery and Stitches & Draughts catches his eye like its a strike of lightning. Singh & Sons Occultists was painted a deep midnight blue, the ink of a night sky when it doesn’t appear truly black. The silver star painted above the door is delicate, clearly done by hand, with brushstrokes that make it glimmer in the crisp autumnal sunlight. 

The star isn’t the only thing glimmering — there’s an ornate set of spyglasses and telescope lenses in the window, bronze and slightly scratched. Something about them steals his Breath away, and Draco is opening the door of the shop before he knows what he’s doing. He can get a better look at the collection from inside, leaning close to track his eyes over the delicate materials. It’s like a hook in his chest, something tugging at him. 

“You’ve a good eye.” A voice from behind him says. “Those are rare antiques.” 

Draco glances back over his shoulder, uncertain of he man he’s looking at now is Singh Senior or Junior. It could go either way, he supposed. He was middle aged and yet startlingly handsome, with eyes that seemed mischievously. 

“Where did they come from?” Draco asks, and he isn’t even sure why. Something about them seemed familiar. Like the Cosmosocope, like some kind of once kindred spirit had led him to this place, destiny calling. 

“My great-grandfather purchased them from Antares Black before the man died. He was an avid astronomer.” It’s said with a flair for the dramatic, the cadence of a storyteller. The name makes Draco’s mouth goes slightly dry. He imagines a man standing in a mirror, he half remembers the delicate gleam of golden lettering above the frame of one. Antares Black. 

It was a name that Draco had heard before. It was the kind of name that magical fanatics, or nerds like Hermione, would have known. Antares Black was an astronomer and arithmancer who had written several detailed treatises on the manner in which the alignment of the planets effects the performance of certain spells or magical practices. He had been one of the greatest minds of his generation, and he had drowned at the age of seventy-seven without bearing any children. 

“I’m familiar,” Draco said, more dull than it should have been. 

Something in Singh’s expression lit up. “More than a good eye. You’ve got his eyes.” The man took a step toward Draco, examining him. “I’ve seen your eyes before.”

Draco swallowed. He had his mothers eyes. The gleaming steely grey of the Black Family. A sign of too much inbreeding, he always thought, the way they were all so uncannily similar. Now he wondered if it was something more. Was there something else about him that connected him to the men and women who had come before? 

“My mothers family was shockingly prolific.” Draco told him, trying to force himself to be open, to not be rude. “I’m told there was quite the brood of Blacks inhabiting Hogwarts during the 70s.” 

“Five of them across seven years.” Singh told him. “The youngest one tried to buy those very same lenses. He was terribly rude about it.” 

A breath, “They’re not for sale, then?”

“Not to rude little boys with the dark mark on their arm.” 

Dracos gaze flicked up, met the mans eyes. He bit his lip, the old nervous habit. “You shouldn’t have a problem setting them aside for me, then?” 

This, somehow, was the thing that made Singh smile at him. He was more than willing to remove the lenses from display, to set them behind so that Draco could come back for them when his pockets were more heavily laden down with gold. He, in fact, showed Draco several more interesting objects that he may be interested in. 

The divination book with its edges foiled in gold, which Draco purchased that every same day. The blends of tea that were supposed to help you enter a trance and heighten the sensitivity of your third eye, which he gave Draco a sample of to brew and see if he liked it. Singh seemed to be a man who had seen right through him, who saw to the core of him, or maybe he just knew from experiences that certain members of the Black family were particularly interested in the future. 

“There’s one more thing you need.” Singh told him, as he was packing the book away. He pulled out an ornate hair clip, a silver serpent with green gems for eyes. 

Pansy would love it. 

She would more than love it. She would treasure it. 

“Are you a seer, Mr. Singh?”

“Just good at reading people.” He was told, with a wink. Shamefully, it made Draco flush. The man really was terribly handsome. “If you’ve an interest in the subject, there are some shops on Knockturn Ally that you may want to explore.” 

Draco listened to his recommendations and handed over his Gallions, feeling strangely dazed as he walked out of the store again. He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped across the threshold and watched as Singh waved him goodbye, the slightest waggle of his fingers wishing Draco a farewell.

He took his time wandering away from the shop. He’d only been inside for 40 minutes, and the others would likely still be happy in the Three Broomsticks for hours yet. He felt strange and alone in the world, and somehow happy that way. Isolation was something that Draco was forced to grow used to in his father’s house. Aside from the scant few hours during the weeks when he had been allowed to go and spend time with his friends, aside from the hours and hours spent in lessons, Draco had always been a child who needed to be content while left to his own devices. 

His footsteps take him all the way to the edge of town, beyond the bonfire carefully prepared and far from the cries of excited children. He ends up gazing out at the Shreaking Shack. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted houses in magical Britain. Tilting his head as he examines it, Draco just thinks it looks sad. Sad and lonely and destitute, with no one left to care for it. If he was a house that had been abandoned, he would welcome ghosts inside too. The dead were surely better company than nobody at all. 

Samhain is a day of thin veils. He’s sure whatever ghosts do linger in that house, they’re particularly active today. Which is why his heart almost stops beating when he sees the black dog trying to dig its way under the fence. Massive, shaggy, fur as black as night. Heart stopping, mouth gone dry — It’s a Grim, he thinks, for a startling second. The unsettled feeling he’s had all day has been a precursor to this dark omen of death. 

Then, the dog whines, and seems to give up in its pursuit. The fences are charmed so nothing can get through them easily, an effort to keep stupid kids from breaking their necks in the ramshackle house. The breath punches out of Draco’s lungs, a bullet of warm air that just barely mists in the autumnal chill. The dog looks over finally, sharp eyes critically looking at Draco before it lets out another whine. 

The thing is fucking massive, and Draco almost defaults to being frightened of it. It’s then that he notices how thin the dog is, clearly half-starved and neglected by whoever was supposed to be looking after it. It makes something twinge in Draco’s chest, makes him want to cry a little bit. 

“Hello,” He says, uncertain of himself under the weight of the dogs gaze. He crouches down slightly, careful to avoid getting any of his clothes dirty on the slightly muddy ground. “Do you have an owner?” 

Another whine, and the dog shakes its whole body. The sudden sharp movement of it causes Draco to fall back slightly, needing to catch himself and getting his hands and part of his pant leg thoroughly coated in muck. “Ugh,” He says, with far more feeling. “You utter mutt.” 

The dog barks, and Draco shoots it a glare — but Merlin, its hard to be angry at a creature that looks so utterly pathetic. Another bark, and the beast approaches him. Draco gets his revenge by laying a hand on the dog, petting it carefully and yes, smearing the mud from his hand onto the dogs coat. The dog is panting, breathing, and Draco thinks he sees malice in the creatures eyes before the mutt dives in and starts licking all over Draco’s face. 

“Ugh,” he complains again, shoving the dog away with gentle hands. He feels, when he does so, the prominence of the creatures ribs poking it from its skin. His heart melts. “Come along, Grim, lets get you some food. If you’re very good I might even spell you clean.” 

He pushes himself to his feet and weighs the pros and cons of getting mud all over his wand, or just wiping his hands clean on his already ruined trousers. He settles on the latter, just to get them dry enough that he can thoroughly scourgify himself before he starts trekking back into town.

The dog follows behind him, close at his heels. It’s when they get back into the town proper that its attention seems to get drawn away. It looks keenly around at the rest of the students who are still wandering the streets, as if checking for something and someone. Draco wonders again if someone owns this dog. But then again — he wouldn’t want to give the mutt back to whoever let it get so starving and thin, clearly hurt by something. Another pang of sympathy runs through him, and he reaches down to give a scratch to his ears. 

“I always liked dogs, you know?” He says, his tone softer now. “Father said they would ruin the house if we got one. Same thing with cats.” 

The dog lets out a whine that sounds almost sympathetic. His furry head leans further into the palm of Draco’s hands. 

“Father thinks a lot of things I like would ruin the house. He’s all… you know.” A cold, monotone impression of Draco’s father comes out of his mouth. “No painting, Draco, you’ll get it all over the hardwood. No drawing, Draco, you’ll get your hands dirty. No running, Draco, you’ll scuff up the carpet. No fun, Draco, someone might think you’re a human child and not a mindless robot.” He lets out a small huff. “I think I’d get more affection if I was a dog like you.” 

The dog surges forward, another lick landing on Draco’s face. This time, he lets himself laugh. “Alright, yes, thank you. You’re a very sweet boy, Grim. Now lets see if Madam Rosmerta will let you have some sausages from the pub.” 

Madam Rosmerta does, as it turn out, have a soft spot for polite boys with very cute lost dogs. Draco ends up sitting on the back step of the Three Broomsticks, feeding Grim sausages and toast, watching as the dog gobbles them up with gusto. Draco keeps petting him as he eats, feeling some strange kind of comfort from the feeling of soft fur beneath his fingertips.

“I wish I could bring you back up to school with me.” Draco tells him. “My snake would like you. Her name is Sally. She’s not much of a cuddler, though she does like it when I let her coil around my arm while I walk around. A few warming charms and she’s as cozy as she needs beneath my sleeves. McGonagall would have me in detention for months if she found out.” He doesn’t let himself feel foolish for how much he’s talking to a creature that can’t understand a word he’s saying. All Grim knows about is probably food, and maybe a few basic tricks. The creatures eyes are attentive expanses of grey, however, and Draco keeps going. “Oddly enough, I think Potter would find it endearing.” 

Grim looks at him, head tilting to the side with attention. 

“Potter. Harry Potter. He’s a third year like me. He’s bloody annoying, in a perfectly lovely kind of way.” A soft sigh. “We’re almost friends now. We’d be proper friends, I think, if it wasn’t for my family. He thinks I’m evil sometimes. Which is awful, because I think he’s… like I said. He’s a little bit lovely. A typical Gryffindor idiot — Ouch, hey, be careful.” He pulls his hand away where Grim’s teeth had nipped it, before signing and picking up another greasy sausage to feed him. 

“The point is,” He carries on, “It’s probably a good thing they’re not letting him go to Hogsmeade this year. He’d get killed half way down the street. But, I’m going to keep doing my best to be better, so that he’ll be my real friend someday, and so that he doesn’t come to a gruesome and untimely end. I fucking hate seeing the future, but at least now I know that he needs someone smart by his side to keep him from getting killed before he turns eighteen. I’ve been figuring that with Granger and me combined, we’ll be able to keep him from the worst of it. Maybe you could join us, hm? You could be his loyal guard dog.”

A low woof comes out of Grim’s mouth, and Draco smiles, rewarding him with another scratch behind his ears. “You’re a good boy,” He says, again, watching with affection as Grim’s tail starts wagging. “You could always try sneak into the castle. If you’re very careful you might be able to get inside through the gate when we’re all walking back. But If you don’t, I’ll look for you again during the next Hogsmeade weekend.” 

Another woof, and it seems like the two of them are in agreement. Grim follows Draco until he meets back up with his friends outside the front door, and Draco gives him a little wave goodbye as they all start to walk back up toward the castle. 

The walk up to the castle was a long one. Draco spent half of it glancing over his shoulder, hoping to see Grim following him back to the castle. He wasn’t usually such a bleeding heart, but puppy dog eyes truly were irresistible. 

He didn’t tell the rest of his friends what he had been doing while they were having their drinks in the Three Broomsticks — mainly because he thought they would make fun of him for it, and he didn’t have the heart to put up with something like that tonight.

They filed in to sit at the Slytherin table. Draco’s friends continued to indulge his quiet mood. He managed to distract Pansy and earn further goodwill from her by presenting her with the carefully crafted snake hair pin that he had purchased from Mr. Singh. Just as he thought she would, Pansy adored the gift. All the rest of the girls spent dinner talking about how thoughtful Draco was. Some of the older Slytherin girls even teased their boyfriends about how Draco was clearly a better boyfriend than they were. 

This made both Pansy and Draco wrinkle their noses in distaste. Neither of them enjoyed it when people assumed they had any romantic interest in one another. They were joined at the hip, a little co-dependent, and yes, they might get married someday. But neither of them was the romantic ideal of the other. They were best friends, they really didn’t need to be anything else. She was so much more important than a romantic interest to him. 

By the time dinner had been eaten and dessert had come and gone, Draco felt thoroughly exhausted. He was sure he would fall into bed the second that they got back into the dorm. His feet are heavy as they get out of their seats. 

Of course, as usual, his eyes flick over to the rows of Gryffindors absently getting up and preparing to walk to their own dorms. Potter is like a magnet for him. Always the first person that Draco can spot in any crowd. The dark hair and his green eyes seem to shine brighter than anybody else. He spots him, finally, not too far away. 

Weasley frowns at the sight of the small wave Draco spends in their direction. However much Potter and Granger had warmed up to Draco, it seemed like Weasley only detested him more. Messing with Weasley was a lot like playing with fire. Draco was going to get burned any day now. Messing with Potter in front of Weasley put him at distinct risk of being challenged to another pitiful duel. 

Unfortunately, Draco can never resist playing with fire. 

“I spotted Sirius Black behind some bins, Potter.” He can’t help calling. Draco has a truly dangerous desire, nearly all of the time, to grab some of Harry Potter’s attention. The world feels entirely different when Potter is looking at him, and it’s even more intensely changed when Potter is looking at him without malice in his eyes. The idea of having a private joke with him is a very nearly addicting thing. “He sends his love.” 

A smile crossed Potter’s face, very clearly against his own will. Draco watched him shake his head and fight to beat the grin back. “Sod off, Malfoy.” He called, and it brought a wide smile to Draco’s face in turn. 

Pansy is actively rolling her eyes when Draco turns back to them. Blaise looks blandly unimpressed. Whatever expression is on Theo’s face, Draco can’t quite name it.

“Idiot.” Pansy tells him. 

“Dangerous.” Blaise comments. 

Draco lets his shoulders slump. Yes, both of those things were probably true. He wasn’t sure he could begrudge his friends worry when sometimes it felt like he was playing a losing game when it came to Potter. 

“I’m tired,” He says to them, and with a soft hum from Pansy, they depart down the long stairs down to the dungeons. 

The chill in the air when they enter the world beneath Hogwarts is always strangely comforting to Draco. Its the slight cold before they enter the warm embrace of the common room — like a den, or a burrow hole for some wild animal, the Slytherins find comfort in that unseen place beneath the earth. 

Draco is longing to crawl into bed, to leave his curtains open and watch the dull grey-green light flicker under the weight of the water above them. He sits on the edge of his bed as he buttons up his sleep shirt, gazing at the water outside. He can’t help but think about Antares Black again. A man who would have slept in this same dorm, maybe even the same bed. A man who lived seven years of his life beneath the water, yet loved the stars so fiercely. A man who drowned, a gruesome and lonely death. 

Draco almost drowned once — he was seven years old, his mother and him playing beside the lake on the outskirts of the Malfoy Estate. That little lake had been their safe-haven. Beside the water flowers bloomed wild and free, without the strict confines and rules of his mother’s garden. Bluebells and daffodils, lavender and thyme, the smell rich and deeply engrained in Draco’s memory. Draco had slipped into the water when his father called his mother away for a few moments. He was half dead by the time they pulled him out again.

He’s never liked swimming since then. During the summer when his friends flock to lakes, or the expansive pool housed at the Nott estate, Draco contents himself to sit beside the water and read, to laugh at their jokes from the sidelines. It was on a day like that when Theo had become someone so important to him. 

Theo, nine years old, had always been a fixture. The third point to Draco and Pansy’s triangle. He was important, unflinching, but Pansy and Draco had always been a two headed creature that Theo could never quite merge into. But it was Theo, nine years old and dripping wet, who had come to talk to Draco at the poolside, arms resting on the edge and head propped on them, to ask about what book Draco was reading. It was Theo who had stayed there with him, and never pressured him to swim, while Pansy and Daphne shouted and splashed in the deep end. 

“Draco,” It’s Theo, thirteen, who says his name now. “Are you alright?” 

When Draco looks up, he realizes he’s been frozen in a moment of time. Hand stopped midway through buttoning the final button of his sleep shirt, the dark velvet green soft under his hands. He looks up at Theo’s dark eyes as he forces his hand to finish the movement, to push the mother of pearl button through the buttonhole and close it. 

“Fine.” He says, swallowing past the daydream thick in his throat. “I was just thinking about —” 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. It isn’t long before the prefects start pounding on every door along the hall, calling for all the students to come out and follow them back to the Great Hall. 

Something bad has happened. Something terrible enough for every student in the school to gather under one roof. Suddenly, Draco needs to fumble to put slippers on, needs to quickly grab the first jumper he can lay his hands on — Vince’s, it seems like, far too big for him but cozy enough to guard him from the chill as they walk through the hallways. 

It was Sirius Black, they discovered, when they entered the Great Hall and the teachers were confident that every student was accounted for. Professor Snape had cast a careful eye over each and every Slytherin, counting them in his head, reciting their names as he knew them all so well. Maybe it was Draco’s sentimental nature, but he thought that he saw Severus’s shoulders relax when he caught sight of Draco in the crowd. Draco pushed through his tired exhaustion to give the man a quirk of a smile. 

They all gathered close at the first flick of Professor Snapes fingers, after the announcement had been made. “You will all be on your best behaviour tonight,” Severus told them, midway through summoning pillows and blankets for them to sleep on. “You will not embarrass your house in front of these…outsiders.” 

“Yes, Professor.” Half of them chorused back. 

Severus gave them all a firm nod. He caught Draco’s eyes once again, and gave him a stern look that seemed to imply that the message went doubly for him. Draco didn’t think it was quite fair, when he hadn’t caused any trouble for anyone in several months now. Not on purpose, at the very least. Draco got the distinct impression that his attempted friendship with Granger and her gang of Gryffindors was enough to distress Severus all on its own. 

Which, of course, didn’t stop Draco from getting Hermione’s attention when everyone started setting up their bedrolls for the night. Draco and the third year Slytherins had claimed a spot near a corner, and there was space still for more bodies. Draco found himself looking for Hermione like it was almost second nature. With a possibly homicidal blood supremacist murderer on the lose, part of him thought it would be a good idea to keep an eye on her.

He smiled when he caught her eye, and gestured at the spaces nearest the corner in an offering. Something in her shoulders slumped when she saw him, and she took several steps toward them before Weasley caught her wrist to stop her. The three Gryffindors talked in hushed tones and exaggerated movements. Weasley’s arms were all over the place, and the expression on his face was fervent. Hermione and Harry looked more hesitant, and Hermione was clearly arguing for approaching Draco. 

Draco watched them, his own shoulders slumping. He knew that in the war between him and Ron Weasley, he would rarely actually win. Weasley was the stalwart friend, reliable, who had never been a bully to either Hermione or Harry. He was the trustworthy one, the boy from a good family who had never been followers of the Dark Lord. Weasley was good, and at the end of the day, Draco would always be Lucius Malfoy’s son.

He was glad that he couldn’t hear the words they were saying, whatever arguments that Weasley was making against him, whatever things Harry and Hermione were believing about him. Hermione cast him one last look over her shoulder, gave him a regretful smile and a shrug of her shoulders before she let Weasley lead her away. Harry followed, his gaze lingering on Draco for just a moment. 

Draco turned away without another smile. He was too tired to be the bigger person, to try persistently for another night when they clearly wanted nothing to do with him. He slumped down between Theo and Pansy, and firmly closed his eyes, letting the sound of their whispered conversation lull him to sleep. 

Chapter Text

The 1st of November was a grim and chilly morning. Nearly all of the students woke up complaining of sore backs and bad nights of sleep — though half the hall probably hadn’t slept at all. Pathetic fallacy was at its finest, it seemed, as Draco felt particularly connected to the grey skies that were reflected among the ceiling of the great hall. He was only glad that it was the weekend, and he wouldn’t need to trudge along to endless classes today.

Of course, the thought of classes only reminded him of how big his pile of homework had already gotten. He wasn’t sure how Hermione was coping, but Draco himself was feeling rather run down. It seemed silly now that he had wasted an entire Saturday walking around Hogsmeade petting stray dogs, when he could have been in the library trying to hammer facts about the 7th Goblin Rebellion into his head. He remembered Grims sad, puppy dog eyes, and decided it had probably been worth it. 

As they ate their breakfast Draco vowed to himself that he would make up for slacking off by spending the rest of the day in the library. There was a chance he could catch up with the backlog he currently had before the teachers piled even more on top during their upcoming classes. 

He ate quickly, though still not without manners. Draco could never quite bring himself to shovel food into his mouth the way he sometimes saw people like Ron Weasley do. It would have earned him a beating as a child if he ate the way some of the Gryffindors did. Even on his worst days, Draco was reminded to have perfect posture and perfect etiquette. A Malfoy couldn’t be seen to be sloppy. The other houses would talk if Draco started slipping, and he would be considered uncouth. 

“I’m going to ask Hermione to study,” Draco told his friends, as he sipped at the remainder of his tea. He had taken it stronger today than he usually would have, and found he quite liked the taste of it once it had been left to seep for several minutes longer than usual. “Feel free to come along, when you’re all done.” 

Pansy, Blaise and Theo all shared a look with one another. They seemed to have come to some kind of silent conclusion about something — as if they had been talking behind his back. Of course they had been. Draco wouldn’t have hesitated about gossiping about his friends if they had ditched him instead of coming along to the pub on their very first Hogsmeade weekend. Still, he felt something turn slightly sour in his stomach at the sight of it. 

“You have one minute for whatever haranguing you’ve decided upon before I leave.” 

Another glance was shared. Pansy elbowed Theo in the side and gave him an expectant look. Theo took a moment to glare at her. It didn’t seem as if he was quite as enthusiastic about this cornering of Draco as the others were. 

“Are you sure you still want to do that?” He asked, stiff. “It’s only — we’ve been worried, and…” 

“And Granger didn’t seem to have any issue ignoring you last night.” Pansy finished for him, sensing that Theo didn’t have the backbone to express what they had all decided on. “She clearly doesn’t care as much about being your friend as you care about being hers.” 

Draco didn’t think that Pansy was trying to hurt him with a statement like that — only the verbal knife had hit its target much harder than it had been thrown. She couldn’t know that he was already feeling achingly insecure about it. His lips twisted before he could stop them, a slight frown that expressed more hurt than he would have liked it to. There was no going back once they had seen it. Theo looked slightly devastated on his behalf — the other boy had never liked it when Draco was upset. 

“A murderer just tried to break into her dorm,” Draco defends the other girl. “I’m sure she was just busy coddling the Gryffindors.” 

“No, she picked Weasley over you. She’s always going to, don’t you see?” 

His teacup clinked loudly against the table when he set it down, and his mouth twisted again. He was over tired, and still horribly homesick, and he hated it. He hated her for cornering him like this at the dining table. Slytherins weren’t supposed to express their grievances with one another outside of the common room. They were supposed to present a united front. 

Only suddenly, it felt rather impossible. 

Draco should have reigned himself in. He should have been calm and cool and collected. A Malfoy never expressed his anger when it could be perceived as a weakness. A Malfoy stayed refined in the face of the unwashed masses. A Malfoy never flinched in the face of adversity. Suddenly, being a Malfoy felt suffocating. 

“Because no one but you lot could ever put up with annoying, silly Draco Malfoy.” He snapped, “Because i’m so detestable that no one else will ever like me?” 

It drew the attention of most of the other Slytherins, and a handful of Ravenclaws. Still, Draco pushed himself away from the Slytherin table, and seeing that the Gryffindors were already departing the great hall, he moved to try and catch up with Hermione to ask if she wanted to study after all. 

A few hours pouring over books would calm him down. Everything was a little bit easier with old pages beneath his fingertips and ink scratching across parchment. He found it strangely comforting to be able to look up and see Hermione across the table, just as engrossed in her studies as he was in his own. She was something of a kindred sprit in that way, with more stamina for academics than any of his friends had. 

All of Draco’s friends were terribly clever and sharply intelligent in some way or another, even Vince and Greg had their particular talents and areas where no one else could compare. But as he had explained to Hermione at the start of the school year, they rarely talked about academic topics without the conversation being laced with sarcasm, or some kind of unfriendly joke. 

Sometimes, he wanted to express interest in something without getting teased for it. Hermione was good for that. Hermione was good for a lot of things — and really, once he had decided that he didn’t have to hate her anymore, it was remarkably easy to like her. 

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the three of them. Really, honestly, he didn’t. It wasn’t his fault that they had seemingly stopped at the other other side of a corner, and it wasn’t his fault that his naturally quiet footsteps had stopped when he heard his name.

“I’m not sure why,” Potter was saying, “I’m just not sold on Malfoy being involved this time.” 

“That’s because you’re sensible, Harry.” Hermione’s voice, imperious. “Some people understands that thirteen year old boys aren’t usually in cahoots with mass murderers.” 

“You two are —” Ron’s spluttering voice. “He’s blinded you somehow. As far as I see it, nothing makes more sense than Malfoy working with Black. Tell him again, Hermione. We saw all of Malfoys gang at the Three Broomsticks yesterday, and Malfoy wasn’t with them. He was probably off meeting up with Black so they could plan the attack on our common room. Malfoy must have snuck him into the castle somehow.” 

“And how do you imagine he did that?” 

“I’m not sure how, but I know he did it.” 

“I don’t know…” Potter sighed. Draco could almost imagine the slumping of his shoulders. “It seems like he’d be acting different if he snuck Black into the castle last night. You know how he is, he can’t hide it when he’s feeling smug and superior about something.” 

“Maybe he took an acting class.” 

“Harry is right, Ron. I think we’d know by now if Draco was plotting something.” 

“Then what was he doing all day at Hogsmeade? And why was he taunting Harry about Black before dinner the other night, just hours before Black tried to break in? Typical smug Malfoy.”

“That was clearly a joke, Ronald. He just isn’t very good at making them.” 

“Or he assumed that you would assume it was a joke, and assumed that if you thought he was joking you wouldn’t suspect him for being the evil little worm he usually is. Him and his mum and dad, I’m telling you — they’re the wrong type of wizards. They’re so wrapped up in the old ways that they don’t have any option other than to be dark. He’s probably just acting so quiet since last night because he wasn’t able to commit a ritual sacrifice for Samhain this year.”

“What?” Potter’s voice, incredulous and curious. 

“That’s what people like Malfoy do.” Ron explains. “Everyone knows his mum follows all the old traditions. Halloween isn’t just a holiday to them, it’s the day when they call on the dead and make sacrifices to appease their dark lords and gods.” 

“Is that why he came for my parents on Halloween? Voldemort, I mean?” 

“Don’t call him that, Harry. But — Must have been. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not quite sure it does.” Hermione says, at just the same moment that Harry says: “Maybe.”

“I’m just saying that it can’t be a coincidence that Black tried to break in and kill Harry on the exact same night, and that Malfoy was missing for most of the day.” 

Draco’s shoulders slump slightly. Of course. There was nothing he could do that wouldn’t make him sound strange and evil to the rest of them. A year ago he might have barged in to the hallway where they stood and kicked up a fuss about it. He would have been vicious in the defence of his family, of his mother and whatever beliefs she held in the privacy of her own house. 

The old instinct almost came flooding back with an intensity that made Draco feel unhinged. He wanted to destroy Weasley, suddenly. He wanted Weasley gone, wanted him to hurt, wanted to insult him in all the ways he was currently insulting Draco. He wanted to let all the anger and frustration out, find a target and stick a blade in it. He wanted to make Weasley regret ever speaking his name, make him fear ever doing it again. 

But Draco couldn’t do any of those things. He had the awareness to know that a good person wouldn’t leap to the extremes that he did. He had the cunning to know that eviscerating Weasley wouldn’t help his case with the others, no matter how satisfying it would be. The lack of a solution left Draco standing, alone in a hallway, with only his hurt and stupidity for company. 

He forces a breath out in a slow exhale, and forces himself to stop listening. He forces his feet to move again, back in the direction he had come from and away from Potter and the others. He didn’t need to linger and prod his open wounds today. What he needed was a better plan to gain their trust. 

Playing Hufflepuff clearly wasn’t working. It was time to be a snake. 

The plan is an intricate one. Draco is committed to it in every step. He will get what he wants, because he is a Malfoy, and a son of the House of Black, and the world is his by right. Walburga Black once gave endless speeches about the divine right of celestial beings, and there must have been some truth in it. They were descendants of the stars, of the greatest witches and wizards who had ever lived, and the universe bent before them if they willed it to. Draco is willing, and the plan will work, he’ll force it to. So, it starts like this: 

Draco remains doggedly determined in his pursuit of knowledge. He throws himself into classes harder than he had before. He is serious, he does not fool around, he spares only the smallest of smiles for his friends jokes during class. He takes such intricately detailed notes that even his professors are impressed with him — so detailed, in fact, that even Hermione has to request to read over his Arithmancy notes. 

He has a particular passion for Arithmancy, he tells Hermione. “Because of my relative, Antares Black. He was a great Arithmancer.” 

“He’s very interesting.” She tells him, because of course she devoured every inch of knowledge she could on the topic the moment she had signed up for class. “I read Lucille Montague’s commentary on his work during the summer. She said that she managed to look at his original manuscripts during her training.”

Draco’s kind smile almost feels natural on his face, happy that Hermione is playing right into the palm of his hand. “We have them in the Black Archives, if you’re interested in seeing them yourself. I’d be happy to arrange it. And I can get you copies, in the meantime.” 

Her eyes light up, a kind of spark in them that he rarely sees when she’s talking to Weasley and Potter. Appealing to the intellectual in her was clearly the way to her heart. 

She practically squeals a week later, when he supplies her with the facsimiles and copies of not only several manuscripts on arithmancy, but star charts too, more intricately detailed than anything you might have found in an old textbook. This was a reaction that he would only get out of Pansy when he presented her with jewelry. It seemed that Hermione valued study materials over silver and gold. 

It wasn’t morally corrupt, really. Sure, those facsimiles were supposed to be reserved for students studying arithmancy and astronomy at a post-graduate level, students of the great conservatories around the continent. It wasn’t really a bribe, either. It was just a friend helping a friend. If giving Hermione gifts was going to make her like him more, he’d shower her in rare books until her heart gave out. 

It wasn’t morally corrupt, but he did feel a smug kind of satisfaction as Ronald Weasley watched Hermione and him pour over the manuscripts in the corner of the library. He was certain that with enough time, Hermione would like him far better than the red-headed boy. 

In the dark of night, after his successful day amongst manuscripts and muggleborns, he brews half the tea that Mr. Singh gave him. He does it in secret, as all important things must be done. He finds the most secluded room in the deepest depths of the dungeons and makes a home there, spreads a blanket on the cold stone ground and prepares himself for the Seeing of things. 

Draco has been studying carefully. The golden gilded book he had purchased at Mr Singh’s shop was an eye-opening thing. It didn’t flounce, it didn’t waste time with frills. It was written for a seer, and it shared with Draco the manners in which he might open windows to the future. Not every method would work for him, but the one he had settled on had been the one that caused a tugging in his stomach. Instinctually he had known that the Mirror was for him. Like the Cosmoscope, Draco was a creature of many reflections, and now he only needed one to show him what he needed to see. 

He didn’t have the time to hunt down a proper scrying mirror; but he didn’t need one. A transfigured bason and a pool of water would would like a wonder, and had been the favored method in ancient times. The reflection was the important part, and it was there when he lent in and gazed down upon it as he waited for the tea to brew. He was just lighting candles on either side of the pool of water when the tea was ready. 

It was a blend of lavender and vervain, damiana and mugwort. There was dried apple and cinnamon, too, and the smell that wafted up from the cup was a heady one. Draco allowed it to cool to a palatable temperature, clearing his mind as best he could, meditating quietly on the questions he needed answered by the scrying mirror. It would have helped, he absently thought, if he had some of whatever incense Professor Trelawney burned during their classes — it always seemed to empty Draco’s mind for him, as if pulling him away from himself. Here, all he had was his own determination. 

He drew a deep breath in, and let long breaths out. He made his shoulders relaxed, let his eyes fall closed. He embraced nothingness, embraced eternity, let himself drift on the wind of celestial intent. When he was ready, he felt out the cup on instinct and drank the tea. A slow sip at first, then swallowing a mouthful, and another, until the tea was gone. 

His eyes flickered open when the last drop slid down his throat. It felt more like falling asleep than it did opening his eyes. He stared, transfixed, at the scrying mirror he had created for himself — being very careful not to lean in close enough that it showed him his own reflection again. It was nothing more than a dark pool, glimmering against candlelight. 

He thought of Hermione, the smile she shared with him over the manuscripts that day, the hesitation in her voice when she spoke of him with Ron and Harry in overheard conversations. 

“Show me,” he breathed, a gentle request to the world. 

He saw her in the water, imagined her there, the shock of her hair and the wary kindness in her eyes. She was what he needed. She was a missing piece. She was the gateway to all the rest of it. He focused on her. When he blinked again, the world he was in felt different.

When he blinked, it wasn’t the middle of the night anymore. Draco was overcome by the phantom feeling of existing on a scorchingly hot day in the late summer. What he saw was this: 

Draco was lying on the grass. Wildflowers surrounded him. Bluebells and thistle, daisies and foxgloves. He’s fifteen, or maybe sixteen, old enough that the baby fat has chased itself fully away from his cheeks. He looks like his mother, delicate features. He is laying on the grass, and his eyes are red with recently shed tears. He can only cry alone, only cry among the flowers, in the middle of the day and far away from other stars. He’s older now, and he’s trying so hard not to fall apart.  He’s older now, and he doesn’t feel safe — not on the grass, not anywhere.  

But he doesn’t flinch when Hermione lays down beside him. Her hair fanning out around her, her expression tense, her arms folded over her stomach as she gazes up at the bright blue sky. 

‘Draco,’ She calls him, so fond, as if he isn’t the worst person she’s ever met. ‘You know you can talk to me, don’t you?’ 

A hum leaves him. It isn’t a yes, but it isn’t a no, either. 

The Draco on the ground doesn’t see the twist of her expression, the pain in it. ‘It doesn’t have to be me. It could be anyone. You could talk to Remus. Or we could get Professor Snape to come back. We just want you to feel safe.’ 

‘None of us are safe.’ Draco’s voice rasps. ‘No one is safe when I’m around.’ 

‘That’s not true,’ and her voice is thick with her own tears then. Hermione Granger cries for him, and angrily wipes the tears away from her own voice. ‘I love you, you know that. I never feel more safe than when you’re around.’ 

Another hum. 

‘Draco, I’m sorry.’ Hermione says, choked. ‘I tried to tell them, you know? That you shouldn’t be in that house, that we should have been trying to get you out, but they — Ginny and I have been begging all summer for someone to go and get you, but it didn’t do any good.’

‘I understand, Mione , I promise.’ He finally says, and reaches out to take her hand. Her dark fingers look stark against his own pale skin. The touch is warming. She’s his best friend. ‘I love you too.’ 

When her tears start to pour again, he tugs her down so that she can hide her face in the crook of his neck. Her hair gets in his face, but he doesn’t mind. She’s his best friend, and he loves her. 

When he blinks himself back to reality, ripping his gaze away from the scrying pool, he feels his mouth go dry and his stomach clench. He feels bereft, suddenly. He wants what he sees. He wants it, and he’s scared of it. He is, quite suddenly, even more obsessed with getting it — A world where Hermione Granger loves him, where a Weasley would beg for his safety, where despite his fear he feels love.

It’s almost morning when he tears himself from the vision and the thoughtfulness that comes after it. He should try and sleep, he knows, but there’s too much energy flooding through his body for that. He packs up his things and changes his clothes, quiet so as not to wake anybody else up, and takes himself for a walk on the edges of the lake. 

It’s out there, on the outskirts, that he sees the dog again. 

Grim’s coat is as thick and black as Draco remembers, his muzzle wet from where he had been drinking out of the lake. He still looks too thin, still looks ragged and exhausted, but Draco’s heart swells to see him. Grim seems equally happy to see Draco, in the misty morning light. A soft woof escapes it’s maw, and it pads over on gentle feet to greet Draco, tail wagging furiously. 

The ground is dry enough, so Draco finds a place to sit by the rocky outcroppings on the far side of the lake, and allows Grim to rest his head in Draco’s lap, allows himself to pet at the dog’s head and feel the comfort of touching something soft and war. It feels easy to exist in Grim’s presence, easy to let himself chatter on about the things that worry him. He talks of his mission at great length, talks of his vision. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” He tells the dog, “What I saw. Granger and I, caring about each other. She said she loved me. Surely she’d never say that if Harry and Ron hated me forever. Surely —” A shuddering breath. “I don’t know if i’m doing the right thing, I don’t know if I should be trying so hard to change things. I wish I could be certain that things will turn out the way I want. But I suppose you can never be certain. It’s not about that. It’s about… taking a leap of faith, I suppose.” 

A beat, Grim licking his hand, the clouds starting to part to reveal the sun in the early morning air. “I just need to take a leap of faith.” 

Draco only starts to make his way back to the castle when rain starts to pour and Grim bounds off into the forbidden forest. The dog clearly things its fine on its own, so Draco lets it go, though as he bundles himself up against the wind he vows to have some food for the creature the next time they run into each other. 

The only thing that stops him on his path back to the castle is the rustle of a sound in the bushes and the sight of orange fur. Granger’s cat, hiding from the ran. The creature gives him a plaintive meow and Draco wonders, absently, if he’s become some kind of animal whisperer. The rain starts to pound harder, and he heaves out a heavy sigh. He bundles the cat up into his arms before he can think better of it, shielding the creature under his cloak, and marches back inside. 

“Don’t know why you’re so worried,” Weasley’s voice greets, the second he steps into the great hall. “The beast is probably off hunting other peoples innocent pets.” 

“You’re insufferable, Ronald.” Hermione supplies, footsteps pounding down the stairs into the hall. “If you aren’t going to help me find Crookshan— Oh, Draco.” She stops dead in her tracks, and takes in his drenched form.

His hair is dripping onto the stone in the hall, and he pulls the fur ball out from his cloak. It’s good timing, really. Now he gets to look utterly heroic. “The beast in question, I presume?” He asks, holding the creature out.

Crookshanks meows, and wriggles until he lets the cat go. It isn’t more than a moment before Hermione is cradling the creature in her own arms. He can see her two ways at once. The way she is now, and then the way she will be later — bathed in golden sunlight, her shorter hair tickling his nose. “Thank you, Draco.” She tells him, and Draco can’t help it if his smile is warm and genuine for once. “Where did you find him?” 

“He was outside.” Draco supplies. “He must have been hunting rats.” 

This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as Ronald scoffs and storms into the great hall for breakfast. Draco watches him go, watches the flash of his hair and the angry set of his shoulders. Hermione does the same, before glancing back at Draco. 

“Something I said?” He asks. 

“He still thinks Crookshanks has some kind of vendetta against Scabbers.” 

Draco nods, sagely. “Of course. And scabbers is…” 

“Ron’s rat, honestly Draco.” 

“Well, I can’t be expected to keep up with the pet of every man who hates me, can I? It’s simply too many. I’d lose count before I even got to the Gryffindors.” 

A spark of amusement grows on her face. He feels that stab of longing for her, for her friendship, all over again. He hasn’t wanted something quite in the way he wants this for a long time now. And yet here he is, wanting.

He wants even more when Harry comes barrelling down the stairs to join them. “He’s definitely not in the — Oh, you found him.” He says, with mild joy in his voice, at the sight of the cat safely enclosed in Hermione’s arms. Draco is glad to see that at least one of Hermione’s friends seems to care for the wellbeing of her pet. 

“Draco did.” She supplies, with some kind of smug pride in her voice. 

Harry looks at him then. Draco becomes distinctly aware that he is, in fact, soaking wet. His hair is still dripping down his neck, his robes hangin heavily on his body. Harry looks him up and down and his smile flickers, on and off his face, only to return stronger and brighter than ever. 

“He was hiding under a bush.” Draco explains. Suddenly, he feels self consious about it. Suddenly, he feels like what he is — a soaking wet fool, mouth dry and heart beating fast, because he wants Harry Potter to like him. 

“So you went in after him?” Harry asks.

Draco nods his head. 

“That was nice of you.” Harry says.

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.” 

Harry’s smile brightens further, and they all go to breakfast. 

Obsession feeds the fire in his gut, stirs up a storm, and okay — the second phase of the plan might be a little bit morally corrupt.

Phase two starts with Alexander Travers. He’s a fifth year Slytherin, and he’s perfect for Draco’s plotting. You see, Alexander Travers is the most mercenary man Draco knows, and also the most discreet. He’s more than willing to help Draco make a splash once a few dozen coins switch hands, and he’s more than willing to swear himself to secrecy; the magically binding kind. 

It’s simple. The motives are clear. What did the Gryffindor Trio appreciate more than anything else? A hero. A savior. The kind of person who stood up against bullies, the kind of person who saved the day. Potter and Weasley had barged into danger last year to save Ginny Weasley, and all the rest of the Weasley brood would clearly go to war for the second year. 

She liked a hero too. 

So Draco was going to be hers. 

It was a bonus for Travers that he got to make a Weasley feel a little bit miserable. All he had to do was be an asshole to a twelve year old — and he wasn’t above doing that. He probably would have done it for free, Draco thinks, absently. The best part is that the Gryffindors don’t even need to be there to see it happen.

In fact, it may actually be better that they’re not. A public display of heroism, in front of Harry, could have been written off as a ploy for his attention, something that Draco was only doing because Harry was watching. If he did it while no one important was around to see it, no one could say he had only done it for show. 

Travers strikes when the entrance hall is filled with a hodge podge. Lee Jordan is there, with Angelina Johnson; probably talking Quidditch. Luna Lovegood was there, and Cedric Diggory, pinning something up to the notice board seemingly on behalf of Professor Flitwick. Diggory, in fact, frowned at the very sight of Draco. He didn’t quite storm in Draco’s direction, but he did approach with intent once his sign had been properly affixed to the board. 

“Flint says you’ve quit the Slytherin team.” Diggory says, a deep frown setting his face. “And thats why they’ve reorganised the match sechedules.” 

Flint, in fact, had forced the teachers to make Hufflepuff play the upcoming match instead of Slytherin, mainly because of the abysmal weather that had been forecast for the weekend. If it was rainy now, it would be a near monsoon on the day they played. It had been easy to convince them that they needed more time to train Daphne. 

“Flint speaks the truth, I’m afriad.” He says, keeping a close eye on the proceedings of the rest of the Hall. It woudn’t do to miss Travers’s act entirely, just because dreamy Cedric Diggory had deigned to talk to him for once. Diggory’s frown only deepend. 

“Why?” He asked, with the intensity of a man who truly loved Quidditch far too much. “Why would you quit?” 

Draco allowed himself to look at Diggory, the intense curiosity of his gaze. “Why do you care?” 

“You’re a good flyer.” Diggory told him. “I’ve enjoyed competing against you, last year, I mean.” 

And, oh, wasn’t that unexpected. Draco feels something squirm in the pit of his stomach, and he can’t be blamed for it — anybody would get a little bit flustered if Cedric Diggory complemented them. It was so Hufflepuff of him to actually be complimenting his competition. 

“I seem to recall that the popular opinion last year was that I was a talentless hack who bought my way on to the team with broomsticks.” 

“You proved everyone wrong, once they saw you fly.” 

“I’m no Potter, but I put up a good fight.” 

“And you clearly loved it.” A beat. “So why?” 

“I’m taking twelve OWLs.” Draco said, with a sigh. “No time for Quidditch.” 

Diggory didn’t look like he quite believed the excuse. He looked like he couldn’t understand why anyone would pick taking extra subjects over playing Quidditch. “If it’s because people are still giving you shit about it, I can talk to —”

“To the entire school?” Draco gave the older boy a smile. “Oh, how heroic of you. But fret not, if I wanted to be playing I would be. I couldn’t give a toss what everybody was saying last year.” In fact, he did rather give a toss. It had hurt to earn his place fair and square and then be told that he wasn’t good enough. 

“Right,” Diggory said. “Of course you don’t.” 

“Don’t worry — You’ll have just as much fun getting beaten by Daphne as you would getting beaten by me.” 

Diggory smiles at him, then. “Well, I know Cho is excited to have another girl representing out there on the pitch.” 

Cho Chang. She was the rather pretty Ravenclaw seeker. Not quite as pretty as Diggory, but she did well enough. 

“I’m glad I could facilitate her girl-power moment.” He watched, with careful eyes, as Travers cornered little Ginny Weasley — and there was only the briefest moment where he regretted setting this whole thing up. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I see a disaster that needs averting.” He mused.

It really will only be remembered as a blur, even in his own head. He’d wanted to make sure it was convincing — his daring rescue of Ginny Weasley. And oh, yes, it was very daring. Very heroic, when he punched Alexander Travers in the face for calling her the rudest possible names he could think of. 

It just didn’t feel quiet as heroic when Travers punched him back. Several times. 

In fact, it hurt rather badly. 

Ginny Weasley, to his surprise, managed to leap to his defense and kick Travers rather soundly in the balls. 

Draco thinks it all could have gone better, in pretty much every conceivable way. As he sits in the Hospital Wing for the second time that year, with Ginny Weasley hovering at his side, he’s suffering from strained pride and a particularly bloody nose and lip. 
“Sorry,” He tells the redhead, determined to salvage this if he can. “That was an utterly shite hero moment.” 

“It wasn’t the best I’ve ever seen.” She tells him, uncertain. “Why did you do that?” 

“I felt bad, I suppose.” 

“About Slytherins being bullies?” 

“Yes, right, that.” His head is tilted back, and when he pulls his handkerchief away from his nose its bright red with blood, but it doesn’t feel like more is coming. Pomfrey will set everything right once the bleeding has stopped. “And —” A beat, he considers it. “And about what my father did to you last year. He was a monster, for doing that. I hate him for it and… and I’m sorry.” 

Her eyes widen slightly. They hadn’t exactly publicized what happened to Ginny Weasley last year, the trauma and the torment of it all, the way the Dark Lord had crawled his way inside her head and tried to make a home there. They hadn’t advertised it, but Draco knew. He had been the one to cope with his fathers wrath when his plan went to ruin at Potter’s hands. She looks a little bit like she might cry, and Draco frantically hopes that she won’t. He never knows what to do with crying girls. 

“I figure I owe you one, now.” He carries on. “Or two, or twelve. Consider me your obedient servant, Ginny Weasley, ready to get punched in your honor at a moments notice.”
 
Her cheeks flush slightly, and her grin grows wide on her face. 

“I might take you up on that,” She tells him, and hops to sit up on the bed next to him. “No one’s ever actually gotten punched for me before. But my brothers have taught me some cool hexes for if bullies come after me this year. Fred and George are great for that. Maybe next time you can try using magic instead of your fists.” 

He considers it, “What spells did they teach you?” 

“The jelly legs jinx. Bat bogey hex. I think that one is my favourite.” 

A soft laugh escapes him. “That’s a good one.”

He wonder’s what it’s like, having brothers — people who are meant to look out for you and protect you, people who care about you and your happiness. He wonders what it had been like for someone to always be there to annoy you, to frustrate you, to play with you as a child. He’s not jealous of it, he tells himself that. He’s never needed anyone other than himself. 

“Is it nice? Having brothers?” He asks, because she can tell him, she’s the expert.

“It’s awful. They’re awful. I love it.” Her eyes flick over his face, grimacing at the blood. “Most of them hate you, you know.” 

“That’s alright.” He says, “I hate me too.” 

He’s not sure why, but that seems to be the thing that turns Ginny Weasley into something hard and determined, that causes her to relax her shoulders as she sits next to him. He expects her, now, to leave him to his own devices. She doesn’t. She stays with him while Pomfrey heals his face for him, and it’s startlingly nice. 

Draco is accosted by not one, but two Weasley brothers, on his way to the Slytherin table that night. One claps him on the shoulder and pulls him in under their arm. Fred or George, he isn’t sure which one. 

“Little sister says that this particular snake was very heroic today, didn’t she?”

“A veritable story book prince.”
 
“So brave, so noble, so much less of a prat than we all thought.” 

Draco wriggles his way out from their arms and restrains himself from making a snide comment about their poorness rubbing off on him. He can’t be seen to backslide so easily. 

“It was nothing,” He says, brushing himself off. 

The twins share a look. 

“Nothing, he says.” 

“Oh, of course, nothing.” 

“Standing up to that prick Travers doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

“He’s been plaguing our year since the beginning.” 

Another hand lands on his shoulder, a squeeze. “Just trying to say that you’re alright in our books, now, Malfoy.” 

“Any friend of our little sister is a friend of ours.”
 
“Especially if those friends have a mean right hook.” 

“Lee said you almost took his eye out.” 

“Wicked.” 

Draco can’t fathom how two people could possibly talk so much. It must be annoying for the Gryffindor’s, mustn’t it? Did they even need a third person with which to hold a conversation? He couldn’t imagine that they did, when they seemed more than content to let Draco look at them as if they had grown two heads instead of participating in their monologues himself. 

“Right.” He says, finally joining in, “Thank you, I think.” 

“Ron is fuming, of course.” One of them says. Fred, Draco thinks — No, George. 

“Ickle Ronnykins thinks this is all part of some evil plot.” 

Draco can’t help but smile. “Well, if it is, I’ll make sure he gets the brunt of it.” 

The twins share a look again, wicked smiles growing on their faces. “Just let us know when the bomb is going to drop.” One says, 

“We’ll make popcorn.” The other finishes, and with one last slap to Draco’s shoulder, they let him escape. Upon taking his seat at the Slytherin table, his friends look at him as if he is slightly deranged himself — and honestly, Draco can’t blame them for that.

On the Friday before the first Quidditch match of the season, Professor Lupin misses his Defence Against The Dark Arts class. The Slytherins take this in their stride, of course. It’s only a perk for them that Professor Snape billows into the room, cloak twisting around him, and they’re always happy to be taught by their head of house. 

Severus, on the other hand, is in truly rotten form for the duration of the class. More than one student is snapped at, and Draco thinks the man almost comes close to deducting points when Millicent doesn’t know the answer to his question about Werewolves — and there’s another baffling thing; they weren’t supposed to cover werewolves as a topic until near the end of the year.

Draco doesn’t fan the flames of Severus’s displeasure by pointing this out. He also doesn’t complain when they’re assigned an overly long assignment on the topic. The Slytherins no better than to complain about their assigned homework, and would never speak an ill word about their head of house in public — So Draco resigns himself to a Saturday spent doing homework instead of playing Quidditch. Perhaps he can ask Severus for some pointers when they have their weekly tea in the morning. 

Severus is in better form when Draco knocks on his door on Saturday, bright and early to ensure that he still has plenty of time to get to the Quidditch pitch and watch the Hufflepuff v Gryffindor game. The frown on his faces is less severe, and he seems more inclined to humour Draco as he sits down and pours them both tea. The house elves have even blessed them with raspberry scones, Draco’s favourite, and he gets a warm and happy feeling in his stomach when he wonders if Severus requested them specifically. 

“What game are you playing with that werewolf assignement?” He asks, pushing his luck as he butters his scone. He knows better than anyone else that Severus never does things without purpose. If he skipped ahead in their curriculum and assigned that specific topic for an essay, he did it because he wanted them to learn something specific. 

“Game?” Severus sneers at him. “The only game I am playing is the game of educating you imbeciles.” 

“I think if that was the case, you would have just taught us about Hinkypunks.” 

“I notice you do not deny being an imbecile.” 

“In comparison to you, who isn’t?” 

Severus’s lips quirk upwards. Draco marks that as a victory. 

“I would say that you may give me a run for my money. Your Professors say you are keeping up well with your workload. Yet your…extracurricular activities this year leave something to be desired, and rob you of my esteem yet again.” 

Draco knows that there is real pride behind the words, though Severus would never say it blatantly. He also knows that there is real doubt and worry behind them too, and for that, he’ll demand elaboration. 

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, Severus.” 

“What game are you playing with Potter, and his merry band of fools? Cavorting with Gryffindors does not become you, Draco.” 

“I wouldn’t call it cavorting.” 

“I would call it dangerous.” Severus is intense, in that. He means it. “You’re father wouldn’t like it.” 

“My father doesn’t like anything I do.” 

“He will be particularly displeased by this.” 

“And how will he find out?” An arch of his eyebrow, “Will you tell him?” 

The answer to that could only be no. Any secret that Severus could keep on his behalf to protect him from his fathers wrath was one that would surely be kept. Severus was the kind force in his life, the man who taught him with a stern but gentle hand and had never caused him an excess of pain. Severus cared for him as much as he could care for any foolish child. 

“There is more reason than your fathers disapproval for you to stay away from boys like Harry Potter.” Severus tells him. “He will not serve you well in your life. If he is anything like his rotten father, he may in fact lead you to your death.” 

That was a development that Draco hadn’t truly been expecting. For all that he had known Severus detested Harry Potter, he had never been allowed to know why. It made sense, in a certain way, that Severus would hate the mans father. Severus held a grudge like nobody else could, he was a master of it in a way that Draco almost envied. For all that he himself had claimed to hate Harry for the last two years, he couldn’t hold on to the grudge now that he might have a way into Harry’s good books. 

“What did he do to you?” 

Severus’s eyes narrow. It’s none of Draco’s business, clearly. He takes a sullen bite of his scone, and tries to remember that Severus doesn’t owe him anything. He tries not to be a brat, tries not to push too hard. 

“You knew him at school. He hurt you somehow, didn’t he?” 

“James Potter was a scourge on this castle, an arrogant fool, and his son is the same.” 

It isn’t an answer, not really. But there’s real hatred in the voice. Draco pulls in a breath, looks Severus dead in the eyes, and considers pushing even more. He doesn’t think its worth the fight, at the end of the day, so he leaves well enough alone. 

“This thing with Potter…” Draco starts, with a sigh. “Its necessary.” 

“And what has forced you to come to this incredibly flawed conclusion.” 

“The future.” Draco tells him, with the same honesty he had all those months ago, when he first revealed his newfound gift. “The future will be better if we’re on his side.” 

Severus looks at Draco, something like dawning understanding on his face. He doesn’t look very happy. He doesn’t call Draco a fool, either. He doesn’t reveal any hidden motives or true feelings, he doesn’t say anything at all. 

They drink their tea, and Draco leaves to watch the Quidditch match. 

The rain is pouring down in sheets when Draco reaches the entrance hall, and he doesn’t envy Potter or Diggory needing to catch a snitch in that weather. It was always a little bit easier on sunny days, with the ball glinting golden in a sunbeam and broadcasting its location to the entire crowd. 

Pansy is waiting for him, and he links arms with her in the same moment that she casts a water repellant charm above their heads and steps out onto the muddy grounds. The path to the Quidditch pitch is well trodden and familiar, and the ache in Dracos chest grows intensely as he remembers that he will never again walk it with the Slytherin team, never don his uniform and face off against Potter in the rain or the sun. Pansy seems to sense his mood, and squeezes his hand, a gentle reminder that he has other, better things to be doing with his time.

He’s glad that Pansy is in good form that day, as she’d been in a terrible mood with him since the incident with Travers. It was seen as unbecoming for Slytherins to cause scenes in the way he had, and none of his friends were very impressed with him. They weren’t angry, but they weren’t impressed either. 

“You won’t be rooting for them, will you?” Pansy asks, and Draco senses the good nature of the question. She’s teasing him. “I know you have a terrible little crush on Potter, but I won’t sit with you if you cheer for him.” 

He flushed, and was angry at himself for doing it. “Don’t be a bitch, Pans.” He tells her, “I have no such affliction. And I’ll be rooting for Diggory, like any right-minded Slytherin must.” 

“Anyone but the lions.” Pansy nods. It was practically a Slytherin motto during games where they didn’t participate. They didn’t care who won, as long as it wasn’t the Gryffindors. She tilted her head as she gazed out at the field, watching the Hufflepuff team run their warmup drills. “Diggory is rather fit, isn’t he?” 

“Rather.” Draco agreed, because it was an undeniable truth. Cedric Diggory was almost universally accepted as the fittest boy in the entire castle. He looked like a storybook prince and didn’t act much different to one either. He was the kind of boy that was easy to daydream about; kind, clever, talented. 

Still — Draco was easily distracted from the pondering by the sight of the Gryffindor team stepping out onto the pitch. Potter cut a striking figure too, with his mess of dark hair whipping in the wind and his green eyes piercing behind his glasses. Someone had the common sense to cast a water repelling charm on them, and Draco’s traitorous heart lept at the sight of him.

He didn’t have a crush. He’d never had a crush on any one, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now with Potter. Yet still, he wondered how Harry felt about his decision to quit the team. Did he care at all? Would he miss competing against Draco? Would he take this as a confirmation that the playing field between them could never be levelled, Draco resigned to always be the inferior in his mind. Did Harry ever feel the same rush that Draco did, up in the air and staring each other down? Draco would never know, because he would never be desperate enough to ask, and Harry clearly hadn’t felt the need to approach him about it. 

It felt wrong, that Diggory had and Harry hadn’t. Surely he couldn’t have meant more to Diggory as an opponent than he had to Harry? He swallowed around the knot in his throat and steeled himself to root for Hufflepuff over Gryffindor in earnest. He wanted to watch Potter get beat by someone, even if it wasn’t him. He kept hoping for disaster as play began, the figures of both teams soaring into the sky and beginning the match. 

He rooted for Diggory with every inch of himself. The game was a brutally difficult one, Draco could tell even from the sidelines. The weather made it almost impossible for anyone to play with ease. Neither team was performing all that well, with the heavy sheets of rain and the wind blowing them off course at every opportunity. Still, Draco wished for Potter to lose. It was an easy reflex to fall into, wishing that some kind of doom would befall Potter while he and his friends watched and laughed. 

His friends. 

Draco looked around, trying to spot the rest of them in the crowd. Vince and Greg were nowhere to be scene, Theo either. Only Blaise could be spotted, several rows behind, chatting happily to Daphne and cheering uproariously for the Hufflepuff chasers when they scored a goal. He craned his neck further, hoping to see them dispersed somewhere else in the crowd. Suspicion grew quickly in his stomach, and Draco got the distinct impression that he was being left out of something. 

“Pansy,” He said, “Where’s Theo?” 

When she looked at him, she was the picture of innocence. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, they must be around here somewhere.” 

“Pansy.” He urged, and something smug flitted across her features. He got the distinct impression that her improved mood today had nothing much to do with Draco at all. 

The answer to his question was answered when he saw them, moments later. Three figures dressed in dark robes, haunting their way on to the pitch. They looked like Dementors, from afar, and dread pooled in the pit of Draco’s stomach. The dread only grew as he watched the scene unfold, turning ice cold inside him the moment he watched Potter fall from his broom. 

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t often furious with his friends. He rarely ever even bordered on angry with them. Pansy and Theo were his soulmates, and they had always been on exactly the same page. They breathed as one, thought as one, joined at the hip since the day each of them were born. 

But he was angry with them now.

He trudged back up to the castle in a sullen silence after the Quidditch match, refusing to talk to Pansy. The only people who hadn’t earned his ire were Blaise and Daphne, who seemed just as surprised by the other’s antics as Draco had been. He was glad that they seemingly had nothing to do with the events that had just occurred — Draco would never be able to give Pansy the silent treatment for so long unless he had other people to talk to for the rest of the day.

Daphne was the one to question Pansy on it, when they reached the safe privacy of their common room. 

“How,” She began, with thinly veiled disapproval, “did you come up with that stunt?”

Pansy didn’t act ashamed. She wasn’t ashamed. She was smugly proud of herself in the way that only Pansy could pull off. “I just thought; what would Draco do?” 

It made a sick kind of sense. It was exactly the kind of stunt that Draco would have thought up, if he was the one who wanted to torment Potter. The dramatics were straight out of his playbook. Pansy and him really were too alike, at the end of the day. 

“Except Draco didn’t.” Blaise’s disapproval isn’t thinly veiled at all. It’s blatant in his unhappiness. Draco sticks his hand into Salazar’s enclosure and pulls her from her faux-rock hide, feeling comforted by the flick of her tongue and the way she curls around his wrist and crawls up his sleeve to sleep there against his skin. He settles himself down onto an armchair, and allows the others to fight this battle, still attempting to punish Pansy by not speaking to her even to supply a scolding. 

Pansy’s stance only became more defensive, her body language taut as a wire, arms crossing over her chest. “It’s just a little light teasing of some Gryffindors. I thought we liked giving them shit.” 

“You’re allowed bully them as much as you like, Pansy. I just wish you wouldn’t make such a scene of it. It affects the rest of us, what you do, and not everyone here wants to be treated like the devil just because you want to push Harry Potter off his broomstick.” 

“They don’t see us as individuals.” Daphne agreed. “They’ll think we were all in on it. Astoria is getting enough trouble from the Ravenclaws without you drawing a target on the entire house’s back.” 

“Astoria needs to grow a backbone.” Pansy said, with a scoff. She truly was in bad form today. Something must have set her off, something must have put her on the wrong foot, something must have filled her with the overwhelmingly toxic need for some kind of retribution. Pansy wanted a fight, and she was getting one, yet somehow she didn’t seem satisfied with it. 

“Astoria is eleven.” Daphne spat back. 

Astoria was rather small, even for an eleven year old. She was a dainty little thing with delicate sensibilities, prone to bouts of sickness. She had always been sweeter than the rest of them, perhaps because she had an older sister looking out for her. Daphne was determined to protect Astoria from the uncomfortable realities that some of the rest of them faced, determined to ensure that for the most part, no one ever hurt her. It was a mission that Draco could get behind. He had a soft spot for both of the Greengrass sisters, though they had never been the closest — blondes had to stick together, he supposed. 

“Eleven is old enough to know how to stand up for herself. No one helped us when we were eleven.” Pansy huffed. She had a point, in turn. By eleven all of them had learned how to sneer and bare their teeth in the face of adversity, had learned how to worm their way out of difficult situations and create suits of armor for themselves. To be a Slytherin in their cohort meant being cold and untouchable, forces to be reckoned with, so quick and so smart that nothing could truly hurt them. 

“No one cared enough to look out for Princess Parkinson, so everyone else has to suffer too, is that it?” Daphne was transforming before their eyes, every inch of her embodying the person of the perfect Slytherin ice queen. He could see the steel growing sharp behind her eyes, the regard she usually held for Pansy a distant memory in the current moment. 

“Hey,” Theo — who had just walked in through the common room door in time to catch the last part of the argument — said in Pansy’s defense. “Don’t talk to her like that, Greengrass.” 

It was to be expected. Theo and Pansy and Draco had always long had the understanding that they would defend each other first and foremost. They put each other first. The rest of the world could have burned, and as long as the three of them had been safe, they wouldn’t have cared what happened to anyone else. Still, Draco’s heart clenched with anger at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice right now. He was clouded with the memory of Potter falling, and he didn’t like it. 

The thing about it was this: none of them were safe, and Draco was the only one who knew it. He couldn’t sit Theo down and explain why they needed to be different now, why he couldn’t put Theo and Pansy first and foremost anymore. The world was wider than all of them, and if Draco didn’t play his cards right all three of them would end up suffering more and more as years went on. 

He watched Greg and Vince file into the common room after Theo, looking just as unashamed as everyone else did. He swallowed, and rose to his feet. Each head turned to look at him, probably assuming that this was the moment in which Draco would pick a side, or offer some wise command that would put the entire argument to an end. He forced himself to stop gnawing at the inside of his cheek, and shook his head. 

“I’m going for a walk.” He told them all, finally, and watched Pansy’s shoulders draw taut. The fight she wanted was clearly one where he was involved, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of it. “Don’t wait up for me.” 

Draco does take a walk. A long one, through intricate hallways and long forgotten rooms. Hogwarts has always been a beautiful place, but tonight with the memory of the damp and the rain, it just feels cold. The stone walls seem to sap away all warmth, and the candles don’t illuminate nearly as much as they usually do. It’s a poetic sense of pathetic fallacy, Draco’s dreary heart carrying him through the castle. 

Salazar coiled around his arm was a comforting weight. Draco made sure that there was a warming charm in place to keep Sal at the right temperature, but the snake seemed happy enough under his sleeve. The emerald tree boa was inherently arboreal in nature, so Draco was functionally acting as a tree that moved around.

It’s a surprise even to Draco when he finds that his feet have led him to the Hospital wing. Harry was behind that door — suffering, because of Draco’s friends. Draco wanted to see him, suddenly. See that he was alright, make sure he didn’t blame Draco for what had happened, make sure he wouldn’t lash out at Pansy or the others for what they had done. 

Visiting hours have passed, but when Draco puts his hand to the door, it creaks open for him. The sound of the gentle click when wood unlatches from wood is becoming him, so he takes a step inside and resigns himself to whatever comes. Nightfall is creeping in, earlier and earlier every day now, the darkness heightened by the storm still raging outside the castle walls. The windows are barely letting any light in at all, rain pounding against the glass.

Harry is laying in bed, but he isn’t sleeping. He pushes himself up on his elbows when Draco walks inside, and Draco considers it a good sign that he doesn’t instantly go on the defensive. 

“Up for a visitor?” He asks, prepared for the answer to be a negative one. He wouldn’t blame Harry, not really, if Harry didn’t want to see him. Harry doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t say no, just gives Draco the smallest of nods. 

“Only if you promise not to gloat.”

“I don’t particularly feel like gloating.” Draco tells him, as he approaches the bed. He stops by the end of it, resting his hands on the rail. 

“That’s out of character for you.”

“Terribly.” Draco agrees, “I’ll try and find the will to take joy in your spectacular failure.” 

“That would be comforting.” 

A breath, and Draco looks him in the eye. “I didn’t know they were going to do that. If i’d known I would have —” And in a moment of brutal honesty, he settles on this: “Well, I don’t actually know what I would have done. I wanted you to lose, I was rooting for you to lose, but I didn’t want all of this.”

Harry’s eyes seem to glint in the gentle candlelight. He looks thoughtful, for a second. But his head nods again, a slightly understanding motion. “I won’t pretend like I’m not pissed off. But — I’m not pissed off at you. You’d definitely be smug if you were the one who planned it.”

“Pansy is being smug enough for all of us, on that account.” 

“Her idea, then?” 

A nod, and Draco can’t help but feel like hes tattling on her. The old instinct in him rears its ugly head, the desire to defend her. Pansy hasn’t had it easy, in her life. She was an eldest Daughter, overlooked, and her little brother was going to inherit everything and run her life into the ground for her. Her only hope was that she would get married off to someone kind, a rarity these days, or that someone would rescue her from her situation in life. She was mean, and strong, because she had always needed to be. It made her a target at school, too. 

“I think… She wouldn’t normally do things like that, not really. She’s feeling…insecure, maybe. Lashing out.” 

Harry’s eyebrow shoots up. “At me?” 

“She doesn’t like that I’m being nice to you. Or Granger.” 

The expression furrows, those green eyes grow more curious. “Then why are you doing it?” 

The eternal question. He looks into Potters eyes, and thinks about the future. Glimpses of it. The death and the hurt and the ill omen of it all. “Like I said before. I want to be different. I want to be… nothing like my father. Do you really think I wouldn’t start questioning him, after last year?” 

It rests heavy between them. “Yeah, okay.” Harry says, after a long moment. “You might want to reconsider hanging out with bullies, if that’s the case, that’s all.” 

Draco’s the one who gets to look taken aback by that. Draco lets out a laugh, a small breathless thing. “That’s funny.” He says, “I could say the same thing to you, you know.” 

“What?” 

“It may have escaped your notice, Harry, but this is the first thing my friends have done all year that could be considered bullying. I’ve talked them out of retaliating against other people’s offences more than a dozen times. But you only see bullies when they’re dressed in Slytherin Green, is that it?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean the third year Ravenclaws that have been tormenting Astoria Greengrass all year. She’s eleven, and she’s never done anything wrong. I mean your housemates who call Pansy…what was it, again? ‘Pug Face Parkinson?’” 

“I —” 

“I mean the fact that your housemates hiss at eleven year olds who have just been sorted into my house. Day one, the first second they find a home here, and the entire school is already telling them that they’re terrible, terrible people. Or, I could be talking about how everyone calls Greg and Vince stupid and slow and fat right to their faces half the time. Do you think that they don’t have feelings?” 

Potter looks cowed, looks bashful about it all. 

“I’ve got feelings too, you know?” Draco tells him, because he has to drive the point home. “Your best friend has been walking around this castle tormenting Hermione about her cat since we got back from the summer, and spreading rumors about me helping Sirius Black break into the castle. Calling me evil and crazy where everyone can hear him? I’ve apologized for everything I said over the last few years, and I’ve tried so hard to be your friend, and I haven’t gotten anything back except for more suspicion. So no, you can’t act like Slytherins are the only people who have ever hurt someone else in this castle. We’re just the ones who don’t hide behind a mask of righteousness.”

He takes a breath, finally, and its a shaking one. He sets his shoulders taut and refuses to let himself feel bashful about his outburst. He doesn’t think he’s ever said that may consecutive words to Potter, or anyone aside from Pansy and Theo. His father would scold him for rambling, for wearing his heart too firmly on his sleeve, for being weak enough to show his true feelings about something. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry finally breathes, a slow thing. “I didn’t realise.” 

He sniffs, he shrugs his shoulder. 

“Really,” Harry says, “I’m sorry. I know you’re not evil.” 

“But the jury is still out on the crazy part.” 

Potter’s lips quirked slightly. It defused some level of the tension between them. Draco rolled his eyes and shifted so he could sit at the end of Potter’s bed. 

“Fine, okay, that one’s fair.” He allows, because… well, he doesn’t have a good argument against it after that outburst. He looks at Potter, stern. “Daphne and Blase are giving Pansy and Theo absolute shit for everything. So you can rest assured that they’re being punished swiftly by a jury of their peers.” 

“Daphne,” Potter perks up at the name, and Draco tries not to feel a twinge of jealousy at that. “She’s the one replacing you as seeker?” 

“She’s a nightmare in the skies.” 

Harry is looking at him again, a searching thing. He looks like there are words resting on the very tip of his tongue. He looks like he’s weighing something in his mind, trying to figure out if he’s about to put his foot in his own mouth. “I wish you hadn’t quit.” He says, finally, and Draco feels a flush of satisfaction. 

“I wish you hadn’t embarrassed yourself in front of the entire school today.” 

“Don’t be mean when I’m trying to be nice.” 

“Its a reflex.” 

“You’re being mean to someone whose broom just got smashed to pieces against the Whomping Willow, did you know that?” 

Draco can’t help but wince at that. “Oh, shit. Really?” 

Harry nodded toward a bundle that rested on the bedside table. Draco could see the bristles of a broom-end poking through the opening. He winced again. 

“Not salvageable.” Harry said, and he sounded more upset about that than anything else. “I know, I can just get a new one, but…” 

“But nothing can replace your first broom.” Draco agreed, with genuine feeling, genuine sorrow on Harry’s behalf. He can still feel his first broom beneath his fingertips, can still remember the sensation of taking to the air for the very first time. It was like freedom, tantalizingly sweet, a feeling that he could never recapture during any other time of his life. “Mine was a Comet 260. Logically it doesn’t compare to the Nimbus line at all. My mother just liked the name, I think, when I started begging for one.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “I still have it. I polish it every time I go home.” 

The smile on Harry’s face was a sad, bittersweet one. “I didn’t realise you were so sentimental.” 

Draco shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You can use my Nimbus 2001 for your next match, if you want to. It won’t be the same, but…” 

“Maybe,” Harry agreed, with a nod. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe you can help me pick a new one.” 

“Maybe.” Draco replied, a gentle teasing thing. 

They fall into a gentle kind of silence, before Harry breaks it again. 

“You shouldn’t be so sorry, really. It wasn’t just your friends that threw me off. I was… I saw something, before I fell.” 

“What?” 

“The Grim.” Harry tells him, with exactly the appropriate level of fear in his voice. No one talks about the Grim like they’re pleased to see it. Nobody laughs after they’ve sighted it. “It was right there, near the bottom of the Slytherin stands.” 

Draco lets out a breathless little laugh. 

“I’m being serious.” Harry scolds, and Draco laughs just a little bit harder. 

“I know you are. You’re also wrong.” Draco tells him, like he’s a pure and innocent little child scared of the monster underneath his bed. “You didn’t see some kind of dark omen foretelling your doom, Potter, you saw a real actual dog.” 

“What?”

“A dog. There was a big black dog in Hogsmeade, and it followed me back to the castle. It’s not an omen of death, it’s an idiotic mutt that loves sausages.” 

“You brought a stray dog home.” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s what you were doing, when all your friends were at the Three Broomsticks?” 

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Harry sounds exasperated, sitting up even straighter in his bed. He could sense the distant relief in Harry, but it was overshadowed by the question itself.

Draco can’t help but be slightly offended. “No one bloody asked me, did they?” 

“You’re…” Harry remains baffled, keeps looking at Draco like he has two heads. “You’re sneaking food out of the castle to feed the stray dog that you let follow you home.” 

“Yes, and I have a snake up my sleeve right now. I’m a lover of animals, Potter. Get used to it.” 

“I’m not sure I can ever get used to you.” 

It should sound like a bad thing, but it doesn’t. It sounds full of promise, instead. 

Draco’s silent treatment expended for the next full day. It really does seem like a fitting punishment for what he perceives to be Pansy and Theo’s transgressions, but it leaves all three of them feeling rather miserable, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief when Draco asks Pansy to pass him the toast at breakfast on Monday morning. It ends like all of their fights do, with an olive branch and no real apology, the hurt party simply going back to the normal standard of things when the grudge has been settled. So the status quo was re-established with a whimper, and not with a bang. 

Of course, one thing didn’t feel very status quo at all. 

Draco realised with suddenness that any assumed friendship he had with the Gryffindor Trio before had been child’s play. His conversation with Harry had clearly had an impact, because the boy began to treat him like he actually wanted Draco around. He talked to Draco during classes and no longer avoided him in the halls. The suspicion that had lingered in the air around him slipped away, until he began to smile at Draco regularly. Each grin he received from the other boy filled him with a sweet kind of satisfaction, a warm feeling in his gut that he wasn’t sure how to name. 

The Gryffindors, Harry included, were in particularly good form when Professor Lupin came back to teach their classes that week. They had been ill tempered during Professor Snapes brief tenure as a substitute, and though Draco thought his godfather could do no wrong, he did understand why he had rubbed the Gryffindors the wrong way during that lesson in particular. 

Draco didn’t rush back into conversation with Professor Lupin, but he did approach the man after their DADA lesson. He wasn’t sure what to make of the man after their first conversation, but the books that he had given Draco had proved to be particularly interesting. And he couldn’t shake the memory of his latest vision. The future version of Hermione had offered Remus as someone that Draco might like to pour his heart out to. It felt strange, to think that this was potentially a man who would actually care about Draco someday. 

Professor Lupin is tidying papers into his briefcase when Draco approaches, looking between that and the Hinkypunk enclosure as if he isn’t sure how to juggle both. It’s the perfect opportunity to give this a second chance.

“Do you need a hand with any of that, Professor?” Draco asks him, in his best approximation of a well behaved golden child. He’s never really liked being a teachers pet, aside from with Sev, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“That’s very kind of you, Draco.” Professor Lupin tells him, with so much genuine grace that it almost makes Draco feel bad — for what, he isn’t sure. The snaps of the briefcase click closed, and he extends it out to Draco. “You can take this for me, I’ll handle our little friend here.” 

“It was a very interesting lesson.” Draco tells him. It isn’t a lie. All of Professor Lupins lessons are annoyingly detailed and interesting enough to hold everyone’s attention. He held the briefcase delicately as they walked toward the Professor’s office, not wanting to disturb anything that had been resting inside. Draco’s father had a briefcase too, though it was far better maintained than Professor Lupins. Where the Professor’s briefcase was drab and brown with peeling corners, his fathers was a shining black. He’d never let Draco touch it, yet alone hold it. “I’m excited to write the essay you assigned.” 

Professor Lupin shot him a slightly fond look. “You may be the first student to ever utter those words, but I’m glad to hear them. Your essays are always a delight to read.” 

“A delight? Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Oh, that’s… good to hear, actually —” Draco took a breath, “If you had any more feedback about my performance thus far this year, I’d appreciate hearing it. My father will be interested to know. He has certain expectations of me, you see.” 

The entered Lupin’s office, and the Professor placed the Hinkypunk tank down on a shelf. He took a moment to straighten his clothes before he directed Draco to place the briefcase down beside his desk. “Your father, yes.” He nods. “Tea?” 

“Please.” Draco nodded. 

He was fairly sure that Professor Lupin was trying to buy himself some time. The man was transparent when he felt slightly uncomfortable. “There’s some chocolate to have with it, if you’d like.” He offers, “I’ve been keeping plenty on hand, with the dementors haunting the castle the way they are. Their aura starts to seep into the walls of a place over time.” 

“Yes, please.” Draco said, again. “That must be why my mother keeps sending me… more than she usually does. I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, though, so she may just be spoiling me.” 

“If I remember your mother correctly, nothing she does is by accident.” 

“Is you changing the subject an accident?” 

The look that Professor Lupin gave him was dry at best, when he handed over the tea and several squares of chocolate. “I spent several years at school with your mother. She was a formidable woman, even back then. Formidable, and an extremely bright student. She finished first in her year. All of that is to say, Draco, that you remind me greatly of her.” 

Draco straightened his shoulders slightly. It was a novelty, in truth, to hear someone speak about his mothers youth like that. He had heard some other people speak of her — the way she glittered at every ball, the way she had always been radiant and beautiful, her hair and her eyes and her delicate features. It wasn’t often that people spoke about her talent, spoke of her like she was a fierce and formidable thing. The weight of it almost took his breath away. He found himself smiling almost against his own will, a gentle slip of a thing, as he gazed up to meet Lupins eyes. 

“You can tell your father that you’re on track to score the highest points in your house. Not just in my class. I’ve heard the same from some of your other Professors too.” 

He could feel his smile dimming slightly, as Lupin carried on with the latter half. It was written in his words, the truth of things. Draco was the boy in Slytherin who worked the hardest and studied the most, and he would score above all his peers, above Pansy and Blaise and Daphne, above Vince and Greg by miles. Draco would keep working himself to the bone, but there were students outside Slytherin house. 

“The highest in my house, but not in the year.” He says, slightly stiff. 

His father had a problem with the idea that Draco would always be the second best. With all of his good-breeding and all of his expert tutors, Draco still couldn’t come in first place. He would be angry when Hermione bested him again. 

It was muscle memory to hate her, when he thought of things like that. Yet this time, all he could think about were the tears she might someday weep for him, hair tickling his nose as she hid her face in his shoulder. The sense-memory of it was a powerful thing, and the comfort started to seep through despite the fact that the moment had never actually happened. He sat up straighter in his seat again, picked up his teacup with a delicate hand. 

“My mother, you can tell me more about her.”

And Lupin did.

Draco snatches at every chance he gets to spend time with Potter. Like a greedy child, he can’t get enough of the other boys attention. The start was alright — he could sustain himself on little shows of friendship, with the smiles that Potter sent him and the words they managed to share in the thick of things. 

Come the next Saturday, and Draco was getting itchy. 

He needed more than Potters casual friendship. He needed to be part of the inner circle. He needed Potter to become willing to do whatever Draco needed of him. It was important, their future closeness, and it felt like life or death. 

Now that he has an opening, he needs to make the most of it. Part three of the grand plan involves becoming a comfortable feature in Harry Potter’s life. 

Saturday is the first dry morning of the week, and he spots the shaggy dog outside, lapping water from the edge of the great lake. The poor creature is still so thin, as if it could waste away at any moment, though Draco knows that it must be getting fed better on the grounds than it was in Hogsmeade — it’s been hunting in the Forbidden Forest, he knows that much for sure. The idea strikes him like a lightning bolt, and Draco uses the power of newfound friends at the Gryffindor table to casually sidle up to Potter. It’s as easy as breathing to lean over and talk to them, natural, except for all the ways it isn’t. 

“Mind if I borrow Potter, Hermione?” He asks, with his most utterly charming smile. Somehow, it feels right to ask Hermione first — if only because he knows that she likes him better than others do right now. He shoots Potter a cheeky little grin for his sins. 

“Do whatever you want with him, he’s driving me around the bend.” She says, punctuated by Ron’s huffing. He’s eerily silent, for Weasley, and Draco can only imagine that he’s been told not to antagonize Draco openly anymore. 

“What do you want?” Potter asks him, mildly curious and still shoveling food into his mouth. 

“To put an end to your Grim fixation once and for all.” A half whisper, just for the three of them. “If you keep walking around talking about Dark Omens, the Prophet is going to start running articles on your weakening mental state. I, for one, don’t want to have to slog through even more articles about The Boy Who Thought His Death Was Imminent.” 

“What?” Potter asks, brow furrowed. 

Draco lets out a heavy sigh. 

“There’s a very cute dog outside, and you’re going to scratch behind his ears until you accept that he’s just an animal and not a sign from the fates.” Determined, with no room for arguments, “And you’re bringing food. Come on, chop chop, Potter.” 

There is a moment of hesitation in Potter’s eyes, a moment where he looks back to his friends as if questioning what he should do. Draco doesn’t like that. Draco can’t let that be a pattern, can’t accept a world where Weasley gets to veto alone time with Potter just because he was there first. A Malfoy always comes first and never plays second fiddle, especially not to a Weasley. 

“Come on,” He insists, more determined again than he had been before. It seems to startle Potter into motion, and Draco taps his feet impatiently while Potter gathers a spread of breakfast food into a napkin. 

Potter catches up and follows Draco outside. The sun is shining, but the November air is horribly cold, and Draco pulls his robes tighter around himself in the face of it. He really should have stolen Greg’s sweatshirt again, but it would have been unbecoming to wear it in public, no matter how large and comfortable it was. 

“Where are we going?” Potter asks, and the boy really does have a horrible habit of asking far too many questions. It’s too early in the morning, but Draco is too flush with the pleasantness of Potter having come along at all to be angry with him over it. 

“The lake.” Draco tells him, with an easy grace. “The dog likes to hang out out there. Lucky for it, so do I.” 

“Isn’t it a bit…gloomy, this time of year?” 

“Exactly,” Draco nods, “It’s my moping spot. I like to gaze out at the water and contemplate how unjust life can be.”

Potter is silent, then, but when Draco sneaks a glance, he can see the ghost of a smile on the other boys lips. The idea that Potter might be amused by him truly is enough to put a spring into Draco’s step. He’s always been a boy who thrived on connection, on attention, on people thinking he was worth smiling at or laughing with.

They reach the far edge of the lake, and Draco finds a dry rock to sit on. His eyes are scanning the tree line, but he doesn’t have to look for too long before the dog comes bounding out. He must smell the food, because he bounds straight towards Harry and succeeds in knocking the other boy off his feet. He’s a ball of boundless energy, yapping and tail wagging, licking broad stripes over Potter’s face with his tongue. 

Draco, losing all sense of decorum, lets out a genuine laugh at the sight of it. He has to cover his mouth with a hand to hide it when Potter wriggles out from underneath the dog and sends him a glare. The dog is undeterred, continuing to lick all over Potter’s face and hair until the boy can get away from him by standing up. 

“He likes you,” Draco teases. “Not still scared of him, are you, Potter?” 

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Potter responds, but there isn’t the same kind of bite in it that Draco used to expect. Potter sounds breathless instead, amused, reaching down to scratch at the dog’s head — as is good and proper, when faced with an adorable mutt. Grim seems more wrapped up in getting affection from someone than anything else, and shows little interest in the food tucked into Potter’s robe pocket until Potter pulls it out and presents it to him. 

His happy doggy whine before he tucks in is clearly enough to win over Potter’s heart. 

“He really is just a dog.” Potter says, with a gentle kind of wonder, as he takes a seat next to Draco. They both watch the dog indiscriminately swallow the food that had been laid out for him. Draco wonders if its truly such a novelty for Potter; for the thing that’s been scaring him to turn out to be a benign and utterly gentle creature. Potter has, if all legends are true, faced giant three headed dogs, giant spiders, a basilisk, and the Dark Lord himself on several occasions. Maybe he’s grown accustomed to the worst case scenario lurking around every corner. 

Draco doesn’t like that idea. 

He doesn’t want the worst case scenario to always be true. Especially not now, when he’s seem glimpses of what the worst can be. The worst is a Dark Lord on the rise and their friends suffering, things that Draco would really rather avoid. 

“He’s just a dog,” Draco agrees, and the Grim gives a short little bark, as if in argument. “A ragged little mutt.” He continues, and gives the dog a pat on the head when it approaches them again. It ignores him, for the most part, curling up and resting its head on Potters lap, looking up at him with the definition of puppy dog eyes. 

Potter starts to pet the dog in earnest. 

“I always thought it would be cool to have a dog,” Potter tells him. “But I was never allowed.” 

Potter’s voice is a sad, half-nostalgic thing. The voice of a boy looking back on all the things he missed, all the things that were robbed from him. Whatever lap of luxury Harry Potter was raised in, there were still things that he wasn’t allowed to have. It makes Draco ache a little bit, is enough to force a sigh out of his own chest.

“Me too,” He nods, “My father forbade it outright. He said a dog would just end up tracking mud all over the foyer.” 

“That’s what my aunt said.” Potter tells him, half a laugh trapped behind the words. “Except she didn’t use the word foyer. She was more worried about the carpet in the hall.” 

“Is it a terribly lovely carpet, at the very least?” 

“It’s alright. We can’t wear our shoes on it, because its… what’s that colour that isn’t white?” 

“Eggshell? Cream? Taupe? Beige?” 

“One of those, sure.” 

“I suppose it makes sense.” Draco nods. “She’s a muggle. She can’t just vanish the stains.” 

“Sort of makes your dads excuse bullshit, though.” 

“Oh, I knew that much already. The man keeps peacocks on the grounds, and he’s worried about a dog? Delusional.” 

Potter gives him a smile that looks truly bewildered, as if Draco is something alien and unusual to him, as if he can’t imagine the kind of world in which Draco lives. “Peacocks?” He asks, still half laughing.

“Pure white. Not eggshell or beige or taupe. Not a drop of colour.” 

“That seems…” 

“Stupid?”

“A little, yeah.” 

“They are. They’re stupid creatures. Rather pretty, but they make our fluffy friend here look like a genius.” 

Grim lets out another woof, a low little sound. 

“Creepy,” Draco tells him, shifting down to look in his pale grey dog eyes, “Stop acting like you can understand what I’m saying.” 

Another woof, punctuated by Potter’s laughter. “You’re a very smart dog,” Potter tells the mutt. He’s good with the creature. He looks like the kind of boy who should have had a loyal hound growing up, a companion who could stumble through the world along with him. 

“Maybe your aunt will relent, if you impress her somehow. My father is always more likely to be less bullshit if I do something right. I very rarely do, these days, but It was always nice when it used to happen.” 

“My aunt isn’t really the relenting type.” A wince, “She might give in if Dudley asks her; that’s my cousin. Right now I think he’s saying he doesn’t want one just to spite me.” 

“He sounds like a right prat.” 

Potter nods his head. “He is, to be honest with you. Utter prat.” A beat passes, “I used to think you were like that, you know? Prat who got everything he wanted. Spoiled little Daddy’s boy.” 

Draco takes the opportunity to give him a gentle stab with his elbow, leaving Potter laughing again at the show of half-hearted violence. “You’re only half wrong,” He tells Potter, with a sigh, “I am a spoiled brat. And, I think if it was just my Mother, I’d probably be worse. But my father is too discerning for that. It’s not about what I want, its about what looks good for the family. If I always got what I wanted I’d have hair past my shoulders and as many furry companions as my heart desired.” 

“Your dad has long hair, though. Why wouldn’t he let you?” 

“My father is a grown man who can do as he wishes. I’m a child. He said that it would make me look too… delicate, or feminine, or something like that.” Those were the very last things on earth that Lucius Malfoy wanted his son to be. Draco was supposed to be strong, unflinching, calm and collected. He was supposed to grow up into the man who would be respected in every room, who commanded attention and loyalty and wielded power like it was a delicately balanced blade. 

“Delicate,” Potter seems to muse, eyes tracking Draco’s face. “Bollocks. You should grow it anyway.” 

Draco’s smile was a soft one. “He’d only cut it off.” 

The dog was settled now, firmly in Potter’s lap, eyes closed in such a peaceful way — Draco has never seen the dog that relaxed before, and it only makes the creature seem more world weary and exhausted than it had before. 

“My aunt tried that with me.” Potter tells him, eyes flicking up to the unruly mop of hair, raven black and wild on his head. Draco laments it, considers that maybe Potter’s aunt was onto something by trying to tame it, and then decides that he couldn’t imagine Potter without it. “It just grew back the next day, every time, until she stopped trying.” 

A laugh tumbles out of his chest, and it takes him by surprise. It’s a gentle thing, a rumbling in his chest that grows more by the second. He has to fight to tame it back, get it all inside him again, swallowing around the desire to breathlessly chuckle. “Magic surges, that’s cute.” 

“I didn’t realize that was what was happening.” Potter laughed. “I just thought I was a freak.” 

The laughter is still laced in Draco’s voice, even as he gazes at Potter with confusion. “You didn’t know it was your magic? How did you not know that?” 

“Well, no one exactly told me that I was a wizard, did they?” 

“What?” Incredulous, it comes out in a half-snap. Surely someone had to have told Harry Potter that he was Harry Potter, the famous boy who killed the Dark Lord just by existing. 

“I only found out when Hagrid came to get me for school. My aunt and uncle hate wizards. I think they hoped if they ignored me, the problem would go away.” 

Draco shifts, sitting straighter suddenly, and gazes out across the lake as he contemplates this breaking news. Draco has always been under the, apparently false, opinion that Harry Potter probably grew up in the lap of luxury, a life not too different from Draco’s except that Potter was raised by muggles. He thought that Potter must have known — who he was, what he was, what his life was going to be. Raised as a prince, raised as a savior, raised as The Boy Who Lived with all the adoration and accolades that came with the burden of being perfect. 

Apparently not.

Apparently, Potter had been a boy kept in the dark, raised by people who hated what he was. A boy with unruly hair who had always wanted a dog, and never knew that he had magic bubbling up underneath his skin. He thinks of himself, at six or seven or eight, lonely in a big house, and decides that he’d been lucky, really. 

“They were awful?” He asks, half breathless with a morbid need to have the theory confirmed. 

Potter — Harry, he needs to remember to think of him as Harry — looks at him, those green eyes tracking whatever expression is passing fleetingly over Draco’s face. He looks sadly thoughtful, before his shoulder shrugs. “I only have to deal with them for a couple of months, during the summer.” 

“They’re still awful.” Draco confirmed for himself, because it was the only thing that could be true. He reaches down and lets his hand join Harry’s, fingers absently coiling through the dogs thick fur. If Harry was one of the Slytherins, Draco would have taken his hand outright. He would have been brave and sure enough to do it, to offer comfort through a touch. He wasn’t brave now, and Harry was far too dangerous a thing to touch. He contents himself with soothing the Grim. He looks down at the raven black fur and asks, because he can’t help himself: “Do they hurt you?” 

It sounds gentler than it rightfully should, genuinely concerned about a boy he realistically barely knows. It’s a savage feeling in his gut, the churning worry. If Harry was a Slytherin, Draco would already know the answer to that question. He knew what each and every one of his friends went home to during the summer months; the wide spectrum of parental experience that started with the ever gentle Mr & Mrs Greengrass, met in the middle with the distant and uncaring Parkinsons, and took a sharp turn toward the infamous duo of Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Nott, forever caught in a tie as the Worst Fathers On Earth.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, slow. “Sometimes.” 

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that. If Harry was a Slytherin, it would be easy — Draco wouldn’t have to say much at all, they would already be at a mutual understanding that all of their lives were shit in one way or another.  Whatever he should have said, he didn’t, because the dog was letting out a low whine. A hurt sound, like a pain somewhere deep inside. Animals were sensitive, and this one was clearly sensing their shift in emotions, as it rose up to lick gently at Harry’s face. Harry let the dog do whatever it wanted, but twisted his face so he could look at Draco. His gaze was searching, and this conversation has revealed too much about the both of them already.

“Your dad, does he…?” Its a round-about way of asking, compared to Draco’s previous directness. 

Draco is stuck on that. The second time this year that someone has asked. The gentle tone of Professor Lupins voice as he had raised the question was almost shiver-inducing. Draco wasn’t the kind of child who ran and told tales to strangers, to men he barely knew who he had no reason to respect. And yet, Professor Lupin had been nothing but kind. Even sitting there now, he got caught up in the gentle understanding bleeding out from Harry’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” He says, a breathless confession. “Sometimes.” 

Harry nodded, eyes soft and dark, frown pulling at the edges of his lips. There were no comforts that either of them knew how to share, apparently, as the silence stretched. When they eventually started the walk back up to the castle, their shoulders brushed together on odd steps, and it felt strangely natural. 

Two or three heart-to-heart conversations with The Boy Who Lived was apparently all it took to worm your way into his inner circle, into the realm of trusted accomplice instead of hated enemy. Two or three heart-to-hearts and, Draco supposed, nearly half a year of being on his best behavior. 

Two weeks before the end of term, Draco found himself sitting with the golden trio in the middle of an otherwise deserted courtyard. It was bloody freezing outside, but all of them were well equipped for the weather in their hats and scarves, warming charms heavily applied to every item of clothing they owned. The courtyard was dry that day, the sky crisp and blue and cold above them, the strange sunshine of winter that held no real warmth on it. 

No real warmth, and yet Draco observed both Harry and Hermione turning their faces up toward the light, as if to bask in the warmth of it as it brushed across their cheeks. They were both beginning to pale slightly under the harsh shadow of winter. It was quite possible that Ron and Draco were paler as well, but it was harder to tell on their already pale skin.

Whatever warmth the other two felt in the sunlight, Draco was immune it it. He forced his attention away from the others and back onto the parchment, down at the letter he was penning. He frowned down at his lap, and tried not to feel the chill that radiated from Weasley. 

Ron was at his side, stiff as a statue. When they approached the two benches in the courtyard, Harry and Hermione had taken one before Ron or Draco could think to join them. It left the option for the two of them to share a bench between themselves, or stand awkwardly like an outsider. Draco, of course, had taken his seat first, forcing himself to be casual about it. He was calm, he was relaxed, he was utterly at ease. Ron floundered for a moment before he seemed to screw his courage to the sticking point and dropped down next to Draco. 

He had to once again force his shoulders to unwind, to be calm and relaxed. 

“Is a ‘To whom it may concern’ too cold, do you think? I could address them all by name.” He queried, still frowning down at the parchment. “I don’t know what the proper etiquette is when one is petitioning for the life of a Hippogriff.” 

He heard twin huffs of amusement, and lanced up just in time to watch the ghost of silent laughter escaping from Harry’s lips. 

“Proper etiquette,” Hermione drawled, in the way that he learned meant she was teasing him. It was very Slytherin of her, he mused but never said. He was still warmed by the thought of it. She was learning to tease him, bully him, like a Slytherin would do. She’d fit in. 

“What a twat,” Harry said, with matching fondness. 

“So posh. Like someone on the BBC.” 

Draco let out a huff, because he had no idea what the BBC was, but it didn’t sound fun. Ron was growing even stiffer beside him, and Draco could only imagine he had two reasons. One; Harry and Hermione were teasing Draco, but they lept to his defense whenever Ron tried. Two; he didn’t know what the BBC was either, and hated being left out of the joke. Draco didn’t spare much time to ponder either cause. 

“Answer my question,” Draco half-whined. 

“How many people are there?” Hermione asked, cutting him a break. “On the board of governors?” 

“Twelve,” Draco replied, quick as anything. 

“Too many to list, it would be clunky,” She shook her head, and he nodded his, perfectly in time with each other. 

He put his quill to parchment, and began to write. If anyone had asked him to do this last year, he would have laughed right in their faces. Now, he was here, writing a letter in defense of that oaf Hagrid and his wild beasts. Pleading for the innocence of a Hippogriff. 

“You know a lot about this stuff,” Harry muses, as he watches. “How Hogwarts runs, I mean. Where did you two learn all of this?” 

“I read, Harry.” Hermione says. It’s teasing, as well as scolding. Draco likes seeing her this way, in her element, no one fighting or causing a scene. She looks relaxed for the first time in months, and it suits her. “You can learn a lot from the newspaper, and books. If you ever picked one up.” 

Harry looked to Draco for help. 

“My father was on the Board up until last year.” He tells them, “He used to bring me on his ‘surprise inspections’ when I was little and mother was too ill to care for me. I absorbed a lot.” His quill punctuates a sentence, and he stops to glance up at Harry and properly meet his eyes. “And I read books, too, actually. You should work on that.” 

“We read.” Ron argued, half hearted. “It’s just about interesting things.” 

“And what, pray tell, do you find so interesting?” Draco can’t help but prod. “I’m aching to know.” 

“Quidditch strategy. Adventures. Fun things.” 

Draco angles his head toward the sky and hopes no one can see the way he rolls his eyes. It was so Gryffindor of him to focus on fleeting enjoyment over enlightenment. Draco loved a good novel, but he read pretty much anything he could get his hands on, when he had the free time. 

“Your vast span of interests is truly inspiring,” He said, and regretted it, because the tone hadn’t been quite right and he could see Weasley turning red next to him, which meant if Draco got too snippy, a fight was sure to follow.

“They’re going to fight,” Hermione sighed, as if seeing and hearing the same things he did. 

“They won’t.” Harry assured her. 

From what Draco could tell, the two of them were trying to make Draco and Ron spend more time around each other, in the effort of mending fences the way Draco had done with them. The only problem was this; Draco had the capacity to like Harry and Hermione in earnest, whereas he would always loathe Weasley. 

It was literally in their blood to hate each other. The Malfoys and the Weasleys have hated each other for ten generations now. No one can really remember what started the conflict between their two families, but they know that the animosity between them grew more with every year. They had declared six different blood feud’s across several generations, and the hate had settled in deep. Draco and Ron were just the latest in a long line of boys who were destined to loathe each other. 

They were going to fight, Draco was sure of it, and then he might not be invited next time. He couldn’t be the one at fault here, or they would never last as friends. He took a breath. “No one’s fighting.” He assured, “I am writing a letter, you are having a conversation about something new and benign now. Like Hogsmeade. Any exciting plans?” 

“I’m doing all of my Christmas shopping,” Hermione told them, as Draco began to scratch his pen across the parchment again. “My parents are going to love the Toothflossing Stringmints I send them, and I think my dad might be interested in a book on Magical History. You know how all dads are obsessed with World War One? He’ll love reading about the wizarding community’s involvement.” 

Hermione always talked about her parents like that; enthusiastically, like she couldn’t wait to see them again, like the absence of them during the break would be genuinely difficult. She missed them, and she didn’t hide it. Draco ached for his mother, wished at every moment that he could go and see her already, but he could never bring himself to say it out loud.

“Same,” Ron replied, rather more duly. Still, he became more musing as he talked, genuinely considering his upcoming trip. “I need to get something for Mum. I never know what she wants.”

Draco’s wrist was starting to ache, and it heightened an irrational flare of annoyance towards Weasley again. Draco had decided on a gift for his own mother weeks ago; and it was never difficult to shop for her. Ron clearly wasn’t paying close enough attention to his mother. He was such a brute. But Draco reigned himself in.

“I got her yarn.” Harry offered. “She’s always knitting.” 

“You’re feeding into her jumper-making addiction, Harry.” Ronald complained, sounding more at ease than he has since he sat down. “You’ll be complaining when she starts measuring you up for one with the yarn you buy her.” 

“The stuff I got her is pink,” Harry said, “She’ll make something hideous for Ginny with it.” 

“That’s almost malicious,” Draco breathed, and caught sight of Harry’s grin. It was almost cheeky. Shameless. Even Ron let out a huff of laughter beside him. It didn’t feel normal, but it felt better, just a little bit. 

He finished his letter with a flourish, signing his name, and lifted it to blow the ink dry. He felt stupid, pleading for the creature that had maimed him, but it felt important too. Harry spent his time with people who fought for underdogs, so Draco was going to have to do the same. When the ink was appropriately dry, he handed it off to Hermione to proof read for him. 

“What about you, Draco?” Hermione asked, as she took the letter and began to read over the words. He had a sneaking suspicion she wanted to stop him from fleeing the scene by appealing to his ever-present desire to talk about himself. “Are you excited for Christmas?” 

“I suppose. Father throws a Christmas Ball every year. On the one hand, it’s a fun excuse to dress up and dance with Pansy. On the other hand, I have to deal with all of my fathers friends trying to preemptively marry me off to one of their daughters.” He watched them all catalogue that, likely to file it away and tease him for it later. He pushed himself on, “I’m more excited for Yule, really. It means more to my Mother and I than Christmas does.” 

“Aren’t Yule and Christmas the same thing?” Harry asks, and Draco’s stomach twists a little bit.

He shouldn’t be nervous, not really. Out of all the old traditions, Yule was still widely celebrated among wizards. Even houses that fully embraced Christmas usually spared a thought for Yule too. No one could judge him for celebrating it. Hermione and Harry were both looking at him now, with matching curiosity, which meant that this was a blind spot that came from being raised by muggles. 

“There are…similarities, one could say.” Draco allows, with as much grace as he can muster. “I suppose a lot of winter holidays are inspired by one another? Yule is for the winter solstice. To celebrate the imminent return of the light. It’s a very powerful time of year.” He let himself grow more enthused. “It’s twelve days of rituals and fires and feasting, tending the yule log. It’s the best.” 

“That sounds really nice,” Hermione told him, handing him back the letter. Harry had a half-daydream look on his face, as if he was trying to imagine what Draco was explaining. 

“My mum still does the yule log thing.” Ron offered, rather begrudgingly. “Kind of nice. I’ll miss it this year.” Ron and Hermione were, of course, was staying at Hogwarts with Harry for the winter holidays. It was kind of them. Draco allowed himself to just nod his head in quiet agreement; this may have been the first time Ron had ever agreed with him about something, and he wasn’t going to risk it blowing up in his face by saying more. 

His plan to pass quietly by came true, and soon enough they all said their goodbyes. Harry and the others were retreating to the warmth of their common room. Draco made the long detour up to the owlery instead, to attach the letter he had written to the leg of an owl to send off. His heart felt heavy, as he did it; suddenly faced with the revelation that he cared about this stupid beast that Hagrid owned, that he cared if the creature lived or died.

Of all the people to walk into the owlery at that moment, he didn’t expect to see Professor Lupin. The man himself looked almost bashful to find Draco there. He watched as the owl flew off, carrying the letter that Draco had attached to its leg. Then, he held up his own. 

“Hello, Draco.” 

“Hello, Professor.” He said, with a hesitant smile. 

“It seems you and I are both feeling conversational today.” He said, as he took gentle steps toward the roosting owls. With a soft whistle, a soft tawny owl came down to land on a nearby perch and accept his letter. “I’m writing to an old friend. This is a difficult time for her.” A moment of hesitation passes over his face. “She’s a relative of yours, I believe. Andromeda Tonks.”

Draco froze slightly. He had been approaching, absentmindedly, to admire the owl that came to Lupin. His footfall cut off half way there. The name uttered was that of a mythological creature, the sad lost thing that had once been Andromeda Black. That was the missing face in all the pictures, the woman that should have been standing next to his mother in every portrait, the ghost whose name could never be uttered. 

Andromeda, the aunt he had never known, who had been disowned when she ran away with a muggle born and never came back. He didn’t even know what she looked like. Aunt Bellatrix, he knew — she’d held him, once, but he couldn’t remember it. He was so small, so new, but she had been there. Mad woman that she was, she’d known her nephew before they locked her up. He looked at pictures of her sometimes, where they sat upon his mothers vanity. He had seen her wild hair and her sharp eyes, the clever crook of her smile. 

Bellatrix was an aunt he knew. Andromeda was a stranger. 

But she was his stranger, at the same time. His ghost. She was linked to him in ways that couldn’t be undone by words or deeds. Blood was thicker than water, and it always would be, and theirs was the same. So she was his. His aunt he never knew, and never would. 

“I’ve never had the honor.” He says, somehow cold about it. She was the runaway, and Lupin was the fool who wrote to her, and it wasn’t really any of Draco’s business. “I hope she isn’t finding being a relation to a raving lunatic too exhausting.”

Lupin is looking at him, as he speaks. That curious glance, that strange glimmer in the eye. Sometimes, it feels like Lupin finds him amusing. Sometimes, it feels like Lupin loathes him. Draco doesn’t know which is which. 

“She does,” Lupin tells him, “Find it trying. She struggles to accept the things that are true.” 

“She doesn’t think he did it?” Draco translates, head tilted to the side. “Sirius Black?” 

Something in Lupin’s face shifts when he utters the name. They’d talked around it, up to now, but when Draco actually shaped the words something changed. Sirius Black was a sore spot. The curiosity bloomed a little in him. Professor Remus Lupin was an interesting thing. This man spoke so kindly of his mother. This man wrote his estranged aunt a letter to comfort her in a time of need. This man took the time to try and teach him things; ethics and philosophy, and magic, all at once. This man felt something when he heard Sirius Black’s name. 

“She doesn’t believe it. And — she does. It changes from day to day. She thinks of him often. They were close.” 

They were close. Draco echoes the words around in his head. He looks at Professor Lupin — the man is too young to be his aunt’s age, but he isn’t that far off. He’s definitely younger than mother, from the way he spoke. Which meant Lupin was probably Sirius Black’s age, more or less. Which means, Lupin and Black were close. Draco should have known. 

It means Lupin was probably close with Harry’s father, too. 

“Close.” The word comes out as an echo, something thoughtful, and Draco can taste the shape of it on the tip of his tongue. “Why doesn’t he know?” Draco asks, the words slipping out as if prompted by someone’s borrowed bravery, as if being around Gryffindors is rubbing off on him. 

“Why doesn’t who know what?” Lupin asks him, patient. 

“Harry,” Draco explains, and finally takes the step closer, so his words don’t echo out around the owlery as much. “Why doesn’t he seem to know the story? To know what happened?”

“And what part of the story do you think he’s missing out on, if I may ask?” 

Always answering a question with a question, always getting Draco to lay is cards out. “From the way my mother tells it, Sirius Black was attached to Potter’s dad like another limb. Says the Potters practically raised Sirius, took him in, treated him like he was their son. And he betrayed them. Potter — Harry, I mean. He doesn’t seem to have a clue.” 

There was a dark look there, a flash of hurt, so Draco had probably hit the nail on the head.

“It’s not an accusation.” Draco explains. “Just — He’ll be more upset if he finds out the story on his own, than if someone just sat him down and told him.” 

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Lupin told him, and the owl departed. The flap of its wings was a gentle lull in the air around them for several moments, before the creature was little more than just a spec on the horizon. Lupin’s palms came to rest on the window ledge, as he gazed out after it. “But it isn’t my place.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“Popular opinion says no.” Lupin looks tired, as he stands there. Tired and older than he really is. The man isn’t even in his late thirties yet. Draco supposes that war must age you terribly quickly. The thing is; Lupin clearly cares about Harry, so Draco feels justified in nudging him. 

“Popular opinion is often a sham.” 

“Such is often the opinion of precocious young men.” 

“I just think, Professor,” Draco is careful, with it, “that you’re doing him a disservice by listening to popular opinion. From what he’s told me, he needs all the supportive adult figures he can get.” 

“The two of you have grown closer, lately.” Not a question. An observation that Lupin has had and filed away in that head of his. He keeps track of Harry, through the days and weeks. It’s as clear as day.

“We’re starting a support group for precocious young men.” 

It cracked the tension between them, cracked a smile onto the grim expanse of Lupin’s face. Draco liked the look of it better. Lupin had a face that was made for smiling. It made him look more gentle, more kind, disarming. It dulled the sharp expanse of the scars that cut across his cheek and made him look more at home in his body. 

“I see,” He says, a non-answer. Lupin is avoiding digging into the meat of this conversation, avoiding engaging too deeply with the things that Draco is trying to share with him. Draco can’t really blame him, but he can be annoyed by it, in the mildest way.

“I won’t push it tonight,” He says, as he shifts away from Lupin. It’s getting late, and the warmth of his armchair beside the fire is calling to him. He has plans to spend the evening with Pansy and Theo, the gossip session to end all gossip sessions. He looks back over his shoulder, to fix Lupin with a steely gaze. “But if you don’t find it in yourself to fill him in, I’ll have to do it myself. Somehow, I think he’d rather hear it from you.” 

The sky broke open and spilled snow down over the grounds in the middle of the night — when all the students pulled themselves from their beds, they were met with a world painted in stark white. Draco could see, when he looked out the window of the dormitory, that the lake above them was finally beginning the freeze. You could barely see it, but it was there, refracting the light differently as it bled through the water. 

“Bloody freezing today,” Blaise complained, as he shrugged on a deep green jumper. It looked warm, comfortable, and Draco briefly envied him as he went to his own trunk to find something warm to wear. 

“Are we sure we wouldn’t rather stay by the fire?” Theo asked, his voice rough with sleep. Draco shot him an amused look and was met with Theo’s best approximation of puppy dog eyes. 

Theo could be something of a homebody, especially during the winter when the weather turned. He was prone to bouts of sickness during the colder months, and Draco had spent far more than his fair share of weekends entertaining Theo while he was sick. 

“Shopping to do,” Draco said, in perfect time with Vince. The two of them shared a private smile at their shared excuse. 

“Meaning you’re going to ditch us again.” Blaise accused, and he was only half wrong. 

“You’re more than welcome to come with me.” He offered, with an innocent smile. “I only had to talk to Mr. Singh about divination techniques for an hour the last time I went there. I’m sure you’d find something to entertain yourself with in the shop while I waited.” 

“I’ll pass.” Blaise said, with a roll of his eyes. “But you have to actually come to the Three Broomsticks when you’re done this time.” 

“He’s right. You have to promise.” Theo joined in. 

“I promise.” Easy as anything, easy as breathing. Theo’s smile was a victorious one. 

When all of the boys were appropriately dressed for the winter weather, they began to ascend out of the dungeons. A nice breakfast was necessary before departing for the day. 

Pansy was in good form when they joined her at the table. Her makeup was done and her hair looked rather nice with the serpent hair pin in it, and Draco warmed when he saw that she had the green hat and scarf with her — he had gotten them for her the previous Christmas, and she had declared them the loveliest things she had ever seen. She always did look her best when she was decked out in the gifts that Draco had gotten for her. 

She gave him a warm smile as he sat, but her words had an edge in them. “You’re all late.” 

They couldn’t have been, not really — she just meant that they weren’t as early as she had been. Draco began to help himself to his breakfast, but didn’t argue with her. 

“We had to let Draco get his morning brooding done.” Blaise offered, with a cheeky little smile which only grew wider when Draco elbowed him. “You should have seen him gazing out the window, like he was waiting for his lover to return from the war.” 

“The lake is freezing over. It looks pretty.” Draco said, once he had swallowed a bite of toast. 

“And our Draco gets so easily enraptured by beautiful things.” The slight teasing in Theo’s voice warmed Draco. The possessive pronoun use warmed him even further. Our Draco. He liked that — Draco liked feeling like he belonged to people, liked it when people claimed some kind of kinship with him or ownership over him. It meant that he was important enough to be desired. 

“Shut it,” He said, in the end, to mask the fondness he was feeling. It was impossible to be in bad spirits on a day like that — the first snow of the season, the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term, and they would all be going home for the holidays so soon. Draco felt light. This was his favorite time of the year, and nothing could ruin it for him.

They ate their food, enough that they would be able to last for as long as possible before needing to retreat back to the castle for lunch. Draco once again made his promises that he wouldn’t ignore them for the entire trip this time, and began to believe that he would never live down the disappearing act he had pulled during the previous weekend. 

“If you want to talk to your Pet Gryffindors, you had better do it before we go.” Pansy eventually sighed, as she poured herself one last cup of tea. “I don’t intend on sharing you, when we get into town.” 

There was nothing malicious in the words, which was a good sign. Pansy was getting better and better by the day, when it came to Draco’s newfound friendship with Harry and his friends. He didn’t think she was comfortable with it, no — it would take hell freezing over before Pansy understood why he wanted to be friends with Hermione Granger. The important thing was that Pansy didn’t feel like causing a scene about it anymore. 

It helped when she stated her intentions so clearly. He knew that she needed him today. Today it was important that Draco spend time with her, because she was clearly feeling neglected in one way or another. It was her politest way of asking for the attention of the best friend. Draco couldn’t deny her that, even if he wanted to. It was a good thing, then, that spending a day joined at the hip with Pansy Parkinson sounded like a dream come true. 

He sent her a blinding grin. “Oh, Pans. You’ll have my arm for as long as you want it.” He didn’t make a sound as he slipped off the bench. “I’ll just go ask Harry if he wants me to bring anything back for him.” 

The name was met with several eye-rolls from the people around him. Harry Potter had been a popular topic of discussion for Draco for years now, and he could only imagine that he had become rather insufferable about it since the two of them actually became friends. He could cope with eye rolls, as long as they weren’t giving him too much shit about it. 

Harry, Hermione and Ron were sitting near the end of the Gryffindor table. Clearly Ron had he same idea to stuff himself as full as possible before he went into the village, because his plate of food was still piled high. Hermione’s welcoming smile was enough to prompt Draco to take the free seat next to her, though it attracted some annoyed looks from several of the other Gryffindors around them. 

“Just wanted to update you all,” He sighs, “I sent the letter off to the Board of Governors last night. I am officially a pawn in the fight for Rubeus Hagrid’s besmirched honor.” 

Hermione’s gaze softened even further. He had learned months ago that supporting a lost cause was a surefire way to tug on Hermione Granger’s heartstrings. “That’s great, Draco.” She tells him. “It’ll mean a lot to Hagrid.” 

“We’ll tell him all about it when we see him next.” Harry promised. He looked tired, a little sad. It was natural, when he was doomed to stay behind at the castle while all of his friends went out to see the village. 

“You may earn yourself an invitation to tea.” 

“Just don’t eat the rock cakes. If he offers them.” Ronald said. It looked like it pained him, but the effort was almost sweet. He was trying, and Draco could appreciate that. God knows Draco didn’t want to talk to him either, but they were going to have to for as long as this unlikely friendship went on. Draco almost shuddered to think of himself, twenty years down the line, attending weddings alongside the Weasley clan or sharing pints at the local pub with them. Ronald carried on, and saved him from his own musings. “I think I lost a tooth last time.” 

“Sound advice,” Draco said, with a nod. “I’ll keep that in mind, should the occasion ever arise.” 

“What are you keeping in mind?” Ginny’s voice asked. She was bleary eyed and half asleep. She was only a second year, so she had no reason to be up as early as the third years were. No Hogsmeade weekend for her. 

“Your brother has given me some sound advice.” He explains.

Her bleary eyes narrow, and she leans in to take a better look at Draco’s face. “And you’re listening? Merlin, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were possessed.” 

“Sod off, Ginny.” Ron grumbled. The boy began to mutter under his breath, something about Ginny and Draco interacting being too weird to accept. Ginny’s admiration of Draco hasn’t lessened since the day they spent together, since Draco attempted to save her from Alexander Travers bullying tactics. 

“Yeah, Ginny, sod off.” Fred said, though it was a more gentle, teasing word. “Shove over.” 

He made Ginny move several seats away, so that Fred and George could both collapse onto the bench beside them. The twins were both bundled up in their winter gear, hats already firmly in place on their head. 

“We’ll be off soon,” George explained.

“We just wanted to try and catch a word with Harry.” Fred carried on. 

“The man is in high demand.” Draco said, shooting Harry a grin. “Does it ever get tiring, I wonder, being the object of so much attention?” 

Harry kicked him under the table. It was a rather hard kick. 

“Ow,” Draco said, and a pout fought its way onto his face. 

“We ask ourselves that question every day, Young Draco.” George says, with a sage nod. “But too much musing on the intricacies of Harry’s inner life will delay our departure.” 

“We’ve got things to do, you know? People to see.” 

“Like he said, people to do and things to see.” 

“So if we can just get five minutes —” 

“—alone, i think—”

“With Harry, we’ll be out of all your hair.” 

“I—” Harry started to reply. 

Only, Professor Lupin was approaching the table too. By Merlin, if mornings were always this busy at the Gryffindor table, Draco wasn’t sure how they got anything done at all. Hermione seemed to spot the Professor at the same time that Draco did, because she sat up straighter in her seat as he came closer. Merlin forbid she leave a bad impression on the man during the weekend. 

“Hello, all.” Lupin said, 

“Good morning, Sir.” Several of them replied. Draco and Hermione shared a grim look when Ron said the words from behind a mouth full of food. He was such a brute. Draco still couldn’t understand what Harry and Hermione saw in him that made him a good enough friend to keep around. 

Lupins eyes got stuck on Draco for a second. Their conversation last night was clearly echoing in his head, and he gave Draco a small nod before he turned his attention toward Harry. “Can I borrow you, this morning? Unless you have other plans already for your Saturday.”

Harry’s head shook in the negative. “No plans, Professor. This lot are all headed to Hogsmeade for the day.” 

“How about a cup of tea in my office, after breakfast. There’s something I want to discuss with you.” 

Draco shifted, feeling smugly vindicated. He was proud of himself, for that. If his words had done something to urge Professor Lupin on and convince him to fill in the blanks of Harry’s life, he had clearly done something right. He could feel the curiosity bleeding out of Hermione, an energy that couldn’t be contained. 

“Er, yeah. That sounds good.” Harry agreed, and Lupin was off again, off to the teachers table where he took a seat next to Professor Flitwick. 

“Such high demand.” Draco couldn’t help but tease again, as he arched an eyebrow at Harry again. He didn’t earn a kick for it, but Harry did shake his head again.

“Right, yeah.” Harry said, “Very funny.” 

“Tick Tock, Harry.” Fred said,

“Five minutes. Alone.” George prompted once again. 

“Fine, alright.” Harry said, with a heavy sigh, and sent Hermione, Draco and Ron a slightly exasperated look. “I’ll see you lot later, then. Have fun.” 

He rose from the table and allowed Fred and George to drag him away from the great hall., off to locations unknown.

“Any ideas what that’s about?” Draco pondered, turning to raise an eyebrow at Hermione. 

“None,” She said, and Ron shook his head beside her. She tilted her head, and then nudged him slightly. “I think Theo is trying to get your attention.” 

When Draco shifted to look, Theo and Pansy were both standing now. Theo caught his eye and tapped his watch, while Pansy arched an eyebrow in Draco’s direction. 

“They’re impatient,” He says, with a fond smile. “I’ll be off, see you around.” 

He met Theo and Pansy as they were walking out, and it was second nature to lock arms with Pansy as they began their walk down to the village. 

Chapter Text

“Explain it to me again,” Pansy whispered, as she gazed in through the window of Singh & Sons Occultists. Her eyes were tracking over the delicate expanse of lenses and glasses that Draco coveted so much. 

“It’s a room.” He whispered back. “A Cosmoscope, in Black Abbey — that was my Grandfather’s house — It’s all mirrors and telescopes and destiny incarnate, and it’s built to help me see the future.” His finger came up and touched the glass, his eyes fixed on the tarnished surface of the treasure within. “Those belong to it, I can feel it. They want to go home.” 

This was what Pansy needed, he felt. She was a woman who needed to be reminded, almost every day, of her importance. In a world where she was often overlooked, she needed to be reminded that she was the friend Draco had chosen; the keeper of his secrets and the other half of his heart.

“It’s a little bit beautiful, when you think about it.” She said, with perfect understanding. “You’re reuniting yourself with part of your ancestry. Reclaiming part of an heirloom that should have always been yours.” 

When he glanced over, she was turning to look at him in perfect time. Their eyes met, and twin smiles spread over their faces. Merlin, but he loved her. When Draco was a child he used to wish they had been born to the same parents, so they could be twins, so they could be tied together by blood as well as friendship. They’d taken endless vows to each other, as grand as they could manage, and there didn’t seem to be any purer form of dedication. 

Their shoulders bumped together when the walked through the door of the shop. Mr. Singh was behind the counter, and when he looked up and met Draco’s eyes, he smiled. 

“The prodigal returns.” He says, a slow drawl. “And you’ve brought a friend with you.” 

“Pansy Parkinson,” Draco says, by way of an introduction. “She’s terminally nosy.”

“All of the best people are, I suppose.” With a gesture of his hand, he points at the hair clip that seems to be ever present on Pansy these days. “I’m glad to see the gift went over well. You might like to peruse the rest of my wares while I gather Draco here his lenses.” 

Mr Singh was promptly efficient as he moved, yet when he touched the lenses he was gentle with them. They were valuable things, crafted by a man with a reputation good enough that Singh probably could have sold them for significantly more than what Draco was offering. Maybe he was letting them go at a loss, because Draco had a true claim to the artefacts. Maybe he was just a terrible business man. It really could have gone either way. 

Each lense and mirror slotted carefully into a box, velvet lined and heavy. Pansy only half heartedly looked through the jewelry on the counter, while the man worked, keeping one eye on the proceedings. Draco found himself glad for the company, glad to have a body that could stand beside him and offer warmth. 

He’s once again glad that he told Pansy his secrets. Draco thinks that he would be terribly lonely, if he was left to face the future alone. If he was the only one who knew the dangers of the world before him, then he would never survive it. It made him wonder, too, if he should have told Theo already. Theodore Nott was everything that Draco needed, to be a balancing factor in his life. Theo was warm, and clever, and not quite as bitingly intense as Pansy was. He knew how to keep a level head. He knew how to tug on Draco’s leash when he needed to be held back from doing something stupid. And when Pansy and Draco had gone off without him today, he had looked a little bereft. 

Draco made a solemn vow to himself, to be a better friend. 

Mr Singh made idle chitchat as he worked, keeping Draco taking. It was comfortable, in a strange way. He didn’t often cope well with strangers prying into his life, but Mr Singh had a way about him that didn’t cause him to grate on Draco’s nerves. Maybe it was because he was so terribly handsome. 

“Did you try the tea I gave you?” He enquires, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

Pansy gives Draco a look. He hadn’t told her about that part, his newest of visions, the thing he had scene in the scrying pool. He hadn’t told her about Hermione, with tears in her eyes and her head on his chest, and Draco bereft of something as he laid in the sunshine. It felt too private to put it in to words. 

“Well, Draco?” She prompts. “Did you?” 

“I did,” He answers, without shame. “It was…helpful.”

“A good blend can be extraordinarily powerful, when it comes to opening the inner eye.” Singh said, with a quirk of a smile. “I’ll pack some more up for you, but you really ought to try that shop I told you about on Knockturn Alley. That’s where you’ll get the good stuff.”

Draco took the advice, making a mental note to make sure he made it to Knockturn Alley at some point soon. The faster he could build up his strength, build up his talent, the better things would be. Draco needed to know more. He needed to see more. The promise of knowledge was like a siren call, and Draco was willing to drown himself for it. 

Pansy, unsurprisingly, felt just as intrigued at the prospect of a day out and about on Knockturn Alley as Draco was. “We have to go,” She sighed out, as they stepped out onto the snow covered streets of Hogsmeade. Fluffy flakes were falling down with increased frequency as the morning beld away into afternoon. 

“My mother will never bring me to a place like that,” Draco says. “Even if I did tell her about the whole… prophecy thing.” 

“So don’t tell her you’re going.” A huff, as if Draco was being an oblivious idiot. “You know they’ll let us wander around Diagon Alley on our own. We’ll just tell our mothers we have some last minute shopping to do for the holidays, and they’ll give us a few hours on our own to sort ourselves out.” 

The idea wasn’t a terrible one. Their mothers would both go along with it; even if it was just an excuse for them to catch up and have a drink amongst themselves. He huffed, as he glanced up at the dark cloudy skies. Snowflakes got caught in his eyelashes, and he had to wipe them away. “You make a good point, Pans.” He finally allowed himself to say. “Let’s plan on it, then.”

It was something to be discussed in private, so they dropped the subject once they rejoined the group of their friends. Everyone had more than one bag with them, so Draco’s purchases didn’t stand out in the crowd. He allowed the ebb and flow of their conversations to carry him away, content with their company. 

The Slytherins spent the majority of the day. The Three Broomsticks became their spot of shelter and comfort, and they stayed there through lunch and into the evening. None of them particularly wanted to make the long walk back up to the castle when the snow was beginning to pile higher and higher on the footpaths. It was the imminent approach of their curfew and the beginning of dinner service that eventually got them all back to their feet. 

Their slow ascent to the castle meant that there wasn’t much time to go back to the dorms before they needed to sit for dinner; so for once in their lives, the Slytherins allowed themselves to appear as something less than perfect. When they sat at their seats, they were still damp from snow and red from the cold. It earned them some teasing from the older students, but not so much that it drew the attention of any other houses. 

Draco was glad for the warmth of the hall, and even more-so for the warmth of the food in front of him. He spent several minutes cupping a bow of soup in the palm of his hands and allowing the heat to bleed through the vessel and into his skin. Theo was doing the same as him, across on the other side of the table, and Draco had to fight a smile the entire time. 

He was preoccupied with his meal and caught up in daydreaming about the hot bath he was going to take when they returned to the dungeons, so it took him most of the meal to notice that the Gryffindor table was missing its most notable inhabitant. 

Hermione and Ron sat together, whispering between each other, but Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. When Draco glanced up at the staff table, he could see that Professor Lupin was also absent. Either the two of them were still in the throes of a conversation, or they were both taking the evening to recover from the intensity of their interaction. Draco wasn’t sure which he should hope for; so he settled on hoping that Harry wasn’t taking it all too badly. 

On the Sunday after their Hogsmeade visit, Draco was rudely shaken awake by Greg. 

Draco was notorious for being particularly grumpy when he was woken up before he was ready. He grumbled during Greg’s first attempt to wake him, burrowing deeper down into his blankets. He didn’t want to face the outside world yet; he wanted to be asleep. When Greg persisted, he earned himself an elbow to the arm and Draco’s snarling words. 

“Leave me the hell alone, Greg.” 

A low whistle came from the bed across from him. “Adorable,” Blaise’s voice was thick with half-asleep laughter. He was ever the morning person, and it was insufferable to Draco. It was all well and good to be in a nice mood when you weren’t the one getting shaken about by a bute. “He’s so cute when he acts like an angry kitten.” 

Greg pulled the blanket away from Draco, clearly fed up with dealing with him. “Don’t take it out on me, Dray.” A huff. “Potter’s outside the entryway. He won’t leave until he sees you.” 

“Don’t let him in,” Blaise said, markedly less cheerful. “I draw the line at Gryffindors in our common room. Being friends with them is bad enough, but Potter in the vipers pit would be a step too far.” 

“Seconded,” That was Theo, with his face still buried in his pillow. 

“The motion carries.” 

“I hate you all,” Draco seethes, practically falling out of his bed. He looks up at Greg, who has his arms folded over his chest. He looks rather intimidating, like that. Draco has always appreciated the tough guy attitude, the way that Greg and Vince can drive people away from them with just a look. They were wonderful, wonderful men. But they didn’t seem half as wonderful when they were inconveniencing Draco this early. “Did he say what he wanted?” 

“You.” Greg tells him, with insistence. 

Draco fumbles, at that, pulling warm socks on so that he won’t have to touch his feet to the freezing cold floor. 

“Romantic,” Blaise snorts, and Draco retaliates in two ways; by throwing his pillow at Blaise, and then by stealing the green jumper he had so envied the day before. It was bloody freezing, and Draco was furious. Furious and slightly embarrassed. 

“I’ll send him away.” He tells them all, and slips out of the bedroom. 

Something squirms in Draco’s stomach as he ascends the stairs to the common room proper. This early in the morning its practically empty, not a soul around aside from the one little first year that seems to be an early riser. Harry wasn’t supposed to do things like this; he was never the one to seek Draco out. Part of Draco was half-certain that it meant something bad. Harry must be angry with him; he must have done something wrong, something to make Harry realise that he was wrong to accept Draco as a friend. 

He was kicking himself, as he approached the entryway to the common room, for not getting properly dressed before he left the dorm. If he was about to get yelled at by Harry Potter, he really would have preferred not to be in his pajamas for the experience. He pulled the sleeves of Blaise’s jumper down over his hands — Blaise was a little bit taller, arms a little bit longer, and it was comforting now. 

When he opened the door, he was met with the sight of Harry sitting on the floor across the hall, his back up against the cold stone wall of the dungeons. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back. He looked exhausted, worn down, like he had barely slept the night before. He looked like a wet dog, a pathetic creature that deserved pity. The important thing was that he didn’t look angry; didn’t look ready to strangle Draco at the drop of a hat. 

“Harry,” Draco prompted, body half way out of the secret passage that led into the Slytherin common room. The name sounded too gentle on his tongue, too careful. It was whisper soft, but Harry still startled at the sound of it, suddenly sitting up and opening his eyes.

The deep expanse of emerald green met Draco’s gaze, and he swallowed. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, as Harry struggled up to his feet. 

“Can we talk?” 

“Its seven thirty in the morning, what could you possibly want to talk about so urgently?” 

“Sirius Black.” 

Draco paused.

So Lupin had done it. So the truth had come out. The messy, brutal truth, a tale of revenge so intense that it made Draco’s heart clench. 

With a glance over his shoulder, he looked back at the common room. So quiet, with the fire already burning in the hearth and so many little nooks perfect for holding conversations in. Blaise had laid down the law, and Theo had agreed; no Harry Potter in the common room. He bit at his lip before huffing out a breath and nodding his head, slipping out of the entrance and closing it behind him. 

“You don’t have any shoes on.” Harry pointed out, looking down at his socked feet as he stood in the hallway. Draco looked down, bashful, before he shook his head and took Harry by the wrist, pulling him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. 

“Its too cold to go out to the lake,” He grumbled, “But I know somewhere we can talk. No one will be there.” 

“But — You don’t have any shoes on,” Harry said, again, apparently rather caught up on that. 

“Priorities, Harry.” Draco scolded. “Please, sort out your priorities.” 

On the second floor Draco opened the fifth door along the hallway. It was one of the music rooms; most of the students tended to use them in the evenings, because they were sane enough to save their extracurricular activities for after school. With a quick glance at the schedule, he could see that nobody had the room booked until well into the afternoon. They weren’t likely to be bothered here. He scrawled his own name across the first couple of hours, and hung it on the door outside. 

With a flourish, Draco sat at the bench in front of the dark wooden piano. Harry was looking around, as if he had never been in here before. Of course, he didn’t seem to play any instruments, so the odds were that he actually hadn’t. Draco raises an eyebrow at him, when their gazes meet again, and Harry pulls over another bench and sits in front of Draco. 

They’re so close like this that their knees are almost brushing. It feels strangely intimate. Strangely intense.

I don’t have any shoes on, Draco thinks. He’s overcome suddenly by how strange it is, how vulnerable it makes him feel. He isn’t comforted by the the fact that he’s mostly dressed. He’s half in his pajamas, still, except for Blaise’s sweater. It leaves him feeling bare despite it all, as if he’s open for attack like this. It seems inconceivable that he’s here, in the earliest hours of the morning when the sky is still dark, sharing space with Harry Potter. He rests the palm of his hands on the bench beside him, and takes a deep breath.

“Sirius Black,” He prompts, breathless with it. 

Harry’s eyes grow darker at the name. There’s anger in that gaze, but it isn’t directed at Draco. It’s directed at the man who Harry now knows is responsible for his parents death. Draco would be more surprised if there wasn’t any anger there at all. 

“That was what Professor Lupin wanted to talk to me about, yesterday.” Voice low, a whisper between them. “He said you talked him into it.” 

Professor Tattle Tale, more like it. Draco couldn’t find it in himself to be frustrated about it. The man was well within his rights to call Draco out after the scene that Draco had caused with him in the owlery. Or maybe he had said it because Harry needed to know; needed the knowledge that someone else was available to share the story. 

“I would have told you myself, if he hadn’t.” Draco promises, still feeling breathless and mildly anxious. 

“I know,” Harry sighs, “I’m not angry at you for keeping it a secret.” 

“I just thought it would be better coming from…anyone who wasn’t me, to be honest with you.” 

“We haven’t been the fairest with you, about all of this.” 

“No,” Draco says, and its too gentle, too soft. But he carries on anyway. “I don’t mind it. What did — what did he say?” 

“He told me that… there’s one reason why my parents died, and its Sirius Black.” Grief and thinly veiled anger war for precedence in Harry’s voice, an intoxicating mix. “He was their closest friend in the entire world. He was my godfather and… he betrayed them. Black was the person that they trusted to be their secret keeper and he sold them out to Voldemort —” Draco flinched at the sound of the name, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. “— at the first chance he got.” 

Anger has won out, by the end of the tirade. Harry gets to his feet to pace back and forth, and Draco is strangely glad for the distance. His stomach feels slightly less in knots when he isn’t in danger of accidentally touching Harry. 

“I was so angry last night I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept.” Harry admits, and he reaches into his pocket. “I found a picture of him. At their wedding.” He holds the offending picture out to Draco, and Draco takes it with careful fingers.

His breath is caught in his chest, and he can’t help but hold it as he looks down at the three figures in the frame. 

James and Lily Potter were beautiful. From the look of things, their wedding had been a riot of sound and colour, the bright spot in a bleak world riddled with war. James Potter was dressed in a traditional sherwani, and Lily’s white wedding gown made her look like a creature straight out of a fairytale. A fire spirit, with hair that glimmered against the light in the picture. And at their side was Sirius — the cousin that had been haunting Draco all year. 

He looked like Regulus. That was the first thought that crossed Draco’s mind. Regulus with a slightly sharper jawline and a brighter smile. Better hair, too. He was handsome. He was pretty. He had a smile that beamed out, bright and proud, as if the camera was capturing the happiest moment of his life. 

All three of them were laughing.

They were laughing, and almost two years later, two of them were dead. 

Black didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would sell his family to the Dark Lord. Somehow, Draco thought that a picture of Black would be like looking at a picture of Aunt Bellatrix. He could see the sharpness in her eyes, when he looked at her captured in time behind a photo frame. He could see the madness there, the fury and the bloodlust and the taste for cruelty. Looking at Sirius now, Draco didn’t see the family resemblance. 

“He was the best man,” Harry supplied. “Best man, and then he killed them. Them and Peter Pettigrew, his best friends.” 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to put into words there. 

His eyes were still glued to Sirius’s. They had the same eyes. The same grey that all the members of the Black Family seemed to sport. He wondered, suddenly, if Harry had noticed it. If he looked at Draco’s eyes now, would he see a murderer? Would he see a boy who came from the same family, shared the same blood, as the man who had destroyed his life? Maybe. Maybe this had all been doomed from the start. 

“I just don’t understand how he could have done it.” Harry continues. “Lupin said… he said they were brothers.” 

It no doubt reminded Harry of himself and Ron; the friend he had met and then never got rid of, the boy who offered Harry his family as if it could replace what Harry had lost. The Weasley clan tended to treat Harry like he was one of their own, as if he had been raised among them. They treated him like a brother. 

“My mother said the same thing,” Draco confesses. “Sirius ran away from home, you know? He was sixteen. It was a scandal. It was your grandparents that took him in.” 

“So he betrayed them too.” 

“She said it was in his nature. You have to understand, Harry… he was raised for it. Weaned on dark magic and raised to hate before he ever learned how to love.” He lifted his head, finally, to meet Harry’s eyes. Green met gray, and Draco had to fight not to shiver. He offered the picture back, and Harry took it with careful hands. 

“That’s crap.” Harry said. He was looking at Draco, intense and intent. “If that was true, it means that’s your nature too.” 

A soft laugh escapes Draco. He’s known dark spells since before he stepped foot on the grounds of Hogwarts. There are dark artifacts crowding the shelves of his library, and his father tried to feed little Ginny Weasley to the Dark Lord just last year. 

“Isn’t it?” He asks, more amused than anything else. 

Something in Harry pales, at that, and Draco realizes that it isn’t funny at all. Even the shadow of a smile melts from his face. “You have to know that, Harry. You’re clever enough. I’m a snake and I’m a venomous one. I know more dark magic now than you’ll ever learn in your life. In the tale of the scorpion and the toad, I am the scorpion. It’s in my nature. It’s what I fight against every moment of my day so that I may be better.”

“But you want to be better.” Harry said, as if the very words assured him that he was in the right after all, as if they were a secret confession that Draco wasn’t like his family at all. 

“And you’d better keep an eye on me to make sure I do it.” Draco said, fighting against the heavy feeling in his chest. This could be the thing that made Harry write him off completely. “I’m going to keep trying, fighting it tooth and nail. But you have to be careful, because if I slip up…” He gestured to the picture that Harry still held in his hand. 

“You’re nothing like him.” Harry assured, surging forward and sitting on the bench again. Draco had to reel back to put space between them, leaning an elbow on the piano, glad that the keys were covered. 

Draco could nod. He could go along with that. Whatever gift had been passed on to him clearly warped his mind, clearly warped his sense of right and wrong. “I am, though.” He says, as if its easy, as if its casual. “Got his blood. Got his eyes. What is it that Ron was saying a few weeks ago? That crazy runs in the family?” 

“It’s not true.” Harry says, again, and looks Draco dead in the eye. He’s a puppy dog, all blind loyalty and poor judgement. 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“You do. I can always tell when you’re lying, remember?” 

A frown paints Draco’s face, but Harry’s eyes are intent. “I’m not lying.” He insists.

“Exactly.” A finger raised to point at him in triumph. “You’re telling the truth. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t be telling me that you’re dangerous. You’d be playing the victim or acting like an angel.” 

Draco’s lip curls in what he hopes is a derisive smirk, but might be a smile instead. He’s fighting the desire to melt and let Harry carry him away with the bliss of friendship. “Merlin and Morgana, you truly are delusional.” He ends up sighing, a small shake of his head accompanying it. “You can’t possibly trust me.” 

“I do.” 

“You can’t.” 

“I do trust you.” The fight has put some light back into Harry’s eyes. Anger has melted away, leaving mild frustration in its place. The colour is coming back to his cheeks. Draco has to wonder if Harry would be this open if he’d gotten some sleep last night. He may be delirious with exhaustion and grief. “I’ll prove it.” 

“And how are you going to do that?” 

A beat passes, a flicker of triumph flits over Harry’s face. “I can tell you what Fred and George wanted yesterday.” 

Draco is the one to pause, then. It was probably benign, but Draco couldn’t help being slightly curious. Something had been so important that they needed to talk to Harry and only Harry, alone. They had clearly had a reason for it. 

“Who else knows?” He questions, instead of agreeing.

“Just Ron and Hermione.” 

“The inner circle of The Boy Who Lived. Am I to keep all of your secrets now?” 

“Yeah, you’ll have to.” 

Draco swallows, and nods his head. “Go on, then.” 

“They wanted to give me something. An early Christmas present —” 

“Boring!” Draco declared. “Christmas presents are boring secrets, Potter. If you’re going to play the trust game, you have to make it interesting.” He started to get to his feet, reading to storm off in a huff before Harry’s hand latched on to his arm and stopped him in his tracks. 

“You’ll like this, I promise.” Harry said, as Draco was slowly sinking back down into his seat. Harry let go of his arm once his descent was done, and Draco almost felt disappointed. He was rooting around in his pocket for something, and pulled out a large fold of parchment. “They gave me this. It’s something they nicked from Filch’s office, years ago.”

“Its a piece of parchment.” Draco drawled, bland. 

“Er, well, it’s more than that. If you say the right words, it um… changes? Its a map. It shows you everything in the castle, even all of the people and where they are.” 

At the arching of Draco’s eye, Harry shifted closer. He spread the parchment out across both of their knees. “I’ll show you,” He said, with one more glance at Draco’s eyes before he pulled his wand out and said the magic words. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

Draco looked down, breathless, as he watched the ink spread out from the tip of Harry’s wand. It spread across the pages, line after line cobwebbing its way out from the middle. “Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present; The Marauder’s Map.” He whispered to himself, reading the words as they spread and reaching out to touch one of the freshly inked lines. The ink was a deep, earthy green, and the paper beneath it practically ached with the amount of magic it had been imbued with. “This is amazing,” He said, with a breathless laugh. 

“I know,” Harry said, and Draco was surprised to find that Harry sounded rather breathless himself. “It’s bonkers, I mean… it’s got everything on it. Secret passages and — Look, there’s Professor Lupin, getting an early breakfast.” 

Another laugh bubbled up. “Where are we?”

“Second floor, right?” 

They scoured the map together. It was Harry, ever keen eyed, that saw their names first. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy,” He said, pointing to them.

“Alone together in the music room.” Draco breathed, “How unlikely a scene.” 

“Didn’t even know we had a music room, until right now.” Harry confesses, somehow an earnest confession that he agrees their circumstances are unlikely. 

“Of course you didn’t, you’re a brute.” Draco sighed, and unfolded another flap of parchment from the side of the map. “It’s a very impressive map.” He finally allowed himself to say. “A good secret.” 

“Does it prove I trust you?” 

Draco hesitated, then, and looked at the little labeled figures that had begun to walk the halls. Mainly teachers, at this time of the morning. “I suppose it does,” He decided, because he didn’t have the energy anymore to pick a fight when Harry was being so earnest.

 A breath escaped him, and he gnawed at the inside of his cheek as he considered it. Closeness with Harry was so alien a thing, and yet he didn’t want to move away. He wanted to stay there, sharing a secret, heads bowed so close together. It was dangerous. He was doomed. 

“You do know,” He began, with patience, “that if Sirius Black got his hands on this, it would be very, very dangerous.” 

“Hermione has already given me the lecture.” 

Draco nodded his head, “I won’t, then.” 

“I’ll be careful with it,” Harry assured him. “I’ll make sure that only the right kind of people know it exists.” 

Draco was the right kind of person, then. Another subtle way for Harry to say that Draco was different from Sirius Black. “It might be useful. You could see him coming.” 

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Harry says, slow. His eyes are fixed on the map now, following the track of Draco’s fingers as he traced hallways and secret passages. 

“Harry?” He asked, a note of hesitance permitting his voice.

“Yeah?” 

“Are you going to try and kill him?” 

“Is this the part where you tell me not to?” Harry asks, laden down with the world-weariness that a boy his age shouldn’t be forced to feel. “Not to be reckless, not to try?” 

Draco thinks about that for a long moment. It would be the responsible thing to say. He’s sure Lupin has already done it; and Hermione too. There were words of wisdom that might talk Harry down from his determination, but Draco couldn’t say them without lying. And Harry would know, if he lied. 

“No.” He said, instead, “No, I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“What, really?” 

“It’s what I would do.” Draco confesses, too honest. “If my mother died, and I knew who was responsible… I’d want revenge. I’d want to kill them.” 

Harry meets his eyes again. They look at each other for long seconds, a heavy silence falling between them. Something in Harry cracks, then, and he rubs a hand over his face. “I hate him so much. I’m so angry, Draco, I can’t even — I don’t even know what to do with all of the fury I feel right now.” 

Draco felt the strange urge to touch Harry again; to offer comfort somehow. There was water gathering in his eyes, gleaming green pools. He bumps their knees together, because he doesn’t know how to make himself reach out and take Harry’s hand. That would be too much, too close, too intimate. 

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” Draco tells him, “But it’s probably not a good thing to bottle it up. Hate has a tendency to…fester, inside people, turn into poison.” 

“So I should let myself have it?” 

“Let it fuel you. Keep your head held high out of spite. Keep an eye on your map and… if you ever see Sirius Black, you can use it.” 

Harry nods, and pulls in a breath. 

They spend a very long time together, tucked away in a room where no one else can find them. Draco feels like he’s lost something, when they eventually part ways. Harry walks him all the way back down to the Dungeons, but when he steps inside the entryway and listens to it close behind him he feels… strangely lonely.

It was strange to see Salazar’s vivarium situated comfortably in the alien expanse of the Gryffindor common room. Draco felt like an intruder, surrounded by red on every side. He could only count himself lucky that nearly all of Gryffindor House had already left for the Holidays. 

The train had departed from Hogsmeade that morning, and yet Draco had not been on board. His mother took every excuse she could not to brave the messiness of Kings Cross station at this time of year, so she was collecting him from the school herself. Side along apparition was faster and more convenient than the train, so Draco was grateful for it; especially because it earned him several more hours to get things settled at the castle before he had to leave. 

“I don’t think I can do this, Draco.” Hermione says, with a heavy sigh, as she looks into the glass enclosure at the snake within. 

“Hermione,” He scolds, thinly veiled laughter behind the word. They had already received permission from Professor McGonagall to keep the snake in Gryffindor tower while Draco was home, since his dorm would be empty. 

“Sal is lovely, really. She is! It’s just… I get it, the circle of life, all of that, but —” 

“It’s gross.” Harry finished for her. 

Draco turned to send a glare in Harry’s direction. 

“It’s not gross at all.” He says, defensive. “And she’ll only need to be fed twice while I’m gone, so you’ll barely have to deal with it at all.” 

“What if I reach in to change her water bowl, and she bites me?” Hermione asks. 

“She hasn’t bitten anyone in weeks.” 

“A ringing endorsement.” Harry says, again. The dark haired boy has finally come to peer in through the glass. 

“Anyone would bite Greg,” Draco defends, again. “And she only did it because his hands still smelled like rat.” 

“That’s the other thing.” Hermione carried on. “Ron is going to hate this.” 

“Ron can cope.” Harry said, “He won’t have to look at her if he doesn’t want to.” 

“His rat is too big for Salazar to eat right now, anyway.” Draco pointed out, which apparently wasn’t as comforting as he imagined it would be, if the look on Hermione’s face was any indication. “She eats babies.” 

“I can’t do it,” She shook her head. “I’m sorry Draco, I thought I could but —” 

“I’ll do it,” Harry said, with laughter thick in his voice. He was recovering from the news that had been broken to him about Sirius Black. After their conversation in the music room, he was dragging Draco more and more into his life, and seemed all the more comfortable around him. 

It was nice to see him smile, Draco thought — a damning thing. He shouldn’t be musing that much about Harry Potter’s smile. 

“Will you?” He asks, hopeful. “Really?” 

“Really,” Harry tells him, with a nod. When Draco smiles at him, Harry’s own grin grows all the brighter. 

“Well, Salazar.” Draco sighs, toward the snake perched under its heat lamp. “You’re going to be waited on hand and foot by Harry Potter. Doesn’t that sound like a lovely gift for the holiday season?” 

“As long as I don’t have to feed her, I’m happy.” Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Harry.” 

Harry seemed to preen with a strange sort of pride, at that. He could be sweet, when he wanted to be. The way Hermione told it, Harry was prone to getting caught up in bouts of boyish idiocy. None of the foolishness was there in him now, as he smiled at his friends, smiled at Draco.

“Can I hold her, do you think?” Harry asked. He seemed excited about the prospect. It seemed strange to Draco that a man who could talk to snakes had spent so little time interacting with them. “Does she mind being held?” 

“She rather likes it, I think.” Draco nods, “She likes to ride around under my sleeve. Or, at least, she’s never bitten me for it.” A beat passes, “You could always ask her?” 

“Oh, Harry, do it.” Hermione prompted. There was an almost scientific curiosity alive on her face. “You never get the chance to practice outside of awful, stressful, life or death situations.” 

“That’s not true.” Harry protests, “I talked to a snake in the zoo, when I was ten.” 

“Talk to the snake, Potter.” Draco commanded, sitting back on his heels so he could watch Harry. 

Strangely enough, Harry listened to his demand. With a shake of his head, Harry ducked his head to look in at Salazar through the glass again. She was tracking the movement of his head with her own, tongue flicking out to taste the air. 

The hissing sound that escaped from Harry’s mouth shouldn’t have been a surprise. Draco had heard it before. Harry had done it right in front of him before. But it was different now, when they were so close together, when they weren’t in the middle of a duel. 

It sounded almost musical. Beautiful, in its own ways. It sent a strange kind of shiver down Draco’s spine, made him want to flee the scene, made him want to hear more. After several long moments, Salazar seemed to reply to Harry, and it made the dark haired boy laugh. 

“She likes it,” Harry told them, “When you pick her up and carry her around.” 

Draco was the one preening, at that. The warm flush of satisfaction stayed with him for the rest of the day. 

Malfoy Manor is cold. The expansive grounds of the estate are blanketed heavily in snow, trees bare and flowers dead for the season. It looks like a dark castle out of a storybook, during the winter months, a sharp contrast to the warmth of spring and summer. 

In the scant moments after apparition, as they stand on the doorstep, Draco can see his breath clouding the air. His mother rests a hand on his shoulder, her fingers squeeze gently, a moment of shared strength before they step inside the house.

The inside of the house was just as cold as the outside. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floors. None of the downstairs fires were lit. The candles flickered to life and began to burn with one single click of his mother’s fingers. 

“Your father is in a bit of a… mood, today.” Narcissa Malfoy told her son, leading him into the drawing room with a gentle hand. “Best to leave him to his own devices until dinner.” 

“He doesn’t want to see me?” Draco asked, a gentle kind of curiosity in it. 

He had been expecting the worst. After his father’s visit at the start of the year, Draco was sure he would be summoned into the study the moment he stepped through the door. He had mentally prepared himself for whatever punishments his father had thought up for him in the months since they had spoken last. 

“Not just yet,” She assured him. 

It caught him off guard; left him feeling strangely imbalanced as he took a seat at the table that had been laid for them. Rose infused tea and scones, warm and decadent, with fresh butter and raspberry jam. His favourite. 

He allowed a small smile to flicker over his face. The punishment would come, sooner or later, and he would have preferred to get it over and done with right away. But this — this was good too. He would take any chance he got to relax in his mother’s company, just the two of them, with nothing to keep them away from one another and no walls between them. 

“Shall I pour?” He asked her, and she smiled back at him. His mother liked it when he was polite, when he showed off the gentle manners he had learned at such a young age. She liked it too when he acted like he was taking care of her, small acts of service to show how much he cared, deep down. They weren’t a family that was effusive with words of affirmation, so they needed to learn how to show it in the little ways. Love didn’t need to be spoken between them, they were both safe in the assurance that it was there.

“Please,” She nodded, and Draco poured the tea into her cup. “Tell me about school, then. How are you enjoying your third year?” 

“It’s… busy.” He said, taking a moment to think over the words. “I’m enjoying it regardless. My classes are interesting, I think I’m learning a lot. Some of my professors have even given me extra reading to do.”

“They have?” 

“Professor Lupin says that I have a naturally philosophical mind.” His eyes flick up to meet hers, and he watches something on her face shift. “The two of you knew each other, didn’t you?” 

“Our paths crossed, once or twice.” There’s no hesitation in her reply. She doesn’t question herself, but there’s something else hiding behind her words that he can’t quite name. 

He lets it sit for a moment, before he takes the leap. “Because he was friends with Cousin Sirius?” 

His mother’s gaze grows more intent, and she covers any discomfort with a long sip of her tea. He does the same thing when he’s slightly uncomfortable. He wonders if he inherited that habit from her. He wonders too if she’ll change the subject. Draco was a master at worming his way out of conversations he didn’t want to have. She didn’t avoid it, however.

She sat her teacup back down, and said: “Yes,” 

And then, “Did he tell you that? That Sirius and he were… friends, with one another?” 

“Not in so many words.” Draco admitted. “But the truth has its way of coming to light.” 

Her head nods, and she offers him a small, gentle smile. “I suppose Sirius is quite the popular topic of conversation this year.” 

“Quite.” 

“It’s natural to feel a certain sense of curiosity about your family, but I do hope you aren’t dwelling on him.” 

“It isn’t me whose doing the dwelling, actually.” He begins, and falters in it. “I have a friend, you see. A new friend. A friend that I don’t think father would approve of.” 

Her smile shifts, but still feels gentle, still feels accepting. In all of his years of life, Draco has never worried that his mother would shun him. He’s lucky in that surety. He’s lucky that one of his parents is so gentle, so warm, so protective.

“I see,” A breath of a word, her eyes flicking toward the door. “Well, darling. There are no rules that you have to tell your father about all of your friends.” 

He nods his head, and relaxes slightly in his chair. 

“Your new friend is rather concerned about Sirius Black, I take it.” 

Another nod. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” His mother carries on. “And I would tell your friend not to worry either.”

Not to worry? But how could Draco tell Harry not to worry about the man who had helped murder his parents, who wanted to murder him? It didn’t make any sense. If Sirius Black was the venomous snake flashing warning colours in the grass, shouldn’t they spend time worrying about him? 

He thought of his Aunt Andromeda then, this woman who he had never known, who existed only in the letters that she exchanged with Remus Lupin. Aunt Andromeda, who found it so hard to believe that her cousin could be a killer. 

Did his mother not believe it? Did their doubt run in the family too?

His silence must have lingered for too long, because his mother offered another topic of conversation before long. 

“How is Pansy settling in this year?” She asks, a favored topic of conversation. As far as Draco could tell, it was his mothers greatest wish that he and Pansy should fall in love and get married someday. It would be neat, tidy. 

Draco had to shake himself from his contemplation of Black, and focus on his mothers words. There would be time to dwell on murderers later. 

Sunrise on the solstice is observed by mother and son in perfect harmony. They sit on the hilltop that overlooks the grounds of Malfoy Manor, a blanket beneath them, and watch as the sun breaks over the horizon in perfect breathtaking splendor. 

Draco feels at peace — utterly and truly. 

Calling on the ancient magic of the land, the ancient magic of their ancestors, it empowers and revitalizes in a way almost impossible to describe. 

“It’s about balance,” His mother reminds him, with whisper-soft words. “Light and dark exist in perfect harmony. They chase each other, a constant pursuit. They hate each other, they love each other — a love so powerful they need to devour each other just so they can be close.” 

There is comfort in that; a sense of completeness, heightened when his mother takes his palm in hers and holds it there. Her fingers ghost over the back of his hand, a senseless pattern of circles and spirals. 

“It’s about harmony, too.” She tells him, breath misting the air. “Life, death, rebirth. Energy and magic are finite and infinite all at once. Existence is circular, like the wheel of the year, turning ever onward.” 

It’s beautiful, really. His mother is always poetic on sabbat days, with a look in her eyes that reminds Draco of ancient priestesses. She’s a creature from Arthurian Legend when she gets like that, and it always takes his breath away. 

The energy of the morning carries him through the day, and he doesn’t even see a glimpse of his father. He hasn’t, since he got home. It’s lulled him into a false sense of security, allowed him to indulge in the recklessness of a carefree attitude. He slouches at breakfast and laughs so hard at lunch that he almost snorts water out of his nose, pure joy reflecting back at him from his mother’s eyes. 

It’s too good to be true, and too good to last — but it’s one perfect day that Draco makes the most of.

Sun sets on the solstice, the shortest day of the year, but Draco and his mother engage in revelries late into the night. She allows him to taste her wine, just a sip. She sings old songs and tells stories from her childhood. 

“Do you think Aunt Bella knows it’s Yule?” Draco asks her, sitting before the fire that burns in the hearth, the fire that must continue to burn uninterrupted for the next twelve days. 

“I hope so,” His mother nods, “She’ll be strengthened by it.” 

“Do you think she misses us?” 

“I know she does.” His mother tells him, her gentle smile warming her face. She leans down and touches Draco’s cheek, a soft caress. “She adored you, my sweet boy.” 

“Do you think —” He starts, and trails off. Do you think Aunt Andromeda still celebrates? That was what he had almost asked. He thinks better of it; knows without needing to ask that the question would only bring his mother sorrow. “Do you think I’ll ever see her again?” He asks, instead. 

There is sadness in that question too, but its a sadness his mother has grown accustomed to. 

“I don’t know,” She tells him, “But nothing is impossible.” 

She sends him to bed during the witching hour, the air around him thrumming and practically alive with magic. He’s too energized to sleep, so he gathers the heavy wooden box from Singh & Sons instead, and summons Kreacher with a whisper in the night air. 

“Young Master Draco,” The elf greets him, a croaking whisper of a voice. 

“Glad tidings, Kreacher.” Draco whispers back. “Have you had a good Yule?” 

“Kreacher has been taking care of the Mistress’s portrait.” He croaks, in return. “Things must be cleaned for the solstice.” 

Draco smiles at the small elf. “That’s very good, Kreacher.” He tells him, and watches as the elf perks up. “I’m sure she’s grateful to have you guarding her legacy.” 

“It is an honor, Master Draco.” 

“I’m working on guarding our legacy too, Kreacher.” Draco tells him. “I’ve reclaimed a family heirloom. I was hoping you could take me back to Black Abbey, so I can bring these back there.” 

A click, and the wooden box opens easily under his fingertips. Kreacher’s already wide eyes widen further at the sight of the gleaming metal and glass enclosed within. 

“Master Antares’s heirlooms.” Kreacher almost gasps, “Back in the hands of the family at last.” There are tears welling up behind those eyes, happiness overflowing as if there was too much of it to fit inside the creatures small body. He is sycophantic in his devotion, an endless well of loyalty that would never run dry. 

“Cousin Regulus tried to buy them back, once. I’m finishing what he started.” Draco tells him, a hushed whisper. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” 

“Of course, of course. Kreacher is doing anything that the Young Master needs. Draco Malfoy is a good boy, a blessing on the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Oh, how my Mistress would weep tears of joy to know that her home is finally in good hands again. Mistress thought all was lost after Master Regulus died and now there is a new heir to make things right again. Of course, of course, Kreacher will help Draco Malfoy.” 

“Okay —” Draco cuts the elf off, a hurried breath as the volume of his words began to raise, overcome with his joy. He reaches out and rubs a soothing hand over Kreacher’s back. “Okay, thank you, that’s wonderful. I really appreciate it, Kreacher. Now, can you take me to—” 

Before he can finish the sentence the air seems to crack around him. Getting pulled from one place to another by Kreacher isn’t quite like side-along apparition. No squeeze, no pull, no aching in his chest. He’s simply at home one moment, and standing outside the Cosmoscope the next.

The golden gilded doors are as breathtaking now as they were all those months ago, during the summer, when his gift was first imparted to him. He rips his eyes away from them and glances down at Kreacher. “Would you like to come inside?”

Those eyes widen again, and Kreacher gives a quick nod. With determination, Draco rests a hand on the door and pushes it open. It doesn’t make a sound as it parts and allows him entry into the Cosmoscope once more. The seven mirrors are there, glinting in moonlight that shines down from the domed roof above. 

He glances at each of them. Seven mirrors. Seven names. 

Draco. Regulus. Alphard. Antares. Lyra. Polaris. Irena. 

Kreacher’s eyes are wide as he looks around the room in wonder — but this clearly isn’t the first time he’s been here. The elf stops in front of the mirror with Regulus’s name painted above it. His cousin must have brought the elf here, once or twice. Draco is glad he made the offer, suddenly. Kreacher was just as much part of his family’s legacy as Draco was. 

The mirrors, now, reflect only Draco. He lets out a heavy sigh at the sight of himself, mirrored back infinitely, as if there are hundreds of him in the room instead of just one. He tears his eyes away from the glass and looks at the telescope. 

“I need something to clean these with.” Draco says to the room at large. The words are followed by a snap of Kreacher’s fingers, an ornate table appearing with all of the necessary tools. 

“And a book?” He asks, “On the proper collimation of a telescope like this one. Or notes? Did Antares have notes?” 

Another snap, and a journal appears. It’s written in delicate cursive that he recognizes from the manuscripts of Antares Black. He smiles, and it reflects back a hundred times. 

“Will the Young Master be needing a chair?” Kreacher asks, eagerness laced in every inch of his rasping voice. 

“Please,” Draco nods, and one appears before the table. It’s an ornate thing; dark wood and green upholstery so dark it’s almost black. It must have come from somewhere in the house — or from Grimmauld Place. It would probably be easier for Kreacher to summon from there, with that house being his domain. 

The padding of the seat is comfortable, and he finds himself relaxing as he pours over the notes laid out in the journal. He reads and reads and reads, and finds that he understands the words written there well enough. His astronomy lessons have given him enough of a foundation that the descriptions and instructions written out in Antares Black’s hand make sense. He can see what he needs to do in his minds eye. 

When he cleans the lenses and sets about fixing the telescope, it’s like he enters a meditative state. The world around him isn’t as important as the work his hands are doing. He allows himself to get lost in it, allows himself to grow blind to his surroundings and his many reflections. 

It’s a long time before the world around him feels real again. A long time before he realizes that there are voices murmuring words around him. 

“Too blonde.” One of them is saying, “Hardly looks like a Black at all. Such a shame.” 

“But he has our eyes. Such lovely eyes.” 

“He’d have more than our eyes if his mother had the sense to marry someone of the proper blood.” 

“Not all of us have the overwhelming urge to marry our siblings and cousins.”

The voice tuts, then. “No, some of us have to run away with muggles.” 

Draco lifts his head from the telescope, and glances up. The faces looking back at him aren’t his own anymore. Regulus is crouched, with a sullen look on his face. The only thing his attention rests on is Kreacher, mouth moving in a whisper. A flick to the left, and Draco earns his first glance at what must be Alphard Black. 

He returns his attention to the scope, buffing away a scratch. 

“Don’t start on that again, old man.” Alphard hisses. Right. He’d run away with a muggle man and… lived the kind of life that got you disowned. 

“At least you didn’t sully the line with the blood of Septimus Malfoy, I suppose.” There was the sound of tutting, “That rake, that rogue, that villain.” 

Septimus Malfoy had been Draco’s great-great-grandfather. The seventh child of the family, a powerful wizard therefore, and particularly hard on muggles. He had been the father of Brutus, who sired grandfather Abraxas. He’d married Titania Nott and sired seven children with her; Brutus had been the only one to live long enough to sire a child.

“Don’t deride the boys family in front of him.” Alphard scolded, as if he may find fault with every word that escaped the other mans mouth. “You’ll only drive him into their arms.” 

“I’m in no danger of being driven anywhere by the likes of you.” Draco commented, finally pulling his attention back on the men. He fixed his eyes on Alphard again. 

The man waggles his fingers in a wave. “Nice to meet you. You’re doing a wonderful job there, Great-Nephew of mine. Tell him he’s doing a good job, Antares.” 

The man beside him tuts. “He isn’t butchering it, I suppose.” 

Draco finds himself rolling his eyes despite himself. 

“You’re not very polite,” Draco muses. “And to think, I went to all of this trouble to bring your things home for you.” 

A laugh carries out, and his eyes are drawn to a woman. That was Lyra. She looked like — she looked like all the rest of them, everyone in the damned family. Her head was a riot of black curls, and her eyes gleamed grey from her beautiful face. “He’s funny.” She said, with laughter in her voice. “I like him.” 

“Irena is going to hate him.” Antares tells them.

“Irena is going to adore him.” Alphard says, as if he has made it his life mission to be as much of a contrarian as he can. 

Draco glances at the mirror bearing the name of Irena Black. She isn’t there. 

“You mustn’t be too hard on him, Antares.” Lyra scolds. “Look at him. He’s just a child.” 

“I’m thirteen.” He argues, somehow offended by her words. 

“A babe, ripped from his cradle.” 

His gaze finds a familiar one. The second-youngest face in the room. He looks at Regulus, and Regulus looks at him. Kreacher has backed away from the glass now, eyes wet. Whatever they’ve discussed, Draco isn’t sure — and he won’t pry into it. Some things are better left between a dead man and his old elf. 

“Is this part of my test?” Draco asks him, instead. Draco watches as Regulus’s lip just barely quirks, and counts the movement of it as a victory. Even that small movement softens the plains of his face and makes him look more approachable, less like a marble statue tucked away in a museum. 

“No. They’re just insufferable.” Regulus tells him, monotone and sarcastic. “You can ignore them. That’s what I did.” 

“And look where it got you,” Lyra comments, her voice melodic compared to their own. “Another babe ripped from his cradle and dead too soon.” 

“This is where the ignoring starts.” Regulus continues. “Eventually, their voices tend to fade into the background. A background noise. Like music playing from another room.” 

It was an invocation of peace, in a way — memories of mother on the piano while Draco read in the library, the sweet melody of her music flowing down the hall until it met his ears. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Regulus tilts his head. It’s the movement of a predator as it sizes up its prey. Draco gets the impression that Regulus always looks like that. Foreboding at best. He looks like Narcissa, strangely, looks like mother. There is something in the set of their shoulders and the angle at which he holds his head; something in the shadowed sharpness of his eyes. His face is a placid lake, perfectly practiced, like a shield against the world. 

“Have you Seen anything, yet?” He asks, with that sharp look in his eyes. 

“Just one thing.” Draco admits. 

“How did you See it?” 

“I used a scrying pool.” A beat, uncertainty — he feels like he’s being tested, despite what Regulus has said; the notion is backed up by the fact that all the others have fallen quiet, no longer quarreling with one another behind Draco’s back. “It was last minute.”

“And what was it? What did the pool show you?” 

Draco stops, and feels the sense-memory of that sunshine on his skin. The not-quite-yet sunshine, the rays of warmth that won’t hit the earth for years, because the sun hasn’t even started dreaming of them yet. “Myself. Myself and Hermione Granger, older and much closer. I don’t know where we were, or when we were, or what our problems were. I seemed to be…doing rather poorly, but I’m not sure what happened before or after we talked.” 

“Adorable. Such a simple little vision.” The smile quirks again, and maybe if Draco was someone else it would look mean. It doesn’t. It looks almost fond instead. “You’ll get the knack for seeing wider details soon enough. You’ll get used to seeing yourself doing rather poorly too. It’s rather a through-line, a marker of our curse. We see so much of our selves, and it’s never good.” 

“That’s it, then?” Draco asks, “I’ll see myself miserable, forever, and then I’ll die.” 

“The gift drowns us all in the end, Draco.” It sounds almost like it should be comforting. There is nonchalance in Regulus’s stance — but Regulus holds his body like a weapon, even in his indifference. He’s a creature of intent, Draco realizes. A man who does nothing without a good reason. He’s a man who has made himself into something perfect by spite alone. He’s gentle, too. Draco can see that in his eyes, the same way he heard about it in all of his mother’s stories. 

“That’s the one truth I’ve been thinking about since last we met. It’s what I should have warned you about, the last time you came here. You said you wanted to change the future, and I told you that you could. You could. You might. But I should have told you that it will break you before the end.” 

“Break me?” 

Regulus smiled a tremulous smile. 

“We don’t get happy endings. You might build a better world, Draco — but you’re never going to live in one. It won’t be for you. You’d be the trade, you see? Your happiness in exchange for peace. That’s how it always works.” 

No happy endings. 

No fairytale Prince on noble steed, no one to hold his hand while he labored at this whimsical change of heart. No comfort at the end. He thought about little Ginny Weasley and her silly hero worship; and about how her hero worship isn’t so silly after all. If someone was going to save Draco, in the way that Harry had saved Ginny… he’d love them forever; love them with feverish persistence. 

No happy endings. Not for him. 

And why does that make sense? Why does that feel like destiny knocking on his ribcage. It’s 

“It’s not so bad.” Alphard says, quiet and velvet soft. He sounds wistful with it, longing, aching. It isn’t a denial, isn’t an attempt at comfort. It’s knowledge carefully imparted. “You’ll find some joy in the middle. If you’re lucky, whatever joy you find will be worth becoming a martyr to your cause.” 

Draco looks between them. Alphard was older than Regulus; he’d had more life to live. Did it make a difference, that he’d done and seen more? Did Regulus resent his passing because he had done so little to find joy in? 

“This family is utterly crap at Yule.” He complains, with a slightly shuddering breath. He wishes he had as much practice collecting himself as Regulus clearly had. “I bring you presents and you bring me portents of doom?” 

“A friendly warning, that’s all.” 

Sunrise breaks over the horizon, the first rays beginning to shine in through the windows and glint against the golden frames. For a minute the mirror shines so bright that Draco can’t see anyone, anymore. 

“Better run home, little cousin.” Regulus tells him. “I imagine this is rather a Cinderella at the ball situation for you. Bad things might happen if people see you out of bed.” 

Draco does go home, deposited by Kreacher; because Regulus was right. Bad things would happen if his father or mother noticed he wasn’t there. 

Chapter Text

One — Remus

Remus wakes from the dream — no, not a dream, a nightmare. He wakes from the nightmare in a cold sweat, startling upright in his bed. His sheets are soaked in sweat again, the fever that sets upon him so often when the full moon approaches. 

He lays back, shaking as he looks at the dark space above his bed. 

His mind is haunted by the dream-like remembrances, by the sight of Sirius Black the first time he held Harry in his arms. The smile on his face. The messy curls that had begun to reach past his shoulders. 

Remus remembers watching as Sirius had dipped his head, and pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s tiny hand. He’d looked like his entire world had been shaken apart and reformed around him. He’d looked like he was falling in love. He’d looked shaken. He’d looked utterly devoted to the child he held. 

Remus remembers what Sirius had whispered, low and private, just to Harry. “It’s you and me, kid.”  Remus shouldn’t have heard it. Wouldn’t have heard it, if it hadn’t been so close to the moon and his senses so heightened. 

He screws his eyes shut for a moment and shakes his head. 

Damn Sirius. 

Damn him for betraying them,

Damn him for having been so beautiful. 

Damn him for having pretending, just for a little while, to love Remus. 

The pretense had stopped before the true betrayal came, before James and Lily died. Perhaps that was a kindness, on Sirius’s part, to have already broken things between them before he fulfilled the rest of his plan.

The thought brought back more memories; wrenching recollections of the day Sirius left. The way that Remus had walked into the flat to find Sirius with a bag packed, Sirius with a haunted look in his eyes and tears clumping his long, long eyelashes together. 

He looked beautiful even when he cried. 

He looked beautiful even when he looked at Remus like Remus was something awful. 

He looked beautiful even when he broke Remus’s heart, when he said; 

“Marlene’s dead.” 

And; “They murdered her whole family. While you were gone. Gone away on your little mission.” 

And; “I’m going to stay with Pete.” 

“When are you coming back?” That was what Remus had asked — still delusional, and clinging on to the half-hope that Sirius was good at heart. But Sirius hadn’t come back. He hadn’t come back at all. 

He sat up in bed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t sleep anymore that night. Remus let out a hiss when his feet touched the stone floor. It was ice cold in the winter; he remembers it had been that way when he was at school. 

Sirius used to have a rug that he put in-between their beds. It had an everlasting warming charm baked into plush fabric. Sometimes it seemed like every important interaction they had was while they sat on that rug; passing cigarettes back and forth, getting too high, longing to see the inside of each others heads. 

Remus found slippers and tried not to shiver as he pulled his robe over his shoulders. With a word, the fire in his hearth burst back to life. The room he had been given when he accepted his Professorship was modest but comfortable. It had everything he needed, and it would warm up soon enough with the fire going.

He put the kettle over the fire to heat. A calming cup of tea would help him to settle his nerves before morning broke. They had been frayed and raw since his conversation with Harry, before the holidays began. Damn that Malfoy boy for talking him into it, and damn him for being right about it. Harry had needed to hear it, but it had still torn open too many old wounds. 

Every thought of Sirius brought agony; and yet, Remus couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

Even as he was brewing his tea, his eyes caught on the latest letter from Andromeda. It certainly hadn’t helped his latest curse. Of course a letter where Sirius was so heavily discussed would cause him to dream of the man. He plucked it to read the words again, despite knowing that it would only stoke the miserable fire in his gut. 

Dear Remus, 

I hoped you would have accepted my invitation to spend the holidays with my family, but I can’t say I blame you for declining. I’m sure the food they serve at Hogwarts is far better than anything myself and Ted will be responsible for. Yes — He still insists we cook the muggle way. Something about the gas appliances resulting in a better taste? Frankly, I think the food being un-burned results in something far more delicious than anything he has managed to provide. 

I have enclosed a small token, from the family as a whole. Ted picked it out, so I’m sure that it’s nowhere near the height of fashion, and you should like it just fine. He sends his regards, by the way. He also wanted me to express some sort of news to you regarding the muggle football game you like; but I told him to get his own letter if he wanted to woo you. Expect his love note shortly. Ha. 

On a more macabre note; I’ve been thinking about him again. You know he always loved this time of year. Snow on the ground and endless songs of yuletide cheer. It was like he wasn’t really alive until the first snow fell each year. He was so innocent, back then. As pure as the fallen snow itself. 

I know it pains you when I speak of this, Remus. It pains me too, to burden you. Yesterday I had begun to think that maybe you were right; maybe I needed to accept that the boy I knew was a monster all along. But then today, the snow began to fall again, and I remembered what I know . 

He can’t have done it, Remus. Not to James, not to Lily. I have known him since the day he was born, and I know he cannot have been capable of it. I saw him just days before they died, did you know? He was talking about how all he wanted for his birthday was to see the Potters; to see Harry. 

He loved them. 

We Black’s love rarely, but we love fiercely too. When we find the person worth dedicating our hearts too, we would rather die ourselves than hurt them. He would have burned himself alive to keep them safe. 

I tried to tell Dumbledore that, but he didn’t listen. 

I need you to listen. Consider it. Think about what you know .

Yours, 

Andy. 

What did Remus know? That James was dead. Lily was dead. Peter was dead. Sirius hadn’t killed them all with his own wand, but he had been responsible for all three. He knew that Harry was alone, because of Sirius. Sirius had admitted the fault himself.

Alastor Moody showed him the memory of it himself. 

“It’s my fault.” Sirius had said, a hundred times over. Wide eyed and dazed, covered in dirt and rubble and the blood of the muggles he had killed. There had been tear tracks running down his face, but eventually he had started to laugh. Hysterical. His best friends were dead, and he was laughing, laughing so hard he lost all breath. 

He threw the letter into the fire. He gazed at it as it burned. 

He was so tired. 

He was so tired, and yet sleep evaded him. Even after his tea, he still felt like a zombie. All Remus could be glad for was that classes wouldn’t start up for another good while, and that the moon wasn’t yet full in the sky. He was free to wallow in his hurt for some time before he had to pull himself together. 

The daze of his sleepless night stays with him all throughout the day. Christmas Eve, but Remus doesn’t feel any of the warmth of holiday cheer. Loneliness has been the order of the day since that faithful night in 1981. No one to share his felicitations with, no family to gather around a tree. He moves like a ghost through the castle, quiet and reserved and utterly unseen by the majority of the castles inhabitants. 

Remus doesn’t know if he wants to track Harry down, or avoid him until classes start again. He had already promised lessons in the patronus charm. They would have frequent classes together, when term started back up. Plenty of time to bond in all of the ways Dumbledore had warned him against. The more he saw of Harry, the more they spoke, the harder it became to stay away from him. 

It was torture, to let himself get attached. It would end badly. It would surely leave him heartbroken again in one way or another. He was no one, to Harry — just an old friend of his parents, just a teacher. There had never been an Uncle Moony, and he had never been there to sooth Harry’s many hurts.

It was torture, but Remus was doing it regardless. 

The decision of whether to find Harry or not was taken out of his hands. He spotted the boy from a window on the second floor as he passed. The shock of his dark hair against the snow made him particularly easy to spot. He wasn’t the only thing that stood out against the snow. 

There was another dark shape, out there, chasing snowflakes. 

His heart stopped at the sight of it. The dog. 

Padfoot. 

Remus hasn’t ran anywhere for years now. His limbs too sore, most of the time. But when he processed the sight before him, he ran. Frantic, breathless, he spilled out onto the snowy grounds. 

“Harry?” He called, across the grounds — The dog was gone, he saw, but Harry remained. He could see the tracks across the snow, leading toward the forest again, as he lumbered through the snow toward the boy. “Harry,” he repeated, when the boy met his eyes. “What are you doing?” 

“I was feeding Draco’s dog, Professor.” 

“Dog?” He’s aware, even as he speaks, that he must look and sound unhinged. “Where’s the dog now? Where did Draco get a dog?” 

“It’s a stray,” Harry told him. “From the village, he said? It followed him home on Halloween.” 

Halloween. The night that Sirius had attacked the portrait of the Fat Lady. The night that Sirius had tried to kill Harry Potter. It was Padfoot, Remus was certain of it. He would know Padfoot instantly, he would know him from the briefest of glimpses. Even now, he could catch the scent of Padfoot on the air. The wolf in him ached; every moon it howled for its old stalwart companion. It didn’t understand that it could never run with Padfoot again, because Sirius Black was a traitor. 

“We’ve been calling him Grim,” Harry supplies, with a quirk of a smile. He looks as if he knows he shouldn’t be here — more than one Professor has told Harry not to wander the grounds alone. He isn’t supposed to, because Sirius Black might find him and — 

And… 

“How many times have you seen this dog, Harry?” He asks, quick. “Honestly?” 

“Er,” A floundering moment. “Three, sir?” 

Because Sirius Black might find him and do nothing at all, apparently. He scans his eyes over Harry as if he’ll suddenly see a wound that needs tending. There isn’t a hair out of place, however. No blood, no wounds, no damage at all. 

“Is something wrong, Professor?” Harry asks, when the silence has lingered for too long. 

“You shouldn’t be out here on your own,” Remus finally breathes. “Come along, back inside. Next time you need a breath of fresh air, come and get me, alright?” 

Harry follows, as he steps back toward the castle. The child has tact, because he doesn’t point out Remus’s shuddering breaths or the haunted look in his eyes. With every blink he sees it again; Harry in Sirius’s arms for the first time, the kiss to his tiny fingertips, ‘it’s you and me, kid.’ 

He’s stuck in it for a moment, remembering what Andromeda wrote before he burned the words in the fire. 

Sirius loved them. Before that cold October day, Remus had never doubted it. The love Sirius showed him? Yes, that could have been counterfeit, a cruel dalliance to play with Remus before Sirius cast him aside. But his love for the Potters? Each and every one of them? 

He had called Euphemia Potter his mother, once, and wept for days when she died. Sirius had organised the brunt of the funeral, had been so strong for Fleamont and James, had been a boy they spoke of as indomitable and unflinching. How sweet he is, the guests at the wake had said, how strong, how beautiful, how devoted a son. 

He had done the same for Fleamont, when dragon-pox took him only a few scant months later. Once upon a time, Sirius had been afraid of the man; fathers were often cruel, and Sirius had been hurt by his own a thousand times. But Fleamont Potter was nothing like Orion Black, and he had doted on the boy his son brought home. He had meant it, when he called Sirius his child. ‘It’s you and me, kid,’ Fleamont had told him on the night he ran away from home. ‘We’ll get through this together.’ 

So Sirius had been the loyal brother standing by James’ side, the shoulder that James wept on, the steady rock that could be leaned against in time of trial. He had been exactly what they said he was; unflinching, indomitable, strong, beautiful, devoted. 

Only Remus had been allowed to see him break, each time. Only Remus had been gifted his vulnerability and pain. Remus had held him as he cried, cooed gentle words in his ear as his body shook with grief. 

Grief like that couldn’t be faked. Sirius had loved them.

“Remus?” Harry’s voice break through. It must not have been the first time that Harry tried to get his attention. He must have tried Professor first, surely. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” Remus assured him, ripping himself away from the recollections. “I fear I may be coming down with something.” 

“Should I get Madame Pomfrey?” 

“No, no. I’ll be alright.” His smile is tremulous, but he manages it. “And you, Harry? Are you holding up alright?” 

“I’m alright,” Harry nods. 

“I was worried for you, after our talk the other day.” Remus allows himself to confess the worry, allows Harry to hear it. It’s dangerous to get too close, but Remus needs family in any way he can get it. 

“You weren’t wrong to be, I s’pose. I was angry.” 

“Is that the past tense that I note?” 

“I can’t believe I’m going to say it, but talking to Draco about everything actually helped.” Harry scratches at his own chin, cheeks going pink when he return to the relative warmth of the castle walls. “I’m taking his advice.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Remus tells him. It really did sound remarkably well-adjusted. “Have you heard from Draco, since he left for the holidays?” 

Harry shakes his head, offering another smile. “I’m not sure we’re the exchanging letters during the Holidays sort of friends. His dad wouldn’t like it, and he’s probably too busy anyway.”

“Oh?” 

“It’s all…horse-riding and balls and piano lessons, from what he says. I just hope —”

“What is it?” 

“Nothing. No, nothing. Actually —” Harry looks up at him, and his eyes are as disarming as they always are. “Have you ever fed a snake, sir?” 

“Strangely enough, I have. Why do you ask?” 

“It’s only — I promised Draco I’d feed his pet, and I’m supposed to give him his first mouse tonight, only—” 

“It’s gross.” 

“So gross.” Harry said, emphatically. “I don’t know how he does it.” 

“Do you—” Remus ached, suddenly, at the realisation that Harry was doing something James had done a thousand times; trying to get Remus to solve his gross problems for him. Removing spiders from the shower had been Remus’s solemn task for seven years straight. The ache was punctuated with a burst of breathless laughter. “Do you want me to help you, Harry?” 

“Please,” 

His laughter grew. 

So Remus spent Christmas Eve in the Gryffindor common room, one last time, with the boy who should have been his family. He laughed, he talked, he smiled, and when he went back to his own rooms again, the holiday spirit didn’t feel so far away anymore. 

Two — Theo

It’s always strange when the holidays come. He goes from seeing Draco and Pansy every day to aching for their company with every minute. Months of constant company — and then suddenly, Theo is at home, utterly alone again. 

Somehow, this year, the ache is worse. 

Something has been different between them. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise to realise that Draco and Pansy have been sharing some secret together. They were friends first, of course they were. They had more in common, a more natural kind of connection. It was Theo who had needed to earn their love. 

Still, it was rare for them to keep things from him. 

He saw them whispering sometimes. More than once he had approached and Draco had clearly changed the subject rather suddenly, as if afraid Theo would hear something he shouldn’t. It stung, in a distant sort of way. 

He had always been a little bit afraid that they would choose each other over him, someday. It seemed, sometimes, like they were destined to marry and have a million pretty little children, leaving Theo utterly on his own again in the Nott family townhouse. 

Of course, then Draco decided to send him a letter every single day of the break, and make Theo doubt his own insecurity. The carefully folded pile of letters sat on his desk, and he tried not to let it catch his eye as he prepared for the ball. 

The townhouse is drafty, because his mother is going through one of her peculiar phases. She has insisted that all of the windows be opened to air the house, freezing air blowing in and chilling them all to their bones. Grandfather will catch his death, and he doesn’t half wonder if that’s her intention. He was a cruel dictator to live under, and if he had married into such a house he would have thrown himself from the rooftop on the first opportunity. 

His mother was made of sterner stuff than that, he supposed; thought she haunted their estate like a ghost. Silent feet padding through hallways, the white of her nightgown and bags under her eyes. She whispered most of her words, but that was fine, because father liked her to be seen and not heard. And it was fine, too, because Theo knew to sit close to her in closed off drawing rooms and whisper back. 

He hurried to do up his buttons; so that he could hurry to her in turn. 

She was anxious, to leave the house. Anxious about the ball. When he pokes his head into her drawing room, she smiles at him through her reflection in the mirror. 

“Sweet boy, come and help your mother.” She says, gentle voiced. 

He clasps her necklace for her, catches the comforting scent of her perfume, and then takes a seat beside her so he can watch her move. She’s covering the dark circles under her eyes. 

“Are you excited, little dove? I know you ache for your friends.” 

“It will be nice to see them.” 

“You must promise to dance.” She said, with utter seriousness in her voice. “You can only do it for so long before it stops being fun. A few years, and dancing will be an expectation. Better to do it now while you can enjoy it.”

“I’ll dance after Draco and Pansy have embarrassed themselves with their show.”

It earned a laugh from her, a surprised bubble of a thing. “Oh, but I can’t wait. Won’t you told me what song they’ve chosen this year?” 

“And ruin the surprise?” A shake of his head. “They’ll skin me alive.” 

Every year since their first year, Draco and Pansy had managed to be the centre of attention at every Christmas Ball. They were quite the double act; it was practically written in the rules now that they had to preform one song at every party. Draco had kept playing the piano for so long for two reasons: to entertain his mother, and to get out of singing in front of other people. He was good enough at it, but for some reason had been overcome with a terrible sense of vocal stagefright. As long as he played the piano for her, Pansy was happy enough to sing all on her own. 

Theo found it endearing, really. 

When he was very young, he didn’t know how to like Draco very much. They had been close; practically raised together. Three babies, born so close. It was a rare opportunity to solidify household alliances with lifelong friendships. Physically, they had always been close to each other. Emotionally, it took longer. 

Draco had been too perfect, for a while. Cold, calm, imperious even as a child. It was important for him that his father found no flaw in his behaviour, so Draco had never broken a single rule. He had been flawless, inhumanly so. 

It was his weaknesses that made him seem approachable. His fear of water, his stagefright, it made him more than what he’d seemed before; the platonic ideal of the perfect pureblood heir. 

It was endearing that Draco could primp and preen with the best of them, and turned into a mute disaster when someone asked him to hum a tune out loud. It was endearing that Draco couldn’t do more than dip his feet in a body of water without breaking into a bloody panic attack. It was endearing that Draco feared his father, too. 

Those human fears had been the crack through which Theo learned to see Draco. To see his wit, and his dark humour, and his greatest fears; to see the sweetness behind the cold facade, and the way he wasn’t perfect at all. 

They arrive at the ball exactly as they should. His mother clings to his father’s arm, because he doesn’t like her to wander on her own. She won’t say a word tonight that he won’t here. He slips away the moment he finds Draco in the crowd. 

The three of them have been haunting the edges of ballrooms since they were old enough to walk. Draco takes him by the wrist and guides him to their chosen spot, and then there they are. Draco and Pansy flank him like soldiers. 

“Have you seen what the lovely Miss. Selwyn is wearing tonight?” 

“Or more importantly, who she was talking with as you came in?” 

“Flint.” Pansy practically squealed with excitement. Draco shushed her, with a laugh. 

“She can’t.” Theo argued. “He’s too young for her.” 

“Oh, it’s just a joke.” Draco drawled, and fixed that smile on Theo. It was a disarming thing, in scenarios like this. Of course, he sounded nothing but genuine when he carried on. “We’re a bit overexcited.” 

“We missed you.” 

“You want presents, but I didn’t bring them.” Theo tells them, watching as both of their shoulders slump slightly in perfect time. “You’ll get them in the morning, like everyone else.” 

“I told you.” Draco murmured. 

“You’re both spoiled.” 

Pansy straightened her back, “Easy for you to say. You’re far richer than I, oh grand heir, with a whole estate waiting for you. Whereas I shall inherit nothing and be left destitute, with only your gifts to comfort me in my time of need.” 

“Or you’ll marry well and lord over society, like all of our mothers to.” 

“There they are now.” Draco pointed out. All of their parents had gathered to say their hellos, it seemed. Theo watched with curiosity as Lucius Malfoy guided his own father away from the women. Probably off to sneak a drink somewhere more private. “It looks like they’re plotting something.”

“Those fine marriages Theo speaks of, I would imagine.” Her nose was wrinkled in distaste as she said the words. “My mother told me she wants me betrothed by the time I turn sixteen. Earlier if she can manage it. She’s got a list of suitable men.” 

“Sixteen?” Draco sounded appalled. 

“A year for courting, and then marriage once I come of age.” 

Both boys paled at the sound of it. 

“You could always decide to fall hopelessly in love with Draco, and make things easier for them.” Theo attempted to joke. He dreaded the day they finally took his advice and realised they were destined for each other. Kindred spirits, Draco called them. Soulmates. They would probably marry, even if they didn’t fall in love. If there were no better options they would obviously rather get stuck with each other for all eternity. 

“And be stuck with him for all eternity?” Pansy sighs, a creepily similar statement to what he himself had just been thinking. 

“A curse worse than death,” He nodded. 

He’d never admit it, but it was a lie. He thought about Draco sitting at the edges of pools, reading endless books. Draco, and his endless determination to be perfect. Draco, and his fingers slipping along piano keys. It wouldn’t be worse than death. 

“I’m telling father not to invite you all, next year.” Draco pouts, “Then you’ll regret treating me this way.” 

“Well, if Theo refuses us presents, and I am doomed to spend my life with Draco Malfoy, then I at least demand cake to make up for it.” 

The acquisition of cake involves sneaking into the kitchens and taking some for themselves. Draco would get in heaps of trouble, if his father found out — but his father never found out about the antics that went on in his own house. 

They were creeping back down the hallway when they passed Lucius’s study, and more importantly, the sound of their father’s voices. “…that Sirius Black.” The tail end of a sentence, that’s all. Theo was prepared to keep going when he felt Draco’s hand clutch around his arm to stop his movements. He’s stopped Pansy too, and all three of them stand in perfect silence, as the men inside the room began to laugh.

The sound of the laughter sends a chill down his spine. If the way Draco stiffens beside him is any indication, he feels the same thing. Draco pulls them into the shadows, just around the corner from the door, where they can still hear the words being said. “Quiet,” He whispers, as his father starts to speak. 

“Sirius Black, oh, I have to fight my laughter every time I hear the name.” Theo’s father said, genuine amusement in his voice. Theo doesn’t understand why they’re doing this — what can be so interesting about Sirius Black, that Draco wanted to risk getting caught eavesdropping. 

He sent Draco a questioning look, and Draco’s eyes pleaded with him to go along with it. Theo fought back a sigh, and trained his ears back toward the conversation at hand.

“The boy was such a plague when we were young.” 

“The boy is a plague now,” Mr. Parkinson grumbles, so low that Theo almost doesn’t catch the words. “All the board of Governors can talk about this year is Sirius Black.” 

“And the blasted Hippogriff, no doubt.” Severus Snape agrees, icy amusement in his voice. 

“It’s always one vermin or another.” His own father noted. “They’re worried to death that one of them will kill young Harry Potter.” 

Another laugh. 

“We should be so lucky.” Lucius’s voice was a slow drawl. “Sirius Black may be a half-mad harlot, but I’m willing to bet that he’d sooner die than harm a hair on Harry Potter’s head.” 

“The way he used to simper and fawn over the entire family.” A snort. “It’s a wonder his ilk believe it. Or that he was smart enough to be a spy.” 

He watched Draco tilt his head back in disbelief. He watched Draco mouth the word spy.

Oh, Theo thought. The poor fool hadn’t done it. Pansy’s shoulders tensed in shock at the same moment Theo thought it. He felt her on his other side, the warmth of her breath hitting his neck when she turned to look toward him and Draco. 

“He won’t be a problem for long. They’ve agreed to allow the dementors to give him the Kiss the very moment they lay eyes on him.” Severus drawled. It was a sound reminiscent of every time he had been particularly brutal to Neville Longbottom during potions class. “My one hope is that I shall be there to watch as the stupid grin is wiped from his face permanently.” 

“One less blood traitor whore in the family. We shall count ourselves blessed when that day comes.” Lucius Malfoy agreed, mirthful, vindictive. 

And of course, Ignatius Nott is ready with the cutting comment. “Let’s your son takes after the right Black. More Bellatrix, less blood traitor whores.” 

His father is strange about Draco. It had been clear from an extremely young age that Theo needed to be close to Draco. His father would have forced Theo to be Draco’s friend, even if he had loathed the boy. Being close to the Malfoys made you more powerful. 

It was a truth universally acknowledged in their world that power was the most important thing. The Malfoys had power — the money, the magic, the bloodline, the influence of just their name — enough to make them akin to aristocracy, like the Kings and Queens of old. But Draco was more than that still. 

If the Malfoys were Kings; the Black’s had been Gods. 

More money, purer blood, bigger magic. That was why they had named themselves for the stars for so long; because they were more than human; they had been spun into existence, crafted in perfect form with lunar-essence and space-dust. They were spoiled and wild and conceited and powerful, like solar storms. 

And Lucius Malfoy had chained the gods beneath his feet and came to own them, siring the heir apparent, the God-Emperor that would rule above all. Theo’s father was strange about Draco; he hated him as much as he valued him. 

Draco doesn’t flinch at the backhanded insult. No, it isn’t that which makes him flinch. 

“For once I agree with you, Nott” Severus Snape says, and Draco does flinch at that. “You must keep that boy in line, my friend.” 

Theo takes him by the sleeve, as they listen to Lucius Malfoy laugh. Draco doesn’t take much more prompting than that, following along until they’re out of danger of being caught. They manage to make it up the stairs without being noticed, all the way into Draco’s bedroom. 

“Draco,” Pansy says, as she closes the door behind them. Theo is braced for whatever comfort she’s going to try and give to Draco, whatever she might say to make him feel better. “You didn’t know?” 

It throws Theo, slightly. Didn’t know? Why would Draco have known? 

Draco shot her a look. Slightly scolding, effortlessly cold. She clammed up at that, and Theo stiffened in turn. His arched eyebrow earned no response from his friends. They really were keeping something from him. 

“He was innocent.” Draco says, as he paces back and forth. “Why would they lock him up if he hadn’t done it?” 

“You heard them,” Theo says, slightly impatient. He doesn’t like it when they leave him out of things, even if they do it so often. “He was a scapegoat.” 

“For who?” Of course Draco ignores Theo’s own impatient town, taking him at face value and barreling onward. “If he didn’t betray the Potters to the Dark Lord, then who did? Someone had to. Someone close. And my mother knew, she must have, why didn’t she ever say anything?”

“Draco —” Pansy starts, again. 

“Why does it matter?” It cuts her off mid sentence, and finally gets Draco to give him a sharp look. “Why do we suddenly care so much about it?” 

“Because I should have known — I should have known better, I should have seen it coming.” This was Draco at the beginning of one of his spirals, the moment where he had looked inward and found himself lacking in some way. This was what happened when Draco noticed that despite all of his efforts, he wasn’t perfect. 

“They’re clearly happy letting him take the fall.” Pansy finally chipped in. “It’s not your fault, you can’t change the past. So — so we shouldn’t question it.” 

That was how they had been raised, after all. Father knew best, and should never be questioned. They had all at one time or another decided that they should let ignorance be bliss. 

“I have to,” Draco said. “I have to question it.” 

Why? Theo was desperate to ask it. Desperate to demand an answer. Yet somehow he couldn’t make himself ask it. 

“Just because…” Pansy half trailed off for a moment. “It doesn’t mean you have to.” 

A huff of air left Theo. “If you’re going to talk around whatever secret you have, I’m going downstairs.” He told them, and opened the door to slip out. “I’d rather make sure my mother’s okay.” 

He didn’t give them the time to stop him; just walked down the stairs and away from them.

Three — Sirius

The moon rose, crisp and bright, from behind a cloud. He had been sitting beneath a tree at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, gazing up at Gryffindor Tower from where he lay. Harry was in there, the thought resounded like a beating drum in his head. Harry, Harry, Harry. But worse, in counterpoint, was the response of his own fractured attention; Peter is in there. 

“Have to find him,” He whispered to himself. “Have to kill him.” 

A warm thing pounced onto his lap. He laughed, a reckless little laugh. The cat, so soft and warm, rubbed its squished face against his own. He shouldn’t be human. Not so close to the edge of the forest; someone might see, and then the yelling would start again, and he would have to run away. 

Run away, run away — when wasn’t Sirius running away? Away from home, away from his friends, away from Remus, away from the cold walls of Azkaban and the leeching-coldness of the dementors. Cold, so cold, like nothing would ever be good again. Cold like his mothers house, the way she hurt him in her strange efforts to protect him; like she’d have to kill him to save him. Cold. His body shivered with it. And oh, that was because of the snow? Wasn’t that how snow worked? He hugged the cat closer, felt the body warmth of the creature, and let it soak in to his torso. 

“Have to find him,” Sirius breathed, through chattering teeth. The mantra of it would keep him going. He must be steadfast in his convictions and steely-minded in his determination. “Have to kill him.” 

He could kill. He’d done it before. He must have done it before. He fought in the war, he knows that. Death is no stranger. It’s the caller that rings the doorbell at the most inconvenient times. Death is an old friend that Sirius loathes to meet. Yet it haunts him. All he touches turns to dust. Even if he’s never cast the killing curse, he may as well personify it. 

Reggie died. And father. Died loathing him and cursing his name, and he hadn’t understood why his body made him weep for them. He’d needed to hold it in for hours before he found himself alone, before he could excuse himself for a cigarette and sob, gasping, in alleyways and gutters. The gutter was where he belonged, that was what Father said; but now father was six feet underground, and Sirius rather agreed with him. 

Euphemia died. And Fleamont. They died loving him, but it didn’t make a difference. The fact that they had loved him only made it worse; made the loss of them even more intensely real. Then there had been Marlene. And Caradoc, Benji. Fabian and Gideon. Dorcas died, and Mary too. He had loved them. He had danced with them and kissed them and laughed with them. He should have been able to save them, should have been able to die in their place. He should have stopped Peter before he ever got far enough to betray them. 

But he had loved Peter too. Had danced with him and kissed his sweaty cheeks and laughed at his jokes until he couldn’t breathe. He had cried against Peter’s shoulder, gone to him when all else seemed lost and broken. He had comforted Peter, the day Marlene died; but he’d been the one to kill her. 

“Peter’s fault,” He breathed. 

A howl broke out across the forest. Sirius leaned his head back, and looked at the moon. “Better get inside, little kitty. Go hunt rats for me.” And the orange cat listened, hopped from his lap and scampered away from the howl. 

Slipping into existence as Padfoot was as comfortable as putting on pajamas. Things were simpler, as a dog — emotions were easier, distractions were nicer, and wolves were far kinder. 

Another howl rang out. It came from the direction of the shack. Padfoot bounded through the forest and barked out his greetings. Remus Lupin would kill Sirius Black on sight, but Moony was always excited to see Padfoot.

The two creatures barreled into each other and rolled in the snow. Play fighting with the wolf was second-nature. He was rougher, now. Stronger, while Padfoot was weak and starved. The wolf easily won the battle, but allowed Padfoot to wriggle out of its grasp when he had barked an appropriately apologetic bark. 

Snow fell as the wolf chased the dog through the woods; barking and howling together at the cold moon that shone above. The dog was hungry, but the wolf was a practiced hunter and soon it’s muzzle was bloody with the flesh of some creature of the forest. It prodded the dog until Padfoot began to eat too. 

He’d regret it later, as Sirius, but for now he was satisfied to have something in his belly and the wolf close at hand.

Moonset is slow, so close to the solstice. It comes late, but they huddle together for warmth as the night grows on. The wolf curls up next to Padfoot, around him, and for the first time in weeks Sirius doesn’t feel cold at all.

Chapter Text

The noise of it is a cacophonous thing. An ink night sky is lit only by the fool moon that hangs above — a late spring moon, a dream of warmer months and brighter days ahead, yet still drenched in darkness. The moon isn’t loud. As bright as it hangs in the sky, it makes no sound.

It hasn’t reached its apex yet. When it does, the howling will start, and all will change.

No, the noise doesn’t come from the moon. It comes from the man inside the ramshackle walls on the edge of Hogsmeade village. The man is half dead, hair hanging limp all the way down to the small of his back, eyes crazed — but gray, the tell-tale gray of a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

“…You were his spy.” The man asks, to someone unseen. He was vicious in his fury, desperate in his plea, voice cracking under the weight of his own hatred. “Do you deny it?” 

There is a pounding in the air. A sharp rapping. It drowns out all other noise, until Draco goes to the crumbling door of the Shrieking Shack. 

He is face to face with his father on the other side. 

It takes him a second to grapple with reality. He isn’t in the Shrieking Shack. He’s at home, in Malfoy Manor, and his father looks furious. The angle of the door obscures his scrying pool from sight, and Draco is grateful for it — though the gratitude is outweighed by fear. In the dreamlike state of his vision, Draco must have sleepwalked his way to opening the door. 

“Have you gone deaf, boy?” His father asks. He isn’t pleased, no, he isn’t pleased at all. It puts Draco on the wrong foot from the very beginning of the conversation, it sets him up to fail in his endeavors of being the perfect son. 

“I’m sorry, father. I must have been dozing.” 

“I just received a report that you took it upon yourself to write a letter to the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Do you deny it?” 

Fresh parchment and expensive ink. His carefully practiced letters spelling out words he had known would end up hurting him. And yet, somehow, Draco couldn’t regret writing the damned letter. 

He would be punished for it. Yet he didn’t regret it, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie and say he hadn’t done. Given his father’s current mood, he was bound to be punished in one way or another regardless of what words he chose next. Somehow, knowing it was inevitable made it easier to accept. 

“No, father.” 

“You did not do such a thing?

“No, I meant the other thing. I do not deny it.” 

So the punishment came. The stinging of it, the hurt, the lectures, all throughout the day until his body shook with exhaustion and pain. No tears spilled from his eyes, but he could taste them at the back of his tongue. If he cried, that would just be another thing to punish him over. 

Draco did the only thing he could do; show contrition, and take his punishment with a stiff upper lip. When he finally made it back to his bedroom, all he allowed himself was a slumping of the shoulders. 

“Okay,” He breathed, to himself, “Let’s try this again.” 

He forced his aching limbs to fold before the scrying pool. He held back a grimace of pain. Golden light flickered as he lit the tapered candles again and watched as their reflections shimmered against the dark water.

It was said that the gifts of a Seer were often heightened when in a state of extremis. It led to a long history of self-flagellation and self-mortification, ascetic souls that starved and tormented themselves in the hopes that they would See. 

Earlier, Draco had meditated for almost two hours before the vision came. The pain got him there much faster. A red thread connected his hurt to the hurt he had seen, as that scene played out in the Shrieking Shack. It pulled him in and strung him up like a puppet and — and for a moment, it seemed like the universe had too much to show him.

It was muddled, at the start. Flashes, one moment slipping into another and flittering away again. The pain got him there faster, but maybe the long meditation had been important, because the pain clearly made things erratic. 

“Reckon it won’t be so bad, in the end.” Ron Weasley said, in a distant vision, and — 

Draco shook his head — that wasn’t right. 

He saw Sirius again, heard the words: “You were his spy,” before they slipped away into the breeze and left —

Ron Weasley was offering a genuine smile, though bashful, and sad around the edges. “Won’t be alone, I mean, right? Can’t be so bad when you’re not alone.” 

“Who could possibly find reason to complain when Harry Potter has thoroughly latched on to their side?” Draco’s voice drawled. He was fifteen years old, and he was smiling at Ron Weasley without a hint of malice. 

“I find him pretty soothing, myself.” 

Another shake, Draco’s fingers dig into the palms of his hands, a sharp sting of pain to pull himself out, before he takes a deep breath and tries to focus on Sirius. 

Sirius’s hands slammed against the creaking floor of the shack, as he pinned a smaller man against it. “You sold Lily and James to Voldemort.” He cried, entire body shaking with rage and grief. “Do you deny it?” 

The man beneath him burst into tears. He shuddered, and — 

There was sweat pooling at the nape of Harry’s neck. It stained the grey slightly darker around the neckline. The shack was sweltering at this time of year, and the sun was hitting Harry where he stood, examining the walls. His shoulders were broad, the muscle of his arm clear as he raised a hand to trace dark fingertips across the deep scratch marks that decorated the walls here. 

The air was heavy with the heat, but there was an almost holy weight in it, too. Harry almost looked in reverence at the fresh scratches. His eyes were piercing, when he turned to look at Draco. Deep green; like a rainforest, like Draco’s favourite armchair or his mother’s emerald ring. 

“Do you really think of him as a monster?” Harry asked, refusing to look away from Draco. It should have sounded judgemental, he sound have sounded stern. He didn’t, all Harry sounded was gentle.

“Who?” Draco replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The wolf?” —

Draco made a frustrated sound. He blinked quickly, shaking his head to try and rid it of the image of Harry there. Older, with broader shoulders, stronger; he’d been… 

A shuddering breath escaped him, and he shook his head again. He gave up. He couldn’t do this, tonight. Leaning in, he snuffed the candles where they burned, plunging the room around him into deepest darkness. Only the moon shining in through his window lit his way, when he crawled into bed. 

When he woke in the morning, his punishment continued — not with any physical hurt, but with strict guidelines for his behaviour. The tutors had been summoned from all corners, and Draco’s education began again. They had been encouraged to be strict with Draco, and strict they were. Even Miss. Selwyn could only frown and command him to play yet another song on the piano, scolding him for every mistake his exhausted fingers made. 

His mind couldn’t stick on the lessons; he drifted instead, wondering and thinking and trying to untangle the new web of questions in his mind. Who was the man Sirius had pinned down, in the vision? Who was he accusing of the crime he had been imprisoned for? It had been too small to be Lupin, who was the only person Draco knew that would have been close enough to the Potters to do the betraying. 

How could it be true, that Sirius was innocent? Wouldn’t Dumbledore have been able to get to the bottom of things; or was it so easy to believe that Sirius Black was as dark as the rest of his family. The evidence must have been sufficient enough, for him to be sentenced to a life in Azkaban without a trial. 

There had been witnesses, hadn’t there been? Muggles, who saw Sirius Black kill all of those muggles, and that other man — what had his name been? Could so many people be wrong about what their own eyes had seen? 

Severus slammed his hand down on the workbench behind Draco, startling him out of his thought. “Have you lost all of your senses, since your last potions class?” 

“No, Sir.” Draco sounded sullen. He was not overly excited to see his godfather, that day. Yet still, he loathed to be a disappointment. He refocused his efforts on the work before him, and let it carry him for some time. Yet it was inevitable that his thoughts drifted. 

Even if Sirius Black was innocent, that didn’t explain how he had escaped Azkaban. The fortress was supposed to be the most secure place in the world. No one had ever escaped before, and yet Sirius had managed it, with no wand and no help. 

“You are dazed and distracted today,” Severus drawled. “I won’t abide it.” 

“I’m trying,” Draco objects, and he sounds far too much like a child. 

“You will try harder,” Severus commands, “or I will give up and leave.” 

Was it so easy, for Severus to give up on him? Severus had been vocal, the other day, about his loathing for Sirius Black. He wanted to see the dementors kiss him. He wanted the other man dead; and he knew Sirius was innocent, and it didn’t matter. Draco gazed up at him. 

Would Severus hate him too, for choosing Harry Potter over the darkness? For wanting the world to be a better place? He hadn’t thought so before, but now he wasn’t so certain. He’s never been delusional enough to believe that Severus’s affection for him was unconditional — Severus didn’t seem to do anything unconditionally. Still, he had thought it would be a more sturdy affection than that.

He was exhausted. His heart hurt, a little bit, and his mind couldn’t sit still. 

Still, he straightened in his seat and tried to focus. 

He was allowed back to his room after dinner; no evening lessons and no further punishment, except for the insistence that his tutoring would continue until he returned to school. 

Sleep came calling for Draco long before he’d meant it to, settling in like a heavy blanket the moment he touched his bed. Dreams are fitful things, little flights of fancy that he never remembers when he awakes again. The feel of them stays with him more than any of the details; sometimes he wakes with a start and with a floundering fledgling fear still lingering in his gut, sometimes with the icy chill of anxiety, sometimes with a warm glow that told only of good dreams. 

When he woke, there was no warm glow. Only the cloudy feeling of sickness making his head heavy and weighing him down. With the winter weather and the ordeal of the last several days, Draco was unsurprised that he took a sickening from something. Mother was sick too, at breakfast, and unlike Draco was permitted to take to her bed. 

He sniffled and coughed through his early morning lessons on father’s insistence. Concentration during such lessons was once again lackluster, but his shoddy performance was ignored for the most part. He had steeled himself before his potions lesson, and endeavored to be at his best for a full 45 minutes before Severus’s patience once again wore thin. 

The slump of his shoulders was met with a harsh hand resting gently against his forehead. Severus was brusk in all things, and yet an almost pitiful sigh came from his mouth. “Insolent boy, you’re feverish. Off to bed with you, and if it has not abated by the morning, you will write to me and I will bring you a tonic.” 

It was more care than his father had shown. The thought was a bitter one, and it plagued Draco with every long step up the stairs and back to his bedroom. The stairs creaked as he eased his way up, and his body felt like it was creaking too. 

It was early, yet, and he knew already that father would not call him down for dinner. No one would come looking for him, with Severus departed and mother abed. 

“Kreacher.” He whispers, and minutes later he is safely ensconced in the Cosmoscope once again. 

Black Abbey is cold in a way he’s never noticed before. No fires lit to warm the house, no charms re-cast to keep the heat in, no living bodies aside his own. The shivering sets in quickly, and instead of requesting a seat once again, Draco lowers himself down to sit cross legged on the floor before Regulus’s mirror. 

The man inside it sits, to be on his level. “You don’t look well.” 

“Just a fever.” Draco croaks, throat raw. “I need your help.” 

“Go on, then.” 

“I’m trying to see something, and —” He coughs, a spluttering sound, and winces as it rubs his throat yet more raw. “Its Sirius Black.”

Regulus’s perfectly manicured brow arches. “My idiot brother?” 

“Your idiot brother is a convicted felon.” Draco tells him, “They locked him up for murder, but he escaped.” 

“And who, pray tell, did he murder?” 

“That’s the point; I’m not sure he murdered anyone. I overheard my father and his friends discussing it. It sounded like he was framed. The ministry says he sold James and Lily Potter to Voldemort, and then killed twelve muggles and…what’s his name? The other one. Peter Pettigrew?” 

Regulus stares at him blankly for a moment, before a burst of laughter escapes his chest. Its a wild sound, free and melodic and young. It cracks his face open and makes him look eighteen for the first time. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and then kept laughing. 

“You’re awfully jovial for a dead man.” 

“I’m sorry, cousin.” Regulus gets out, still laughing. “It’s been a long time since I heard anything as funny as that.” 

He watches as Regulus composes himself; he is clearly practiced in the act. 

“My father says he didn’t do it. Or, implies it, I should say.” 

“I’m inclined to agree with him.” Regulus has carefully schooled his expression, but his smile still quirks on his lip. “I can tell you with utmost certainty that my brother would have burned the world down before be betrayed James Potter.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because he burned his whole world down for James Potter, and the rest of his adorable little Gryffindor friends.” Regulus leans back, resting his weight on his hands as he gazes at Draco. “He was the first born son of our Noble and Most Ancient House. He was the heir. Sirius could have had anything and everything he wanted; money, art, whores, any woman he wanted to marry. With a snap of his fingers, it could have all been his; and the reckless bastard gave it all up in an instant.” 

“For James Potter?” Draco blinks. “He just left you all behind.”

“Potter’s are thieves, Draco. Stealing innocent children from our family is exactly what they do best.” 

There’s a beat where Draco says nothing. Another arched brow greets his silence. “I can’t say that I blame him for leaving. Our house… it was not a pleasant place to grow up. Sirius got the worst of things; he could be cruel and vindictive with the best of us, and of course he was a natural at dark magic… but he couldn’t look past the morals his new friends taught him, couldn’t make himself okay with living in the same world we did. Mother beat him and cursed him and ruined him, all in the hopes that by breaking him she could make him what we needed. All she did was drive him into James Potters arms; and I’m glad of it. I’m glad he got out.” 

Draco’s throat aches when he swallows. His mouth is dry. His head is aching. He’s so tired he could weep, and Regulus’s words almost inspire him to. Sickness always makes things feel heightened, always leaves Draco feeling overly sensitive. 

Potters are thieves. 

Was that what was happening? Was Harry Potter stealing him? When Draco was a child he longed for something like that to happen; a fairytale prince that would come and steal him away from his miserable tower, save him from whatever tormented him. Potter was no prince, but he might turn out to be a thief. 

He breathes past the pain in his throat, and in his head. “I need to see him. I’ve had glimpses. It’s Sirius, in the spring, confronting someone else in the Shrieking Shack. Whoever it was is who really betrayed James and Lily Potter.” He licks his dry lips, feeling the importance of it hanging in the air. “I can’t see all the details. Can’t see more than just the shape of things. I need to know more.” 

Regulus gave a wistful sigh. “Sirius is difficult to see; even in a vision. He’s… ephemeral, chaotic. Always more of a forest fire than a man. He is a creature that defies prediction.” 

“So it’s impossible?” 

“Not impossible. Just difficult, for a boy as untrained and fresh as you. Especially with your mind so disordered with fever. You will see nothing of worth tonight.” 

Frustrated tears do start spilling from Draco’s eyes, at that. It’s pathetic to be so worked up, it really is. He hates himself for it. Regulus doesn’t look judgemental; just strangely understanding. 

“You’ll see it, cousin.” He comforts. “In time. It just won’t be today. When the fever passes, you can try again.” 

He nods his head, and soon enough Kreacher has brought him home. 

Draco’s fever stole most of the rest of the holiday from him. Severus never did come back with a tonic. It was just Draco, mostly on his own. For a full day, he saw no one but the house elves. They brought him food and snapped their fingers to change his sheets. 

He dreamed, excessively and with feverish intensity. They were memories at that point, reliving the glimpses he had seen. They were visions, too, in their own way, coming quick and as fragmented as they had been when he was awake. 

“Hello, little cousin.” Came the dreamy rasp of a half-mad phantom. It’s punctuated by the creak of the door closing in the Shack, disturbing a cloud of dust, disturbing the footprints that led toward the man who spoke. —

“Wotcher, Starshine.” Came the sleepy muttering of a half-mad phantom. It’s punctuated by the clink of teaspoon against porcelain and the scrape of a butter-knife against toast. —

“Don’t call me that,” Draco argues, across both, weak and fractured to his own ears.

Eventually, mother appeared at his bedside, and soothed his aching head with a mothers touch. When he woke, he woke to the feeling of her fingers brushing softly through his hair. She looked weak herself, still. Thin, and pale, something dark around the eyes — but much steadier than Draco was. 

“You were talking in your sleep, little dove.” She whispered down to him, when he blinked at her with his weary eyes. 

“Oh,” He croaked. There was a moment of uncertainty — what could he have said? What were the odds that the words had been utter nonsense? Would it be bad, even, if mother did riddle him out?

Her fingers brushed his cheek. “Nonsense ramblings,” She told him, and he knew that she probably had him figured out. The chances were high; but he was sure they were both certain that his father shouldn’t know. 

“Sev?” He asked, a gentle curiosity. It wasn’t often that Severus failed to appear when promised. 

“Your father is very angry at Severus,” She told him. “I don’t expect you will see him until you go back to school.” 

It stung, in a way. Was father so determined that Draco should spend the holidays miserable? Would he genuinely be angry with Severus for something as small as sending Draco to bed to recover? Lucius Malfoy was a cold man at the best of times, but his anger often turned him to ice, the chill of which spread through the manor until every inch of it was covered and cold and utterly unwelcoming.

Yet mother was there to care for him, to sooth the ache of it. She seemed to have put her foot down in one way or another; Draco didn’t see Severus, but he didn’t see his father again either until he left for school again. A fire burned in his room and she sat with him, reading aloud from his favourite books until he fell asleep.

Draco recovered in time to return along with all the rest of the students. 

None of his Slytherin classmates mentioned his worn-down appearance. They were too tactful to point it out; most of them knew that Draco had been ill, in some shape or form. The most acknowledgement the bags under his eyes got was a worried glance from Theo. 

Hermione was far less tactful. 

“You look awful.” She told him, when she slipped into her seat next to him in the library. 

“I’ve been ill.” He tells her, honest and straightforward. 

A perplexed expression spread across Hermione’s face at that. It must seem straight to let yourself be sick, when they lived in a world where potions and spells could cure nearly every disease. “Ill?” 

“Something akin to the influenza.” He sniffed. “Mother too, a terrible dose.” 

“There’s a potion for that, isn’t there?”

“I have an allergy.” 

“Your mother too?” 

“Genetics are powerful things.” It came out as a long drawl. “Good holiday?” 

From the look on her face, Draco assumed that the holiday had in fact not been good at all. It didn’t take long to figure out that something had gone terribly astray for the Gryffindors. Ron and Harry were ignoring Hermione, for some idiotic reason.

Only, the reason seemed less idiotic when she explained it. 

“A firebolt?” He breathed, in a reverent kind of awe. He had spent weeks this summer gazing at the broom every time he went to Diagon Alley. He had been a step away from cutting pictures of the national team out of Quidditch Quarterly and hanging them up above his bad. 

Harry had one. Of course he did, the bastard. Of course there was some anonymous donor waiting in the wings to send Harry lavish gifts. Only — Draco knew there weren’t. The muggles he lived with would never send him a broom. The professors would never show such favoritism. Lupin didn’t even have the money for one of the old Comet models, let alone a Firebolt.

Hermione’s face crumbled a bit, at the sound of his voice. He was quick to pull himself together. Clearly, she needed someone who was willing to side with her. It wasn’t fair, honestly, Harry and Ron ganging up on Hermione like that. 

“You’re right of course.” He assures her, quickly. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” 

“There is a chance that Sirius Black sent it to him.” She said, rather determined. “Which means there was a very real chance that the thing was cursed beyond belief.” 

A chance. Yes. 

But there was also a chance that Sirius Black didn’t want to kill Harry at all, or curse him, for that matter. He see’s the face in the shack when he blinks, for a moment. The footprints in the dust. “Right,” He breathes, and its absentminded. 

“Right?” 

He shakes himself, and turns to look her in her eyes. Their books are both spread open before them, but neither has actually done any studying yet. They’ll turn the clock back an hour or so later, and catch up — which they really shouldn’t do; but they’ve grown reckless in their comfort. 

“As part of my… turning a new leaf thing.” He began. “I’m supposed to tell you all things when I believe they may be relevant to whatever the current mystery-of-the-year is?” 

“Mystery of the year?” Her brow arches. 

“You know, the whole act you three do.” A brow arched back. “Running around gathering clues and saving the day in the end.”

Her shoulders stiffen slightly. “I suppose you are. Expected to tell us things, I mean.” 

“I might know something about Sirius Black.” He tells her, leaning in to whisper so quietly that no one will hear him. They’re in a secluded enough corner so they should be undisturbed for a fair amount of time. “New discovery, mind you. Nothing I’ve been sitting on all year. It was, well… It was something I overheard my father and his friends discussing.” 

“What did they say?” 

“There was an implication that he was, well, innocent.”

Her brow furrowed. It wrinkled her nose slightly. The deep brown colour of her eyes bore into Draco, as if looking into the depths of his soul and looking for fault there. 

“What did they say, exactly?” 

Draco drew in a deep breath. 

“They thought it was rather hilarious that Dumbledore & Co believe Sirius did it. They called him a blood-traitor whore, and I believe Mr. Nott commented that Sirius Black was too stupid to be a spy.” A lets out a huff, and shakes his head slightly. “They said he would rather die than hurt Harry; and that it would probably be his downfall.” 

“But how would they know?” She sighed, and Draco was half-way toward giving her an incredulous look when she raised a hand to silence him preemptively. “Right, right. No, I know — I mean… were they really…?” 

“Death Eaters?” He whispered all the quieter. 

“Yes.” 

“I think you know the answer.” The words felt like a falsehood. He couldn’t bring himself to just say yes. But it was true. They had all been Death Eaters. They must have all been. Old war comrades. He had seen the mark on his father’s arm a thousand times. 

“Surely Dumbledore would have known if he was innocent.” She said. It really should have sounded like an argument, but it was more musing than anything else. 

“Maybe,” He breathed, “Maybe he was a spy that only the Dark Lord knew about.” 

“Maybe,” She echoed. The cogs were turning in her head. He could hear it from where he sat. It was a mystery to solve, and Hermione always got caught up in a mystery easier than anyone else. “Couldn’t you ask your father? Get an answer one way or another.” 

“We haven’t been on friendly speaking terms lately.” He said, and felt the ache of it in his chest. Things must have been better with his father, at one point in his life. There are golden memories of childhood, deep down, where he remembers having his father’s adoration. It must sound dull, or too revealing, because something on her face shifts and softens. 

“We’ll have to figure it out for ourselves, then.” She says, with a firm nod. “Just the two of us.” 

He feels a flush of grateful comfort. Hermione has never met a challenge she couldn’t overcome — Draco knows, because he’s hated her for it for years. Hermione is determined and steady, steadfast and stubborn. She sees what she wants and she works herself to the bone until she gets it.

“Just the two of us,” He nods. 

Hermione has him write a list of every single thing he knows about Sirius Black — He does this instead of studying for the quiz they’re about to have in History of Magic. Hermione will lend him her study notes, just this once. 

Together they pour over every ounce of information they can gather about the man, piecing a life together out of old copies of the Daily Prophet. Back in the days of the war, the society pages had been enthralled by the exploits of Disgraced Heir Sirius Black. He had been bright and reckless, had partied and been kicked out of auror training following an incident with a fellow cadet. It painted a messy picture of a messy life, and Draco still didn’t really know what to think at the end of the day. 

The Sirius he had seen in his vision had been a desperate man; but an innocent one. His fury was a righteous thing. Whoever he had pinned beneath him in the Shrieking Shack was the true traitor, but still — Draco needed to know more. He needed the details to reveal themselves to him. 

He walked Hermione back to Gryffindor tower after they had spent several hours together — several more hours than would have passed for everyone else — and listened to her list off every step they could take to ferret out more information on Sirius Black. It still felt dangerously reckless sometimes, to walk toward the lions den with no other Slytherin’s around for back-up. 

They reached the portrait and Draco waited outside while Hermione entered. She promised to return quickly with Salazar for him to take back to his own dorm — the returning students had reacted rather tetchily to the literal snake that had taken up residence in their common room while they had been away for the break. 

He leaned against the wall on the opposite side to the portrait, who was eyeing him with rather a great deal if distrust. He didn’t focus on that. His mind was moving sluggishly, yet caught on the endless barrage of information he had been attempting to take in over the last two weeks. Beyond that portrait hole was the common room in which Sirius Black had spent seven years of his life. He had been the proverbial black sheep of his flock, the outsider that was scorned and disowned. 

Why was he trying to break in, if he didn’t want to kill Harry? What was held beyond that portrait hole that he wanted so badly he would risk the dementor’s kiss for? There had to be a reason he was here. There had to be a reason he had finally escaped from Azkaban. 

He startles, when the portrait moves aside. It isn’t Hermione that steps out to see him. It’s Harry, with messy hair and a heavy sweatshirt on. He smiles when he sees Draco, a delicate thing — and Draco is overcome with the relief of that too. It’s only been a few months now, that he’s had Harry like this, but he already knows its something he can never let go of. 

Harry is holding a shrunken down version of Salazar’s vivarium. Draco is half way ready to scold him for shrinking a living creature, when he sees Sal’s head poking out from beneath Harry’s sleeve. 

“You’ve been holding her.” Draco says, instead of any proper greeting, instead of any scolding. It takes him by surprise, when it probably shouldn’t. 

Harry gives a helpless shrug, as he passes the vivarium to Draco, who holds it with delicate hands. “She likes it.” A beat. “I think she likes having someone that understands her.” 

“Stealing my snake after all?” 

“Naw, she still likes you best.” 

Draco smiles. From the look on Harry’s face, its apparently a victory. 

“Well,” Draco nods, “Did she have anything interesting to tell you?” 

“Just snake things. She’s interested in the idea of live pray.” 

A huff left Draco’s chest. “It’s cruel to the mice. And she could get scratched, if I tried to feed her a particularly feisty one.” 

A look crosses Harry’s face, something amused and almost-happy. There’s soft laughter following it. Draco straightens his shoulders, because the last thing he needs is Harry Potter thinking he’s allowed laugh at Draco endlessly. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t do it either.” Harry tells him, after a moment. “I think she’s interested in rats, though.” 

“Too big. She can have one when she’s older.” 

“That’s what I told her. Ron was raging about it.” Harry nods his head, and with a bashful look over his shoulder, he carries on. “Do you want me to walk down with you? So you don’t have to juggle her and the enclosure.” 

This, Draco thinks, feels remarkably similar to co-parenting. He can’t bring himself to say no, so he nods his head instead, and lets Potter fall into step beside him. It felt strange to walk beside Harry now, when Draco was keeping something for him. Hermione had suggested not telling Harry about their investigation until they had an answer, one way or the other — but keeping a secret like that from Harry felt wrong. Still, Draco had promised to keep it to himself for a little longer. 

“Good holiday?” He asked, with only a hint of awkwardness. 

“Alright,” Harry told him, “Only —” 

“You’re being rather unfair to Hermione.” 

Harry looks at him sharply, thoughtfully. “She’s over-reacting. The broom is fine. It was perfect, and now they’re going to strip it down, Draco.” 

“You’re being unfair, and rather cruel, actually, to a girl who has done nothing but try to help you.” 

“You’re telling me if someone took a Firebolt away from you, you wouldn’t be upset?”

“Of course I would be. But It wouldn’t give me permission to treat my best friends like garbage.” Draco huffs a sigh. “You and Ron acting like this. It isn’t right.” 

“I didn’t think I was earning myself a scolding when I offered to help you.” 

“Lesson one of dealing with Slytherins, Potter: Always expect an ambush.” 

“I know she means well.” Harry finally admits. “I just think that if Black really wants to kill me, a cursed broom isn’t exactly the way he’d go about it. He seems more stab happy than anything else.” 

“Right.” Draco nods. “Still, you should make things up with her sooner rather than later. If you keep treating her like this then someday she might not be around to protect you. Or she won’t want to.” 

“I just —” 

“Which is more important to you, Harry? A broom, or Hermione?” 

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Harry’s shoulders seemed to deflate, shame weighing them down heavily. “You’re right. I’ll fix it.” 

“I nearly always am.” Draco mused, dreamily. “Okay, I’ll stop scolding you now.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I suppose you won’t be needing to borrow my Nimbus, now.” 

“Not if they give the Firebolt back first.” Harry sighed, “I’m still worried they’ll wreck her.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Though it doesn’t seem terribly fair for you to have a broom so much faster than anyone else’s.” He thinks for a second. “I’d be furious if I was still playing for Slytherin.”

“Your friends will be furious enough for everyone.” 

“Hm.” 

“They don’t like me very much, do they?” 

“Of course they don’t like you. You’re…” Draco glanced at him, a smirk spreading across his face. “You’re Harry Potter.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair.” Harry doesn’t pout, really, but there’s a hint of it in his voice. “Hermione and Neville don’t hate you at all anymore. Even Ron is going along with it. But your friends are never going to like me.” 

“They don’t like you because you’re oblivious, and you don’t care about them.” 

“I care.” 

“Name all of the Slytherins in our year.” 

“What?” 

“Name them. If you care, even in the mildest sense, you must know their names.” 

“There’s Daphne Greengrass.” Harry supplied. 

Of course Potter would leap to the Quidditch player. Draco had it on good authority that Harry hadn’t known Daphne before she replaced Draco on the team. He arched an eyebrow at Harry, prompting him to continue. 

“Crabb and Goyle.” 

“First names, please.” 

“Er — Greg and Vince, right? I don’t think I know which is which.” 

“Ah,” Draco breathed, and gave Harry a superior look. He had won already, as far as he was concerned. Harry barreled on regardless. 

“There’s Zabini. Blaise, right? And Pansy Parkinson.” 

“And?” 

“There’s more?” 

“You’re an arse, Potter.” He laughed, just a soft thing. Everyone knew that Potter walked around mostly clueless; but Draco underestimated how little Potter payed attention sometimes. 

“If I learn their names, will they like me?” 

“Merlin, no.” 

“I want them to.” Harry complained. 

“You’ll have to do what I did with Hermione, then.” 

“Whats that?”

“Try, Potter.” He said it with a smile on his face, laced into every word. He wasn’t going to hand-hold Harry through discovering social skills. If Harry couldn’t figure out how to manipulate his way into a friendship then he didn’t deserve to have more friends. 

The sensation of Hermione slipping the time turner around his neck has become familiar — they do it so frequently, sometimes more than three times a day, and they’re both starting to feel the effects of it as term starts up again in earnest. 

Her shoulder brushes against his as they walk away from the arithmancy classroom. It’s different than walking with Pansy, different than walking with Theo. Hermione and Draco don’t have years of friendship under their belt, but still — there’s a strange kind of comfort in it. He still feels the echoes of warmth at the memory of his vision, Hermione crying into his shoulder and talking about how much she cares. 

Their extracurricular research has done nothing but add to the strain of their already loaded timetable, and yet it’s all the talk about as they descend through hallways and staircases. Arithmancy is the only class they don’t share with at least some of their friends, so this is the best chance they’ll have until they meet in the library after dinner. 

“No trial” Hermione is saying, with an incredulous kind of disbelief in her voice. Her head is shaking in phantom disgust, as if she’s never been more scandalised about anything in her life. “Life in Azkaban with no trial? Even the most notorious serial killers in the muggle world are given the right of extensive trials to prove their guilt. I can’t believe that —” 

“He confessed, supposedly.” 

“That doesn’t matter. The criminal justice system is still supposed to follow due process. Even the most truly demented and evil people have the right to be represented in a court of law and from what I can tell, nearly every suspected Death Eater, convicted or otherwise, received a trial.” Her voice grew more hushed, “And I dug out a report on his confession; hysterical, nonsensical, rambling, the man was about as far as you can get from being in your right mind. And then they just threw him in Azkaban with no trial?” 

“He wasn’t the only one,” Theo’s voice announces, causing both Draco and Hermione to jump. Draco doesn’t know when Theo joined them, or for how long he had been listening to Hermione’s tirade. “Osric Mulciber got chucked in too, near the start.” 

“I —” Hermione is starting to say, but she doesn’t get far. 

In a flash Theo is extending a book toward Draco. His own Ancient Runes textbook. He doesn’t shove it in Draco’s direction, but he does snatch his own hand away rather quickly when Draco takes it from him. “You forgot that in class before you vanished.” He jerks his head in Hermione’s direction. “Does she know whatever your secret is?” 

Would that be the final straw on the camels back of what was bothering Theo? Yes, he had liked her well enough so far, and deigned to spend time with her for Draco’s benefit. Draco couldn’t say with certainty if Theo would be able to cope with Hermione knowing more about Draco than he did. It makes him received, really, that he doesn’t have to lie now.

“No.” 

Merlin, but Draco needs to tell him. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t — why the idea of it chokes him up inside. Maybe because he knows Theo will be clever about it, smarter about it than he is. Maybe because he knows, deep down, that Theo might not agree with his post-vision decision making skills. He was putting up with Draco’s new friendships because in a way, Theo saw them as some kind of flight of fancy that Draco would soon outgrow. 

‘Draco always has to be contrarian and overdramatic about something,’ He had overheard Theo telling Pansy one evening. Maybe he was only trying to get Pansy off Draco’s back about it, but he had sounded genuine enough when he continued, ‘If you make a fuss you’ll only prolong his fascination with the lions. The sooner we become okay with it, the sooner he’ll simply become bored and drop them.’ 

Hermione’s eyes were flicking between the two of them. Her small shoulders seemed to stiffen uncomfortably, as if she knew she was an intruder in something strangely private. 

“I’ve only told Pansy,” Draco insists, looking at him in silent prayer, pleading with his eyes for Theo to understand him. 

Something in Theo’s face shifted, a carefully blank expression masking whatever hurt was there. He looked more closed off than Draco can remember seeing him — more closed off than he’s been with Draco since that day at the pool when they truly became friends. “Alright,” He said, as casual as anything, an easy agreement, but somehow that’s worse. “I won’t see you at lunch. I’ve promised Millie tutoring.” 

“Theo,” He breathed, suddenly wanting a reaction, suddenly wanting Theo to call him an utter arsehole for not including him when he should have. It didn’t seem to matter, because Theo didn’t turn to look back at Draco once he started walking away. 

True to his promise, neither Theo or Millicent turn up to lunch. He took a seat next to Blaise and the empty spaces that revealed absences closed in around them. The Slytherin table never appeared fractured. There were never any gaps. They closed in around each other as one united front. Still — the face across from him should have been Theo’s. He wasn’t pouting about it; really, he wasn’t! His sullen mood had plenty of other explanations. And anyway, it wasn’t as if Theo was going to avoid him forever now, just because he was feeling a little bit left out. 

No, Draco wasn’t pouting. He wasn’t even all that fixated on the absence. He wasn’t brooding at all.

“Merlin,” 

“Bloody hell,” 

“What is he doing?”

The words washed over him without him taking much notice at all. He was busy pointedly not thinking about Theodore Nott.

“Draco, you’re not allowed to have a pet lion unless you train him.” Blaise whispered into his ear, and that pulled Draco’s attention away from the food that he had been sullenly pushing around his lunch plate. 

He looked up in time to see Harry, determined look in his eye, stop beside him. Draco thought Harry looked his most annoyingly Gryffindor when he was determined to do something, single-mindedly fixated on some idiot idea. Hair a mess and eyes ablaze un a way that made Draco freeze a little bit. 

There were eyes on them. From younger and older Slytherin’s alike. The Golden Boy Who Lived, the very detested creature that destroyed the Dark Lord which most of their parents worshipped, was not supposed to approach their domain at lunch. The very idea of it was preposterous. They would write home to their parents about his strange behaviour, and oh, there would be rumors. But Harry was there, determined look in his eye, mouth opening to speak. It was like Draco saw it in slow motion. 

Harry was probably going to say something stupid; But Draco had always been quicker on the draw in conversations. 

“Have you been suddenly afflicted with colour-blindness, Potter?” Quick, conversational, with a flittering smile built to disarm the tension in the people around him. This would be fine, Draco was certain of it. How much of a mess could Harry really cause just by being here?

“Sod off,” Harry told him, and Draco really wasn’t certain how his friends would take that. On the one hand, they loved to bully Draco. On the other hand, they didn’t love it when anyone else tried. 

“That’s a lovely way to start a conversation,” He drawled, an arched brow sent in Harry’s direction. 

“You’re being a prat to put me off.” 

“He loves to do that,” Blaise offered, with a weary sigh. He almost sounded friendly. As friendly as Blaise could sound with someone who didn’t know or understand him. “Its a self defense mechanism. Think nothing of it, Potter.” 

“What do you want?” Pansy didn’t sound friendly at all. “I can’t eat in these conditions.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed, the determination hardening in his eyes. “I was wondering if Draco and Daphne might want to, er—” Daphne stiffened on Draco’s other side. She hadn’t been paying much attention to the scene, too busy feigning that she didn’t care what was going on around him. Once her name had been mentioned, she looked up and fixed her gaze on Harry, who barreled on. “—uh, well. Play a seekers game or two, after dinner?” 

“A seekers game?” Daphne questioned, and Draco was grateful that she was the one pushing for more information. “With us?” 

Harry’s head nodded in such an earnest movement that it almost made him seem harmless. “None of my friends have the patience. Or enjoy playing seeker all that much. But you two — I thought it might be fun.” 

“Might be fun.” Blaise echoed, as if in wonder and disbelief. 

“You don’t have a broom.” Daphne pointed out — word had spread rather quickly about Harry’s firebolt, and how he no longer had it in his possession. Daphne had nearly cried when she heard that the teachers were stripping the thing down to search it for any sabotage. 

“I’ll borrow one from the broom shed.” 

That might level the playing field. If Daphne and Draco were both using their nimbus’s they would be markedly faster than any of the school brooms. They might actually stand a chance at winning. And oh — the idea of it made the knot in Draco’s stomach feel better. He missed flying. He missed flying with his friends. He missed, especially, taunting Potter from the back of a broomstick. 

“Alright.” Draco agreed, before anyone could stop him. “After dinner?” 

“Er —” Diggory’s body leaned into their space. His smile was a bashful thing, annoyingly handsome on his face. “Sorry, not trying to eavesdrop here —” 

“Said the man butting in on someone else’s conversations,” Draco muttered, under his breath. 

“— but Flitwick will throw a right fit if I let you plan on going out after dark, Potter.” Of course, Diggory was closing this as the perfect opportunity to play the part of Hufflepuff Golden Boy. He was going to be Head Boy next year and everyone knew it, much to the annoyance of the two Slytherin sixth year Prefects. “Or at all, actually, without supervision.” 

“Poor little Potter needs a grown up to keep him safe and sound from the monsters,” Pansy sighed, with almost dreamy pleasure. She received a serious look from Diggory, and spoke no further. 

“Oh, er —” Harry said, with real embarrassment. He was always a little bit flustered by Diggory, off the pitch. Draco had the passing thought that Harry was fun when he was flustered, and smiled a slightly savage smile. 

“You could supervise us,” Draco offers, looking in Diggory’s direction with a benevolent smile. “Bring Chang, make it a proper competition. I’m sure Flitwick would be charmed by our attempts at inter-house co-operation.” 

Diggory looked splendidly pleased at that, and utterly surprised that Draco had said it all at once. Draco gave him a rather innocent look, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Of course, Draco just thought it would look less strange if all of them were playing together, rather than just Harry and the Slytherins. 

“Oh,” Daphne said, and allowed herself to smile. She was clearly more comfortable with the idea when they wouldn’t be alone. Plus, Draco knew that she had always secretly admired Cho Chang. “That does sound fun.” 

He met Harry’s eyes then, and watched the flicker of whatever he was feeling light them up. Harry looked bashful, now, a little uncertain. 

“I still don’t think the Professors want us out after dark,” Diggory told them, but a smile was growing on his face. “Lets say Saturday instead. I’ll clear it with Hooch.” 

“Sounds like a plan!” Draco enthused, before Harry could provide his opinion one way or another. He watched Diggory walk away, enjoying the sight of it for a moment before he fixed Harry with a blinding smile. 

“When pursuing the art of palmistry, one must always begin with an examination of the heart line…” Professor Trelawney drawled on and on and on about the palm, her croaking voice doing nothing to truly earn the attention of her class. 

Draco’s own palm was holding his head up for him. It was swelteringly warm in her tower-classroom, despite the frigidly cold air that lingered outside. The drone of her voice and his overladen schedule left Draco exhausted, and for once he allowed himself to simply rest his head and drift away from the current lecture. 

He expected to be prodded or scolded for it by Hermione. She didn’t take well to her desk-mates slacking off. Perhaps she was comforted by her insider knowledge that Draco had already memorized this section of their Divination text. Perhaps she just couldn’t bring herself to care at all. When he felt movement next to him, he managed to see her mimicking his position. He had to hide a smile at it, before he let his eyes flicker closed and his mind drift.

The air was heavy with smoke and incense. The windows were covered with long tapestries that depicted the constellations and various star signs, blocking out whatever natural light there was. It left the room brightened entirely by candles and the roaring fire in the hearth. Draco let the sound of Trelawney’s voice wash over him, a mindless drone, words whose meaning he didn’t care to dwell too much on. 

As always, the incense in the room left him feeling fuzzy-headed and dreary. 

Normally, Draco fought the feeling. Today, he was just too tired. He breathed in the smoke, and breathed it back out again. Slow and steady inhales and exhales. He was really to fall asleep at any moment. 

Maybe he does. Maybe sleep is what brings the next thing; the vision has been half formed in his head since the days of his sickness, an unfulfilled prophecy that finally wants to come out and see the light of day. 

“Hello, little cousin.” Came the dreamy rasp of a half-mad phantom. It’s punctuated by the creak of the door closing in the Shack, disturbing a cloud of dust, disturbing the footprints that led toward the man who spoke. He truly was a phantom, the starving shadow of a man that stood before him. 

“Don’t call me that,” The Draco of the vision says, voice cloudy in the mist of what he’s seeing. The man takes a step toward him, and Draco takes a step back, kicking up more dust in his hurry to back away from the man. It was Sirius Back, and in that moment he really did look like a killer. He looked like a man who should have been locked up in a place like Azkaban. 

“What shall I call you instead, hm? Little puppy, little star, little Draco.” There was desperation in his eyes, madness. He’d been driven to the edge of what the human mind could take and there was no knowing if he could come back from it or not. His footsteps scuffed the ground, wiping out the old ones, the old footprints and — 

Paws? 

Paw prints in the dust. Big ones. Leading all the way to Black, all the way to Sirius. The man with a wolfish, savage smile. The man who looked so starved he could fall over at any moment. The man who had been on the run all year now. 

The Grim. It was the Grim. 

“Draco?”

He startles from his… whatever the hell he was supposed to call that, at the sound of his name. Hermione’s gaze was fixed on him. Chairs scraped around them, people pushing away from their desks and from the small tables that surrounded them.

Class was over, and Draco hadn’t notice. His hands shook slightly. 

The grim. The dog. The grim and Sirius were one and the same, they had to be. It didn’t make sense, otherwise. 

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked, with genuine concern in her voice. He looked at her for a long moment, uncertain of himself, before he nodded and got to his feet.

 Draco made quick work of stuffing his books into his backpack. “I’m okay. I dozed off, I think.” 

“You need sleep.” She told him, as they began descending down the ladder back into the school proper. The hallway beneath them was chilly when they reached it, a stark contrast to the warmth of Professor Trelawney’s classroom. 

“Pot, meet Kettle.” He commented, dryly. If he was exhausted, so was she. They shared a weary look, before Hermione shook her head, apparently giving up. He should tell her what he saw. He should tell her — but how could he? Knowledge granted through a seers gift was difficult to cite in every day conversation, especially when you didn’t want to expose that you were a seer at all. 

He needed proof. He needed answers, before he could share it all with her. He froze, and she stopped next to him. Those concerned eyes of her bore into him. There was a strangeness to his behaviour that he couldn’t deny — she would have questions about this, and she would have them soon. He gave her a shaky smile.

“I’ve just remembered — I have to meet Professor Snape. Academic review.” He told her, as he turned the other corner from her. “I’ll see you later.” 

Her brow furrowed again, but with a nod, she let him go. 

The halls of Hogwarts twisted and winded around him like a maze. Every time he passed a window Draco caught himself gazing out at the grounds, as if he might see the shaggy dog running around out there. 

It had to be him. He was an animagus, he must have been. It made sense. Sirius Black had first broken into the castle on the same day that Draco saw the dog for the first time. It must have been easier to hide from the dementors like that. They were looking for a man, not a dog. 

A dog that had been nothing but gentle since the day Draco met it. 

Even around Potter. 

It gave a great deal of weight to his father’s comments on Black’s innocence. Draco flushed with a strange kind of annoyance and frustration. His feet carried him all the way down to the dungeons. He needed to talk to his Godfather. 

Chapter Text

Severus Snape’s private potions lab is steamy and thick with vapors. He isn’t expecting company, but whatever fondness that he has for Draco is enough for him to allow Draco to enter. Draco is nearly always allowed to enter — unless Severus is brewing something really dangerous. 

He practically grew up in labs like this. Learning at his godfather’s side, lessons taught at Severus’s knee. The bubble and hum of brewing potions is like a lullaby. The smell of a flame burning and metal heating, of ingredients melding together and making magic — it all felt like home, in a strange way. 

It made it harder to be upset with Severus. It made it harder to be hurt by him and his tacit agreement with Ignatius Nott. The idea that he may someday turn on Draco was an insidious one, something that festered in his stomach and made him feel sick again. 

Draco forced himself to put those feelings away, as he left his bag and outer robes on the hook by the doorway. He took a breath. “Do I need gloves?” He asked, because that was the proper question for the moment. 

“Not today. I am not dealing with anything particularly corrosive.”  Severus mused. “You, on the other hand, should be in another class, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“Care of magical creatures.” Draco told him, with honesty, and without stepping forward and presuming he was allowed to come inside properly. There was a chance Severus would send him away. “I can’t face it.” 

Severus paused his careful movements for a moment while he considered it. His intense eyes met Draco’s across the steam that rose from the cauldron before him. Being looked at by Severus Snape always felt like being examined, weighed for faults, searched for invisible hurts. 

A beat later, Severus nodded, and gestured for Draco to come forward. “Your time would be better spent here. I will provide a note excusing you for today.” A raised hand. “Just this once. You are not to go around imagining you can do this whenever you like.” 

“Yes, Professor.” Draco breathed, and approached the workbench. He didn’t need gloves, but he rolled his sleeves up as he walked. The last thing that Draco needed was to get potions ingredients all over his clothes. He examines the cauldron with a tilt of his head. “What are you making?” 

“Why don’t you tell me?” 

The request should have been expected. It was just like Severus to make Draco put the work in — particularly when Severus didn’t even have a set of instructions laid out before him that Draco could cheat off of. Draco was proficient enough when it came to third year potions; he would probably even breeze through the fourth year curriculum. Potions may have been his best subject, but that didn’t mean he was a genius, and he couldn’t name an advanced potion just through context clues. 

There was powdered moonstone on the work bench. Expensive stuff. It glimmered in the light, pretty in the haze of the smoke. Powdered moonstone, mandrake leaves, a vial of dragon blood in a delicate glass bottle. His head tilted, and then shook gently in the negative. “I don’t know.” 

“Think on it. There is much more to come.” A jerk of his head toward the large wall of supplies. “Fetch the syrup of hellebore for me, then start slicing the murtlap tentacles.” 

“How many millimeters should the slices be?” Draco asked, as he fetched the bottle that held the syrup. Asking questions was mandatory during private lessons, which this basically was. It was necessary to be thoroughly inquisitive when one was brewing a potion, especially when one couldn’t consult a written list of instructions. 

“Three precisely,” Severus told him, without a moment of thought. 

He set to work, and the motion of it was a calming thing. Being around Severus like this was always calming. Draco had to blink, and remember his vague frustrations, he had to hold on to them even now. He had to question things. The universe was begging him to question things. 

“What affect will the murtlap tentacles have?” He asks, as he works. 

“The liquid will become thicker, and lighten to a paler shade of blue. The tentacles will counterbalance the mild toxicity of the aconite added during the first step.” 

He filed the information away, added to the list of ingredients in his mind. 

“How thick does it need to be? On a scale of one to ten?” 

“Seven.” 

“Did you always know that Sirius Black was innocent, or was it something you realised later?” 

Severus doesn’t fall for the obvious ploy, but there is a hitch of air that he pulls in. 

“My money is on always, because… I don’t think you’re an idiot who would need several years to put it together. And I think you would have known.” 

“Sirius Black deserved Azkaban. I cannot and will not be blamed for him getting what he deserved.” It was levelheaded. Calm. It was something Severus meant.

“For reasons other than the ones he was convicted of?” 

“The man was a blight, Draco. As devastating on those around him as a killing curse incarnate. Looser than the loosest of canons. His fate is justified.” He looked at Draco in the eye, but Draco didn’t budge. It was important to be steadfast, unflinching. A Malfoy didn’t back down, and they didn’t let anybody change their minds. 

“But he’s —” Gentle, Draco was going to say. If Sirius is the Grim, then the Grim has never been anything but gentle, has never done anything to hurt Draco or Harry in the time they’ve spent with him. 

“He tried to kill me.” Snape snaps, hands coming down to rest on the workbench in a harsh movement. It makes Draco jump. 

The words are like a record scratch in his mind. Like a gut punch; or the moment when a snitch evades capture by a bare inch. “What?” He manages, in sharp return.

“Sirius Black tried to kill me.” 

His gaze drops to the thinly sliced tentacle. There was no lie in Severus’s voice. Draco had heard enough falsehood from the man to know when he was lying, some of the time. He would never fool himself into thinking he was a master at reading people. But he felt certain, anyway, that Severus Snape was telling the truth. 

“When I condemn a man to a fate such as the one Black faces, understand I do not do it lightly.” Snape carries on when nothing but silence escapes Draco. “Just as I do not ask you this lightly: Have you seen something that I need to be aware of?” 

What had Draco seen? A desperate man in a shack. A man who might be an animagus. Uncertainty was gripping Draco. If he trusted Severus, did that mean his visions were in some way flawed? Was he misunderstanding the signs that he had seen? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what the right answer was. 

“No,” He says, an instinct. 

“Do you know something about Sirius Black that I need to be aware of, Draco?” Firmer, pushing. 

“No,” He says, with finality. He pushes his work across the work bench. “I don’t know anything.” 

Severus eyes him, searching again, before he adds the sliced tentacle to the potion. He stirs clockwise, until the potion pales several shades. Draco watches it. 

“You will tell me if the answer to either of those questions changes.” 

“Yes,” He breathes, and isn’t sure if he means it or not. 

Could it be true? Was Sirius Black a murderer regardless? Was Severus lying? Severus never lied to Draco. His visions had never lied to him either — but what if he just misunderstood them? If Sirius was a killer, deep down, then he did deserve Azkaban. Did it make a difference if he hadn’t been responsible for what happened to the Potters? 

It might not, to Draco. 

It would matter to Harry. 

“Just —” He breathes, a hitch of a thing. “If there’s another murderer out there somewhere? And if that murderer wants to kill Harry Potter — Shouldn’t Dumbledore know? Or the aurors?” 

Severus freezes for a fleeting second, a mere passing moment where his body tightens and the movement of his hand falters. 

“These are not matters you need worry about, Draco.” Severus tells him, with firm words. A breath escapes him, and his eyes soften from across the workbench, slightly clouded by steam. “You need not worry about it anymore. There are far more important things that require your focus. Like your health. I fear you’re still not fully recovered from your illness. Have you been to see Pomfrey?”

He shakes his head, a gentle movement. 

“You will go see her at once. You will tell her that I have prescribed a strengthening draught and a liberal dose of dreamless sleep.” The tone leaves no room for argument. “And then you will go to bed and stay there until morning.” 

Draco wants to fight it — but he’s so tired. The long days he and Hermione took was manageable before the holidays, but in the aftermath of his illness, they felt insurmountably difficult. Severus was right. Draco was far too worried about far too many things; essays and star charts, arithmancy equations and Harry Potter, his foundling gift of foresight and Sirius Black. Pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing himself. The idea of just going to sleep for a while was an appealing one. 

He nods, a quick jerky movement, and steps back from the bench. He wipes his hands, and takes his robes from the hook. When he looks back, Severus is back to work. The potion smells like the forest during the autumn — rotting leaves and mud. It looks almost silver from his angle, and he puts the puzzle together. 

“Its wolfsbane.” Draco says, with finality. “You’re brewing wolfsbane.” 

The corner of Severus’s mouth twists. It doesn’t look like a particularly happy movement. Still, he waves Draco away with a quick; “Five points to Slytherin.” 

He does go to Pomfrey, and she does give him a potion — the first dose of dreamless sleep carries him until he blinks awake at midnight. There’s a second vial on the nightstand in the hospital wing. There’s a note next to it, propped up with a neat bundle of what he realizes quickly is homework. Hermione. 

‘Heard you were sick again,’ Hermione has written neatly on the parchment. ‘Thought you would want all this when you woke up.’ 

Something swelled up in Draco’s chest. His head felt light. Damn Hermione Granger. Damn her for being lovely and insufferably nerdy. Damn her for caring enough to do this even when he had spent years tormenting her. He smiled a weary smile, and took the second dose of his potion to sleep until morning. 

Madame Hooch insists on supervising from the stands when the Hogwarts Seekers take to the pitch. It was the opinion of the teachers that a sixteen year old boy, much to Cedrics mild annoyance, was not sufficient protection for a group of students when a murderer might be running wild on the grounds. She did her work on the highest seat, and left them to their devices below. 

They worked the rules for their little game out quickly, and it was such a hit that by the end they had vowed to do the same thing the next Saturday again. Draco and Astoria didn’t know how to feel about getting too buddy-buddy with Hufflepuff’s and Ravenclaws, but Cho and Cedric were so earnestly enthusiastic about their new seekers club that neither one of them knew how to say no. 

They all walked back to the castle together, Harry complaining vocally that the Gryffindor Quidditch captain was making them train five times a week. 

“You Gryffindors are bloody pitch hogs,” Cho complained good-naturedly, with a slightly rough laugh. She had a warm way of laughing that drew smiles and chuckles from everyone else too. “We’ve been saying it for years.” 

“It’s true. I listen to her complain about it all the time.” Cedric nods wisely, a gentle smile crossing his face. 

“Because you’re too disgustingly perfect and noble to complain yourself?” Draco asks, and it makes Cho laugh so hard she snorts, much to the amusement of everyone. Cedric played at shoving Draco away as they walked, but the touch was so tame that Draco barely moved. 

It was a good day. 

So his days passed by. January bled into February with a gentle pattern, the ebb and flow of classes and friends, worrying and fretting, obsessive research and Saturday flying with the seekers. 

When the full moon came and Remus Lupin was once again absent, Hermione and Draco met eyes across the classroom until Hermione finally quirked a challenging eyebrow. Three times Draco approached Remus, meaning to make firm enquiries about Sirius Black and chickening out at the last minute every time; which meant that three times, Draco found himself just sharing tea and talking about books with Professor Lupin instead. 

Lupin smiled at him now, whenever they crossed paths. It was strange. It was nice. Draco always thought that werewolves were scary. Remus Lupin wasn’t scary at all. 

In the days before Gryffindor played Ravenclaw at Quidditch, Hermione and Ron had another world-shattering fight over that damned rat of his. He was on Hermione’s side in the conflict on principle; especially once he had heard her impassioned declaration toward Harry — who rather stupidly decided to double down on the idea that Hermione was at fault for the circle of life. 

“Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would!” she had said with earnest hurt in her voice. “First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything’s my fault, isn’t it! Just leave me alone, Harry!”

Theo, Pansy and Draco had watched the scene unfold from the opposite side of the courtyard, shoulders pressed together as they sat, still as statues and just out of sight. Draco’s stomach had twisted when he heard Hermione. Part of him was glad for it, because defending Hermione when her oldest friends had turned against her was a surefire way to tie her to him even further. The other part of him hated himself, and hated Potter and Weasley for daring to hurt Hermione like this. 

“All of those dramatics over nothing,” Pansy had sighed. “She needs to get over herself.” 

Draco had frowned deeply at the words, but it had been Theo who fixed Pansy with his searching gaze. “You would think that.” Theo had accused, much in the same tone Hermione had used just moments before. He then swept up his bag and stalked away from Pansy, her mouth agape as she watched him go. 

“Tell him!” Pansy had demanded, when Theo was well lost in the hallways of Hogwarts. “I refuse to have my best friend angry at me because of you!” 

“Tell him for me.” Draco pleaded, because he still found the thought of telling Theo the truth painful and terrifying. Calm, sweet, intelligent Theo deserved to be in on the secret but Draco was sick with the idea of telling him. Sick with it because he knew if Theo heard is plans for his life and disapproved, and told him to stop — Draco would find it very difficult to refuse him. “I can’t figure out how to do it.” 

“Draco…” Her voice was scolding, and he felt ashamed of himself. 

“Please,” he pleaded again, regardless of his shame. 

“I can’t do it.” She insisted, “You had me do our secret handshake when I promised specifically not to tell Theodore Nott your secret.” 

Pansy and Draco took their secret handshake as seriously as everyone else took an unbreakable vow. It’s sanctity had always been held above all else. If they allowed themselves to break the promises, even in their best interest, it would render everything promised that way entirely tainted. An annoyed sound escaped his lungs as he realised he had blocked himself from attaining a way out of this. 

“Shite.” 

“What are you so scared of, Draco?” She asked him, a moment of earnest softness. “It’s just Theo. I know I made a big deal out of wanting to be the only one in on your secret, but —” 

“But we’ve always told Theo everything, in the end.” 

It was true. Anything they did, Theo hadn’t been far behind. He was the third head of their hydra, and he was necessary for their perfect balance. He was their best friend. 

He met eyes with Harry, across the courtyard. Harry, with curious green eyes. 

Necessiary.

With a challenging eyebrow on Draco’s part, Harry looked away from them, and left them to their business. He always looked away first. Draco used to love it. Now, he kind of wishes Potter looked for longer. 

Harry may have lost the staring battle, but he was determined to win the war of their friendship, and felt the need to bring it all up as they descended to the pitch together before their last seekers match before the Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw match. 

“Theo seemed upset, the other day.” He said. There was something conspiratorial in it. Harry wanted to talk about both of their best friends were fighting with them. 

There was a brief moment where Draco wasn’t sure what to do. Did he pander to Harry’s desires? Did he open his heart and let all that worried him spill out? “He doesn’t like when I have secrets.” He settled on, in the end. 

Something in Harry’s eyes lit up slightly. “You’ve got a secret?” 

“I do.” 

“Will you tell me what it is?” 

“No.” 

“Draco,” Harry said, with insistence. It had been a mistake to mention it at all, Draco knew, because Harry was a deeply obsessive creature at heart. He had never met a mystery he didn’t end up solving, never met a problem that he wouldn’t dedicate months to.

“Harry,” He replies, firm. “No.” 

“You’ve been keeping us waiting!” Cho Chang calls out, as they approach. She was lovely and impatient, and she had Daphne standing lovely and impatient next to her.

“Can we play already?” Daphne prompted, and Draco regretted getting the two girls in the same location over and over again. They were getting along too well, forming some kind of dark alliance. When the Wizarding World was eventually suffering under the boot of the Greengrass and Chang administration, everyone would point and blame Draco for it. 

Cho had been bragging all day about her determination to win more catches than Harry this time; the competitiveness between those two had sparked like a forest fire. Cho had a way of getting under Harry’s skin and annoying him that no one else did. Draco was glad for it, because it distracted Harry from the conversation at hand. Draco was uncertain about it, too, because he was fairly certain that Harry had a crush on Cho. 

The very idea of it made him uncomfortable, and he couldn’t name why, so he kept himself from thinking too much about it as they mounted their brooms and began to play. It was on the walk back up to the castle, Cho victorious, that their initial conversation continued. 

“You shouldn’t be too worried,” Cho assures Harry and Draco both, after Harry had filled her in on the fact that their best friends were mad at them. “We all had massive rows in third year. It’s natural.” 

“Terrible Third,” Cedric nods, with a grimace. 

“Slytherin’s don’t fight.” Daphne had argued, with her cool and calm assurance. She was like Draco, who struggled with the knowledge that other houses were different. No one else seemed to operate under such a pack mentality, no one else sought safety in numbers in the way the green-and-silver decked Slytherins did. 

“Everyone fights eventually.” Cedric insisted, voice laced with a gentle tone. It didn’t make Draco feel any better, and unlike Harry, he had to put up with Cedrics earnest assurances all the way down to the dungeons. 

The second thing that happened before the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw match was that Harry got his firebolt back. Draco was on Hermione’s side in their conflict, but it didn’t stop him from approaching the Gryffindor table to admire the broom when Harry beckoned him over. Neville Longbottom skittishly slid aside so that Draco could collapse onto the bench next with Harry and fix his gaze on the broom. 

Vincent and Greg had followed and loomed behind him, eyes glinting with dreams of flying a broom as beautiful as this one. Their view was obfuscated by the other seekers that had come to share in the glory. Cho and Cedric were both practically drooling over the firebolt when he joined them.

“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” He asked, with a dreamy quality to his face. Draco was horribly jealous, once he saw the firebolt up close — but he was also too proud to beg for a turn on it like so many others had been. 

“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually. 

“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” He began to tease, the kind of commentary that Harry had begun to get used to over the last few weeks. “Shame it doesn’t come with a parachute—in case you get too near a dementor.” 

Vince and Greg laughed, and he watched Harry roll his eyes in fond annoyance. Harry’s face only went more red when he heard Cho’s quick snort of laughter, and watched her lean over to ruffle Draco’s hair. 

“Rooting for me today, right Draco?” She asked, and he grinned up at her just to spite Harry. 

“Always. I only root for players with real talent.” 

The joke, of course, was only funny because they all knew that Harry was probably the most talented flyer in the school. It had been agreed that he deserved additional bullying to humble him, when he could so easily form a big head or be crushed under the weight of his own prodigious talent. Harry reacted with his usual grace, hand coming up to rest on Draco’s shoulder and shove him. 

“Hey!” Neville scolded, as he had been the person Draco was rather rudely shoved into. Laugher was laced in his voice, and it echoed around them from everybody else. 

Harry and Cho, along with the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams, soon descended down to the pitch to prepare for the match. The rest of the school was not far behind them. Draco crowded into the stands, Theo and Pansy flanking him on either side as they always did. Daphne and Blaise sat one row below them, so that they could enjoy Draco’s running commentary on the match. Blaise had insisted that Draco’s commentary was better than Jordans, and that it was almost criminally boring when he was playing in the games and didn’t get to make fun of anyone. 

Harry on the firebolt was a sight to behold, almost breathtaking. He’d always been fast, always been quick and sharp eyed and creative. Today he was beautiful and single-minded. Cho was doing everything in her power to annoy him — something which she, Draco and Daphne had plotted for several hours after their last seekers game. It had always seemed to Draco that the best way to distract Harry was to utterly piss him off. He stopped thinking clearly once his hot headedness took over; still, you couldn’t underestimate him when he had the drive to win. 

And win he did, to the surprise of exactly no one. 

After the match, Draco spent hours with his friends recounting it, and complaining of his jealousy over Harry’s new broom. It seemed to all like a return to the status quo, as if things were going back to normal. Things had been peaceful lately, ordinary — no drama, no fear, and other than the tension between Theo and him, things were good. Draco was really starting to believe that this year would end well. 

The belief was delusional, in the end — he realizes that fact when Blaise shakes him awake, the sound of other students loud outside of their bedroom. 

“Sirius Black broke into Gryffindor Tower with a knife.” Blaise whispers, and the blood in his veins runs cold.

The story of Sirius Black’s escapades in Gryffindor Tower spread across the school like wildfire, but Draco got the story straight from the source. For once, Ron seemed genuinely alright with being in his company, enthusiastically recounting the tale for Draco. 

“He was like a skeleton! All filthy and matted hair, with a big long knife. It must have been the length of my arm! He had this mad look in his eyes, real desperate like? And when I screamed, he legged it.” Ron enthused. This, Draco supposed, was as close as Ron was going to get this year to fifteen minutes of fame. The entire school was rather obsessed with him after the close call, the dramatic scrape with death. 

The way he described Black… It matched what Draco had seen in his visions. The mess of matted hair and the look of desperation in his eyes. Draco ponders the issue as Ron talks and talks and talks. If Sirius Black was innocent, why was he breaking into Gryffindor Tower with a knife? Did he truly want Harry dead? But then again — 

“Why?” Draco breathed, once Ron became distracted by recounting the tale once again to a group of second year girls. Ginny and Loony Lovegood were among them, and Ginny was the only one who didn’t look thoroughly impressed by her brother. 

“Why did he run?” Harry asked, equally ponderous, equally confused. The bulk of his cloaked shoulder brushed against Draco’s as he shrugged. 

“He could have just killed Ron, and then moved on to every bed until he found you.” It seemed, more than anything, illogical. If Sirius Black was willing to do anything to kill Harry, why would he have run away when he finally had the chance?

There must have been something else. Something he was after, something in Gryffindor tower that he wanted badly. But what was it? A room full of thirteen year old boys, and their school belongings, books and trinkets. Maybe he had left something in the boys dorms when he was a student himself. It didn’t seem likely. Plus, it didn’t track with what Draco had seen of the future. 

He regretted, now, letting Severus talk him out of his obsessive investigations. 

“He must have known he’d never make it out of the castle once everyone woke up.” Harry mused, thoughtfully. “What I don’t understand is how he got out without any teachers seeing him.” 

He’s an animagus. Draco didn’t say it.

“It doesn’t make sense.” He said, and Harry nodded, thoughtful look still rich in his eyes. 

Hermione and Draco spent nearly every waking hour in the library, in the next week or so. They studied for their classes. They studied case law and gathered endless resources for Hagrid, who would be attending a trial for Buckbeak soon. They whispered about Sirius black and wrote endless lists. Guilty or innocent, with endless pros and cons for each option. 

Single-minded and determined, that was what the two of them had become. With Hermione and her friends still in the depths of an argument, she had nothing but free time for her research and studies — Except when it came to Divination. 

“Just let me rewrite it for you.” 

“No!” She insisted, “That’s cheating.” 

He scowled down at her essay on palmistry. “She’s going to fail that.” 

“All of the details are correct.” 

“You spend two pages ripping the entire practice to shreds. She’s going to fail it.” 

A huff escaped Hermione. She scowled back at him. 

“Let me fix it.” He insisted. “That way you’ll have more time to work on those notes for Hagrid.” 

Appealing to her good nature and desire to help a friend was underhanded, and even Hermione knew it. All that mattered was that the dirty plot worked. With another huff, she shoved the essay in his direction. “Fine. Pass me that book over there.” 

Draco set about his corrections, carefully matching as much of her handwriting as he could, so that she wouldn’t have to re-pen the entire essay. Draco had always been a prodigy when it came to forging other people’s writing. He could, and often did, do half of Pansy’s homework for her, and even written letters back to her family for her without anyone being suspicious of it. 

Palmistry was something Draco hadn’t taken much of an interest in when he was doing his research during the summer, or any of his extra reading since. The soft methods of Divination were something that had apparently been looked down upon by the most powerful seers in history. Plus, it didn’t have the grace and flair of reading tea-leaves to give Draco an interest in it. Still — it had come to him easily enough, when their classes started. He was knowledgeable enough on the subject now that he could let his mind drift while he wrote it.

It drifted, as it often did, to Sirius Black. Pros and cons. He believed Sirius was innocent. He believed Sirius could still be a killer, despite that. The world was made with shades of gray, and the two facets of what he knew about Sirius were not mutually exclusive. What he needed, was to decide if Sirius being a killer made him someone they should stay away from. Draco knew killers, after all. Severus was a killer. Draco and his friends were raised by killers, too. He believed that being a killer didn’t always make you a bad person. 

What he needed, really, was to talk to Sirius Black himself. He hadn’t seen the dog since he returned for Christmas, despite his best efforts to find the creature. When he had decided to let the entire matter go, he had simply stopped looking, and now hated himself for it. If he saw Sirius, if he confronted him, if he listened to the man explain it — it might make a difference, he might be able to get a proper read on Sirius, and finally decide if he ever wanted to let the man get near Harry Potter. 

“Do you think Harry would let me borrow that map?” He asks, in a hushed tone. 

“You’d have to tell him why you want to borrow it.” 

His cheeks puff out in annoyance. Gryffindors are far too honest with each other, and expect far too much honesty in return. With a Slytherin, he simply would have asked for the favor and they would have agreed, no further questions asked — just a pointed look to let you know that you owed them a favor now in return. That was how the world ran, even in adult hood. Even now, his father was obsessed with the people that owed him favors. 

“You could steal it for me.” He said, and the next huff that escaped her was half laughter. “Yeah,” He sighed. “That’s fair.” 

They were so entrenched in their studies that they both decided to skip the next Hogsmeade weekend so that they could work instead. Theo and Pansy had complained for endless hours on the Friday before the trip. They had been looking forward to it, had both planned on doing things with him. The annoyance at Draco they shared united them against a common enemy, which was always dangerous for Draco’s sanity. Still, they went without him. Everyone did. 

He regretted it later. Of course Harry would get the map taken off of him by a teacher; the man had the subtlety of a brick smashing through a window. All hopes of borrowing the map to look for Black were struck through in his mental list of options.

There wasn’t much time to dwell on it, regardless of anything else. Once they found out about Hagrids news from the hearing none of them thought of much else. 

The news of Buckbeak’s fate brought Hermione and Ron back together. It would have been a comfort, had it not been for a simple fact that Draco learned from the book on muggle science Professor Lupin had leaned him: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. As Hermione and Ron came together, the tenuous peace that had begun to exist around Draco and Ron was broken. 

As far as Ron was concerned, the entire Malfoy family was to blame for what was going to happen to Buckbeak. It was because of Draco’s father that Buckbeak was going to be sentenced to death. Draco bore his newfound grudge with a tight hold on his restraint while he was around the Gryffindors, and vented endlessly about it to his Slytherin friends when he returned to his common room at night. 

It took several days for the shit to truly hit the fan. When it happened, it happened after potions class. It may have been less disastrous had it not gone down in such an intensely public place. The hallways were no place to fight, and yet a fight broke out.

It had started so innocently. An invitation from Hermione to come down with them to see Hagrid and update him about the appeal process for Buckbeak. 

“Hagrid won’t want to see him!” Ron had jumped in, far too quickly. “Its his bloody fault Buckbeak is going to be executed in the first place.” 

And Draco hadn’t been able to hold on to his calm restraint. 

“My fault?” He had snapped back. 

And Ron, clearly itching for a fight, had doubled down. “Yes! Your fault! If you didn’t act as mad as the rest of your family all the time, Buckbeak wouldn’t have scratched you and your father wouldn’t be on the warpath.” 

“That’s a lovely high horse you’re sitting on — considering that Hermione and I are the only ones who did any work to help Hagrid in the last few months. Maybe if you and Harry had helped at all, we’d be in a different situation.” 

“You really are as crazy as the rest of them.” 

And that had been the final straw for it all. Draco’s exhaustion caught up with him, and he was overcome suddenly by furiously hurt feelings. It had been second nature, muscle memory, to advance on Ronald Weasley and look him dead in the eye. Rons face was red with anger and frustration, a familiar sight. 

“Crazy? I’ll show you crazy if you aren’t careful, Weasley. Go on, provoke me to it, you vile, insolent, obnoxious little toad!” 

“Stop!” Hermione finally managed to cut in. She stepped between them. “Stop fighting.” 

He wouldn’t have reacted badly to that either, if he wasn’t bone tired and fed up. Draco had done nothing but worry for weeks on end now, done nothing but work himself to the bone, and nothing felt fair. “Fine.” He snapped. “Side with him. Of course, no one needs me now that your perfect little trio has joined up again.” 

So Draco had left — stormed away, to be more accurate, cloak billowing behind him with the flair for the dramatic that he had clearly learned from his Godfather. 

Sirius Black’s second break-in to Hogwarts meant that the security around the castle had been raised higher and higher. No students were allowed out on the grounds by themselves. All Draco wanted to do was try and track down that dog, but there was simply no chance to sneak out and do it. It may have been possible before, when he could have asked Harry to borrow the Marauders Map, but now it all seemed to be a lost cause. 

Since his falling out with Ronald Weasley, Vince and Greg had become more protective than ever. Draco had come back to the common room in quite a state, and as far as those two were concerned, no one messed with Slytherins and got away with it. They returned to their habit of following him around like bodyguards without any conversation on the topic. Pansy, for her measure, looked markedly pleased. 

Harry and Hermione had attempted, exactly once, to march Ron up to him and force him to apologies. It hadn’t gone well, and had been agreed by all that Ron and Draco were better off giving each other some space for a few weeks, until tensions abated and they could find the capacity to relax.

Vince and Greg were of the opinion that Ron Weasley deserved a beating. He managed to talk them out of it, but a dark look lingered in their eyes — a look he saw mirrored in Theo’s when they discussed the matter. 

“What could the idiot have possibly have said to you to get you so worked up?” Theo had asked, with a blithe kind of disinterest. They were both laying on their beds, turned on their sides to look at each other. They were alone, just the two of them. 

“He called me crazy.” Draco offered in return, and watched Theo’s eyes go flinty and hard. The word was a touchy one for Draco, who had heard it thrown at his mothers side of the family endlessly. It was touchy for Theo, too, who had heard it thrown at his own mother for his entire life. 

“You’ll call me crazy too.” Draco said, though he didn’t rightfully believe it. Maybe it was the moral corruption in him; but he felt the need to put Theo on the back-foot before he brought up the perpetual elephant in the room. “If I tell you.” 

Theo’s sharp gaze fixed on his own, at that. Flinty still, but achingly soft, as Theo always was. By Merlin, the gaze was an intense one. Sometimes Theo looked at him like they were in a life or death situation. 

“Is that what you’re scared of?” Theo pondered, as if he wasn’t sure, as if it could go either way. 

“Mostly. Or that we’ll fight and you won’t be my friend anymore.” There, appealing to Theo’s soft gooey heart. That would do it. Draco’s own heart was beating faster, because as clinical as his thought process was becoming, he really did care about this going well. 

Theo’s eyes narrowed, slightly. And then his head shook, gentle laughter bubbling up. “You’re so transparent. But — An idiot, if you really believe that could happen.” 

“I’m stuck with you, is that what you’re trying to say?” 

“Seems that way.” Stubbornness, that was what it sounded like. It was utterly in character for Theo. He would eternally be the loyal companion, the boy who stubbornly stuck by his side — at least, that was what Draco hoped. 

“Promise.” Draco demanded, flinging a hand out so that they could shake on it. 

“I promise.” Theo sighed, and shook his hand. His grip was firm, his eyes still sharp. Theo rose, then, and gave Draco an expectant look. “Shove over, then, and tell me.” 

Draco drew in a breath, sharp and steely, before he shifted to make room for Theo to lay next to him. They shifted onto their backs, staring up at the stars that Draco had projected above his bed. Theo drew the curtains and cast a silencing charm, letting Draco have the time to gather himself. 

“I’ve come into something of an inheritance.” He began, once he had steadied his heart. “I guess… my cousin was a seer, it turns out. Apparently it runs in the family.” 

Theo is silent for a long beat of time, before he pulls in a breath. “What have you seen?” 

“Nothing good.”

“Elaborate on that.” 

“I saw… The Dark Lord, risen again. And a war. I saw our fathers, doing terrible things. I saw it break us.” 

Theo’s eyes fluttered closed in a long blink. Uncertainty flickered across his face. 

“I saw a future that I don’t want, Theo. Not for you, and not for me, and not for Pansy.” Draco explains, as best he can, with a strange kind of fire in his voice. “I want to stop it.”

“People don’t always get what they want.” A quiet musing, a gentle warning. 

“But I will.” He breathed, a solemn vow, with the authority and tragedy of Cassandra in Apollo’s temple. “I will.” 

The intensity of Theo’s gaze, up so close, is a chilling thing. “Your father would kill you, if he heard you say that. Or worse.” 

It was a fact. Not just a musing, not just a dire fear. It was something they both knew. The nuances were tacitly assumed and backed up by past behaviour. A father’s love was not an unconditional resource. A father’s anger was far too easy to summon. And then there was the worse. A father would always, always, do anything for power.

“Or lock me up like a very pretty bird in a very gilded cage.” It was a joke, and it wasn’t a joke at all. 

In the old days, it was seen as a blessing to have a seer in the house. They were powerful, they had foresight and wisdom. They had been seen by the rest of the magical world like the voice of Fate herself — a good omen, a wise person, a valuable prize for those who could win them. It was a status symbol. Proof that your bloodline was more powerful than everyone else’s, because you had been touched by the gods on high. His father would want to use him, and if Draco was willing to play along, that would keep him safer.

“That’s the one I would want, if I had to choose between two worst case scenarios.” 

Draco exhales, a sharp thing, nearly a laugh. “People don’t always get what they want.” 

“But I will,” Theo said, in a perfect mocking imitation of Draco. He had the intonation down perfectly — Except he was already ruining it with a smile when he carried on, “I will.” 

Draco does laugh, that time. He reaches out, too, and pushes Theo until the other boy rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a thunk.

“I need a vision.” He whispered to himself. 

A vision was the answer. He couldn’t track Sirius Black down without one of the Professor’s knowing. He needed to know more of the story; he needed to know if Sirius Black was worth approaching. Severus claimed the man was a killer. But if he was a killer who would work to protect Harry, he may be a killer that Draco is forced to put up with. 

A vision would show him the answers, he knew it. It would make the picture clear, make the answers seem logical. He just needed to see more.

He spent every moment of his day working. At classes, studying, researching. When he should have slept, he crept down to the empty classroom he had found before and set up a scrying pool. 

Three nights passed without Draco seeing anything at all. Three nights of exhaustion. Three nights that ended in the early hours of the morning, with Draco leaning forward to blow out his candles and retreating to the dorms to catch two scant hours of sleep before breakfast.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Draco both become more run down by the day. Draco feels like he’s sleepwalking all of the time. Neither of them gets much of a rush from turning back the clock anymore. Hermione sleeps through Charms class and lives the rest of that entire day in hysterics — clearly her mental faculties are failing her, as she storms out of Divination class that day and refuses to ever go back. 

“But you can’t quit!” Draco tried to plead with her, pressed tight in his spot between Harry and Neville at the Gryffindor table that night at dinner. 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Because —” He floundered, because Trelawney was genuinely awful and nonsensical 90% of the time, during class. Hermione and her clashed so terribly that Hermione was barely learning a thing. Hermione had no talent for Divination, and worse, she had no respect. But it was their class. They were partners. “Because I’ll beat you if you don’t come back.” He settled on, as an argument of last resort. 

He felt Harry give a chuckle of laughter beside him, and firmly elbowed the other boy. “Hey,” Harry argued, rubbing at his side. 

“If you don’t come back to Divination, I’ll be the top of our year by default. I’ll have won.” 

“You have to come back, Mione.” Muttered Ron, who hadn’t otherwise acknowledged Draco’s presence since he descended upon their table. Ron was only safe from Draco’s elbow by virtue of sitting on the other side of Harry. 

Hermione gave him a thoughtful look, calculating, before she shrugged her shoulder. “I think I’ll still score higher than you.” 

Draco made a disgruntled, frustrated, offended sound, and twisted out of his seat, storming away toward the Slytherin table. 

“I wish you would stop doing that!” Harry called after him, and received no reply other than a glare. 

Draco’s agitation didn’t wane even as the Easter Holidays descended upon them. He had been allowed the respite of staying in Hogwarts. Most of the students did, but Draco did like to go home and see his mother sometimes. Instead, she sent him a large care package and a long letter. He traced her handwriting with his fingertips over his morning cup of tea, and tried not to be homesick. 

Easter was spent studying, endless hours of the day. Every second of his day is tightly controlled, planned out with careful precision. Draco himself has never felt more out of control. Every night he tries and tries and tries to have a vision, and yet it won’t happen. 

He can’t see anything. 

Surely he should be able to call on it by now? The strange power within him shouldn’t be fighting him at every turn. He hasn’t had a vision since that fateful divination class when he saw Black again. 

The lack of a vision makes him jittery. It makes him feel useless. 

Theo gently draws him away from the windows he stares out of, hoping to see glimpses of that dog. Pansy makes him nap against her shoulder in the common room, on their favourite couch near the fire. They’re rocks, and they start to flank him on either side nearly constantly. They share significant looks over his shoulder — and it only takes three days after the break starts before Pansy starts joining them in the library. 

Pansy is sharp like a weapon, next to Draco. She doesn’t say much to Hermione, but she doesn’t say anything rude and that’s the important part. They can tolerate each other like that. He and Ron trade in their war for something else too, a battle waged in silence. As Draco and Hermione are overtaken by the mountain of homework they have, Ron takes the responsibility of researching for Buckbeaks appeal. 

It’s useless, and Draco knows it.

Buckbeak is going to die. 

If he says it, they’ll hate him, so he doesn’t say anything. 

It had seemed, when he was a child, that life was lived in the spaces between words. He was raised in silences, and had learned at an early age when to hold his tongue. It had been a quiet existence for a quiet boy. Maybe that was why he spoke so much, when he was at Hogwarts — making up for lost time, rambling on. 

Did Sirius Black used to live his life in silence too? Did Hogwarts have the same affect on him? Did he come alive whenever he left his fathers house and wither again when he went home? How like Draco was he? The same blood in their veins, the same old gods to worship and rituals to partake in. The same eyes. He wanted to question it, to run to anyone who knew Sirius Black and ask them.

Silence was better. Maybe it was better not to know. 

He pondered it still, endlessly, as he drew star charts and wrote essays. And at night, when all the others had returned to bed, Draco descended to pluck the strings of fate and try a force a vision out of his third eye. His efforts remained fruitless, frustration growing all the while. 

The Slytherin Quidditch team look like birds, out in the distance. Draco can see them practicing from where he sits in one of the sixth-floor alcoves. He likes it there, sitting in a ray of sunlight that drifts in. The days are getting longer, and as the Easter Holidays draw to a close, he’s starting to really feel the warmth of Spring creeping in. 

He likes watching the team fly. It feels too strange to watch them from the stands — and if he gets too close, he ends up getting jealous. To be that close to the action and not part of it feels wrong. From a distance, with a book in his lap, he can feel the wonder of it. 

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Professor Lupin’s voice reaches him, pulling his attention away from the pitch in the distance. “Is this the young Mr. Malfoy at rest? Us Professor’s believed the sight to be much extinct.” 

The Professor leans on the other side of the alcove. When the sun crosses his face, he looks strangely younger. He’s feeling good this week, he must be — it’s still two more until the full moon rises again. 

Once again, he hates that he can’t hate Remus Lupin. It’s what his father would want him to do.

Instead of hating him, he smiles. “Am I believe that you all spend your time gossiping about your students together?” 

“Its more common than I’d like to admit.” A gesture toward the ledge, “May I?” 

With a brief nod, Lupin took a seat. He had his own book in his hands, clearly off to his own relaxation session. He took a long glance out the window, before arching a brow. “You could be out there enjoying yourself too, if you wanted to.” 

“I’m savoring the quiet and the sunshine before lunch with my Godfather condemns me to an afternoon in the dungeons.” A pause, “It’s better to watch from here, anyway. Flint doesn’t treat Daphne with as much respect when I’m around.” 

“That’s very considerate.” 

This man knew Sirius Black. That was what Draco was stuck thinking. This man wrote his Aunt Andromeda letters, trying to convince her that Sirius Black was as guilty as sin. Did he believe it? Did any of her doubt creep in?

Should Draco break his silence now?

Was it better to live in the moments where you spoke?

“Can I ask you a question, Professor?” He says, before he can think better of it. He finds himself floundering in the aftermath of it, but all Lupin does is smile, nod at him. “Its only — You mentioned you were at school with my mother for a time. So you must have known my other family as well. My cousins.” 

“I did.” Lupin replies, with a moment of hesitation. “Yes, I knew them.” 

“Do you find me very similar to them?” He settles on, as the question. “I’ve been wondering, lately.” 

“What sparked that?” 

“Someone said that they were all crazy. And that I was crazy too.” 

Something in Lupin’s face shifts, there. A fleetingly dark look, as if he’d like to start handing out detentions. “They called me Loony Lupin when I was at school here. I’ve heard them do the same to Luna Lovegood. Children tend to be rather cruel in that manner.” 

“But were they?” He prods. “Crazy?” 

Lupin doesn’t answer the question straight away. He ponders it for a long moment. “No, Draco. They weren’t crazy. All people, when put under intense circumstances, can be unmade by anger and grief — But I have never known a member of your family to be lacking in their mental faculties.” He moves the book around in his hands, seemingly just wanting something to do to keep himself busy. “You rather remind me of Regulus Black, actually.” 

“I do?” He perks up, slightly. Of course, he knows Regulus. He knows this dark gift they share, and the intensity of the older boy’s gaze. He’s seen Regulus’s tightly controlled demeanor and the monotone sarcasm of his voice. “Did you know him well?” 

“Not as well as some. But there was a time when he and I were… I’m not sure I can call it friendly, but as close as we could have gotten.” A heavy pause. “During a very hard time in my life, Regulus offered me some kind of comfort.” 

“And I’m like him?” 

Lupins eyes fix on his, and a smile graces his lips. He knows when someone is fishing. “He was remarkably clever, and remarkably good at making it look effortless. He was a good flyer, the fastest seeker I had seen, before this year. Regulus had this way of making everything look easy — I think it was that expression he always had on his face. So restrained, so calm, so aloof. He was a very complicated young man. Burdened by his circumstances.” 

Burdened by his circumstances. Yeah, that sounded like Draco. Still — He couldn’t see Regulus struggling the way he was right now. He couldn’t see Regulus struggling with the gift at all. He’d only had it for a couple of years, and yet the way he talked in the mirror made him seem like he had mastered it from the first touch of the telescope, the first glance at a mirror and the first vision that befell him. 

“And Sirius Black?” Draco says, traitorous. “Was he burdened by his circumstances?” 

“Well…” 

“You were friends.”

“Harry told you that?” 

“Harry told me everything.” He glances down at the book in his own hands. It’s one of Hermione’s — a recommendation that he isn’t sure he’s enjoying. Muggle literature. She said it would help with Muggle Studies class if he connected on a more personal level, she said she would take Divination more seriously if he read it. He isn’t sure why he’s keeping up his end of the bargain, when she abandoned hers. “I heard my father say he was innocent, when I was home. What do you think of that?” 

Silence takes Lupin. Draco’s curse has latched on to another, it seems. He doesn’t push, doesn’t beg for answers in the way he wants to. He feels ready to fall to his knees and beg the universe for an answer — but they’re already bruised now, from long nights kneeling in front of his scrying mirror and waiting for a vision that just won’t come. He sniffs, instead, and worries the edge of the book against his fingertips. It’s worn, and well read. It’s one of Hermione’s favorites, clear as day, and maybe that’s why he’s keeping his end of the bargain up. 

“You heard him say it?” Is what Lupin finally provides him with. 

“He was talking to his friends in his study.” A shrug, as he traces the shape of the word Brontë on the cover. “I eavesdropped.” 

“And you believe him to be telling the truth.” 

“I did.” Draco says, after only a moment of hesitation. It should feel wrong, talking to Lupin like this — it should feel like a betrayal, and yet here he was, talking, “But Professor Snape told me something different.” 

“What did he say?” 

“That Sirius Black was a killer. That Sirius Black tried to kill him.” 

Something shifts on Lupins face. A wince. A pain. A moment of shame. He had been friends with Sirius Black, and he didn’t deny it. But there was something else there — annoyance, maybe? Draco didn’t have a full read on the way this mans face could change. 

“Yes, I suppose he did.” A beat, a moment where Lupin clears his throat and leans forward. “We were at school, then. There was a… prank, that Sirius pulled on Severus. It very well could have led to his death, had James Potter not been there to put an end to it. Sirius was fifteen at the time.”

Two years older than Draco was now. Draco blinks at Lupin. He isn’t certain how to feel about it — other than angry, still, on his Godfather’s behalf. 

“Draco.” Lupin pulls his attention back. He sounds serious, and like he’s fighting to be gentle about this. He glances around them, quickly, as if he’s making sure that the two of them are still alone. “Did Severus tell you that Sirius wasn’t the one responsible? For… what happened, to James and Lily. Did he talk about that?” 

“He… all he said was that Sirius Black deserved Azkaban. He didn’t confirm it, one way or another.” Their eyes meet across the alcove, and Draco’s heart-rate feels erratic, feels off-center and uncertain with itself. “Do you believe he did it?” 

“I…” A pause, a shake of Lupin’s head. “I’m not sure what to think, anymore.” 

“What did you think when you first heard?” He asks, morbidly curious. “If someone told me tomorrow that Pansy had murdered all of my friends, I wouldn’t believe them.” 

Another shake of his head. “They showed me his confession. Dumbledore assured me it couldn’t have been anyone else — he taught Sirius how to preform the Fidelius Charm himself. He was who they wanted to be their Secret Keeper.” 

Grief is laced through every word. Doubt, too. 

“Did he watch them do it?” 

“No, I don’t… I don’t believe he did.” 

“What if Sirius taught someone else? What if they… changed their minds?” 

Their eyes meet again. A brief moment of understanding, a brief moment of mutual consideration, before Lupin starts gazing out at the grounds. When Draco tracks his eyes, he’s looking out at the edge of the forest, beyond the Whomping Willow. 

“He would have said something.” 

“When?” Draco laughs, and doesn’t mean to. Yet the sound comes out of him regardless. He blames the pressure he’s been under, blames the intensity of the conversation, blames the strange mirth that runs through his veins. The noise seems to startle Lupin, but Draco carries on anyway. “When would he have said otherwise? After the shock wore off? He would have been in Azkaban already. Four hours. That’s how long it took them to get him there, after they caught him that day. I read about it. Maybe if he had a trial, he would have had the chance, but — but now he’ll never get the chance to say anything one way or another. If the dementors find him, they’ll kiss him without a moment of hesitation, and he’ll never be able to say anything again.”

Lupin is pale, now. Frightfully pale. He doesn’t look young at all anymore. He looks world weary and ancient, looks so tired he’s fit for bed. He looks like Draco feels. Draco can’t help it; he laughs again, and has to cover his mouth with a hand to stifle the sound of it.

“I’m sorry,” He manages to get out. “It’s just — they’re going to suck out his soul and I don’t think its right. I think its so, so wrong, and I can’t see the way out of it. I can’t see — I can’t see anything.” 

“He might be innocent.” Lupin says, hollow. He sounds emptied out. Draco feels emptied out. When Draco laughs again, so does Lupin. Neither of them sound particularly happy about it. 

“Did my cousin Regulus ever talk to you about…” A breath, as he gazes down at the cup of tea steeping in front of him. “About his gifts.” 

“The visions?” Severus’s voice is level and calm, a perfect beat, a perfectly familiar kind of comfort. He always knows what Draco is saying. He always knows what Draco needs. 

He’s been treating Draco with kid gloves lately. As if Draco is something vulnerable, suddenly, as if he might fall apart at any minute. Draco feels like he’s falling apart. Professor Lupin walked him all the way down to the dungeons and deposited him outside of Severus’s door. He had promised to look into thinks on Draco’s behalf. It was like having an ally in his corner. 

He wanted Severus to be an ally. He felt like one. But more than anything, he wanted Severus to stop treating him like he would break. He might break, but the shattering may be necessary. 

“Yes, the visions.” He nods, and tries not to sound dazed with it.

“He did.” Severus nods, and pours the milk into Draco’s tea for him. He looks a step away from blowing on it to cool it, but he lets Draco pull it closer instead. He lets Draco gaze down at the deep brown liquid. He likes his tea strong. It’s the exact same shade that he’s seen Harry drink at breakfast. He likes that. He likes that Harry and him are the same, in these small ways, as if they’ve been mirroring each other for their whole lives — As if Harry has some claim to him. 

Potters are thieves. That was what Regulus had said, in the mirror. 

“Did he tell you if there were any ways to — to make yourself have a vision? To force it?” 

Severus’s spoon clinks on the rim of his own cup, and it forces Draco to look up at him. His eyes are sharp. Critical. “Regulus was a lot older than you are when his gift manifested. While there are methods I know he used… I believe you are far too young for such things.” 

“Too young.” Draco echoes. 

“Regulus was almost a man. He was in a position to push himself to extremes.” 

“And how, exactly, did he do that.” 

Severus’s sigh is a weary thing. “I shall tell you no such thing. That knowledge is forbidden.” 

Draco nods, a slow thing. He doesn’t push it. It wouldn’t be right to start an argument with Severus, when they’re just supposed to be enjoying their time together. “I got a letter from mother the other day,” He changes the subject. “She’s off to Paris for several weeks.” 

“Do you trust me?” His finger taps out a single key on the piano, like a metronome. He’s pondering forbidden knowledge, and Regulus Black. No matter how hard he tries, a vision won’t come. He begs for it for hours at night, prays for it, and the bruises on his knees are only getting darker and more viciously sore. Tea doesn’t help. Incense doesn’t help. Nothing can make the future come to him. 

Forbidden knowledge. That’s what he needs. Restricted knowledge. 

Harry has his back against the wall, leg up, scratching away at a parchment to write his latest potions essay. It’s the last one due before their exams, which begin any day now. Severus is bound to mark them harshly, and Draco, unlike Hermione, will fix it for him. Draco is careful not to look at him too much — It distracts him, when Draco playing the piano is a surefire way to make him shut up and do his work. 

Since that first time when Draco brought Harry here, this has become their place. The music room. Quiet and private. Harry just kept pushing in. Kept finding him there and kept keeping him company. Draco likes it, in a strange way.

“Er—” Harry falters, “Yes?” 

“Convincing.” 

“I thought we already established that I did.” There’s amusement in it, and a casualness that Draco wishes he could grasp at sometimes. “You sat there and tried to convince me I shouldn’t, remember?” 

“Yes.” 

“So, yes.” It sounds like there’s a smile in it. “I trust you.” 

“How much?” 

“What?” 

Draco keeps pressing the same key. Shrugs his shoulder, shakes his head. “There are different kinds of trust. The normal kind, and the Slytherin kind. It’s like… Me and Cedric? I trust him, strangely enough, to be honorable and do as he says he will. I don’t think he would hurt me on purpose. That’s normal trust. But Theo and I…” 

“Theo and you?” 

“I trust him to the ends of the earth. He would do anything for me, without question. And I would do anything for him, without question. It works, because deep down, we know that the other person is at the top of our priority lists. We have each others best interests at heart.” 

He can feel the burning of Harry’s gaze on him. The intensity of those green eyes. He doesn’t look back. He might lose his nerve. 

“What do you need me to do?” Harry asks, finally. Draco lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He holds back a laugh, because — of course. Of course that was how Harry responded. Of course Harry would jump at the chance to prove himself to Draco, when Draco was the one who should be groveling for every scrap of friendship. 

“I think you’ll hate me just for asking.” 

Harry shifts, finally, and nudges him to sit on the same piano bench. “Would Theo hate you, if you asked him for something he didn’t want to give?” 

His finger stops on the key finally. Harry picks a different one, a gentler note to fill the air, a gentle noise for Draco to focus on as he ponders it. There was nothing Draco could ask for that Theo wouldn’t give him. The fear was always that the problem would be the other way around. Theo might hate Draco for something, someday — but it would probably be because he asked for something Draco couldn’t give him. 

“No,” He says, instead of trying to explain it. 

“What do you need?” 

Draco finally looks at him. Finally meets his eyes. The electric shock of green, one eye all the more striking for the way it was vivisected by that scar. Lightning. A lichenberg figure all the way across the right side of his face. It was lighter than the rest of his skin, standing out like an electric storm across a dark sky. 

“Your invisibility cloak.” He finally breathes. “I need your invisibility cloak.” 

Harry’s gaze intensifies. He looks like he wants to eat his previous words, and Draco huffs out a breath of laughter. It was to be expected. He’s prepared to hear Harry tell him no. 

“Can I ask why?” Harry enquires, instead. 

Draco’s shoulder shrugs upward in a delicate motion. It causes their arms to brush against each other. “I need to look for something in the restricted section.”

“Wouldn’t Professor Snape just write you a pass?” 

A shake of his head, and Draco reaches up to start playing the keys again, creating a gentle melody around Harry’s one repeated note. “I’ve already asked him. He won’t help me with this one.” 

“So you need the cloak to sneak in.” 

“Exactly.” 

He’s going to say no. Draco is sure of it. Harry has no reason to trust him with something as valuable as this, has no reason to believe that Draco won’t mess everything up if Harry hands over his prized possession. Harry is gazing down at Draco’s hands, as they move on the keys. His eyes blink closed for a second, before his mouth opens. 

“Okay.” He says, and it’s enough to make Draco stop in his tracks again. 

“Okay?” Draco asks, in pure and utter disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Harry nods his head. “But just you, okay? Don’t let anyone else see it, or touch it, or use it. Not Theo or Pansy or anyone.” 

A smile spreads across Draco’s face, a surprised and warm thing. Harry looks at it, and something like a smile twitches across his own face in return.

“Okay.” Draco echoes again.

Draco relaxes marginally he gets inside the restricted section of the Library. He pulls in a long breath of air. It’s cold at night, but the cold is a bracing thing, it steadies him. He feels the clarity that comes after a bout of exhaustion, the second wind that comes in the middle of an all-nighter, when your brain realizes you aren’t going to go to sleep and starts picking up the slack again. 

With a quick appeal to lady luck, he reaches out and brushes his fingers against the spine of the books. Dark magic. It feels like home to him. He takes another breath before he closes his eyes. He lets his feet guide him, fingers slipping from book cover to book cover as he walks down the aisle, around the corner, down more. 

He stops when his gut twists. Fates guide him, he needs all the help he can get, and maybe they’re finally having mercy on him. When he opens his eyes, he’s touching a moderately sized leather-bound tome. 

Amplifying the Future by Septimus Malfoy. 

He catches the book by its edge and pulls it from the shelf. He can’t force himself to exhale, breath held in his chest like it might shatter the world apart if he lets it escape. Septimus Malfoy. Would Draco ever escape his ancestry? Would either of his family names stop plaguing him, now?” 

It appeared not. With another hitching breath in, he screwed his courage to the sticking place and opened the cover of the book. He regretted finding it, and he coveted it instantly. Yes, this was what he needed. Yes, this would help him. This was forbidden knowledge that Severus would surely burn before he let Draco read it. 

His eyes skimmed over chapter titles and appendices. This was real magic — the words inside those pages did not beguile you with simple things, no gentle nurtures that may call a vision forward; these were not the words that taught you how to brew a simple tea, or breathe a certain brand of incense. This was real magic. The perfect balance of light and dark magic, the rituals and traditions that got people burned at the stake in the old days. 

“Malum Factum,” Draco whispered to himself, as he stopped on a page near the back of the book. A potion to force a seer into a state of prophetic ecstasy — to fully open the third eye and call down the future like a tidal wave. His heart beat faster, his throat felt tight. 

It needed coltsfoot and fennel seed, dragons blood and tourmaline dust, mugwort and asphodel petals. It needed seven ounces of bone and seven more of unicorn hair, the scale of a Basilisk, one wing from three different fairies, and — 

Draco felt his stomach twist, bile rising, as he read the next part. 

— and the freshly removed eye of another oracle. 

He almost gagged at the thought of it. He’s never turned the page of a book faster than he did in that moment. As his stomach lurched, he had to close his eyes and breathe. That was alright. It was a potion he would never make, so he would never have to think of this again. It was awful, yes — but just the ingredient list itself was helpful. It gave Draco an idea of what he should be looking for, before he got to the human body parts. 

Just because it was awful, didn’t mean the rest of the book wouldn’t be helpful. Draco had read enough of the books on dark magic in his father’s library to know that very useful spells were often listed side by side with the truly horrible stuff. This was normal enough.

He is taking a shuddering breath in, opening his eyes to look down at the book again — that’s when he sees the rat. It’s scurrying along the shelf, going somewhere. He’s grimacing and getting ready to move away when he notices that it isn’t just any rat. 

It’s Scabbers. It’s got that weird bald patch that Weasley’s rat did, the last time Draco saw it. This was the damned rat that was making Hermione’s life a living hell this year, the one that Weasley was so sure was dead. Oh, how hilarious. And how utterly vexing. “Bastard,” He breathes out, and lunges forward to try and grasp the rat in his hand. 

It must be the seeker inside him, but his reflexes are quick enough that he actually gets his hand around the rat. It squirms in his grasp, frightened and trying to escape him. Draco lets out a breathless laugh, simultaneously with a slight wince. He’d have to loosen his grasp on the rat to grab his wand, if he wanted to stun it. He was sure that if he took one hand away, the damned thing would scramble away. 

Draco would have to keep holding it. He would have to find a way to secure it until he could get it back to Weasley the next day. Oh, Draco couldn’t wait to see the look on Weasley’s face when he was confronted with how wrong he had been; then he would have to grovel for Hermione’s forgiveness when he realised how awful he had been to her. But by Merlin, rats were disgusting, and this one was putting up a fight.

If Draco had been more prepared, he would have remembered to stun the damned creature before he grabbed it. “Fuck, I wish i’d seen this coming.” He raised his eyes toward the heavens. “A gift of foresight, and you don’t fucking show me — ouch!” 

The rat bit him. It bit down hard on the flesh between his thumb and his finger, where it wrapped close to the creatures mouth. Draco jolted at the pain, and the rat fell to the ground. Blood dripped down Draco’s hand. He heard it drip onto the floor before he heard the hiss of a cat and jumped again as Crookshanks pounced past him to chase the rat. Draco lost sight of it as it squeaked in terror, and then lost sight of Crookshanks and it pounced out of the room, presumably in pursuit of the rat. 

He let out a tremulous breath. It was with fumble that his off-hand rooted around for his wand and managed to heal the cut on his hand. He inspected the invisibility cloak carefully, praying to any god that would listen that he didn’t get his blood all over the blessed thing. Harry was sure to detest him if he returned the thing in worse condition than he had received it in. 

With a breath, he swore, and grabbed the book. With quick movements he placed it in his satchel, secured the cloak around him, and started to descend back into the Slytherin dungeons. He only got as far as the stairs above the great hall before he had to freeze again. 

He saw Lupin, down below. Standing dead center in the middle of the hall, turning slowly in a circle, eyes skittering around every inch of the hall. Crookshank’s tail had just disappeared on the other side of a high-up window. It looked as if Lupin was holding his breath. Draco froze in spot and held his breath, waiting for the Professor to pass. 

Of course, that was when Lupin pulled the map out of his cardigan pocket. It was Harry’s map, the one that Severus and Lupin had confiscated earlier that year. Lupin was peering at it in the darkness, illuminated only by the dull light from his wand. He looked down at the paper, and then his gaze rose to the stairs. 

It felt like his eyes were drilling into Draco. Though he knew that the cloak made him invisible, it felt like he was bare to the entire world. Did the cloak hide you from the map? They had never thought to test it. If Draco’s name was there, clear as day, it wouldn’t matter if Lupin couldn’t see him. Surely, there would be trouble either way. 

Any second now, and Lupin would call him out. Or he would approach, and somehow find Draco there. 

He did neither. Just folded the map back up and put it in his pocket. “Off to bed.” He said, and while to anyone else it may have seemed like the man was thinking out loud, Draco knew the words were aimed at him. He stayed still as a statue while Professor Lupin left the hall, and then followed the command. 

He passes the cloak back to Harry in a fleeting moment. He wishes he had longer with the other boy, wishes he could relish in the trust he had been granted. As it is — they’re both far too busy to waste any time. 

With exams approaching, they’re both swamped with work. Worse than that, the Gryffindor and Slytherin finals match was only a day away. Oliver Wood was working Harry to the bone, lately. 

Harry is already dressed in his Quidditch gear when Draco approaches him in the great hall the next morning. Harry waves the Weasley Twins on without him, and they waggle their eyebrows annoyingly as they leave. He passes Harry the cloak in a quick movement, and gets a grin of satisfaction from the other boy. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, and stuffs the cloak back into his own bag. “Did you find what you needed?” 

“I think so,” Draco tells him, enjoying that Harry was taking the moment to linger. “I won’t be able to make sure until tonight. Listen, though —” 

“You can borrow it again, if you need. For other books.” 

“That’s very nice.” Draco says, “But would you please listen to me?” 

“Alright, yeah, right, sorry.” 

“I think I saw Weasley’s rat.” 

Harry’s eyes widen at that, “Alive?” 

“Alive enough to bite.” Draco really tries not to sound smug, as he says it. He really does wish he had been able to throw the detestable creature down in front of Weasley and declare him a reckless idiot in front of the whole school. Pansy would have loved watching that. “He had that very distinctive bald patch I remember. So — It looks like he owes Hermione an apology. Do let him know for me, won’t you?” 

“Er—” 

Wood came barreling back in through the doors of the great hall, and he frowned deeply at Harry. “Potter. Pitch! Now!” He snapped. 

The poor man looked to be caught in something of a frenzy. From what Draco knew, Flint was behaving in much the same way. The entire Slytherin team were so tired they were driven to literal tears, but they would never show it in public. 

Harry wilted under the command — a feeling Draco could identify with — and gave Draco one last look. “I’ll see you later?” 

Draco shook his head. “Studying. Hermione. Tomorrow morning?” 

The look Harry gave him was withering. “Quidditch match. You know that.”

A smirk crossed Draco’s face, and he watched as Harry shook his head in annoyance. “Oh, yes.” 

“Potter!” Wood called again. 

“Better go,” Draco prompted. “He’s getting more monosyllabic by the minute. Always dangerous when that happens.” 

“See you eventually, then.” Harry nodded, and started stomping toward the exit. 

“Harry,” Draco called after him, just to watch him turn around with that expectant look on his face. “Thank you for the cloak.” 

Harry’s smile was momentarily blinding. “You’re welcome.” He said, and his feet seemed to fall a little lighter as he took off down the stone steps and toward the Quidditch pitch. 

Chapter Text

Draco spent several nights sitting in bed with the book on his lap, and his curtains drawn tight. Each word sunk into him like a hook into a fish. He was being caught by something. Septimus Malfoy’s writings quickly became an obsession of the highest order — something that Draco can only spill over in the dark of the night. 

Even during the day, everything else seems to take a kind of back-seat. He had thought of nothing but the book when he sat and watched the Gryffindor Vs Slytherin Quidditch match, and Pansy had needed to prod him to go and comfort Daphne after the loss later when they returned to the common room. Daphne was clearly trying to be brave about it — but Draco knew how much losing to Harry could sting, and had ended up with the girl crying into his shoulder for a solid forty-five minutes. 

It was the opinion of all the Professors that Draco had become dazed and distracted during classes. The blessing was that his work was still holding up to scrutiny at the end of the day, so they couldn’t truly blame him for it. They seemed content to be mildly uncomfortable with his new habit of sleepwalking through his days. At the very least, they didn’t seem worried enough to step in and do something about it. 

They were right to leave him be, as far as he thought. 

Draco wasn’t acting recklessly. He wasn’t running into trouble without any second thought. No, he conducted his studies carefully. He was patient, steadfast, determined. He was exhausted, but he was exhausted and unflappable. 

It didn’t feel reckless when he snuck into Severus’s potions stores in the dead of the night. It didn’t feel reckless when he lifted a bottle or two, adjusting the careful stock list in a perfect recreation of Sev’s numbering. 

It’s too late when he gets back to the dorm to try anything. He needs to read more; needs a whole day where he can accept the consequences of his well-thought-out actions. Draco needs freedom, needs to be a bird in the sky or a wolf in the woods. He needs guidance, absolution — and its coming. 

So he goes to sleep. When he wakes, he still feels exhausted.

But exhausted and unflappable. 

At least, it seemed that way. 

He feels distinctly flapped when he descends to the Slytherin table and realises that today is his birthday. He stops short at the sight of it, and has to force himself to walk toward the grinning faces of his friends. There’s a small cake between them all, with fourteen silver candles placed atop the white icing, which shimmers as if sprinkled with fairy dust.

It’s their tradition. 

Pansy and Theo are both beaming at him — flush with the knowledge that this will be them soon. Pansy will turn fourteen in two days. Theo will turn fourteen in two weeks. Draco has to let himself get caught in the net of it; give in to the gentle lull of laughter and presents over breakfast. 

Pansy gifts him a lapel pin to match the silver-serpent hair pin he bought for her at Christmas. Blaise gifts him the promise of letting Draco win exactly one argument in the future. Daphne hands over a book on Quidditch strategy along with a rather dazzling smile, and a gentle kiss on the cheek. He gets cards and well wishes from all of the Slytherins around them at the table. 

It feels like holding court — being paid reverence too. Draco knows deep down that if he was from a less respected family, less people would be bothering to acknowledge him at all. His popularity in Slytherin is a side effect of his blood. That doesn’t make it feel any less nice.

Draco floats on it after breakfast, the warmth and happiness of being adored by his friends. At ease with himself, all troubles put aside. The happy glow grows all the stronger when Harry stops him after potions class with a hand at his wrist. Harry’s fingers rest against the delicate skin there, against the steady beating of Draco’s pulse. It’s only a moment of contact, just long enough for Harry to whisper: “Meet me outside your common room tonight. Midnight.” 

Draco is walking on clouds for the rest of the day. It makes his stomach squirm. 

Theo waits until night falls to give him his gift. He does it in the private of their beds, while everyone else is busy in the shower. A black box, containing jet-black tarot cards. The art on the cards is a monochromatic gold that glimmers in the low light. Draco sits up in bed into the small hours, tracing the lettering. The Magician. The Fool. The High Priestess. In his imaginings, the images on the cards bare a startling resemblance to Pansy and Theo. 

He’s almost disappointed when midnight flickers on his watch, and he has to put the cards away and meet Harry. He isn’t sure what’s coming, what Harry could want so badly. To talk about Sirius Black? To question Draco further about his adventure with the cloak? To talk about Buckbeak, or to beg him to forgive Ron again? Or maybe Harry just wanted to spend time with him. 

He smiled a small, private smile at the thought of it. Could it be possible? He crept up the stairs quietly, and out the passageway. For a moment, he was coiled tight with the fear that a professor or prefect would be passing by. At the end of the held breath, he came out the other side and found nothing but a cold, empty hallway. 

Draco was just glancing down at his watch, wondering if Harry was standing him up, when the other boy surprised him by appearing at his side. Draco jolted, and then swatted at Harry with a hand, a show of mild annoyance for having been startled. Harry dodged the swat easily, a smile that could best be described as goofy spreading over his face. 

“Are you an idiot?” Draco asked him, in a whispered breath. “It’s suicidal to be out like this when you don’t even have your map anymore.” 

The smile stayed fixed, stubborn on Harry’s face. His hand, the one that had grabbed Draco earlier that day, held up the cloak between them, and Harry even arched an eyebrow, as if to say: Who’s the idiot now?

Draco did not look impressed. “We won’t both fit, surely.” 

“Ron, Hermione and I still fit; and Ron’s taller than you.” A shrug of Harry’s shoulder, “Come on, quick, before someone sees.” 

Damn it, but Harry was telling the truth there. Weasley had gone and grown two inches since Christmas, and Draco had been incredibly restrained about it; he hadn’t made fun of the boy for his too short trousers even once. If the fates were kind, Draco would catch up with him soon and show him how to age with grace. 

With a huff of annoyance, Draco lets Harry throw the cloak around them. He’s glad that it’s so dark, because his cheeks were probably flushed with… with annoyance, surely, and too much adrenaline from bickering with Potter. They were very close, under there, and he didn’t want Harry to notice it. “What is all of this about, Potter?” 

“It’s a surprise.” Harry whispers. “Just trust me.” 

Potter could be mercenary when he wanted to be. He had let Draco wax poetic about trust, and now he was using it to get what he wanted. There was a stubbornness in his eyes and a sparkle to them, too, — 

So Draco did trust him. He trusted Harry along the hallway, up the staircases and into the music room. He should have known. It was their place, after all. They lock the door behind them and Harry whispers a silencing charm. 

They’re left looking at each other, a bewildered smile crossing Draco’s face. 

“We’re going to get in trouble.” He complains, just to be a pain. 

“We won’t.” Harry tells him. “We can put the cloak if we hear anyone coming.” 

The bewildered smile grows wider, and Harry mimics it. It suits him. 

“Happy Birthday.” Harry says, “I know its technically not, anymore, but —” 

“No, that’s okay. Thank you.” 

A beat passes. The energy around Harry feels almost awkward, for a second, inhabited by something bashful. “I got you something.” 

The smile grows brighter. Draco can feel the way it dimples his cheeks, tries to reign it in to something more restrained, something respectable. One cannot be seen to be too excited, not around people like Harry Potter. His father would shudder at the very thought of it. 

“A present?” He asks, and he can hear the excitement there too. He takes a seat at his favourite stool, just so that he won’t rush forward with his hands out. “For my birthday?” 

Harry shrugs one shoulder, as if this is the most normal thing in the world for them — two boys who had hated each other this time the last year, two boys who hadn’t even gotten each other gifts for Yule. “Friends get each other birthday gifts.” 

“I didn’t think you knew when my birthday was.” 

A look of mock-offense crosses Harry’s face, but there’s a hint of a smirk there when he fixes Draco with a look. “Did you think I never noticed all the chaos at the Slytherin table before? I’ve been watching people worship you since First Year.” 

He didn’t quite flush at the prospect of Harry paying attention to him; but it was a near miss. “Stalker.” 

“Do you want your gift or not?” 

Draco sat up straighter, and tried to make his smile look as innocent as possible. “Yes, please. I want my gift.” 

Harry laughed, just for a second, a fragment of time that Draco wouldn’t mind freezing. For a second, it didn’t feel like life was hard. It didn’t feel stressful, and Draco didn’t feel exhausted — he felt electric, and alive. 

“Close your eyes.” Harry told him, and Draco did as he was told. 

He held his hands out, too, palm up. For a moment, all Draco did was sit patiently and listen to Harry move around. The anticipation bubbles up, too much excitement to contend with, and after another few seconds Draco begin to bounce his knee. 

This is noticed, apparently, by Harry. “Impatient.” He comments, leaving Draco to huff. Any amount of annoyance is quickly erased when Harry sets the box on his hand.

Draco’s eyes open, and he grins down at the deep blue box. It’s square, and flat, easily held in his two hands. Harry pulled over another stool, as he examined the gift, and soon they were in much the same position as they had been on the night when Harry showed him the map.

“What is it?” Draco asked, trying to extend that moment of electric anticipation. 

“Open it and find out.” 

“Hm.” 

“Not scared, are you?” 

“It could be a cruel trick.” Draco teased, just to watch the quirk of Harry’s lips. “You should know that if it’s a joke gift, I’ll cry.” 

“Please don’t,” A huff, “Crabbe and Goyle already look like they want to crush me, most of the time.”

“That’s just their faces.” 

Another huff of laughter. “No, they just like you, I think.” 

“Everyone does, in the end. I’m extremely charming.”

“You’re extremely weird.”

“Hm,” Draco finally lifts the lid of the box, and he can hear Harry pull in a breath. 

It was a planisphere. Beautiful, midnight blue with the stars and constellations detailed in gold. Far finer than anything Draco used for class. No, this was made for someone with a real love of the stars. Draco felt breathless, as he looked down at it.

“Oh,” He breathed, because he couldn’t think what else he should say. A delicate finger reached out to rotate the inner ring, head tilting as he looked at the constellations shift. “Harry, it’s —” 

Harry cut in. “This one shrinks, supposedly, so you can carry it around with you. I thought that might be nice.” A beat. “You like the stars.” 

“I do,” Draco said, and felt strangely seen. His finger traces over the shape of his own name painted on the blue background. “It’s a cliche family trait. It’s silly — but the stars always made me feel safe. Like they were looking out for me. Especially my stars.” 

“I thought you only had one.” 

Draco flicks his eyes up to meet Harry’s, to give him another teasing little smile. “Oh, I’m a whole constellation.” He turns the planisphere so that the constellation Draco faces Harry now, “You should know that already, from classes, so I’ll give you the idiots guide: there are lots of them, but mine is the best.” 

‘Supporting arguments?’, That’s what Theo would say, with a perfectly raised eyebrow and a tone of demanding skepticism. Or Blaise might say: ‘Someday we will all drown in your delusional sense of grandiosity.’ Maybe that was why talking to Harry was always so fun. He never knew what Harry was about to say. 

“Can I have the slightly-smarter-than-an-idiot guide?” Harry laughed, and when he moved their knees brushed together, which made Draco feel distinctly caught-off-guard. “Tell me about it, if it’s so great.” 

Draco sat up straighter, took it seriously. How to best describe the most important thing in the sky? “It’s one of the Greek constellations; that’s why my father liked it enough to let my mother pick it for a name. It’s the dragon that Heracles killed — and Jason and the Argonauts saw it’s twitching body on their way back from Colchis. I always liked that story.” 

“Morbid.” Harry breathed. 

“I liked that story. At the start, I liked it because it was something cool that Heracles had done during his twelve labours, and Sev used to read me that story like it was Babbitty Rabbitty and not pretentious classical literature that a three year old should not be obsessed with. And I was obsessed, truly.” He laughs at himself, a little bit, because it had all been grand adventures and Greek tragedies when he was young. “But I think I liked it better when I actually learned about the stars. Draco is circumpolar, did you know? It never dips beyond the horizon, it never sets. They’re always there.” 

“Looking out for you.” 

Draco makes a noise of assent. “Silly, I know.” 

“It’s not silly.” Harry says, and it sounds — Draco doesn’t know. He gets the distinct impression that he’s being humoured, but Harry doesn’t sound condescending. “What else?” He prompts, and Draco pulls in a breath. 

“Well, Eltanin — that’s the dragons eye — is at the zenith, if you’re in London. I always thought that was nice. It’s my favourite star, actually.” He sounded rather triumphant as he carried on. “And, if it maintains its luminosity, someday it will be the brightest star in the sky. Millions of years from now.” 

“What’s brightest now?” 

Draco gave him a tremulous smile, a shakey thing. He thought of endless nights spent stargazing with his mother. He could find his way by them, if the need arose. They were his protectors — but they were Sirius Black’s protectors too, and maybe that was a good thing. “Sirius.” He breathed, finally, and turned the inner plane of the planisphere so that Sirius glinted against the light. “Like I said; a cliche family tradition.” 

He fought the desire to trace the letters. He knew the star in ways he could never know the man. He knew where Sirius lay, he knew how bright the star shone, he knew what path it would take through the night sky. Someday, Sirius would become the southern pole star. Someday, Sirius would burn out, as all stars do. 

Harry didn’t rush to fill the silence, so Draco just let it sit between them. It didn’t feel uncomfortable, strangely. It was easy to sit there, and wait for whatever Harry wanted to say. 

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Harry eventually breathed, and Draco nodded his head in easy understanding. Harry paused again, just for a heartbeat. “I can’t stop wondering why he didn’t just kill me, that night.” 

The night he had broken into Gryffindor tower. The night that Weasley had seen him, and he had run away instead of striking. It still itched at Draco; he still needed to know what Sirius was trying to accomplish here. Draco was a stubborn, competitive creature. Once a problem started to itch at him, he could never let it go. 

“What if he doesn’t want to kill you?” It felt traitorous to say it. He had promised Hermione he wouldn’t rush into this, with Harry — especially during such a delicate time, with so much going on and so much uncertainty. Only, Draco didn’t feel uncertain. His gut was settled on certainty; he knew that Sirius Black hadn’t done it. 

“What, you think he wants to drag me back to the rest of them?” Harry asked. 

“No,” Draco shook his head. When he met Harry’s eyes, his stomach twisted. “What if… what if he’s looking for something, or someone else? What if he doesn’t want to hurt you at all?” 

Something in Harry’s gaze became more guarded, wary. Draco had to screw his courage to the sticking place, had to force himself not to close down and start throwing walls up between them before Harry’s doubt could hurt him. Their silences weren’t uncomfortable, but Draco still hadn’t grown past the surety that Harry would turn against him at the first chance.

“That’s a lot of ifs.” 

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

Harry’s head shook, the slightest little movement. Draco watched him coil his hands together in front of him, knuckles white. “Dumbledore and the ministry’re certain. And Ron saw him that night — he looked mad.” 

A wall came up, the lid came back down on top of the box, hiding the planisphere from view — so it wouldn’t be tainted by his own annoyance. “Ron thinks I look mad, half the time. I don’t expect he’s much of an expert on the topic.” 

Harry opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but they heard footsteps in the hallway, and both fell utterly silent. Harry pulled the cloak out and threw it over their shoulders. They had to crush closer together under the cloak. The footsteps grew louder, until they were directly outside the door. When Draco’s breath hitched, Harry’s hand was up in an instant to press over his mouth and block any noises. Draco was so annoyed; he wanted to bite Harry, but was forced to restrain himself. 

He breathes as quietly as he can. There’s the faintest sound of voices on the other side of the heavy wooden door — it feels like an eternity before they move on again, and the footsteps grow more distant at the other end of the hall. It feels like an eternity before Harry pulls his hand away. He doesn’t pull the cloak away, though. They’re still covered in it, and his voice is still hushed when it escapes his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, and something in Draco deflates at the sound of the word. 

“Forget it,” He says, with the smallest of shrugs. His voice is a whisper, and it sounds gentle, accepting, in the air between them. Neither of them want to have a fight. They just need to let the topic lay, and get back to bed before their good luck starts running out. 

In the dead of night, on the Saturday before Theo’s birthday, Draco makes another attempt. Four times since his birthday he’s tried to summon a vision. Trying different combinations from his book until one works. The first night, he gave himself a migraine. The second night, he ended up vomiting his concoction back up moments after he had swallowed it — and continued to vomit for the rest of the night. Every time, he’d been fruitless. 

He was exhausted, run down, ill-fed and close to tears when he knelt before the scrying bowl in front of him. His knees has bruises again, deeply dark and stinging when he pushed on them in the bath as he cleaned up. He didn’t heal them. The book said that pain could be a powerful trigger. 

 His breath shook when he uncapped the tiny bottle he had blended for himself.

The tincture is a brew of fennel seed and dragon blood, tourmaline and moonstone shavings, lavender and asphodel and wormwood. It tastes metallic on his tongue, acidic — but not awful, not impossible to swallow past. 

No, Draco could wince past it. He could throw himself headfirst into the head-rush of it, and he could fix his eyes on the scrying pool. The candles flickered around him, and Draco felt himself go down, down, down; all with a suddenness that he had been sure was impossible to attain over the last several weeks. 

The vision is blurred around the edges. Draco feels blurred around the edges too. It takes long seconds to realise exactly what’s happening — where the edges of his psyche meet the edges of the vision and blend together. 

 The Draco in the vision is sobbing, hitching breaths and pure grief. He sounds like he’s dying. He sounds like someone else died. The crying of a boy who has lost something — something important, something intrinsic. He is crying in a dingy but ornate room, and Sirius Black is the one comforting him. 

‘It’s okay,’ Sirius is saying, in a soothing coo, as he pulls Draco to him. His fingers brushing through Draco’s hair as Draco curls into him, his hand on Draco’s back. ‘It’s okay, I know, I understand.’ 

Sirius smells like sunshine against skin and leather polish, smells like a wet dog. His fingers are gentle and his voice gentle in its whispered roughness. ‘It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be fucked up about this. Just let it out.’

He rocks Draco there, held in his arms like Sirius is his mother, like Sirius is a creature of comfort, skin on skin and blood calling to blood — Sirius understands whatever eldritch grief is consuming Draco in this moment, and Sirius is helping him bear the pain of it. Like a martyr, like a saint offering benedictions, Sirius’s own silent tears run down his cheeks and shimmer like stardust in the hazy light of the vision. 

‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s you and me — we’ll get through it.’ 

He blinks at it, feels the secondhand emotion of it in a way that makes him feel distinctly seasick. The tonic he took has heightened the bleed-through, and this feels nothing like it had with Hermione when he got this deep. No warm sunshine, only a bone deep and keening grief. 

Draco tries to latch on to the feeling of his power in his head. He imagines the gift like a weight around him — yearning to be a rope around his neck, if he isn’t careful. He should think of it more like a leash, really, and — he tries to grab at it. “Show me something else.” He commands.

 Sirius’s face shifts, his head turns, and Draco gets the phantom sensation of actually meeting eyes with the man, star stained glimmering face looking into his own. It isn’t true, of course. Yet the feeling remains. Draco is overtaken by a wave of nausea, one that has him doubling over for a moment, placing two palms on the floor before him to steady himself as his mouth waters and his stomach spasms. He closes his eyes against the dizzy feeling, and breathes until it passes. 

The vision shifts, even when Draco’s eyes are closed, even if he can’t see it. 

He feels the cold stone under his knees doubly, feels himself flinch at the not-quite-there sensation of a hand on his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open again at the touch, breathing through the feeling of wrongness that has overcome him. 

“It’s okay, Draco.” A voice is telling him, cloying and dishonest in every word. “We’ll get through it together.” 

“Get away from me.” He chokes out, through a throat that tastes like bile. 

“You should just give them what they want; it’s easier that way, really.” 

“I’m not a traitor.” 

“You’re a child. No one would blame you for it.” Quiet, calm, patient. This was the voice of a man who could manipulate with the best of them; and Draco understood now, how he had convinced Remus and Sirius to turn against each other all those years ago during the first war. During times of conflict, it must have been easier than ever to turn friend against friend and lover against lover. 

Draco finally meets his eyes, the gentle brown of them, set into a round and gentle face. Hatred bubbles up in him in unimaginable amounts. Fury that almost chokes him. “I would rather die.” He says, with more feeling this time, “And if you touch me again, I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

The gentle face smiles at him, quirks an eyebrow as he rises to his feet. “Now you really do sound like Pads. The family resemblance is uncanny.”

The Draco of the vision is about to get to his feet again when a voice interrupts them both. It is chillingly cold, enough to turn Draco’s blood to ice. He can feel himself shivering across present and future. He can feel the bile in his stomach churning. 

“Leave the boy to his temper tantrum, Wormtail, I have need of you.”

Wormtail gave Draco another kindly smile. “Think about what I said, kiddo. It’s never too late.”

It feels like getting pushed backwards out of his own mind when the vision leaves him — and then it’s just Draco again; Draco on the floor, Draco bracing himself, Draco with the taste of sick in his mouth. Draco, now with more questions than answers, yet again. 

He made it back to bed just as the sun was cresting the horizon. He made it into his pyjamas and rested his head on his pillow. Exhaustion as bone deep as the type Draco was dealing with was almost impossible to escape, and his eyes were growing heavier by the second. Still, he stared up at the star-scape he had projected above his bed. 

Wormtail. The man went in circles in his head. He whispered it, to feel the shape of it in his mouth. “Wormtail.” 

This was who he was looking for. He felt it like a hook under his ribs, a force of nature that was pulling him in a direction he needed to follow. He felt the vision-Draco’s nausea and fear, the cold clamminess of his skin, the panic like the world was ending and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had to choke in a breath, shuddering through it in the night. 

Who was that voice that set Draco’s bones to ice, inspired fear like Draco hadn’t experienced since he was a little boy who feared the monster beneath his bed. 

He blames the slowness of the realisation that follows on how little rest he’s had for the last few weeks, on the intensity of the vision and the lingering unsteadiness of his psyche. 

“Wormtail,” he chokes out through his shuddering breath, and it’s another heartbeat of a moment before the lightning-strike hits and Draco sits upright in bed. 

“Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present; The Marauder’s Map.” 

A beat. 

Draco sounded like Pads — Padfoot —, that was what Wormtail had said. A family resemblance. 

Padfoot was Sirius. 

He had made the map. He had done it with his friends. 

Wormtail was one of them. He was the traitor. He was the monster at the end of that book; the creature that lurked in the dark of the night. He was alive, he was going to be a factor in Draco’s life, unless Draco could change it, unless —

Lupin must know him. Lupin must know… a lot of things. Maybe Remus held the parts of this puzzle that would make it one clear picture. Draco slowly laid his head back on the pillow. Remus would be there when he woke up in the morning; and Remus would be willing to sit and listen to him, if Draco asked. 

For the first time in weeks, Draco fell asleep quickly.

Draco slept until past lunch, and awoke feeling uncertain of who or where he was. It’s the most sleep he’s gotten in weeks, and yet he feels like he was struck by one of the horseless carriages that drove them to school every year. 

This, of course, left his chances of getting Professor Lupin alone slimmer than ever before. He fights the urge to bite at his fingernails all through dinner. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t wake me up.” He complained, as he gazed up at the head table. He was pushing his food around on his plate — he hated this feeling he got when he slept too late, like his body was too tired and too far behind to even be hungry. The world felt like a perpetual 8pm. “This was an evil plot, wasn’t it? To dethrone me from my rightful place as first in our year by setting me a whole day behind everyone else when it comes to studying.” 

Theo gave an unapologetic shrug, but otherwise didn’t even have the propriety to look ashamed of himself. 

“We were all in agreement,” Blaise said, and he had the audacity to sound particularly self-satisfied. He was grinning at Draco, and Draco really was starting to understand why all the girls said that Blaise was ‘too handsome for it to be safe.’ 

“No waking Draco under any circumstances, upon pain of death.” Vince recited, words that sounded suspiciously like something Theo would say to the other boys they roomed with. 

“Especially not if it looks like he’s actually approaching a restful amount of sleep.” Blaise nodded. 

“Draco Malfoy approaching REM sleep. A creature hitherto thought extinct.” Daphne teased him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. He felt sleep mussed and delicate, still warm from his blankets. 

“I’ll show you extinct if you aren’t careful.” Draco groused, but otherwise accepted their teasing and doting with as much grace as he could manage. There was no point starting an argument when he was doomed to spend the rest of the night with Pansy instead of hunting down Lupin.

The night with Pansy was tradition. They spent the evening before Theo’s birthday huddled together, making sure gifts were appropriately wrapped and that surprises would be doled out in abundance.

“We’re all worried about you, Draco.” Pansy told him, as she used her wand to tie another perfect silver ribbon on another perfectly wrapped gift. A book of some kind that she had dug out of the shelves of Singh and Sons the last time they were in Hogsmeade. 

The statement was a marked break in tradition. The night before Theo’s birthday was for thinking about Theo. Draco’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and she gave him a shrug of her shoulder and a grimace of a smile. 

“It’s been the major topic of conversation, when you aren’t around.” She carried on. “How you’ve kind of been a mess lately, and so on and so forth.” 

“How flattering.” He deadpanned, and watched her smile turn into less of a grimace. “You can tell everyone that you’ve been wasting your time worrying. I’m fine.” 

“Hm.” 

“No, really. I’m fine.” 

“I’m sure.” 

Draco wasn’t thinking about the vision. About the haunting voice. He wasn’t thinking about the creeping coldness and dread of the future — no, he was bottling that up until he could corner Lupin and get through this mess in one way or another. Draco wasn’t thinking. Draco was busy rigging a package to spit silver and green glitter onto Theo when he opened it, so he only had enough focus to be half-annoyed with Pansy and her prodding. 

“What spell did I use for this trick last year?” 

“A Draco who was fine would remember something like that.” 

He wasn’t thinking about the vision. Not about the vision, or the voice, or the man. He certainly wasn’t telling Pansy about it, because then he would have to feel that bone-deep fear again, the empathy across years of time 

“I would be more fine,” He snapped at her, “If you weren’t bothering me while I was trying to do something important.”

Pansy let it go, because she was wonderful. Pansy always knew when to back down and when to keep pushing. Draco’s wand hand trembled for just a moment. He couldn’t handle pushing, right now. Not that, on top of the rest of it. A breath punched out of Pansy’s chest, and she nodded her head. “Just remember; you are allowed to ask for help if you need it.” 

So they carried on, gossiping about Theo and casting their charms. The world still felt fae touched and strange after his unexpected sleep-in, and Draco managed to let Blaise bully him into going to sleep before the clock struck eleven. 

Theo’s birthday fell on the first day of their exams — a stroke of luck so abysmal that even the older Slytherins were being kinder to him. Their group was treated with indulgence by a table of students who should have been annoyed that they were making a fuss when everyone was trying to get in some last minute studying. 

Despite any preoccupation with other matters, a fuss was indeed made. This was something that Theo acted like he hated, every year. But Draco knew Theo better than that, and knew he was secretly pleased when everyone doted over him and payed him attention. Draco and Pansy in particular were sworn to be Theo’s staunch defenders and loyal acolytes for the entire day. 

“Go on,” Pansy was goading Blaise, looking at the other boy with a sharp expectation. Blaise, to his credit, looked more amused than anything else. 

“He did it for you, on your birthday.” Draco joins in the persuading. 

“You have to say it.” Pansy finished for them. 

Blaise’s mouth twitches, and they all fall silent as he raises his head to look Theo in the eyes. He sits up straighter for it, letting everyone sit in anticipation before he speaks. “Theodore Nott, you are better at charms than I am and I shall be in awe of your skills for the rest of my life.” A beat. “And I like what you’re doing with your hair this year. There. Yearly compliment achieved.” 

They all smiled, and clapped politely. “That must have been hard for you.” Theo acknowledged, looking rather like he had won the lottery.

“At least he’s not breaking out in hives anymore, like First Year.” Pansy teased, and must have been promptly kicked under the table by Blaise. 

“Happy birthday, Theo.” Blaise tells Theo, with real warmth behind it. 

“Happy birthday, Theo.” They all echo, and Draco swings an arm around Theo to half hug him. Of course, this is the moment when Theo moves and opens one of his gifts, showering silver and green glitter all over the both of them. 

Fragments of the glitter keep falling off Draco and on to his exam papers. At least Flitwick will find it amusing when he grades the essay Draco is writing. The charms professor enjoys it when the Slytherins allow themselves a little whimsy — a rare thing, to be sure. The Ravenclaws sharing the hall for their own charms exam are giving Draco and Theo perplexed looks throughout, and Draco can only hope that they’re so distracted that they make some kind of mistake on their essay’s. Hermione wouldn’t approve of wishing academic doom on others, but what she doesn’t know he’s thinking won’t hurt her. 

“Wonderful look for both of you,” Fred Weasley tells them at the doorway of the great hall, when everyone is gathering for lunch after their first exam. 

“You should consider making this part of your wardrobe staples.” 

Despite himself, Draco feels warmer after the teasing, and warmer still after he catches Harry’s eye from across the hall and gets to experience the baffled look on his face. 

Draco spends lunch caught between two instincts. Half of him wishes he could just focus on studying for their next exam — Transfiguration, which Draco has always been passable at, but not nearly as naturally talented as Pansy is. The other half of him wishes he could march up to Lupin at the staff table and demand a meeting with him after dinner.

If he did the latter, Severus would become all the more suspicious of him. He wasn’t delusional enough to believe that he could hide his plotting and searching from Sev forever, but he hoped he would at least fulfil his goals before Sev found out what he was doing and put an end to things. 

“You’re obsessed with him,” Pansy commented, when Draco looked up at the staff table for the fourth time during lunch. “What on earth has gotten into you?” 

“Thinking about boggarts.” Draco lied. But then Draco did worry about the boggarts. Would his have changed, by now? Did he fear that voice he had heard in his vision more than he feared his father? What face would manifest to re-utter those words? “Do you think they’ll be part of the practical exam, this week?” 

This launched their entire group into a conversation about what they were most dreading during this exam season, and allowed Draco to wallow in his own contemplations while he half listened to them. 

His only true distraction during his meal is, as usual, Harry Potter. When he turns his head after an extended burst of looking at Professor Lupin, he finds Harry watching him. Those green eyes are fixed on him, something curious in the gaze. It looks like Harry has been watching him for a long time now. 

The gambit of exams takes over Draco’s mind with a sudden ferocity on the second morning. He watched as his fathers Long Eared Owl flew in at breakfast, and knew that the message would be full of — well, full of whatever the opposite of fatherly affection was. 

His friends don’t watch him detach the letter from the owls leg. His friends don’t watch him offer it a treat, which it turns away from and promptly flies away. Father has it trained not to beg for food. It’s a hunter — the idea that it can’t catch its own meals when it wants is offensive, more than anything else. Still, Draco offers every time. There’s something almost poetic about the symmetry of it — offering softness and watching his father’s creature fly away. 

His friends don’t comment when Draco tucks the letter into the breast pocket of his shirt and pushes away from the table. He needs to read it, but none of them need to pry over what the letter says. They let him leave, let him have his privacy. 

Draco doesn’t go far. Just outside to perch on one of the steps up to the castle. The sun is beating down against the ground already today — the lament of summer exams. Draco shrugs off his dark robes and pushes up the sleeves to his school jumper before he finally pulls the letter from his pocket and breaks the emerald green wax seal that bore his father’s sigil. 

His eyes flick over the words, taking in each and every one with a dark obsession, feeling the weight of his father’s expectations settling over him with frantic haste. It’s a weight that may have buried him, had another body not thunked down beside him. 

He think’s its Pansy, for a brief moment, but only Harry Potter could truly move that gracelessly. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, blundering into it. Draco expects to feel annoyed — he thinks he should be annoyed, but he doesn’t feel anything of the sort. 

With a wordless arch of his eyebrow, he flicks the letter in Harry’s direction. 

Harry’s eyes fix on the words after only a moment of hesitation. Someone really should point out that Harry’s incessant nosiness is going to get him killed someday. This is surely why he’s always getting himself into trouble. Draco watches his eyes scan the letters, watch his lips turn into a frown. For a moment, it looks like Harry is fighting the urge to crumple the letter up in his hands and throw it. 

He doesn’t crumple the letter, and he doesn’t throw it. He just hands it back to Draco and watches Draco re-fold it, tucking it back into his breast pocket for safety. There’s a moment of levity in it, to Draco. The pressure is beating down on him, but Harry is like a tiny protective bubble. 

“He’s a prick.” Harry said, with a frustrated breath. 

Harry is like a lightning strike in too many ways. And what has Draco done to repay him for his earnest friendship? It’s an imperfect thing, the comradery between them, but it’s all the better for its flaws. Draco hasn’t been doing it right, he thinks. He quirks a shadow of a smile despite it all. 

“It’s how he was raised, I suppose.” Draco muses. “He’s always said that he only expects of me what was expected of him.” 

“Prick.” Harry still looks disquieted, upset on his behalf. “I just wish —” But his voice trails, and his face shifts away. Harry has to squint against the sunlight hitting his face.

“What?” Draco says, and feels like he’s courting danger. 

Harry shakes his head. Draco gazes at him, intent, and he thinks that Harry might actually reply despite the negative shake. Only — when it looks like his mouth might open to speak, Hermione arrives at the doors to the castle. 

“We’re going to be late!” She calls down to them, and she sounds as stressed and wrung out as Draco has been feeling. They’re kindred spirits in their exhaustion, comrades in arms in their studies. 

Harry doesn’t leap to his feet, but Draco does, plucking his robes back up and shrugging them onto his shoulders as he begins his assent to the castle. Harry follows after him, but Draco doesn’t look back, just feels the weight of Harry’s gaze on the back of his neck. 

He can, in fact, feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on the back of his neck for the rest of the day. Draco sits ahead of him in their shared potions practical exam that evening and staunchly ignores the feeling — or tries to. Unfortunately for him, Severus has apparently decided it’s his godfatherly duty to utterly embarrass Draco during his already delicate time. 

The sound of his heavy wooden pointing stick banging on the desk behind Draco almost startled him into chopping his own finger. “Eyes on your own potion, Mr. Potter.” Severus is drawling. “Unless you have suddenly become a skilled legilimens, you will not divine the next step by staring at the back of Mr. Malfoy’s head.” 

The Slytherins muffled their laughter, but Draco didn’t find it very funny at all. The last thing he needed was someone reporting back to his father that Draco was letting Harry Potter distract him during his exams. There would be punishment enough with whatever failures Lucius Malfoy managed to find in Draco’s efforts this year. 

They were delirious enough in their stress that they were still teasing Draco for it by dinner time, and in a fit of childish rage Draco ended up storming away from the Slytherin table in a flurry of dark robes and rolling eyes. The act of bolting out of an uncomfortable situation once again led him out the doors of the great hall and down the steps — this was the height of rule-breaking, as the Professors were being as stringent as ever with the heightened security that had been put in place after Black’s last break in. 

The air was still warm outside, so he turned his face up to catch the evening rays of sunshine. They were warm against his skin, which felt cold and clammy from the stress of the day. Draco felt spread thin, like a canvas stretched too tightly across it’s frame, the carefully painted image distorting. 

Sod following the rules, he thought, as he began to walk off toward the lake. Sev would put him in detention until he was seventeen, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. They both knew that there was no murderer lurking in the shadows waiting to kill Draco — there probably wasn’t even a murderer waiting in the shadows to try and kill Harry. He felt a flair of frustration again, and fought the urge to throw his bag into the water and be done with it all. 

He found his favourite rocky outcropping and threw himself down instead, staring out at the water. The harsh light of the sun reflected off the surface, but the water still looked black and cold to Draco. Water always looked black and cold to Draco, like the surface of a potion designed to kill you. He tried to comfort himself by imagining the way the light would be bleeding through to the Slytherin common rooms at that very moment, bathing the entire dungeon in the calming hues. 

With a shifting movement, Draco grazed the very tip of his finger on the water, watching the still surface ripple around him. It was chilly, but in the way that must be appealing to most people in weather as hot as this. Draco could already feel himself starting to sweat a bit, around the temples, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his wand out and cast a cooling charm. If they weren’t in the midst of exams, and if it wasn’t the middle of dinner-time, the shore of the lake would be packed with students lounging in the sun and dipping their feet in the water — Blaise, in his insanity, would probably have been swimming. 

Draco couldn’t understand the comfort people took in bodies of water. 

No, he couldn’t understand it. 

He couldn’t understand what Harry might have said earlier, had he had the chance to vocalise it. His head spun with ideas, but he couldn’t summon words for the look that Harry had on his face. Clearly Harry had something on his mind — Draco just wished he wouldn’t stare at Draco like that. Draco’s mother would have told him that staring was the height of rudeness — but Harry didn’t have a mother, so clearly he hadn’t been afforded the privilege. 

Draco winced even as he had the thought.

“Prick.” He said to the reflection of himself that lived on the surface of the lake. It was like a mirror. Like a scrying pool, in its stillness. Draco felt nauseous again as he looked at himself. 

He didn’t like what he had felt, the last time he had a vision. He didn’t like what the potion he brewed had given him — and yet he could feel himself itching for another one. Severus would call that a bad sign. Severus would call it reckless to the extreme. He would discourage Draco from ever taking something to force a vision again. 

This was why Draco hadn’t asked Severus for advice, once he had found the book. He didn’t want to be confronted with common sense. It was the curse of the Malfoy family that they would always act as Icarus, flying too close to the sun in their certainty that they were right, that they were just, that the means justified the ends. 

His skin itched. Something inside him nudged him to look into the water again, to stare down into the black depths in the hopes that something might cloud his vision and show him the future. He looked down, down, down, before he realised what he was doing. 

Draco let out a strangled sound of frustration, rubbing his hands over his face, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Crying was for children, and for fools, and for hopeless causes. He was none of those things. He was a Malfoy. A Malfoy was restrained. A Malfoy stayed calm. A Malfoy stayed solid in the face of adversity. 

There’s a rustle of movement beside him, and for a moment Draco fears that someone has followed him out here — a teacher, or worse, one of his friends. When he pulls his hands away from his eyes, the light is momentarily blinding, before he’s met with the sight of the shaggy black dog reflected in the water.

His breath hitches. Words catch in his throat, until he finally manages to choke two out. “Hello, Sirius.” 

The dog kept nipping at Draco’s sleeve. It pulled him, tugged him — away from the lake, until Draco was standing near the willow tree apprehensively. This was the beast of a thing that had destroyed Harry’s Nimbus 2000; and battered dozens of students beyond that. Draco would really rather not get his face smashed in just because of his cousins dogged determination. 

He watched as the black dog wove through branches, watched as it pressed against a knot of wood at the base of the tree, and watched as the branches slowed to near stillness as it slipped into a concealed hollow.

Draco huffed out a breath. 

The dog barked. A command to follow.

He glanced back at the castle. Detention until he was seventeen was more and more likely by the minute. He could turn away, he could run back to the castle and tell someone what he knew, what he had seen, and where Sirius had gone. 

The dog barked again.

He could turn away. Or he could take a leap of faith. He screwed his courage to the sticking place and, with a deep breath, slipped between the gap in the branches and down into the hole. 

Once the dog saw that Draco was following, it ran ahead down the long passageway. He had to duck his head on several occasions, and eventually was bent almost double as he he followed.

This is a mistake, he thought to himself, and more than once. This was the height of foolishness — this was reckless and wild and exactly what happened, apparently, when you started spending time with Harry Potter. Being a reckless idiot was clearly a disease that you could catch. 

He was going to be skinned alive for this. Or beaten black and blue. 

Or murdered, if it turned out that Severus had been right about Sirius Black the entire time. At least he’d die young and pretty, and only slightly scarred. It was better than he might get later down the road. 

He climbed out of the other side, and entered into a house. Dusty, destroyed, the creepiest bloody place that Draco had ever been. The Shrieking Shack. They were all the way in Hogsmeade. 

He was going to be murdered. That was the future that was winning out. But not because of Sirius Black — Just because Severus was going strangle him if he found out Draco was being this idiotic. 

He can’t see the dog anymore — but he’s got a freakishly strong sense of Deja Vu, and it leads him across the creaking floor and through a doorway, following paw prints in the dust. He enters a room that leaves him looking out across the moors and into the forest, before he jumps at the half-remembered sound of a door creaking closed. 

“Hello, cousin.” Sirius Black rasps, as human as he’s ever been, and in the flesh this time. 

Draco had imagined that he would be braver in real life than he felt in his vision. It was a delusion, he can see that now, because the sight of Black still fills him with a strange kind of fear and has him stumbling back a step. He was a starving shadow of a man, with a look in his eyes like he was clinging onto his sanity by a thread. This was not a creature that Draco wanted to be connected to. If his blood was Sirius Black’s blood, surely that was an ill omen for the rest of his life. 

“Don’t call me that,” He says, an echo of his vision, the words choking up before he can stop them. It’s like fate is moving his hand, spurring him forward, and he shakes his head slightly to try and loose the grasp of destiny. 

“What shall I call you instead, hm? Little puppy, little star, little Draco.” There was desperation in his eyes, madness. He’d been driven to the edge of what the human mind could take and there was no knowing if he could come back from it or not. His footsteps scuffed the ground, wiping out the old ones, the old footprints and paw prints. 

Draco lets out a shakey breath, sharply clipped. “Just Draco is fine, I think.” 

“You’re braver than I thought you’d be.” Sirius Black laughed. He sounded like a dying animal. He was thin down to his bones, hollow and sallow with matted hair. He almost smelled like death. He laughed, laughed, laughed. “Your father was always such a snivelling little coward.” 

He ignores the dig. He ignores the deeply ingrained instinct to defend his family. He has his issues with his father, deeply seeded and flourishing more by the day, but fear is a powerful modifier and even now, it tells him that no one should be able to speak badly about the Malfoy family name. It’s an instinct he has to squash down.

“What are you doing here?” Draco finally asks, snapping it again, taking another step back to maintain the distance between them. “I know you’re not after Harry — so what? What is it, what do you want?” 

Black softens at the name. Harry. He seems to melt at the very sound of it. He looks gutted, and soft, and achingly longing. He flinches back from Draco, looks away, and Draco is relieved to be free of the weight of those eyes boring into him. They’re glimmering star fields, swallowed up at every instance by black hole irises. The softness makes way for a frantic kind of pain, as Black starts to pace the room. 

“I would never hurt Harry. I’m trying to protect him. I need — I need to protect him.” It sounded like grasping at straws, like Black was grasping at the threads of his own sanity and trying to remind himself of what was important. “That’s why I need to find him. I need to —” He trails off, goes to the fractured window, grips the crumbling wood with his weak hands. They’re starkly white as they grasp the dark wood, and starkly thin. The breaths were coming out of Sirius more raggedly. “Have to find him.” 

“Find Wormtail?” Draco breathes, because yes, of course — Wormtail was the traitor, the one that Draco had seen in his visions, the man that Sirius had been yelling at in the shack and the man that had talked to Draco himself. The chill ran through Draco at the remembrance. “It was him, wasn’t it? He’s the one who sold them out.” 

The sharpness with which Sirius looks at him is a startling thing. Draco jumps as Crookshanks jumps down from a high beam and starts winding between his legs. He almost trips over the cat, and swears under his breath. The distraction leaves enough time for Sirius to sneak up on him, despite his jagged movements. 

“You saw him.” Sirius said, far too close. A man who understood things, despite his unstable state. He had been listening to Draco talk about himself for months now. Draco couldn’t even remember all of the secrets he had spilled to the dog, back when he thought that it was just a dog. He had mentioned his gift. He had mentioned his desire and determination to see Harry Potter live a long and happy life. He had mentioned his fear, too, and his weakness. So yes — Black knew. Black knew what Draco could do.“Like Alphard could?” 

Draco does his best not to back away too suddenly — mainly because he’s concerned about stepping on Crookshanks. The last thing he needs to do is tell Hermione that he crushed her cat because he was frightened of Sirius Black. 

Alphard, he had said. Not Regulus. He didn’t know, clearly, that his brother had inherited this family gift before Draco did. It tracked, he supposed. Regulus had been sixteen, he’d said, when he found the cosmoscope and joined this merry band of brothers. Sirius had been gone even before that. A blood traitor, burned off the family tree, a black mark that tarnished the reputation of the entire family. 

“I saw him.” Draco whispered, in agreement. He swallows so hard that he can hear his own throat clicking. “In the future. He was —” Draco feels a chill run down his spine. “He was at the Manor.” 

There was someone else there too, he thinks, and doesn’t say. He can’t think about that voice without clamming up in second-hand fear. 

“The manor, the manor.” Sirius nods, half mad with it. “But he’s here now. He’s in there. In the castle, he’s —” 

“Who is he?”

Keeping Sirius on track was clearly going to be the biggest difficulty here. Draco wasn’t the most skilled, when it came to wrangling other people. In a strange way, he wishes that Pansy and Theo were here. They’d either do the wrangling for him, or make the situation far, far worse. Draco would take either option, if it meant having company for this. 

“Peter Pettigrew.” Sirius rasps. There is real hatred in the sound of the name on his tongue, vicious and furious. “That traiterous rat.” 

“There’s no one called Peter Pettigrew at Hogwarts.” Draco snaps back at him. “So unless he’s one of the other teachers in disguise —”

“No. He’s a literal fucking traiterous rat.”

The final piece of the puzzle snapped into place, as Crookshanks rubbed against Draco’s leg again. The rat that Crookshanks had been chasing that night in the library, the way — 

“You can help me.” Black breathed, choking out hope in every word. “You’ll help me, to protect Harry, won’t you? That’s what we both want.” He stepped closer again, steadying Crookshanks in his arms, and carried on. “You must know the Weasley boy, don’t you? You can find his rat for me. Find Wormtail so I can kill him.” 

He thought of it — the way that Scabbers had been acting this year, the way Weasley’s rat kept disappearing, hunted by the cat that soon jumped up onto Black’s shoulders. 

Another animagus. Draco stared at him in wide eyed horror. 

“Weasley’s rat is a fucking person?” 

If Draco had learned anything from Lupin’s ethics and philosophy books, it was this; murder is usually seen as a bad thing. Yet he had vowed to become an acomplice in one, despite that. He couldn’t be blamed, Draco thought, as he climbed the steps back to the castle. He was gnawing at the skin around his thumbnail, drawing blood — a bad habit, a step above biting at his lips. His father would have him hanged for it.

He let out a stratled laugh. 

His father would have him hanged. 

Maybe Black would hang Pettigrew. Maybe he’d strangle him. Maybe he’d use the killing curse. One way or another, Pettigrew was going to die. 

And so was Draco, if he survived the night — it was too late, when he got back. His absence would have been noted when the others returned to the common room and noticed that Draco wasn’t there. How long would it have been before they raised some kind of alarm? Pansy would have gone and told Severus, if they couldn’t find Draco. If he wasn’t in the library or studying in the common room. 

Maybe he could tuck himself away at a table in the back of the library and play innocent. He checked his watch. It wasn’t past curfew yet, but it was getting dangerously close. Severus wouldn’t believe him if he simply lied, but if he was caught somewhere like the library his punishment would be far less severe. He could keep an eye out for Pettigrew on the way. With a nod of determination, he bounded up the grand staircase. 

Draco had to hide behind a tapestry on the second floor, as Severus and Flitwick stormed down the hall. “I’m sure the boy is fine.” Flitwick was assuring Severus, with a nervous air. “He’s been pushing himself too hard, you know? But Mr. Malfoy always comes through in the end.” 

His voice faded as they rounded the corner to another hallway, and Draco let out a huff. So, Pansy had gone to Severus. His heart was beating rather fast in his chest at the thought of getting caught by Severus and having to explain all of this to him. He slips out from behind the tapestry when he was sure the path was clear, and walks with determination down the hallway to the library. 

He should have expected to run into someone else. He should have known he would. Things were never simple for Draco. They were never easy. It’s Hermione that turns a corner sharply and runs into him at full force. The books in her arms scatter across the hallway, one thunking down several steps. 

“Christ,” She hisses, as he leaps down to catch it before it can fall over the edge and down several more flights. “Draco?” Her voice is a breathless thing, startled, high on adrenaline. “But you just —” 

“Sorry, sorry.” He tumbled out, helping to pile the books back into her arms. 

She was looking at him like he was crazy, eyes flicking down to his feet. He followed her line of sight, and winced visibly at the sight of the mud that had attached itself rather unfortunately to his person. Something like dawning understanding bloomed in Hermione’s eyes. 

He caught the glint of gold around her neck, and dawning hope bloomed in his. 

“I need the Time Turner.” He breathed. 

Her mouth dropped open slightly, but nothing came out. She looked as if she might be on the brink of telling him to sod off. She would have done that, back in September, if he suggested using the Time Turner for their own personal gain. But that was September, and she hadn’t been so fond of him then. This Hermione was his friend, and she must have seen the hint of desperation in his eye, because her face with grim and she pulled the necklace from around her neck, the gold glimmering prettily against her dark skin. 

“You’re explaining.” She told him, sternly. “You’re going to tell me what you’re up to.” 

“I will,” He breathed, as she placed the tiny hourglass in his hand. The gold chain pooled down to pool like an ocean in his palm. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

Her head nodded, and she strode past him. He turned to watch her go, and she turned to look over back at him. She watched him disappear over her shoulder, as she made her way back to the Gryffindor common room.

The time turned back, and so did Draco. He blinked himself out of the dizzy haze he felt as he settled into time, three hours earlier than the moment he had last been standing in. 

He checked his watch. Dinner would just be letting out. He’d stormed away before desert had even been served. With a breath, he leaned his shoulder against the wall. The other Draco was already down by the lake, and he knew for a fact that nobody but Black had seen him out on the grounds. Everyone who saw him now would assume he had finished pouting within an acceptable timeline. He cast a quick scourgify on his shoes and trousers, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Draco!” Hermione called, proof that he had righted himself just in time. She was approaching him, strained smile on her face. She looked as frazzled frome exams as he had felt earlier — now he just feels frazzled in general. “Library? Ron and Harry are pleading exhaustion to get out of it. I keep trying to tell them that they’re going to do poorly if they don’t even skim over their notes tonight, but neither of them seem to care.” 

She talked and talked and taked, and Draco fell into step beside her like it was second nature. His shoulders relaxed more and more with every word that came out of her mouth, reminding him of the simple problems he’d been worrying about this morning. They had their History of Magic exam in the morning, and absolutely no one was looking forward to it. 

“Sometimes it makes me so angry — because I know Ron and Harry are smart, and if they just put a little more effort in it would be easier for them in the long run.” She carried on.

“They’re allergic to making things easy for themselves.” He commented, more out of muscle memory than anything else. His heart was still beating too quickly, and he was fighting the urge to start biting at his thumb again. His eyes kept skirting along the corners and the hallways, as if he might see Pettigrew’s tiny rat eyes staring out at him. 

“You can say that again.” She said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. He forced one onto his own face, though he felt more sick than anything else. Maybe it came out looking as queasy as he felt. “I hate exams.” She comiserated. 

“Right,” He nodded, taking the excuse for his sullenness where he could get it. “Today was brutal.” 

“I’m sorry if Harry made things harder for you during Potions.” She said, and that made Draco pause. “He wasn’t trying to.” 

He let out a startled laugh. Oh, yes. Here was another convenient excuse. “He’s never trying to.” He drawls. He could go on, about Harry sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted, about Harry drawing attention when Draco just wanted to blend into the shadows. Harry was so curious, that was the problem; he needed to know everything, and then he needed to be stupid about it. He had read the letter Draco recieved at breakfast, and now he was having complex feelings about Draco’s relationship with his father on his behalf. 

It was annoying. It was a little bit lovely, too. Annoying But A Little Bit Lovely would probably be the title of Harry’s memoir one day. 

Hermione looked at him, in that certain way she did nowdays, half amused and half earnest. “He means well.” 

He looked back at her, softening slightly at it, and reminding himself that Pettigrew probably wasn’t going to leap out from behind a portrait and stab him, if he hadn’t already done it. “He always means well.” He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s annoying.” 

A small huff leaves Hermione, and she does smile at him when she shouldered open the door to the library and led the way in. Her hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and the golden light that poured through the windows in the library haloed her for a moment. “You’re annoying too, but we still hang out with you.” 

He adored her, for an instant. “Do you think you revised enough about the witch hunts?” He asks her, sweetly innocent and half-malicious. She’d gotten used to him viciously changing the subject when he no longer wanted to have a conversation. “You’ve always been shaky on those dates.” 

It was enough to get them inside the library and settled at their favoured desk. He knew once Hermione got her books out that there would be no more teasing and no more pep talks — that was one of the things he really did like about her. She was reliable to a fault, predictable when he needed something steady to hold on to. And if she noticed that Draco spent his time dazed and distracted, doodling in the margins of his notes and jumping at the slightest sounds, she didn’t say anything. 

Draco slept poorly, when he finally made it to bed. He startled awake from strange dreams several times, and constantly jumped at the phantom feeling of rat feet skittering across his bed. 

Chapter Text

Draco slept poorly, when he finally made it to bed. He spent the night sweat sticky and half delerious — at odd hours he was startled awake from strange dreams that defied consious recollection, leaving odd impressions in his mind. There was water in the dreams, he thinks; a wine dark sea, a pale hand rippling the surface at the gentlest touch. He lays, pulling in calming breaths, and tries to tell himself that he isn’t drowning. Even when the dream didn’t plague him, he jumped and tried to escape the phantom feeling of rat paws skittering across his bed. Several times he sat up as if to catch the creature, only to find that there was nothing there at all. 

If the way Blaise looked at him while he tied his tie in the mirror that morning was anything to go by, his sleepless night hadn’t gone unnoticed. Blaise had dark eyes, cool and unaffected, the kind that noticed everything. Draco had steeled himself for a snippy comment about how he was ruining everyone else’s sleep, but nothing came. Blaise just shrugged his robes on and waited patiently for the other boys to be ready for departure. 

“Draco’s at his wits end.” Theo had informed Pansy when she fell into step beside them on the staircase, the two of them sharing signifgant looks across his body. 

“Impossible,” Pansy, firmly taking it in stride. “Draco is endlessly witty.” 

Blaise, walking ahead of them, turned to glance back at Draco and Pansy again. Pansy slipped her hand into Draco’s, delicate fingers curling in between his own — and Draco wasn’t drowning anymore. Her touch was a grounding thing. If he was lost at sea, Pansy was the dry land he could swim towards. He indulged himself in it and allowed himself to be calmed by the feeling of her hand in his. 

He indulged further when he rested his head on her shoulder during breakfast. Her black hair tickled his forehead, but she smelled like orange and cedar wood.

“Lets get some food into you, then, shall we?” Theo asked him, and Draco realised that he was yet to utter a word to anyone. Not a greeting, not a snide comment — he hadn’t even told Blaise to fuck off and stop gazing at him like Draco was a puzzle that needed solving. 

Theo sounded far too gentle. Tender concern for Draco, unmasked. It should have come across as a joke, or as if Theo was dispairing of him in some way; but it didn’t. It just sounded like Theo cared about him. 

We’re all worried about you, Draco — that was what Pansy had told him. It had been the truth, in earnest. He had already known it, but the worry coming at him face to face was still a surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, but he noticed Hermione watching him from across the great hall, and suddenly found that he couldn’t conjour a word.

If he wasn’t careful, someone in Slytherin would notice his weakness and start smelling blood in the water. Draco would find himself on the bottom of the foodchain, if he turned into a mute fool. He managed to nod his head, and accepted the plate piled with food that Theo handed to him. 

He pulled away from Pansy, and began forcing himself to chew and swallow. It tasted like parchment in his mouth. He was getting a headache. The world felt hollow and sleep touched — like Draco was looking at everything through a slightly frosted pane of glass. He was so tired.

But he still forced himself to chew, and still forced himself to swallow. When he met Hermione’s eyes across the great hall again, she arched a brow at him, and it made the chewing and swallowing feel all the more challanging. She was going to demand that explanation, and she was going to demand it today. Tomororw had been promised, and she expected him to keep his promises to her. Draco met her eyes as steadily as he could. His own eyebrow twitched at her. 

“I’m in trouble.” He finally whispered.

“With History of Magic?” Pansy asked him, her attention latching on to him the moment he moved. Theo’s eyes were on him again too. 

History of Magic. Draco blinked, and thought; oh, yeah. 

“Do you need to look at my notes?” Theo asked, a quieter whisper. They were both leaning in close, now, and for a moment Draco felt like he was drowning again. 

He didn’t need History of Magic notes. He needed a rat-trap. 

He needed to be out of this mess, already. 

Draco shakes his head again, letting the need for words slip away. 

Their History of Magic exam passes in a daze. Draco’s mind conjours answers for him through the haze of his other worries and exhaustions. He is fairly certain that the words he’s writing are indeed facts and not delusions summoned up from nothing by his exhausted mind. He must have done something right, or perhaps very wrong, because he finished his account of the 1892 Goblin Rebellion — and really, the Goblins had some fair greavances during that one — with fifteen minutes to spare before the end of the exam. 

Draco used the time to correct a few minor spelling mistakes, absently chewing on his thumbnail again. There was blood there. It tasted like metal. It tasted like the tonic he had brewed for the vision. His thoughts were flowing like water, trickling one topic toward the other down a stream. He slipped away from stoic ponderings such as; have I rememebered the dates right for this witch hunt, and turned sharply toward I wonder how much it hurt to be burned at the stake? He could imagine a pyre startlingly clearly — Polaris Black had been burned on one; someone must have told him that once. That was before wizards and witches learned how to escape such a fate, and without his wand, Polaris had been helpless. That was what happened, when you showed muggles too much magic, when you shared power and prophecies too recklessly. 

Polaris was one of his one of his eternal co-conspirators now, though they hadn’t met. Not yet. Draco assuemd that was another face he would see in the mirror someday, another portent of doom. Maybe Polaris would be like Lyra and Alphard; softly welcoming and gently encouraging. Maybe Polaris would be an even grimer specter than the others. Draco wasn’t sure which reality he should be hoping for. 

He could see a pyre burning in his mind. He could hear the crackle of the flames and the smell of the smoke clouded all other senses. 

Draco must have been lost in it, because when Blaise put a hand on his shoulder, he jumped. “We’re done.” Blaise told him, with the casual intensity that only he could pull off. He took Draco’s exam paper before Draco could do anything, handing both of them over to the Proffessor. 

Done. The clock had hit the hour and they were free to go. Draco caught Hermione’s eyes — her at the front of the room, him at the back. He wasn’t ready yet, so he moved from his seat and let Pansy weave her fingers through his, let her lead him away with her mouth moving a mile a minute. 

It only took a scant few words to convince Theo and Pansy to eat in the courtyard with him instead of the great hall. He felt like he was suffocating, around everyone else, with the eyes of the Gryffindors on him like hawks. Had Hermione told Harry and Ron about his strange behaviour? Would they start to doubt him now, again? Alone time with the two other parts of his whole was exactly what he needed. An hour of letting Pansy’s voice wash over him, Theo and her trading questions back and forth in preparation for their next exams. They did this while they ate, and they carried on smoothly even when Theo noticed the sorry state of Draco’s hands and started applying careful healing charms to the torn skin around his thumbnail.

Draco wondered, as he sat and listened, if this was what he would be reduced to. Torn skin and blood and worry. He wondered, too, about the pages he remembred from Septimus Malfoy’s book — the tonics, the tinctures, the meditations and rituals and potions. If a seers eyes had magical properties, did that mean that their blood did too? He hadn’t seen it listed as an ingredient on any of the pages — or; if he had, he was too exhausted now to remember it. 

He couldn’t remember. 

He couldn’t concentrate right. Not when every small movement out of the corner of his eye might have been Pettigrew scuttling around on those deranged little paws of his. It was unfair that Draco couldn’t just stop the world from turning while he dealt with the important things. He wished that the time turners had come with a pause button. 

Of course, on the matter of Time Turners, he couldn’t avoid Hermione forever. When she cornered him after their second exam of the day, her eyes had softened somewhat, as if Draco was a skittish animal that she didn’t want to startled. From suspicious to carefully curious, yet still utterly insistant that his time was approaching an end. He knew Hermione would never let him run amock without wanting the full story. 

He couldn’t blame her for it. 

After all, was it not their curious minds and insistent natures that had allowed them to become friends this year in the first place? The overwhelming need to know the answer to every question was deeply ingrained in their patterns of behaviour. It meant they worked well together. It meant that Draco was dreading every moment where he talked to Hermione today. 

“Well?” Hermione asked him, eyes fixed on his face, looking for faultlines. They were standing outside the great hall, and Draco could feel Harry and Ron’s eyes burning into him, from where they already sat at the Gryffindor table. 

“Right,” Draco breathed. He still hadn’t said much that day, and he was relieved that the word came out without cracking or faltering. He was relieved that he managed to sound steady, sure of himself. “Get some food and make an excuse for yourself. I’ll meet you—” He almost told her to meet him in the music room, but with Harry’s eyes boring into the back of his head, he knew that wasn’t a good idea. That was their place. He faltered, then, uncertain. 

“The astronomy tower.” Hermione provided for him. “There are no astronomy exams tonight. It should be empty.” 

He nodded, quick, and grateful that he didn’t need to come up with a place on his own. “I’ll meet you there. Six sharp.” 

Something tremulous crossed Hermione’s face, but she nodded her head in turn, and she let him go. 

Draco takes a deep breath before he steps into the hall, before he takes his place at among the rest of the Slytherins. When he slips into place, he plasters a smile on his face. It isn’t a genuine one, but most of them won’t actually notice — and the ones who do will just be glad he’s making the effort. He watched Theo’s shoulders relax slightly, and quirked an eyebrow at the group as a whole. 

“So;” Draco said, lofty, as he dished himself out some dinner. “Did anyone else notice that spelling mistake during our Ancient Runes exam?” 

This brought true life into Theo and Daphne’s eyes in equal turn. 

“I driven to pure distraction by it.” Theo nodded. “A shame.” 

“I hope I get extra points for correcting it on my paper.” Daphne nodded. 

And thus, the status quo was restored. Slytherins chatting, Draco holding court over them, and soon enough laugher was spilling from their mouths again. They only had one more day of exams to suffer through, and they were starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

There was no light for Draco, but he could at least pretend. He inherited that skill from his mother, with her face like a placid lake and her nerves of steel. 

After dinner, all Draco really wanted to do was go to bed and fall into a deep, dark sleep. He could imagine how comfortable his bed was, the warmth of his blankets and the soft expanse of stars twinkling over his head. The idea of blocking out the rest of the world and being utterly alone was an appealing one. Still, it wasn’t easy to break promises when you had made them, and Hermione would be expecting him. 

His only solice was that he loved the astronomy tower. It was beautiful. It felt like being at the very top of the world; a feeling only surpassed when he was flying. The stars were in easy reach up here, and he looked for his stars like it was second nature. They were up there, shining down on him, offering protection. He pulled in a deep breath as he waited for Hermione, and tried to find comfort. He wasn’t alone. There was a dragon in the sky looking down at everything. 

He heard Hermione coming before he saw her. Footsteps echoing against cold stone. One more breath in, and then her riot of curls appeared before him. 

She looked as frazzled as he felt when she reached the top of the stairs to the astronomy tower. Her backpack thunked as she dropped it by the door, and her eyebrow arched again when she finally looked at him. Draco was sitting, posture poor enough to make his ancestors shudder in their graves, with his back to the wall. 

“You’re up to something.” She told him, sitting down in front of him in a surprisngly graceful movement. “If you don’t tell me what it is now, there will be consequences.” Hermione could be rather scary, when she wanted to be. He imagined that if she’d ever been a Slytherin, the whole school would be cowering under her boot by now. But she was too honourable to be vicious enough for a power grab. 

“I know what Black’s after.” He told her, the fastest way to grab her attention. The confession felt like salvation, suddenly. The burden of it had been sitting on his chest since the very moment he stepped foot in the Shreaking Shack. He wanted someone else to hold it for him, just for a moment, just so that he could breathe without the weight of it constricting his lungs. “I know what he’s after; and it’s not Harry.” 

She looked at him like she was trying to figure out what his game was, but it didn’t take long for her gaze to soften. He wondered sometimes how well Hermione could read him. He could have conversations with Pansy and Theo were 90% of the information was conveyed through facial expression. Hermione seemed to be quick on the uptake when it came to the unspoken language of Draco Malfoy.

“Not Harry.” She nodded, “Then what? What could he possibly so determined to find in Hogwarts, if it isn’t Harry?” 

There was a moment of pause, of quiet, while Draco tried to figure out the best way to phrase it. It sounded crazy, in his head, and he didn’t want to sound crazy. It took a long beat of time for him to organize the revelation in his head. “He’s looking for the person who actually sold James and Lily Potter to the Dark Lord. Peter Pettigrew. He’s in the castle; and Sirius wants… justice.”

“But how—” 

He could see the question coming; but how do you know? It tumbles out of him, quickly spilled truths. “I’ve seen him. Talked to him. That’s where I was, before I asked you for the time turner.” He watches as her face pales slightly, her eyes widening. “He’s an animagus. They both are. Black — He’s that dog that’s been hanging around all year. The one Harry thought was the Grim. I figured it out, and then I talked to him. He told me. He confirmed what my father said and he gave me a suitable alternative. And I’ve thought about it, Hermione, and you know I’ve done nothing but thing about this all year — and I believe him. I am one hundred percent certain that he is telling the truth.” 

Her soft mouth was slightly open as she looked at him, a shocked kind of expression taking over her face. She shifted, crossing her legs and leaning closer to him. Her dark brown eyes met his, her gaze intense. “Peter Pettigrew is dead.” She says, with a shudder in her breath. “You read it with me, in the newspapers, in all of the reports. All they found was his finger.” 

“He faked it.” Draco insists. “He’s an animagus. He’s the one that blew up that street, and then he ran away to let Black take the blame. He’s a fucking rat, Hermione. He’s Weasley’s rat.” 

Something hardened in her face, for a moment. “Oh, are you trying to be funny, right now?” She said it like she expected better of him, but she was assuming the worst. 

“I don’t think it’s funny.” He says, steely. “I think its the truth. I know its the truth.” 

“And what makes you so sure?” She questions. She’s picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve. This late in the year, the set of jumpers her parents bought for her during the summer are showing signs of wear and tear. They could be mended; but the arms were shorter now than they had been. She’d likely need a whole new set. Still, he watched her fingers pluck at the edges, and listened to her talk. “You have to understand; you have to — that this hardly sounds believable. Scabbers can’t be…” Her head shakes, her fingers flutter in a movement like she’s trying to shoo away her own disgust. 

“It’s the truth.” 

She sat up straighter. He brown eyes were deeper than an abyss, and they had… a gentle kind of doubt, reflecting inside of them. “Tell me how you know. Tell me what makes you so sure.” 

Draco twitched, then. Leaned back, away from her, and let his head thunk against the cold stone wall of the astronomy tower. Telling Pansy and Theo was one thing; they were part of him, they would never betray him and never question him. They had always been three peices of a puzzle, fragmented, but stronger when you put them together. He swallowed past the lump of frustrated emotion in his chest. “I can’t tell you.” He told her, sounding more shaken than he would have liked. “I wish I could, but I can’t. And…” He thought of Hermione, her cool disregard for every word she had heard in their divination class. Even when she read the textbooks without Trelawney’s influence, she spent half of her time scoffing at it. “And you wouldn’t believe me, even if I did. But I wish you would.” 

Hermione looked at him. Her shoulders slumped. She shifted again, leaning backwards, resting against the weight of her bag as she studied him. 

“It isn’t a prank?” She finally whispered, gentle. 

“No.” He insisted, “It’s the truth.” 

It seemed like a long time before Hermione nodded her head. 

“It’s your secret. The one Theo wanted to know. The one Harry won’t stop obsessing about? You can’t tell me, because it’s… it’s something big.” 

“Please don’t ask me to.” 

“I won’t.” She said, in the voice of a girl who believed she would figure it out on her own someday. He didn’t doubt that she would. He wasn’t sure Hermione had ever met a mystery she couldn’t solve. She sounded shaken as she pulled in a breath. “I’m not sure I want to believe you. Scabbers is… scabbers!” Her nose wrinkled at the very thought of it. “I’ve held Scabbers.” 

“Black was certain of it.” 

Her nose wrinkled further. “And he seemed… um, how do I asked this…?” She huffs out a breath. “Honestly, after everything we’ve learned this year, it isn’t impossible to believe that Sirius Black is innocent. But, believing every word he says is a different matter. And…it’s just that he’s not supposed to be particularly… sane.” 

“Hermione.” He sighs, but it sounds somehow fonder now. His own face screws up in an expression of conservation. “Given the circumstances of the last thirteen years of his life, he seemed well within acceptable parameters for sanity.” A hint of haughty superiority crept into his voice before he could stop it. “I know my opinion on that matter may not be the easiest to trust, given what Weasley says about me so often; but I counter — he’s been sleeping with a bloody criminal in his bed for years, so maybe we should focus on that.” 

“I just don’t know how we’re supposed to explain this to anybody.” Hermione counters. “Sirius Black is innocent and Peter Pettigrew is alive; just trust us, we promise its true?” A shake of her head. “They’re going to need more proof than your good word, Draco, no matter how strongly you believe what you’re saying.” 

“We’ll have proof after we catch Pettigrew.” 

“And how do you plan on doing that?” She asks, and he hates her for asking the logical questions. “If — and I do mean if — Scabbers is Peter Pettigrew, then he’s done a remarkably good job at getting away from us so far. Looking for one specific rat on the grounds of a massive castle would be like finding a needle in a haystack. You would need —” 

Hermione cut herself off, her own eyes widening slightly. She looked thoughtful for a second. “Oh.” She muttered, “Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner!” 

“What?” He asked, quick, and then more insistent: “What?” 

“The map!” Hermione declared, as if it was simple. “You need the Marauders Map. It shows everyone in the castle, exactly where they are. If we had the Map, we could figure out exactly where Pettigrew was, if he was here at all.” 

The feeling in Draco’s stomach shifted. A crack had formed, allowing light into the dark pit of worry there. Lupin had the map. His first instinct after his last vision had been to seek out Lupin, a mission in which he had been entirely unsuccessful. Was he being guided by the hands of fate? Or was fate conspiring against him to keep Lupin as far away as possible. 

“Professor Lupin has it.” Draco pointed out. “I haven’t been able to get a moment alone with him all week.” 

Hermione checked her watch. The band was worn down, black leather. She had told him, months ago, that it had been a token she inherited from her grandmother. It used to be broken, until she got to Hogwarts and figured out how to make it tick again. Sometimes, she said, it got slightly out of whack when she went back home. Horomancy was tricky like that. It needed the steady flow of magic in the air to maintain consistency. Time Turners had the magic baked straight into the metal and the sand. His heart was beating quickly as Hermione checked the time, clearly doing some mental math in her own mind. 

“It’s almost seven.” She told him. “We should check if he’s in his office. He might be patrolling tonight, but if we’re lucky —” A shadow crossed her face. “Oh, crap. I told Neville I would be back to go through his study guide with him…” 

“I can go on my own.” Draco nodded. He was probably better off that way. The rapport that he and Lupin had managed to build this year was entirely on a one-on-one basis. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to pull this off, if he was around Hermione. 

She looks doubtful, looks reluctant to leave now that she’s started to sink her teeth into the problem. 

“I’ll meet you before breakfast,” He promised her, “And catch you up.” 

Draco knocks solidly on the door to Professor Lupin’s office; and the door opens to reveal Lupin, rather exhausted looking, tea kettle whistling on the fire behind him. He looks older, oddly, with shadowed eyes and a pale complexion. 

“Draco.” Lupin greets him. His hand rests on the doorframe, like he needs the support of holding on to something. With a small movement of his head, Lupin looks him up and down as if searching for some kind of injury or problem that requires the attention of a Professor. But they both knew that if Draco was hurt, he wouldn’t go seeking out Lupin — there were far more qualified people in the castle to go to with bodily hurts. “Is something the matter?” He asks, regardless of the facts. 

Draco opens his mouth, and comes short for a moment, before he starts again and manages to find the words. “The Map. The one you took off of Harry, earlier this year.” He starts, shifting on his feet. “Can I look at it?” 

Lupin’s eyes grow more suspicious, but more curious as well. 

“I’d wonder if you were up to something untoward,” Lupin mused, “But rule breakers don’t usually ask for permission.” 

“No, they’re much better suited to begging for forgiveness.” Draco nodded. 

Lupin quirked the barest hint of a smile, at that. It was a smile that almost said: ‘how’s that support group for precocious young men coming along?’ 

‘It’s having quite the opposite effect than one would wish,’ Draco would have replied, had those been the words that came out of Lupin’s mouth. Instead, Lupin shifted, moving his arm back from the doorframe and waving Draco in to his office. “You’d better come inside, then.” Lupin told him, and Draco took slow steps into the room. 

Lupin moved to take the kettle away from the fire, but he didn’t shift toward tealeaves and mugs this time, just dusted off his hands and turned to look at Draco again, hands on his hips as if he was about to become a scolding father instead of a haggard Professor. Severus was quite partial to the hands-on-hips trick when Draco was being particularly vexing toward him. “So; the map.” Lupin began, thoughtful, as if he was talking to himself more than he was talking to Draco. “Why am I not surprised you know about the map?” 

“Harry showed it to me.” Draco tells him. And then, prodding, “Can I see it? Please?” 

Lupin looked introspective, gears winding around and around in his head, before he moved and opened the middle drawer of his heavy wooden desk. He spread the old parchment out flat, though its picture remained blank. “He showed you how it worked?” 

Draco nodded, and Lupin inclined his head, leaning against the desk with one hand as he watched Draco. It was a request; it was a test, maybe, to make sure that Draco hadn’t just overheard Harry talking about the map to the others. Maybe that was uncharitable, maybe he just didn’t want to reach for his wand. Draco didn’t hesitate before he pulled out his own. “I solomnly swear I am up to no good.” He muttered, as he touched the wand to the parchment, exactly as Harry had done when they looked over the map together.

Something wistful flittered over Lupin’s face at the sound of the words. That was when he ripped his eyes away from Draco and glanced down at the paper. Draco ignored it. He wasn’t here to ponder the inner depths of Remus Lupin’s psyche. He was here to try and find a rat. He was here to try and find proof. 

He flipped sections, revealing the dungeons, dark and dank and a likely hiding place for a creature as small and quick as a rat. His eyes scanned over Severus in his potions lab, flicked toward all of his friends gathered around the fire in the Slytherin common room, mused over the prefects who were patrolling the hallways down there. There were so many people, so many bodies in the castle, their little footsteps pacing around or standing still. 

“I’ve looked for Sirius a hundred times.” Lupin told him. Draco wasn’t surprised at the musing of it. They had talked for such a long time about their fears, about their suspicions that Sirius Black was an innocent man. He had seen the doubt creeping in to Lupin’s face, that day when they sat together at the window. Lupin wasn’t all the way there, but he was getting closer and closer by the minute. “But no one knows this castle better than him. I’d wager there are some things in Sirius’s head that even Dumbledore doesn’t know.” 

“I’d wager that there’s one person who knows more than Sirius Black does.” Draco hesitated for a beat, “A man named Peter Pettigrew.” 

He hadn’t thought it would be possible for Lupin to pale even further. He looked more like a corpse than a man, today. He looked like he was one moment away from knocking on death’s door. Then his face hardened, and his gaze intensified on the map. He braced himself more sturdily and leaned in to start scanning names as Draco was. 

“Peter Pettigrew.” He says, stiff. “He’s dead. He died. He’s —” 

“Then why are you looking?” 

The only thing stiffer than Lupin’s voice is his body, wound tight like a piano wire that was threatening to snap. He was silent for a long beat, seconds ticking by, sand in an hourglass, as his eyes scanned the paper. “Because Harry saw him. His name on this map.” It sounded hollow, like a realisation he was fighting against. “Peter Pettigrew.” 

“He never told me that.” 

Lupin’s head gives a small shake. “He said the map was probably broken, but — but I checked all of the charms, and they’re exactly the same as the day James and I cast them.” His head turns, and Draco meets his eyes, swallowing past the weight of that confession. “I thought maybe Harry was seeing things. Half asleep; he’d heard the name earlier and his mind put it somewhere it shouldn’t have been.” 

“No,” Draco said, with a small sigh. “He wasn’t seeing things. Pettigrew is alive. He betrayed you. And now he’s hiding in this castle like the rat he is.” 

Lupin’s gaze is an intense one. “Where did you get this idea, if Harry didn’t tell you?” 

Draco is a good liar. It’s easier, too, when he’s lying to someone like Lupin and not his friends. Even when he is talking to his friends, Draco is remarkably good at it. He’s only met one person who claimed that they could tell when Draco was telling fibs or not. “It’s something my father said,” Draco breathes. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but then… I don’t know. Stress can make things click into place sometimes, for me. I do my best puzzle solving under intense pressure.” 

“And who told you he was an animagus?” Lupin prods. 

A beat. “Like I said. It was something my father mentioned.” 

“Your father.” Lupin breathes, and it doesn’t sound like he believes Draco fully. But desperate men are often in search of convenient truths they can put their faith in. Lupin wanted to believe that Peter Pettigrew was alive; because that meant that Sirius Black really was innocent. “I never believed him to be such a perceptive man.” 

“We Malfoys contain multitudes.” 

“Yes, I’m starting to see that rather clearly.” Lupin mused, and Draco almost assumed he was degrading Draco in some way — but when he played it back in his head, it didn’t sound anything but fond. His eyes flittered back to the map. “Well, two sets of eyes are better than one. It’s about time we put that precocious nature of yours to the test.” He began to speak at the same time as he began to move, finding one of the cushioned chairs scattered around his office and thunking it down in front of the desk, “You may sit here, and we will scour every inch of that map until we find what we’re looking for, or become convinced that we are mistaken. Whichever comes first.” 

“I won’t be convinced.” Draco tells him, even as he’s lowering himself down and collapsing into the offered chair. He takes the moment to roll up his sleeves, to tuck his hair behind his ears, before he descends on the map like it’s his life’s mission. 

They don’t talk much during their search, but it isn’t a stoic silence. The candles crackle on and off as they burn and throw off light. It’s almost meditative. Almost like studying with Theo and Hermione in the library at night, when the entire world is quiet and it feels like they’re the only ones who exist, safe inside a chamber of parchment and paper, leather tomes. 

The map is parchment and paper and ink, shifting names that almost start to blur as long moments go by in the search. Lupin’s office is warm, stuffy, fire lit despite the warmth of June settling deeply over them like a blanket. Lupin is still ensconced in knitwear and heavy fabrics, as if he’s cold while all the rest of the world is warm. 

Draco wonders if that’s a side effect of his condition. 

But then, Draco tries not to wonder about his condition at all. 

He can feel his eyes growing heavier from the heat. There’s still time left, before curfew sets in and Draco risks getting in trouble for being out of bed. And far too much to do, to worry about a good night’s sleep anyway. He starts asking questions, more to keep himself awake more than anything. 

“You’ve never seen Black on this thing?” 

“No, he’s good at sneaking around. He was always bloody hard to track down.” 

“My mother said he ran away a lot, when he was young.” 

“Four times before it stuck.” A beat, “Or, until they stopped trying to get him back.” 

That made Draco wonder — what did it take, to get your parents to give up on you? Orion and Walburga Black had put years of effort into having children in the first place, and then years of effort more into raising an Heir for their most ancient house. Draco knew first hand how seriously parents took their inheritors, the children who would carry on a name and a legacy on their behalf. It wasn’t the kind of thing you got out of very easily. 

“Mother says that Family is the most important thing in the world.” He said, almost accusatory, mainly needing to remind himself that his mothers loyalty laid firmly with him. 

Lupin turned a fragment of the parchment, opening up to look down at the dark splotch of the black lake, overlaid on top of the Slytherin Dormatories on the sheet beneath it. He was slow to answer. “It takes a lot more than blood to make a family.” He finally said, heavy hearted. 

Draco changed the subject. 

“Why doesn’t the map ever extend out to the forest?” He asked, instead — he traced the line where ink cut off and parchment ended. 

A huff leaves Lupin, amused more than anything else. “We were the only ones stupid to go gallivanting around in there. We didn’t need a map for it. And Sirius always said —” He trailed slightly, wistful.

“What?” 

“That a forest as old as that is meant to be unknowable.” Lupin finally allowed, looking up and meeting Draco’s eyes across the map. “That the trees, and the creatures who made themselves a home in those woods, had earned the right to keep their secrets.” 

Draco nods his head, and glances away. He tries to wipe the lingering exhaustion from his eyes. “I’ve only ever been inside once.” Draco admitted. “I can’t say I enjoyed the experience.” 

“It can be rather terrifying, on occasion.” Lupin nodded. “But there’s beauty in it too. So much beauty.” 

Draco had seen beauty there. He had seen beauties corpse, silver blood spilled on the ground. He opens his mouth to say as much, when a knocking comes from the door to Lupin’s chambers, and he watches the man stiffen. He flicks through leafs of parchment laid out before them. 

“Severus.” He hitches a breath, and Draco gets to his feet on instinct. 

Lupin’s wand touches the parchment, and with a quick mischief managed the map fades from existence as if it was never there. Lupin didn’t hesitate longer before he strode over to the door, covering the distance quickly. Draco could see him make the concentrated effort to relax his shoulders and plaster on a mild-mannered smile before he swung the door open. 

Just like the map suggested. Severus Snape was waiting outside. 

“Professor Snape,” Lupin greeted. 

“Lupin.” Sev intoned, bland. He was carrying a goblet, gleaming copper, covered with a copper guard to keep the potion from spilling. 

Lupin didn’t try to hide Draco, even as he reached out and took the goblet from Severus. “Thank you for this,” He said, easily. “You’ve come just in time. I was about to walk Draco back down to the dungeons before curfew set in.” 

Severus’s eyes were heavy on Draco, when he noticed Draco’s existence. Heavy, critical, questioning, curious. 

“I hope Mr. Malfoy hasn’t gotten himself in trouble so close to the end of term.” Severus commented. “One would hate to end the year on such a sour note.” 

“I —” Draco began to reply, but Lupin cut him off. 

“Not at all,” He said it with a laugh. He was a good liar. He was good at hiding things, Draco realised, when he wanted to hide them. “I was just answering some last minute questions Draco had about his exam tomorrow. We both know how important his grades are to him.” 

He placed the goblet down on the desk, and smiled at the both of them. 

“But now,” Lupin continued, “I do believe the key to success is a good night’s sleep. I have some rather important research to do myself.”

Draco only gazed at Lupin for an instant, before he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, the heavy weight of it feeling like a comfort at his side. It had been his stalwart companion this year, unshakable and immutable in its weight and importance. Right now, it felt lighter than all of his other problems — and not just because he had triumphantly removed subjects from within the moment their exams had been finished and passed with flying colours. 

“Have a good night, Professor.” He nodded, before letting Severus guide him out of the room with a hand on his shoulder. 

The hand on his shoulder got slightly rougher, as they neared the end of the hallway; so Draco quickened his pace, hoping that they would return to the dungeons without needing to share a single word. 

Of course, he could never be that lucky. 

“I have turned a blind eye to your ill-advised friendship with the insufferable know it all, but I will not stand idly by and watch you waste your time with the likes of Remus Lupin.”

Ah, yes. Draco should have expected this speech. Draco didn’t know how it hadn’t happened sooner. He though Severus would have never shut up about how much he disapproved of Draco’s friendship with Potter and Granger. He must have been distracted by too many other things this year; and frankly, Draco had been glad for it. 

“Professor Lupin has this strange quirk, Sev. He teaches us things.” He halfheartedly snooped. “Our Defense Professors have been complete and utter jokes for the last two years; I’m taking advantage of having a Defense Professor who actually knows what he’s talking about for once.” 

“That’s what your conversations with him are about, then? The Defense Against the Dark Arts Curriculum?” Severus sounded like he’d believe that when hell froze over. 

Draco hadn’t been lying, though. He did talk to Lupin about Defense Against The Dark Arts. They just talked about other things too. The extra books that Lupin had given him to study; muggle ethics, muggle philosophy, like he thought Draco had room for more subjects in his brain. They talked about his mother, too; what she had been like at school, what she was like now. They talked around the subject of his father, but never quite managed to hit the topic head on. And they talked about Sirius Black; the person who Severus probably hated most in the world, and the person who Lupin clearly loved so much it made him sick. 

Draco was almost stratled to learn that he liked Lupin, despite knowing that Sev didn’t care for him, despite knowing that he probably turned into a horrible terrifying werewolf every full moon. His father knew werewolves, Draco had remembered recently, and Lucius had never been shy with sharing stories about them. They were monsters, savage things, vicious and bloodthirsty even during the days when they were human— and they didn’t sound much like Remus Lupin. 

“Yes,” He replied, annoyingly defensive of it. “I don’t see what the big deal is.” 

“The big deal, you insolent brat, is that—” 

“That he’s a competent professor despite your mysterious antagonism with him?” 

“You are being insufferable on purpose.” 

 “Yeah, probably.” Draco was always being a little bit insufferable. He was self aware enough to realise that. He was too tired to fight it. It almost felt funny, instead of anything else. The kind of funny where you had to laugh so you wouldn’t cry. His footsteps slowed as they finally approached the secret passage that led to the Slytherin dormatories. “Look — I love the disapproving father act you borrow from dad sometimes; but i’m rather tired, and I have an exam in the morning, so can you save being disappointed in me for the summer?”

Severus didn’t look stricken by that, but something crossed over his face like a shadow. Severus wasn’t his father — they were both intimately aware of that fact. It didn’t do any of them either good to pretend the reality of the situation was any different. It was bad enough that Severus cared about him at all. Caring didn’t really get you anywhere, in their circles — and they were both intimately aware of that fact too. Caring about people was dangerous, it cracked even the strongest facades and brought doom to the strongest of men. 

“I will never be disappointed in you.” He said, finally, a sharp and disapproving thing. He looked intense, like it was a vow. 

Draco quirked his head, the tiniest movement. “As long as I take after the right Blacks? As long as I stay in line?” He asks, finally confronting the doubt he’s had since that day at Christmas, when Draco had overheard Severus starting to sound like his father after all. He watches as Severus’s face shifts again, questioning into realisation into frustration. Draco nodded his head. “Right, okay.” 

Severus let him turn away, without a word, without a comforting touch or an assurance of unconditional affection. No, the only person in Draco’s life who could provide those things was his mother. He ached for her, suddenly and viciously, as he stepped into the Slytherin common room. He wanted to go home. The feeling choked him, and though it was still early, he slipped through the common room and down the stairs into the depths of the boys dorms. 

“Professor Lupin will figure things out.” Hermione assures Draco, with the delusional optomism of someone who still believes the adults in their life are level headed and capable of doing anything. 

They’re sitting in their favourite courtyard, picking at breakfast stolen from the great hall before most of the other students had even woken up. Draco didn’t feel very hungry, and he picked at his food with an almost sullen attitude. 

“I just wish we’d gotten somewhere concrete before —” A sigh cut his words off. “Before Professor Snape came knocking.” 

“You never mentioned why he was visiting Professor Lupin so late in the evening.” The look she fixed him with was semi-sharp, a prodding thing. “They don’t seem particularly friendly with one another.” 

“Sev hates him.” Draco admitted. “But he hasn’t told me why.” 

He gazed off into the distance so he could pretend he didn’t see her probing gaze. But still, he was forced to hear her thoughtful humming. It was a strange wall they had run into. Hermione had certain realisations about Professor Lupin, after they had written that essay about werewolves. Draco had certain realisations too. She knew he had. He knew she had. Yet they hadn’t talked about it. They seemed to come to a silent understanding that they wouldn’t talk about it unless they had to — it didn’t really have anything to do with the issues at hand, after all. 

“Maybe you’ll see the answer during your divination exam.” Hermione teased, instead of pushing. “I can’t say I’m not relieved that I’ll be done after Muggle Studies, while you lot suffer through that absolute sham of a curriculum.” 

Draco hadn’t even stopped to worry about divination class. It was an easy O. Draco knew exactly what cards to play, and had memorised nearly every aspect of the subject months before anyone else. 

“Maybe,” he breathed, absently, tearing the pastry on his napkin into little pieces, throwing it to the side. There was a murder of crows that lived in the tree in the corner of the courtyard, and the swept down in a flutter of black wings to peck at the food. 

“Come on, then.” She got to her feet and smoothed her skirt, before reaching to tug him up by the arm. “We can walk down to Defense together. Maybe Lupin will have news for you.” 

Lupin didn’t have news for him, but that wasn’t surprising. Draco hadn’t been expecting any intense discussiouns, surrounded by the rest of the world as they were. What Lupin did have was a rather elabroate method of examination. He had set up something rather like an obstacle course. Everything they had learned this year stacked up in front of them on something other than a parchment of paper, a practical exam that was more exciting than the usual fare. It made sense, now, why Lupin had instructed them to attend the exam in clothes they wouldn’t mind getting dirty. 

“Best of luck, then.” He told Hermione, as they split off in different direction to join their housemates and friends. He fell in beside Pansy and Theo — the two of them shifted to make room for him like it was second nature, all of them guided by their natural gravitational pull. 

They were quizzing each other backwards and forwards. Razor sharp questions and quick answers. They’d studied well. A lot of the other students were doing the same — but Draco felt quiet, he was happy to just stand between Theo and Pans and tilt his head up toward the blue-blue-blue of the sky. It was warm, the sun beating down on them. Draco felt too hot, even dressed down in short sleeves. Most of them had taken the chance to escape their stuffy uniforms with ease. Draco had never seen so many bare arms during an exam before. 

When he looked away from the sky, he had spots in his vision. Sun blind and blinking, Draco became strangely aware of the feeling of someone watching him. As his eyelids fluttered their way back to vision he realised what it was. The Gryffindors were talking happily. There was nothing strange between the three of them. Harry and Ron had clearly written off any strangeness on Hermione’s side of things as stress from the exams — but Harry was looking at Draco again, with that intense gaze of his; the look that meant Harry thought he was up to something. 

Draco was almost offended, before he remembered that he actually was up to something. So he just met Harry’s eyes, quirked a brow at him, challanging — and then Harry smiled. Suddenly, being offended wasn’t an option any more. Draco tried not to smile back, but he must not have done a very good job, if the widening of Harry’s grin was anything to go by. It took on a distinctly teasing edge. 

Draco had to look away. His eyes landed on Harry’s arms, when they flicked away from his face. Draco made it a point not to think about other boys arms. That would be starting down a dangerous path. He was thinking about Harry’s arms anyway About the way they were bigger than Draco’s — a year of playing Quidditch while Draco had not clearly worked in Potter’s favor. He couldn’t help looking at the tanned skin, the way the sleeve of his Quidditch team issued short-sleeved undershirt looked the slightest bit too small. Harry had gotten bigger, this year. They all had. It seemed unfair that Harry’s growth spurt looked good on him. 

He had to tear his eyes away, had to focus on Pansy instead. He focused on answering the questions just the scantest second before Theo could get the words out, hoping to vex the other boy into becoming an appropriate distraction from Potter. 

He was still feeling distinctly flustered when his turn to take the test finally came. At least it was easier to put feeling aside when he had something more important to focus on. Draco wasn’t entirely vapid and foolish, he knew how to keep his head on straight when he needed to. 

Draco had been fully prepared to face his father, when he stepped into the small enclosed space that held the boggart. His father was expected, a fear he had long grown used to. The first flash of silver hair almost confirmed it — but the figure kneeling on the ground of this little makeshift shaft wasn’t Lucius Malfoy. 

It was Draco. The Draco from that last vision. He had tried not to picture the boy he’d seen that night — the boy he had become that night, heightened as things had been. He had tried to chase recollections of that vision from his mind, but you could only chase something so far away when it was already in your head. What was Seen couldn’t be unseen. 

And there it was. Thin and pale, quaking with fear, fingers fluttering and body shaking. A sharper face than Draco’s, and more vacant eyes. It was the Draco that had heard that voice. The bone-chilling one, fear incarnate, or maybe something worse. He couldnt picture the voice but he could picture the boy who’d heard it. 

It was him. He had been expecting his father, and he had been unprepared even for that; now he was bereft of funny thoughts. He didn’t think anything could make him laugh at this. “What am I supposed to be fearing, here?” He asked, feeling like he was walking on a knifes edge. 

“What’s going to happen.” His shadow self told him, hair skirting his shoulders as his head twitched in Draco’s direction, fixing that hollow gaze on him. “The gilded cage.” 

Draco Malfoy, on his knees in Malfoy Manor, while evil incarnate walked its walls. That was what he had seen. And it made him laugh, after all. A hollow thing. A mirthless laugh. It made the boggart flinch all the same, made the shadow-Draco scramble back. 

It was enough for Draco to find the latch on the door and slip back out of it. He hadn’t even tried to cast the banishing charm; there was no way it would have worked. He kissed his perfect mark goodbye at the same moment he locked eyes with Professor Lupin. Draco gave the smallest shake of his head and then Lupin waited a second too long before he nodded, gave a clap and said; “Very good, Draco! Now, who do we have next? Up you go, Mr. Nott.” 

Draco felt as hollow as his laugh had been as he stepped aside and off into the grass. His chest felt distinctly tight, actually, as if the hollow was expanding somehow. The hollow was making him feel rather breathless, too. He could walk away, he could go back to the castle, but — but the others weren’t done yet, and if he left, he wouldn’t have anyone to distract him from the hollow. 

He walked away from the group of waiting students, into the small crowd of the ones who had finished, and then past them. He sat ten feet away, and dug his fingers into the grass, pulling up strands, staring at the place that housed the boggart dead on. He looked and looked and looked, until Hermione stepped in front of him and blocked his view. 

He looked up at her, at her curly hair and the halo the sunlight made around it. He had the sense memory of another sunny day that hadn’t happened yet, and on instinct he flopped back to look at the sky instead. The sun was blinding, but if he turned his head a little he could look at clear blue. Hermione looked at him, and after only a moment of hesitation she laid down on the grass next to him. 

“What are you thinking about?” She asked him, a hushed question. So quiet no one else could hear. 

He looked at the deep ocean blue sky. Cloudless above — so maybe not an ocean after all. The ocean would have more clouds than this; waves crashing like an unstoppable force. This sky was just empty. Hollow. “Why Ophelia had to drown herself.” He answers, with a taste of prophecy. And then, to difuse the bomb in his hands, “Muggle Studies.” 

“Hamlet is on the fifth year syllabus.” She splutters at him. 

“I like to read ahead.” He confesses. “So do you.” 

“Still —” She’s breathless with something, “You’re not allowed to use muggle things to distract me. That just doesn’t feel right. It’s creepy.” 

“First you scold me for not knowing anything about the muggles, then its creepy when I start learning? How is that fair?” 

Hermione makes a sound. It’s laughter, that’s what she’s breathless with, a hint of laughter. Something unclenches in Draco’s chest and he pulls in a breath, it comes easier now, and something about it finally starts to fill up the hollow space. 

Draco and the rest of the Slytherins walk up to the castle after their DADA exam, about fifteen feet behind Hermione and the Gryffindors. Draco is fairly sure he could have convinced everyone to walk together, had it not been for the Weasley shaped elephant in the room. He could have blackmailed the Slytherins into being poilite — but everyone knew that Weasley hated him, and no one would stand for a Slytherin being spoken badly of. A fight would have broken out almost instantly. 

He was the first one to notice Harry and his cohort start on the steps. The first, because he was already staring at the back of Harry’s head as they walked. 

“Is that Fudge?” Blaise asked, shortly after Draco’s mouth dropped open slightly. 

“And Macnair.” Pansy breathed.

“Are Potter and Fudge friendly, then?” Theo asked, something critical in the tone — as if all of their parents didn’t waste hours every week trying to cozy up to the Minister. 

“They must be here for Buckbeak,” Draco decided, and shoved his bag into Vince’s ready hands so that he could pick up his pace and catch the tail end of the conversation. 

Weasley was being as beligerent as ever when Draco approached. “Then you might not have to witness an execution at all,” He was arguing to the Minister, as if that would have any affect. “The hippogriff might get off!” 

It was the thing they were all hoping for — that reason and justice would win the day and that Buckbeak would get to live a long and happy life, whatever that looked like for a stupid beast like him. But Draco was smarter than the others, and he’d known since the first hearing that Buckbeak was going to get his head chopped off. Draco’s father was a lot of things; but most importantly, he was a man who knew how to get what he wanted. 

Minister Fudge did not look like he felt particularly enthused at being exclaimed to by a child. Macnair had his cunningly sharp axe strapped to his belt, and the smile that flitted onto his face when he saw Draco approaching was almost as cunningly sharp too. He nudged Fudge, and Draco slipped an innocently-sweet smile onto his face at just the right moment. 

“Ah, young Mister Malfoy,” Fudge greeted. “How is that arm of yours holding up?” 

“Perfectly fine, sir.” Draco nodded. “All in working order. It really was just a scratch, as I said —” 

“I can see those scars from here, boy.” Macnair cut him across, gruff, “Now I can see why your father has been so distraught.” 

There were scars, that was the problem. Macnair was just the type to point out the three thin silver lines, as healed as Madame Pomfrey could get them. It was common with injuries from magical creatures. They didn’t heal quite so prettily. Draco’s mouth went dry, and he clasped his hands behind his back. He could see Ron getting redder from where the boy stood next to Harry. He was opening his mouth to say something stupid, but Draco saw Hermione nudge him, and soon enough she was guiding Weasley into the entrance hall. 

They watched Fudge and his companions begin the long walk down across the grounds toward Hagrids hut. In the split second before the rest of the Slytherins caught up with him, Draco opened his mouth. “Harry, I —”

It was met with a sad shake of Harry’s head. “I know.” Harry told him, and Draco wasn’t sure, really, that Harry did know. “No one blames you.” He said, then, and Draco was fairly sure that meant that everyone did. 

There was only one place to go, then, into the great hall for lunch. Harry gave him a rueful smile as the Slytherins joined them, and they went their seperate ways. All Draco felt was something like guilt clenching in his stomach. 

Sometimes, Draco thought that Muggle Studies really was one of the most difficult subjects in the school. He could wrap his mind around astronomy and arithmancy, charms and transfiguration — but he would never, ever, understand how a telephone worked. 

His head was pounding by the time the exam ended. With blue skies and singing birds outside of all the windows, it felt like the universe was mocking him for his pain. The world felt distinctly like a haze, even as Hermione handed him the time turner in the abandoned classroom they’d found. He was the only one who would need to use it today, in order to go back several hours and attend his Divination exam. 

The heavy metal chain felt like a weight around his neck. An anchor, weighing him down in a stormy sea. A time turner was just a tiny little thing, and it had such an impact on his life this year that it felt all encompassing. How many more hours had he lived than normal? Did it amount to days? Weeks? He felt older than he ought to, and stretched too thin by far — but he still picked up the delicate hourglass and spun it, winding back the hours until it was just after lunch again. 

“Where have you been?” Blaise greeted him, impatient, as he finally ascended the stairs to the Divination tower and saw the rest of the class already waiting. It drew the attention of Harry and Weasley, too. 

“Today is a good day for a divination exam.” Draco told all of them, instead of giving an excuse. He sounded sure of himself, utterly confident. He was a Draco who was prepared to pull out an act of eccentricity in order to distract from what was really going on. 

Blaise, who had heard this same fact just this morning during breakfast, groaned out a complaint; “Not this,” He pleaded. It was useless, however, because at the same time Harry’s head tilted curiously, and he said; “Why?” 

Harry had been doing that a lot, lately. Asking for elaboration on what Draco was talking about. It sent a little thrill through Draco every time. He grinned, and ignored Blaise’s pleading. “The celestial circumstances are in our favor. The positioning of the planets, the phase of the moon, the alignment of the stars — all perfectly suited to divination.” 

One of those small smiles graced Harry’s lips, then. “Wicked.” He nodded. “This’ll go great, then.” 

“Was that sarcastic?” Blaise asked, then, flicking his gaze in Potter’s direction. He still disapproved, Draco knew, of letting Potter get too close. The disapproval still made Draco more amused than anything else. 

It was a rarity to see the two boys actually interact with each other. It could go badly. The last time they’d done it Harry had come out the other side clearly wrongfooted and perplexed by the gang of Slytherins he had decided to talk to, and Blaise’s sharp tongue had been a factor in that. 

Harry didn’t look particularly wrongfooted now. The two of them were looking at each other, intent, until Harry quirked a shoulder in half a shrug. “A little bit, yeah.” 

Weasley huffed out an amused breath, at that. That was annoying, but Harry met his eyes, and they were bright, and suddenly Draco felt like he was in on the joke. He kicked halfheartedly at Harry’s knees, before folding himsef down to sit on the steps of the spiral staircase like all the others. 

Most of the class had their copies of Unfogging The Future open on their laps. Neville Longbottom was studying the section on crystal balls, as if if he looked at the pages hard enough he would develop the gifts of a true seer. 

Draco didn’t bother with his textbook. There was nothing inside those pages that could help him today. He hadn’t even brought the tome with him, having deemed it pointless a long time ago. He almost regretted it now, with nothing to do with his hands except for bite at the ragged skin around his thumbnail again, and watch the line of students slowly get shorter and shorter. 

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way Professor Trelawney had organised her examinations. Draco couldn’t make sense of the order she called his classmates in. It wasn’t alphabetical. It wasn’t by any kind of academic ranking. It seemed almost like she was pulling names out of a hat. Why else would Zabini, Blaise, come before Malfoy, Draco? 

“Good luck,” He told Blaise, before he ascended the stairs. 

One by one people trickled away, starting and finishing their exams while everyone else languished in the hallway. Time ticked by, and Draco gazed out the window impatiently. Eventually, it was only him and Harry left. 

“She’s doing this to torture us.” Harry commented, as Weasley climbed up the ladder. 

“Maybe you,” Draco mused, tilting his head back so that a sunbeam landed on his face, squinting his eyes at the brightness of it and soaking in the warmth. “She likes me. She wouldn’t torture me.” 

When he looked back to give Harry a cheeky grin, he ended up catching sight of Harry’s own scoffing laugh before the other boy ducked his head away. The sunlight had half-blinded Draco, and it left Harry looking haloed and lightning struck. 

“Teachers pet,” Harry called him, without a hint of malice behind it. It was the same tone he used to tease Hermione for the same tendencies. It chased whatever lingered of the hollow feeling away from Draco’s chest, reducing the whole world to sunlight in a tower. 

“It’s not my fault that I’m naturally wonderful at everything I do.” He spoke, a heavy sigh escaping his chest. “Some people are just cursed with perfection.” 

“You’re cursed with something alright,” Harry’s head shook, but the smile stayed firm in place. “Not sure I’d call it perfection.” 

All Draco did was hum, amused, and tilt his head back into the sunbeam that cut across the corridor. Harry didn’t know just how right he was. Draco would always be cursed, in one way or another. It had been confirmed time and time again. His heart twinged when he remembered the promise of his ancestors; that he might change things, but the world would hurt him for it. What wounds would he aquire, before he met his untimely, lonely end? 

Harry only let the silence linger for a moment, long enough for the ache of destiny to settle heavy into Draco’s chest again. “Are you up to something?” Harry asked, gentle instead of acusatory. 

He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch away from it. He didn’t even focus on Harry again. Gentle voices could be misleading; but somehow he knew that Harry’s probably wasn’t a trick. He could be painfully earnest when it suited him; the same way he could be a sarcastic little prick at the drop of a hat. 

“Yes,” Draco said, instead of the lies that could have been easily summoned to the tip of his tongue. “It’s nothing to hurt you. So you should —” 

“Trust you.” Harry muses, and Draco feels off center again. 

“Blindly.” He agrees, a breathless laugh, without a moment of hesitation and wonders if it’s really this simple. 

Harry laughs too, equally breathless. It feels like late nights with Pansy and Theo when exhaustion sets in and everything is slightly tinged with hilarity. They’re still laughing in breathless giggles when Ron comes down from the ladder and the look on his face when he sees them only makes Harry and Draco laugh harder. 

“How did it go?” Harry managed to ask, voiced ragged, as he got to his feet. He was utterly graceless in the moment, and Draco had to cover his mouth with his hand momentarily while he tried to compose himself. 

Weasley heaved out a heavy sigh, ripping his disgruntled eyes away from Draco, “Rubbish.” He groused. “She had me look into a crystal ball — it was rubbish. I made it all up, but I don’t think she was very convinced.” 

Draco was glad, then, that he was covering his mouth, because another wave of laughter tried to push its way out of his chest, earning him another disgruntled look from Weasley. 

“I’ll meet you in the common room,” Harry finally managed, and Ron left them standing there just as Trelawneys voice rang down. 

“Draco Malfoy,” She called, and Draco had to pull in a deep breath and try to force a straight face. Harry extended an arm to help him stand, and Draco took it, trying not to feel breathless again for new, dangerous reasons. Harry propped a foot on the end of the ladder, holding it steady so Draco could climb it. 

His fingers twined around the rope, but he hesitated for a moment before he started to climb. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” 

“You don’t need it.” Harry said, confident, and yeah, somehow that was better. 

The incense in the air was even thicker than usual today, when Draco climbed up the silvery ladder, away from Harry and into the divination classroom. It was swelteringly hot, too. Trelawney had two fires burning and all of the windows blocked with heavy fabric, as usual. Draco didn’t know how she could stand it. 

She smiled when she saw him, the same doting way she smiled at him every time he contributed well in class. She was well meaning, even if she was a talentless hack, and any teacher that would fawn over Draco was going to be a favourite of his. 

“Good circumstances today,” He said, with a quick smile, as he took his seat across from her. She was sitting before a crystal ball — it looked cheap, from what Draco could tell. It was the kind of thing they mass produced to sell to idiots — or to schools, for divination classes where most of their students would likely be idiots. It was just glass, filled with smoke. He hadn’t even breathed the smoke in himself, so it was basically worthless. 

“Indeed there are, dear! The spirits have been calling at me all day,” She fanned at her face, her eyes gleaming at him brightly from behind her round glasses. “Oh my, your aura is particulalry bright today, dear boy. You are prepared for the orb, yes?” 

“Yes,” He said, with a confident nod. 

Draco knew enough about the art of divination at this point that he knew that this was, in fact, not the ideal situation for sucessful orb scrying. The ball hadn’t been cleansed, and it was likely tainted with the energy of everyone who had come before Draco. Weasley’s bad aura was probably clinging to it like fog. Beyond that, the perfectly clear glass was unlikely to show him anything at all — 

It really ought to have been quartz, he thought. He had seen one on a shelf in Black Abbey that was a sphere of rose quartz, clear, but not imperfect. Imperfections were what let destiny creep in. He bit at his thumb as he looked at it, before deciding to be brazen. 

“Do you have a ball I can fill myself?” He asked, “Only, I’ve heard that it helps — the breath of the seeker filling the orb with potential…” 

Something in her eyes gleamed, as if she was surprised someone cared enough to know, as if she was surprised someone cared enough to ask for a better chance than the one they were being given. It was clear that Trelawney wasn’t particularly concerned about time. She was likely to give every student exactly as long as they needed, wanted, or deserved. 

Soon enough, he had another delicately blown glass orb in his hands. The bottom melted away when Draco brushed his thumb over it — it was a cheap little thing, but the charm work was intricate, fit for purpose. A simple spell, and Draco was exhaling a breath that turned to incensed smoke into the orb, until the opening closed again and he was left with a cloud of heavy fog spiralling within the glass. He carefully wiped his fingerprints from the surface and settled it in it’s seat. 

The motion had a centering effect on Draco. The intricate ritual of the act was, in and of itself, a focus. 

Trelawney gave little more than an encouraging smile, extending long fingers as if to encourage Draco to look inside the glass and pull the future itself from the smoke. So Draco looked. 

It was different, he’d always found, from looking in a pool of water; or a mirror. There was no flicker of a flame, no need to gaze into and past himself. Just clear white smoke and the taste of myrrh and sage on his tongue. It took a long moment before Draco was able to clear his head, but his year of practice in meditation gave him an upper hand, there. He needed a blank slate, so that was what he found inside himself, until he was just an empty vessel. 

What do I need to know most? He asked the ball, inside his head. Show me something important. 

“I see the moon,” He told her, voice steady, “It’s rising over the mountains, over the trees and the lake and the castle.” 

“Is it tonight, do you think?” 

“I —” He paused, looked closer. He felt a pounding in his head, like a headache was settling over him with startling quickness. “Yes. A June moon. I can see it through the trees, all those branches cutting it into a dozen pieces.” 

“And what else?” 

He peered closer, his head pounded again. “A wolf. Someone running from a wolf through the trees. They’re scared.” 

“Is the wolf a natural creature.” 

“No,” a breath, “It was forged, not born.” 

“And will the wolf catch them?” 

“I —” His eyes felt blurry, like when you had too much sleep. Full of the cloudy reality of life. “I don’t know. It’s slipping away. I can’t see it clearly.” 

“It’s natural, my child. The art of the orb is an illusive one. Do you see anything else?” 

Images flooded into Draco’s gaze, absent and quick. He voiced them in a litany; one after the other, heartbeat pounding in his chest. “A clock. Feathers falling through the air. I see the surface of the lake rippling, someone is touching it, pale hands on the edge of the water. I think someone is going to die there — or; worse, I —” 

Nausea floods his stomach without reason, and Draco has to tear his eyes away from the orb. He blinks quickly, and finds that he can hardly remember anything he just said. He doesn’t want to remember; not remembering is fine. If had a magic button that erased all his past visions from his mind, he might consider pressing it. But there was no magic button, there was just Draco, and what he knew. 

“I’m sorry,” He told her, when he finally met her eyes through the thick frames of her glasses. She was watching him with rapt attention. “I think thats all I see.” 

So Trelawney nodded, and praised him for his efforts, and let him go. 

Harry was still at the bottom of the ladder when Draco reached it, and once again he steadied it for Draco. 

“You took ages.” Harry told him, light in his eyes, impatience clear on his face. 

“There are no time limits for brilliance.” Draco said, absent, a smile spreading on to his own face. “I softened her up for you. Just make something up about your own demise, and you’ll be out in five minutes flat.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, before his name was called and he muttered; “I’ll see you later, when we find out what happened with Buckbeak.” 

“Come get me if you need.” Draco agreed. He stayed to watch as Harry climbed the ladder, just for a moment. It was hard, he found, to walk away. But once he started, he found himself excited to be as far away from that tower as physically possible. 

His feet carried him down the spiral staircase with a lightness he didn’t think he would achieve today. The weight of the world was still heavy on his shoulders, but he felt the relief despite that — no more classes, no more essays, no more exams. A sigh of relief turned into a breathless laugh, and the sunny sky outside looked a little brighter. 

Thank Merlin that he reached the landing before the wave of dizziness rushed over him. It left him with the distinct feeling like he had missed a step, left him feeling sweaty and choked. He caught himself on the wall, braced himself with an arm, — his fingers curled, clenched, and he felt a wave of nausea overtake him almost as quickly as the vision did. 

It was like that first time. The day when he looked in the mirror and it shoved the future inside of his head without his permission. He’s sought it out every time since then; gone begging for the vision, drinking tea and scrying and rubbing powdered moonstone against his gums until his head ached with the weight of prophecy. He didn’t think it would happen like this again, after the first time — so fast, so fragmented, as if the universe couldn’t decide what the most important thing to show him was. 

So he glimpsed this, felt this, all at once: 

Pawprints leading to the Grim — to Sirius, ragged and exhuasted and innocent, innocent, innocent. 

The bark of Harry’s laughter, a grin splitting his face, a cheek dimpling — the lightning scar cutting across his forehead and making him all the more striking. 

The way Hermione’s hair shifted when she whipped around, the tense shape of her mouth — “Do you trust him or not?” She was demanding, frantic, as the sun set behind her in the window of the shack. Only the sound seemed to shatter on the word ‘trust’ and —

“They trusted you!” Sirius was yelling at Pettigrew, burning fire in every inch of him, “And you betrayed them.” 

“I see I was mistaken in trusting you,” Severus told him, in a crushing blow, in a gut punch. His wand was pointed at Professor Lup— 

“My most trusted servant,” The cold, chilling voice, spoke, sending shivers and nausea down Draco’s spine. That caused a shattering all of its own and —

The rat escaped from pale palms and skittered across the grass. Two bodies jumped to follow it, throwing themselves down and grasping, but the rat slipped free. 

And there was Wormtail, standing in the dark, the early flush of summer lingering even in the night. And there was the cauldron, bubbling with something vile. Draco could almost smell it in the air. And there was a flash of fingers, like something out of a horror novel, reaching up and curling over the edge of the cauldron, as if there was something inside just yearning to pull itself out. 

Draco gasped for breath, and pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall of the hallway. The castle held a chill even now, with summer settling heavily on top of them. The sun shone bright outside, but it felt suddenly further away than it every had. 

Draco knew what that vision meant. 

Wormtail was escaping. He was escaping tonight. 

He swallowed past the desire to vomit. He couldn’t give into it — that was weakness of the flesh, and Draco needed to be stronger than that. He pushed himself away from his balanced position, stumbled over his own feet and caught himself again. With a steadying breath, he tried again.

The first place he ran to was Professor Lupin’s office, but no matter how hard he pounded on the door, no one came to answer. He felt more frantic with every second, and even more so when he realised that Lupin was probably still running exams. He could remember Ophelia Burke saying that the sixth years didn’t have their Defense exam until nearly three o’clock. 

He ran through the options in his head and found himself coming up short. Hermione was locked away inside the Gryffindor common room by now. Sirius was impossible to find on his own, he could be anywhere on the grounds. No one else knew, other than Professor Lupin.

There was Sev, part of him thought, but his mind followed it up with a flash of that vision, Severus pointing his wand and expressing his disappointment. It had been a lie, what he had told Draco. Severus wouldn’t trust him after tonight. 

He felt the sting of that in his eyes. And then the sting made him angry. Weakness of the flesh, indeed. 

In a swirl, he pulled away and ran down the stairs towards his own common room. He needed a plan, and he needed one quickly. He needed to come up with some kind of trap that Peter Pettigrew wouldn’t be able to wriggle his way out of. 

He practically fell through the entrance of the Slytherin commons. Pansy and Theo were there, looking lighthearted and relieved that their gauntlet of exams were finally over. They were nestled on their favourite couch, laughing and talking as if everything was right in the world.

“Draco, darling!” Pansy greeted, wide smile on her face shifting into something more concerned when she looked at his face. 

“Are you—” Theo started to ask him, before Draco grabbed them both by the wrist and pulled them toward the stairs, down and down until he got to the boys dorms. 

“What’s wrong?” Theo asked, instead, as they entered. But Draco shook his head, and stopped short. Blaise and the other boys were inside. 

“Get out.” He told them, short and quick. 

Vince and Greg looked confused, more than anything else. They shared a look between the two of them, communicating silently in that way they always did. Blaise was opening his mouth when Draco felt his patience snap again. 

“Get out, now.” He demanded, throwing around a social power he has always known he possessed, and yet rarely used. Draco was made to be doted on, and he usually got that by being annoyingly adorable to his friends. They teased him, they knew they could joke at his expense. But they knew that they should listen to him, too, when he demanded it. It was the grace that had been afforded to him by his social status. His father was more important than theirs, and that made him more important than them. 

Blaise shot him a look, but held up his hands, and beckoned for Greg and Vince to come with him. “Come on,” He muttered and the three of them ascended the stairs that Draco and the others had just rushed down. 

Pansy and Theo were looking at Draco like he had grown two heads — or like… 

“Draco,” Pansy said, gentle voiced. “You’re bleeding.” 

“What?” He said, feeling stupid with it. 

Her delicate hand reached out, and brushed blood away from his upper lip. He jerked away from her like her touched burned, wiped it on his sleeve, watched red seep into the white fabric of his school shirt. It was a damning thing. 

“Are you okay?” Theo asked, again, insistent this time. His face was tight with concern. “Tell us what happened.” 

“Whatever’s going on, we can help you.” 

He nodded his head frantically. Yes, they could help him. That was that they had been trying to tell him, in some way or another, all year. They cared about him. They would put him before anything else; before their fathers, before their other friends. Each and every one of them would put one of the others before themselves. He knew, because it was true for him as well. 

“I need your help.” He finally admitted. “I really, really need your help.” 

Chapter Text

Green light flooded in through the window of the dormitory — it had always been comforting to Draco, from the first moment he had seen it at eleven years old. He’d been thoroughly pissed off the first time he stepped into the bedroom he shared with the other boys, embarrassed that Potter had jilted him in that annoying way of his. But even back then, the green shimmer of water-touched light had disarmed him and set him at ease. 

Funny, he thought, that someone could be so afraid of water and yet be comforted by being beneath so much of it.

It wasn’t helping much now. But at least it was something Draco had in his corner. 

Well, he had more than one something.

Theo and Pansy sat on the very edge Theo’s bed, while Draco paced the length of the room backwards and forwards. Once he had gotten started, the truth spilled out as if someone had dosed him with Veritasium. One fumbling explanation and recollection after the other. Back and forth he moved, open and closed his mouth went, all while Theo and Pansy gazed at him with poorly concealed worry and awe. 

“…and then I came to see you.” He finally finished, wheeling around to look them in the eyes again. They both looked vaguely horrified, so after a moment of delay he gave them the most innocent, angelic smile he could muster. 

“I’m going to kill him.” Theo said, still a little awed, and more to Pansy than to Draco. 

“We all knew it would happen someday.” She said, her voice sounding much the same. “It’s how Draco would want to go. At our hands.” 

Draco, for his part, grabbed his pillow and started hitting them with it. “I need your help!” He protested, even as Pansy wrestled the pillow away from him and hugged it to her chest. 

“I don’t see how we can!” 

“I don’t see why you didn’t tell us any of this sooner!” Theo pointed out, taking a moment, lowering his head into his hands. “Draco, you’re supposed to tell us things. We agreed; no secrets.” 

They were looking at him, once again twin expressions of discontent and thinly veiled upset. He slumped back, sat on his own bed, and heaved back a sigh. “I know. I just felt like —” 

“Like you had to do everything on your own?” 

A breath, slightly shuddering. “It isn’t exactly easy. Any of this. It —” He paused, floundering in the well of emotional vulnerability he could only access when Theo and Pansy were looking at him like that. 

He tried to process it, this thing he’s been feeling all the way since Yule. The weight like lead that had settled into his chest since then. The feeling in the gut of his stomach; the same one as when the step in front of you on the staircase disappears, and you only remember to jump a moment too late. The feeling like the one he had when his head slipped under the water, the day he almost drowned. 

Draco was scared. Of the future, of Pettigrew, of his own shadow; and most importantly, he was scared of the curse that had plagued him since the first moment he stepped inside the Cosmoscope. He hated it and loved it all at once, the source of all his new fears and all of his new obsessions; but the reason he had Hermione and Harry now, the reason he flew and played seekers games with Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang. 

“Sometimes I do have to do it on my own.” He admitted. “I think — It’s my curse, my future to see, and my fault if I mess it up. I’m the one who has to deal with the consequences, and the one who has to decide if I should mess with the future. And its me I’ll hurt, nine times out of ten.” 

Pansy looked stricken at that. She had to blink fast for a moment, before something in her face closed and she seemed to gather herself; meaning she was stopping herself from crying by building a wall between her and her own pain. “Who says?” She finally managed, sounding younger than fourteen, suddenly. Sounding like a child who was exclaiming that it wasn’t fair. 

“There seems to be a consensus.” He tells her, sounding glum and resigned even to his own ears. “I suppose that’s the bad thing about a long line of predecessors, ready to give me advice. They all seem to agree that being a seer is going to bring me… nothing good. It drowns us all in the end.” 

Theo looked stricken too, his face twisting into something angrier. “Well, they’re not you. You’re not going to drown in this.” 

Draco’s throat felt tight at that, looking at the thinly veiled frustration and pain behind Theo’s eyes, the rough sound of a voice that was usually gentle and dry. Theo and his intensity, Theo and his insistence, ripping into something and forcing Draco open inside. It was a surprise, something Draco hadn’t been expecting, like the day Theo swam to the edge of the pool to talk, so that Draco wouldn’t have to feel lonely while the rest of his friends enjoyed the water. 

‘I don’t think I have any choice.” He said, forced himself to sigh. 

“Bullshit,” Theo said, “I won’t let you. I’ll — we’ll help you.” 

Pansy’s laugh was a shuddering, breathless thing. “He’s right,” She said, and it was warmer now, bricks falling away from a hastily built wall. “You’re not them. They didn’t have us standing between them and destiny. We’ll help.” 

“Starting with this Pettigrew problem.” Theo decided, for them. “That’s step one.”

It was Draco’s turn to choke back the insufferable instinct to cry. His stomach twists with the feelings churning inside; he doesn’t believe that they can stop the worst from happening, but the fact that they’re so determined to try… well, it makes his shoulders slump with the kind of relief that he hasn’t felt for months. 

“Okay.” He nods, and sounds momentarily choked before he gathers himself. “Yes, okay. What do we do about Pettigrew?” 

“Stop him escaping. Make sure that things don’t happen the way you saw them.” 

“We just need to look at the big picture. Look at it like a puzzle.” Pansy assured them, as if changing the future was as easy as breathing. “Once we understand what we’re seeing, we’ll be able to think of a way to change it.” 

“What you saw today. You’re sure it happens tonight?” 

“The moon was full.” Draco nods, “I saw it. It’s tonight.” 

Theo bit his lip in thought. “So — At some point today, Black and Pettigrew will cross paths. You’ll find him, them, and you’ll be in the shreaking shack.” 

“Pettigrew is in human form before the sun sets. I saw it through the window.” His voice softened as he got lost in the flash of it, the recollection of what he had seen. The pink-purple-orange bruise of the sky at sunset, painted against clouds and the quickly encroaching night. Sirius half blocked the window, stars blooming behind him in the darkening sky. “The sky and the clouds and the moon, and the two of them talking, fighting. They had Pettigrew cornered, but then the floor creaked and Severus showed up and everything fell apart.” 

“And he escaped by turning back into a rat?” Pansy asked, waiting for Draco’s nod before she heaved a sigh. “Small, quick, hard to catch, it’s clever of him, really.”

“There has to be a way to stop an animagus from transforming.” Theo mused, and sounded like he was trying to decide what move to make next in a chess match, or how to solve a particularly vexing riddle. 

“A spell?” He asked, hopeful. If someone could pull a spell like that out of thin air, it would be Theo. 

“Maybe,” Theo mused. “Maybe… there must be wards for that. Like the anti-transfiguration wards that they use in Gringotts.” He got off the bed and went to his trunk, rifling through his neatly packed belongings until he could uncover one of the books he had borrowed from the Nott library earlier that year. 

Pansy arched her neck around to watch him. “You can’t ward the entire castle and all the grounds against something like that.” She objected, “The magical strength it would take… and —” 

“And there would need to be a practical element to it.” Theo stopped with the book in his hands — Advanced Wards for the Aspiring Cursebreaker — and bit his lip, “The strongest wards are all physical. Something that covered as much ground as Hogwarts would need to be baked into the stonework, or protected down in the warding room, which —” 

“None of us know where that is.” Draco objected. “The only one with the authority to touch the wards would be —” 

“The Headmaster.” Pansy finished for him. They tended to do this, when they got going. Thoughts and words tumbling out of their mouths quickly, cutting each other off, the next person finishing your thought for you as if they’d had it at the exact same moment. 

“So it would be impossible.” Theo agreed, “Not the grounds — but there has to be a way to make it more localised. A small area. Just the place where he’s going to do it.” Then it was Theo pacing, as he flicked through the pages of his book. 

“Do you know?” Pansy asked. “Where he’s going to transform?” 

“No, I —” Draco started, and stumbled over himself. “It was so fast, I didn’t —” And he dug his index fingernail into the raw skin around his thumb, and forced himself to think. “It can’t have been that long after sunset. And we weren’t in the shack anymore. We were on the grounds again. So it can’t have been that far from the Willow.”

The Willow that led to the Path that led to the Shack, and all the way Back Again. The thought had a touch of destiny to it. Those were the branches that Draco had seen cutting the moon into fractured pieces on the horizon. 

“The ancient magical societies in Ireland used to mark their tombs and dwellings with runes to block out certain kinds of magic.” Theo interrupted, leaning against the bed frame. “They carved their magic into stone and earth and trees. Most of the old magical homes left over there don’t even have warding rooms.” 

“You want to carve a spell into the Whomping Willow?” Pansy said it slow, slightly incredulous, like she’d enjoy whacking Theo around the head. 

“Of course not,” Theo groused, “That would be dangerous to a ludicrous degree.” A beat, in which Pansy begins to relax. “But it may be our best option.” 

Pansy grabbed for the pillow, seemingly on instinct, seemingly about to throttle Theo this time. Draco stopped her before she could make impact, and received the brunt of the annoyed glare that subsequently displayed itself on her face. 

“There’s a way to freeze it.” Draco told them. “Black pressed some kind of… thing, at the base, and it stopped for long enough for us to get inside.” 

Her glare stayed scathing. “Gallivanting with Sirius Black, I swear to Merlin…” She sighed, a heavy thing. “A thing? We press a thing and carve magic into a tree that could kill us?”

“While Draco is wrangling Pettigrew and Black in the shack.” Theo agrees, a firm nod of his head. “I just need time to figure out the right—”

“Potter’s asking for you again.” Blaise announced, as he unceremoniously burst back through the door. “He’s upstairs.” 

All three of them stared blankly at him, quiet until Blaise rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about your stupid secrets.” He told them, already closing the door again, “Just passing on the message.” 

“Go.” Theo nodded, “We’ll look at these runes.” 

So Draco pulled in a shuddering breath and moved to the door, pushing past Blaise on the stairs and trying not to feel bad for leaving him out of everything. Blaise was a good friend; but Draco didn’t know what he would think of all their secrets and plotting. He didn’t think he would find out any time soon. So he ignored Blaise until he reached the top of the stairs and turned left for the portrait hole. 

“Potter,” He said, out of frazzled muscle memory, and then; “Harry.” 

“Buckbeak lost the appeal.” Harry told him, a frustrated sadness hanging heavy on his shoulders. “They’re going to execute him tonight.” 

Draco’s shoulders slumped. Of course Buckbeak had lost. Of course the execution date and time had already been set before Fudge and Mulciber stepped foot onto the grounds. “I’m sorry,” Draco said, on instinct, and because a large part of him did mean it. “I wish it was different.” 

Harry shook his head then; he didn’t look like he expected any kind of apologies from Draco, despite this being Draco’s fault to begin with. There was no judgement in his eyes, just a distant sort of sadness. “We’re going to sneak down to Hagrid’s after dinner. So he doesn’t have to do this alone.” Lower voiced, a whisper. “We’re taking the cloak. I think it should fit one more.” 

“Me?” Draco asked, and realised — yeah, that made sense, that was a reason that all four of them would be out on the grounds, ready to get wrapped up in the mess with Black and Lupin and Pettigrew. “You all want me to come?” 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, as if it was obvious, as if it had been decided as a group, not a hint of deception in it. “We all want you to come. So follow us to the storage room outside the great hall when we all leave dinner.” 

Draco would like to make some kind of joke. Something quick, witty and disarming. But he’s been a raw edge for weeks, and this scrapes against something in him, something that makes him feel softly vulnerable. They’re going on an adventure, and they want Draco to come; to break the rules with them and be trusted not to ruin it.

And it’s a good thing, because none of them have the foggiest idea what they’re about to stumble into. 

“Yes, alright.” Draco says, finally. “I’ll meet you.” 

“Good,” Harry nodded, and then gazed down at Draco’s arm. “Is that blood on your sleeve?” 

Ah, yes, the blood that had been pouring out of his face an hour ago. Draco shrugs a shoulder. “None of your business, must be getting back now.” He said, instead of offering any genuine kind of explanation. 

They ate dinner elbow to elbow. Three tense shouldered children, making terse conversation with their peers. The plan had been set, and there was nothing more to do about it than to let it unfold as well as it could. 

Draco would wait for the Gryffindors, and then leave with them. Pansy and Theo would follow later and do their part. Of course, there was a million different things that could go wrong before then. Draco spent several minutes listing them all in his head, the speed at which he ate slowing down with every new idea. 

He’d barely touched half his food before Ron, Harry and Hermione rose from the Gryffindor table and made their farewells to the rest of their classmates. 

He had to feel confident. The plan had been set. There was a bag of green malachite warding stones in Pansy’s pocket; they had felt smooth as water and light as air when Theo tipped them into the palm of his hand. They had been beautiful, and powerful too, with the right spell spoken to link them together. 

When they tried it in the dorm, it stopped a transfiguration. Theo was certain that barrier would prevent animagus transformations too. Placed around the willow, they would do their job.

Draco had to believe it. He had to feel confident. 

“I need to ask Hermione something,” He told the table, quietly enough, resting his napkin down and taking one last sip of water before he got to his feet. “I’ll see you all later.” 

“See you later,” They echoed, and didn’t question him. Only Theo and Pansy shot him earnest, comforting little smiles. 

The three Gryffindors are huddled around, whispering, when Draco sneaks through the door of the broom closet adjoining the entrance hall. They stop whispering to look up at him. Hermione and Harry give him genuine, sad smiles. Ron goes to the valiant effort of a terse, silent wave. 

“We’d better hurry.” Hermione tells them. “We won’t have much time.” 

So all three boys nodded, and Harry swept the invisibiity cloak around them in one fluid motion. 

The walk down to Hagrid’s hut was an alien thing to Draco. He had been resisting for weeks now about paying a visit to the man outside of classes; mainly because if his father ever found out, it would only make the ordeal with Buckbeak more mean spirited than it already was. Now, he wished he’d done it under better circumstances. 

He was doing his best to be quiet and unobtrusive, for Weasley’s sake. It didn’t help that the two of them were pressed shoulder to shoulder, as the two tallest of the group. Hermione was just ahead of Draco, her hair tickling his face on odd steps. It was utterly ridiculous that these three had been walking around like this for years. Utterly ridiculous, and utterly Gryffindor. 

He was relieved to reach Hagrid’s hut and be free of that damned cloak. 

“Ye shouldn’t have come.” Hagrid grumbled at them. He seemed nonplussed at Draco’s presence there; but it matched the way he was treating everything, as he stepped inside. Absentminded. Stricken with early grief. 

“We wanted to make sure you were okay.” Harry told him, so earnestly caring that it could make any heart bleed. And Draco did, he realised, want to know if Hagrid was okay. The big oaf didn’t deserve all of this, and neither did Buckbeak. 

“Alright, I’m a’right. Ye’ll have some tea.” Hagrid decided. “Beaky is outside. I thought he’d want to see the trees and smell the fresh air one last—” He choked off on that, and Hermione had to help him with the tea. Draco shifted to help her before he could think better of it, because it seemed the kinder thing to do than stand glumly in the background. 

Harry seemed emboldened by Hagrids grief, as if there was a righteous fire burning in the pit of his stomach. He clearly hated the injustice of it all, especially because it was hurting a man he considered to be a friend. It was so Harry, Draco thought, to say that a man like Hagrid was his first ever friend. “There has to be something we can do.” Harry sat at one of the massive chairs, “Or someone who can stop this. Can’t Dumbledore just…” 

Dumbledore couldn’t do anything. The Gryffindors spoke about him sometimes like he was one of the gods; and fair enough, he was one of the most powerful living wizards, one of the greatest of their time. He’d done great deeds and fought in wars, defeated Grindelwald in single combat and imprisoned him in the cell where he rotted to this day. Dumbledore was a mighty thing — but he was just a man, at the same time. A foolish, old man, who spoke of balance but believed in snuffing out the dark. Contradictory. 

“He did his best, Harry.” Hagrid sighed, with a shake of that heavy head. “There’s only so much power a man can have, and he’s no sway over the committee. They’re too scared of what ol’ Lucius Malfoy will do to ‘em. And the executioner, Mcnair, he’s an old friend of the Malfoys.” He placed a steaming, massive mug of tea down in front of Hagrid as he spoke it, and it seemed like the man realised his presence for the very first time. “Not t’ speak badly of your family in front of you.” 

“It’s okay.” Draco told him. “You should. I really am sorry —” 

Hagrid was already shaking his head then, and reaching out with one of his massive hands to pat Draco on the back. It was forceful enough that Draco almost felt his heart stutter, but there was a gentleness behind it too. “No, no. I know y’are. I read that letter you wrote to the board for the trial. T’meant a lot to me and Beaky.” 

“Oh,” Draco said, and backed up to sit in his own chair. “Well, alright. You’re right, anyway. My father probably threatened them.” He said it as casually as he would have said it with his Slytherin friend, as if bribes and threats were an every day occurrence. He got another pat on the back from Hagrid about it, and decided not to speak again if he could help it. 

“At least it’ll be quick.” He said, with a shuddering sigh. “An’ Dumbledore’ll come down for it. Says he wants to be there for me while it happens.” 

It was noble of the old man. This was why he inspired such loyalty from all of his pet projects, this was why people said he could do no wrong. This was why Draco’s father thought Dumbledore was a sleazy, senile, snivelling fool. He doesn’t say any of this, keeps it quietly inside while the conversation carries on, and feels glad for his chair on the relative outskirts of the group. 

He’s never been inside Hagrid’s little hut before; so he entertains himself by glancing around. His chair is precariously close to a large set of shelves, full of jars and storage pots and cooking utensils. Draco has been twitching at shadows for days now. Eyes skirting around the edge of every room he’s stepped into, as if he might see a rat at any second — so when he hears the skittering and scratching, he thinks he might be imagining it. 

He turns his head, focuses his ears, tries to pinpoint the source. A bird outside? No, it was too close. This was something nearby. With a twist of his body, he lifts the lid off of the nearest large storage pot and glances inside. 

His heart stops.

He replaces the crematic lid, and looks up, pale. 

“What is it, Draco?” Hermione asks him. She’s standing with a little jug of milk that she fetched for Hagrid, and looking at him with those large, curious eyes of hers. 

Draco wishes it was just the two of them. He wishes that Ron, Harry and Hagrid weren’t looking at him now too. “I think I found Weasley’s rat.” He forces himself to say, looking in Hermione’s eyes, watching them widen in surprise and fear.

“Scabbers?!” Ron practically yells it, firing up out of his chair and barrelling past Draco, who scrambles off his own to get out of the way. Ron looks in the pot and gasps. “It is Scabbers! What are you doing in there, little guy?” He grabbed the squeaking rat with a sure and steady hand, pulling it from the pot and looking at it carefully. 

“Ye’ve a good ear, Malfoy.” Hagrid said, enthusiastic for the first time all night. “M’very happy for you, Ron.” 

Don’t be, Draco begged. Don’t be happy. 

Scabbers was scrambling, trying to run away again, but Ron was a master of wrangling the little fucker. “Shh, shh. There there, boy. There’s no cats around here. You’re safe.” 

He made eye contact with Hermione again, and she looked as quietly panicked as he felt. He arched an eyebrow at her in question. What are we supposed to do? But then again, Draco knew how this was going to go. Somehow, they were going to end up in the Shack with Sirius Black. 

Her shoulders shrugged, the slightest amount, and their point of exit from the hut made itself apparent when Hagrid stilled, shushing them all. “They’re on the way down now.” Hagrid said. “You’d all best be off. Before any’ne stands the chance of seeing ye.” 

Weasley tucked Scabbers safely in his pocket, the rat having calmed down significantly — relieved that no one was immediately trying to kill it? They were lucky, Draco supposed, that Pettigrew didn’t know their suspicions of him. They were just four teenagers with a rat. 

Hagrid rushed all four of them out the back door of the tiny, cosy hut. Draco stepped breathlessly into the thankfully cooler air of the late evening. The shadows had lengthened and the temperature had dropped significantly. It felt like the dementors had inched their way closer to the school, since classes ended and the students were prone to fits of dramatics. 

He made sudden eye-contact with Buckbeak, when he turned his head, and nearly jumped out of his skin. The creature looked flighty, agitated, almost depressed. It was tied to the edge of the pumpkin patch with a rope, and for some reason the sight of it made Draco’s heart ache. Buckbeak watched him warily, and Draco pulled in a shuddering breath. 

This creature was going to die. He had known it for months now. 

And somehow it only now sunk in that Buckbeak was going to die because of Draco. Because Draco had been a mouthy, insolent, little brat. Rude. If he had the common sense to listen properly to what Hagrid had been saying during class, none of them would be standing here now. 

The other three are talking to Hagrid on the doorway. They shouldn’t have brought him here. He was out of place, didn’t belong, never knew the right thing to say to people like this. But in a way, he was grateful for it, despite the swelling discomfort in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” He breathed, looking Buckbeak in the eye. “I’m really sorry.” 

It was earnest, he meant it. He wished he could take it all back, wished he could use the time turner than still hung heavy around his neck to go back more than a few hours. If he could go all the way back to the start of the year, he could do everything differently, could spare everyone as much pain as possible. But then he’d lose out on everything he’d gained, at the same time. 

The words must have had some kind of impact, because Buckbeak heaved out a weary sigh and ducked his head, curling up to lay in the pumpkin patch again. Hagrid settled in to offer comfort to the creature, and Draco silently followed the others around the edge of the hut, letting Harry envelop him in the cloak once again. 

The world hardly felt real at all, as they stepped away from the hut and started the long walk back through the grounds to the castle. Draco felt like a ghost, almost — only a particularly on edge one. He could feel the phantom skittering of paws again, though Scabbers was still safely in Rons pocket. 

They could hear as the group from the school finally reached Hagrids hut. Dumbledore’s voice was a low rumble, and Fudges was louder. Mcnair didn’t seem to say anything at all. 

Ron’s body twitched next to him, and he swore under his breath. 

“Quickly, please.” Hermione urged, under her breath. “I don’t want to be here for this.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Weasley?” He questioned, mounting panic in every inch of him as Weasley squirmed around, trying to hold his own pocket closed. 

“It’s Scabbers! He’s freaking out again.” He hissed back.

“They’ll hear us,” Harry and Hermione scolded almost in tandem, shushing them all frantically. It was difficult to navigate their way up the hill away from the hut, and only when they had crested it and started up the stone path toward the castle did they relax. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Ron groused, slowing down to try and calm the rat. Draco could see the willow in his eyeline, far away and yet looming nearby. His breath shuddered a little bit. Ron pulled the rat out of the pocket, finally wrangling it and holding it tight in his hands. “He won’t — Stay still.” 

Draco’s throat felt tight. The squirming, dispicable creature, slipped through Ron’s clutches like water through a clenched fist. His heart stopped. Both him and Ron moved at the same time, throwing themselves from beneith the cloak and after the rat. They tumbled down the hill toward the Willow, falling over themselves. A loud hiss startled him even as he scrambled to try and grab the rat. It was Crookshanks — leaving Scabbers stuck between the rat or the boys. Crookshanks was standing with hair on end, preparing to leap on the offending creature. 

“Stay away,” Ron hissed back at it. You would swear the rat was his mortal enemy. 

Draco himself wouldn’t mind if Crookshanks killed the rat right now. It would save them the drama. Except — did an animagus stay in their animal form when they died? Would he transform back into Pettigrew if he died? It would be proof; or a lack of proof, depending on the situation. 

Draco sat back on his heels, and watched as the cat pounced at the rat.

Weasley wasn’t so complacient. He wanted his rat. He wanted his rat to live. So when Crookshacks landed true on his target, Weasley was there to try and wrestle the cat away from his beloved pet. Draco only let out the smallest of sighs when Weasley proved successful. He hoped it was a sigh that could be passed off as relief. 

Weasley had the rat back in his pocket. It felt like a win. Scabbers had clearly decided that Weasley was the safer option. Draco wasn’t sure he would come to the same conclusion, had positions been reversed. He’d rather a quick death at the hands of Crookshanks than being forced to cozy up to Weasley. 

Weasley panted for breath, looking up. His eyes stopped on Draco — Draco with a flushed face and muddy knees, palms stained with dirt and grass. His expression shifted slightly in surprise, in confusion, in the slightest bit of thankfulness. “At least someone tried to help.” He groused. 

With a grimace, Draco rose to his feet again, dusting off his palms. “Get up.” He commanded, just in time for Hermione to interject — “They’ll be coming out any minute, hurry.” 

Weasley’s expression said he didn’t much enjoy being ganged up on by the two of them. Draco extended a hand to help him, looking down at him with a challenging eyebrow raised. If Weasley refused, he would be the one in the wrong; the one to look like a foolish boy holding a grudge. Draco almost wished he would refuse. 

Of course, that’s when Sirius Black makes a muck of everything. 

Chasing down a dog — that you know is a man — in the dull evening light, all the while trying not to get noticed by any adults, was perhaps the least fun Draco had in his entire life. It didn’t help that Black had managed to push both Hermione and Draco down into a particularly gravelly part of the ground. She had blood coming through her thin long-sleeved shirt; he noticed it when she appeared beside him outside the willow. 

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, eyes wide as they watched Black drag Ron, and by extension Pettigrew, into the crevasse below the Willow. 

“That’s not ideal.” Draco breathed, feeling the sting of his own cheek and forehead where he had hit the ground. Getting his face beat up wasn’t ideal either. He was never going to forgive Sirius for that. It was a grudge he would take to his deathbed — which would probably be in the next hour, if his luck kept working out like this. 

They all had to take a sudden step back, as the branches of the Willow started to swing wildly around. The bloody tree would kill them if they weren’t careful. Draco grabbed both Hermione and Harry by the back of their shirts and tugged them back, just before a large branch slammed on the ground where they had been standing. 

Harry looked freaked out, wide eyed — frantic; he was terrified for Ron, Draco realised. This was his best friend in the entire world, the boy that he had chosen over Draco all those years ago. As much as Draco hated him, Harry had decided to love him. “We have to go after them.” Harry said, loud, insistent. 

“We can’t!” Hermione cried. “We need to go for help. Find a professor —” 

“That dog is big enough to eat him!” 

“He’s not going to hurt him —” Draco tried to say, but Harry’s eyes widened. 

“He almost tore his leg off, didn’t you see that?” 

Draco floundered, helplessly. He knew there was a way in. He knew what needed to be touched, to stop the tree in his tracks. He just didn’t want to do it. He wanted to go home. He wanted a hug from his mother. 

He plucked a stone from the ground instead. “Okay,” He breathed, shuddering. “Okay. The tree didn’t move while the… while the dog pulled Weasley in.” 

“Crookshanks rubbed up against something near the roots.” Hermione, with a nod. “I saw him.” 

“Let’s just run.”

Draco and Hermione gave Harry a twin look of disbelief. With a shake of his head, Draco looked back at the tree. He tried to remember exactly the spot where Sirius had hit it the other night. He fingered the stone in his hand; threw, and missed. 

The Willow swatted angrily again. 

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Help, then.” Draco snapped back at Harry. He stepped close, pointing at the gnarled, twisted knot near the roots. “There. That’s what we have to hit.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I just do.” He insisted, ducking down and plucking another stone from the ground, scrounging around for a good one. There was dirt under his fingernails and his head hurt, and he hated this — it was proof that he was a coward, deep down. He wasn’t made for the type of adventures Harry Potter got caught up in. When he looked back up, Harry was staring at him like he was crazy. Impatience flared. “Start throwing or go get a Professor!” 

He fired off his rock, letting out an petulant sound of annoyance when he missed his target again. Another two rocks hit directly after his; and frankly he hadn’t actually been expecting them to join in on his moment of insanity. They threw, and threw, and threw. Draco was the only one who could get remotely close.

“Wait!” It was far too many stones before Hermione interrupted. Her shoulders slumped, like she was realising their own foolishness. “Why aren’t we levitating them?” 

“I was just doing what Draco was doing!” 

“I was just —” Draco didn’t know what he was thinking. Now that she said it, it was the obvious choice. “I have a head wound!” He defended, crossing his arms and trying not to pout as Hermione navigated her way through a spell and avoided the whipping of the willows branches. 

Her stone hovered before the knot in the tree, and she gave it enough momentum to slam heavily against the spot Draco had been aiming for. It was spot on. The willow froze. All three of them sprinted toward the tree and slipped inside before it could wake up again. It was a harder run than it had looked, with the branches frozen like a maze before the trunk. 

“Top marks, Granger.” He let out a long breath when he found his footing on the other side, in the dank earthy hollow beneath, feeing a hushed kind of… exhilaration, mixed with exhaustion. 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s a tunnel.” Harry said, in the very same moment that he set off down it. “Fred and George showed me this one on the map, they said it was impossible to get to —” A beat, Harry pauses.“I think… it looked like it headed toward Hogsmeade.” 

Of course, Draco knew exactly where it led. Following in silence was the only option. He couldn’t admit how or why he knew where the tunnel ended; not without telling Harry everything, and that didn’t seem like a particularly good idea. 

It felt like the journey went quicker than it had the last time. Maybe that was because Draco’s heart was pounding so quickly. He could feel it, the hummingbird heartbeats that pounded against his chest, pulse racing. It stayed with him while he walked, and worsened when he followed Harry and Hermione through the trap door that led into the ground floor. 

When he first came, there had been a trail of footprints, his and Sirius’s both. They had been wiped away by the clean line of Weasley’s body, as the dog dragged him. It was as if he had never been there at all. The clean line against the floor led to the rickety stairs, and at the smallest sound of movement, Harry and Hermione hurried up it. 

It was the old master bedroom where they found Weasley. Crookshanks was there too, lounging on the dusty, dilapidated bed. Ron was there too, leaning against the gnarled wooden frame, whimpering as he clutched his leg. It was bent in a way that made Draco’s stomach churn, blood seeping from where Sirius’s teeth had bitten, and from where the bone poked through just the slightest bit. It must be in agonizing pain.

But when Weasley met their eyes, all he did was shake his head, as if he wished they hadn’t come at all.

“Ron,” Hermione gasped, falling to her knees beside him for a moment to check his leg. “Are you okay?”

His head shook harder, and he put a hand on her to push her away, as if trying to urge her back to her feet. Clawing at her and the bed so he could pull himself up. It clearly took strength; physical and mental both. 

“We need to go.” Weasley gasped, a rasping breath. 

Draco knew why, he could see it in Weasley’s eyes. He wasn’t just scared of the dog. He had seen the face. The man behind the beast. He swallowed nervously, casting his eyes around the room. 

He found Sirius leaning against the wall, watching them. He looked weaker than he had before. Clearly there hadn’t been food today; Draco wondered if he’d even stopped to drink water. Sirius Black was running on inertia, so single minded in his desire for revenge that he wasn’t stopping to take care of himself. It couldn’t be helping his mental state. Their eyes met just for a moment, before Sirius’s gaze flickered to Harry and got stuck there. 

“I should have known you’d come for him.” He drawled, pushing himself away from the wall, stepping into the thin streams of light that filtered into the room. He had Weasley’s wand clutched in his hand like a vice grip, and he waved it in one gracefully exhausted movement. Harry and Hermione’s wands flew out of their hands. A silent expelliarmus. Draco’s was still tucked securely into the wand holster in his sleeve. Black caught the two, and didn’t spare Draco much of a glance. “It’s what your father would have done for his friends, too. Never leave a man behind.” 

The words sat in the air for a moment, before Draco heard Harry inhale a harsh breath. Whatever Sirius Black had been going for with that statement, it had been a mistake to say the words aloud. 

Draco had to grab Harry’s arms to stop him from throwing himself at Sirius Black. He wasn’t the only one. Weasley had done the same, and even Hermione had thrown an arm in front of him. Harry was ready to throttle the man to death, as far as Draco could see. The anger that had been bubbling under Harry’s skin all year had reached its boiling point, and it was going to be a disaster for everyone. “No.” Draco said, quiet. His eyes met Black’s for a scant moment. “Don’t.” 

Ron was still bleeding, but he was also still standing defiantly, pale faced and shaking with the strain. “If you want Harry you’ll have to go through the three of us first!” He announced, stubborn and sure of himself. Draco almost felt flattered that he was lumped into the pile, as if he and Ronald Weasley were suddenly co-conspirators, brothers in war who would raise their wands for the same cause. 

Sirius Black didn’t look all that threatened by Weasley. Of course he wouldn’t be. Even weak and half-mad, Black was a stronger wizard than Weasley would ever be. Something almost soft spread across Sirius’s face at the sight of Weasley standing there, looking so weak and so strong all at once. “Sit down,” He insisted, soft. “You’re only hurting yourself.” 

“Hurting myself?” Ron was incredulous at that, and Harry’s breathing was laboured through his anger. “I said you’d have to kill all four of us!” 

“Only one will die tonight.” Sirius told him, arms calm at his sides. He was looking at Ron, but no — he was looking at the rat that Ron was still clutching to his chest. Scabbers. Pettigrew. Being in such close proximity to that rat made Draco’s skin crawl, it made him want to scream, it made his heart beat far too quickly for comfort. So maybe his grip on Harry tightened. 

“It’s okay, Harry!” Draco pleaded. “Just listen to what he has to say.” 

“You’ve been working with him?” Harry spun around to glare daggers at him, suddenly, and he sounded more betrayed than Draco had ever heard him before. This wasn’t the anger of childhood grudges. This was a boy who had believed he had a friend, and that friend was betraying him. 

“No!” Draco argued, “I’ve been working around him!” 

“Like that’s any better!” Ron argued, half agonised by his leg still, the rat gripped tightly in his arms. Draco didn’t spare him the spiteful look he felt that had earned. He just looked at Harry, instead, with pleading eyes. 

“You just have to trust me.” He told Harry, pleading again. “I’m begging you. I promise, it will make sense if you listen.” 

“Listen to the man who killed my —” 

He caught the shift of Hermione’s hair from the corner of his eyes. She had been fixed on Black since they got here, since this argument started, and now she’d looked back to shape words with a frantic, demanding tone. “Do you trust him or not?” 

Draco felt a wave of deja-vu, nausea bubbling. It was strange, to live moments you had seen glimpses of before. 

It was directed at Harry, who looked dumbstruck by Hermione’s automatic defence of Draco. They had been close this year, but that shouldn’t be enough to have Hermione trust so blindly in a situation like this. Her eyes locked on Harry’s and she stared him down. He could see the faltering doubt in Harry’s eyes, the questions bubbling under the surface. 

It was fair, for Harry to be angry. He’d never liked being kept in the dark. 

“I trust him.” Harry says, finally, but the anger is still thick. “It’s Black i’ve got issues with. I don’t know how he got in your head…” 

Black snorted a laugh at that, and it was the biggest mistake of the night so far. Because it made Harry’s face twist, and before any of them could grab on to him again, he had already pounced at black. Draco would have expected a spell; he wasn’t used to people solving their problems with their fists. Even his father preferred not to make skin on skin contact when he was punishing Draco. 

But Harry hadn’t been raised the same way Draco had. 

Harry knew all about fists. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried, as if the sound of his own name would bring him back to his senses. “Harry, stop!” 

“He killed them,” Harry argued, even as his fist was making contact with Black’s face. “He killed my parents. My mum and my dad. They trusted him, and he’s the reason they’re dead.”

For his part, Black did very little to fight back. He seemed unwilling to do anything that might actually hurt Harry; yet at the same time, seemed utterly aware that at this moment in time, Harry was quite a bit stronger than he was. He was twisting to try and get away, and Draco winced as a cloud of useless sparks came out of the end of his wand. Harry winced away from them at the same time, as if Black was really trying to hurt him. 

“It’s your fault,” Harry growled at him. “Your fault that they’re gone.” 

Draco watched Sirius’s face shatter at that. “My fault,” He agreed, “I can’t argue with it. But please, just listen to me. You’ll understand what happened if you listen.” 

Draco and Ron moved at the same time; Draco for Harry, to catch him by the back of the shirt and try and pull him away from Black before one of them caused some real damage. Ron moved to Black, wrestling their wands away from him as best he could. All three went clattering across the room. 

Harry lunged after his wand, so Draco did the same. Suddenly, it was like they were playing at a Quidditch match, determined to win at any cost. The breathless rush of competition, of knowing that if you were fast enough you could come out on top and win everything. Harry’s quick seekers reflexes and a year hard at work gave him the edge over Draco.

Harry got there first, and rose to his feet, panting. Draco felt blood trickle from his nose again, and realised that Harry must have elbowed him right in the face during the fray. “Get out of the way.” Harry demanded of all three of them, looking like an avenging angel, a creature of myth, Odysseus upon his final return to Ithaca. 

Hermione’s lip was bleeding, but she listened, took Draco by the arm and forced them both off to the side. Ron sat on the edge of the ruined bedframe, panting and clutching at his leg in pain. Was this how their stupid adventures always went for them? Did they really do this, year after year? They deserved to be locked up somewhere, Draco thought, for their own safety. 

Harry didn’t spare any of them a look. He was fixated on Black’s crumpled, shifting form. Sirius looked up at Harry, star-lit eyes full of unshed tears. He looked like he was trying to savour as much of this; as much of seeing Harry alive and in the flesh, as he could manage. He wasn’t going to fight. He wasn’t going to turn the tables in his favour, if it meant seeing Harry hurt. 

Draco could understand the instinct. 

“You’re going to kill me, them?” Sirius panted, finally. 

“It’s what you deserve.” Harry spat. “You killed them.” 

“It’s my fault.” Sirius nodded, and Draco felt anger raise up inside of him. If he didn’t keep saying that, maybe they could convince Harry to calm down. Draco opened his mouth, but Hermione grabbed him sharply and shook her head no. She looked like she was trying very hard to focus on something. “I just want you to listen to me. And you can do whatever you like after, I promise.” 

Harry shook his head, furious, but Draco saw his wand arm quiver slightly. He was looking down, down, down, into Sirius’ Black’s eyes, which looked like they would spill over in desperate tears at any moment. There was love in those eyes, but Harry wouldn’t know to look for it. 

“You’re the reason I don’t have them. You’re the reason I have to listen to my mother die every time a dementor gets too close.” He moved closer, still shaking, wand pressed into Black’s heaving, emancipated, chest. “Did you know that? That I hear her screams?” 

Sirius did cry then, silent tears that ran down his filthy face, showing cleaner skin beneith. He looked more like a wound than a man. 

Draco’s heart twisted. He remembered the man he had seen; the man who would hold him years from now and let him cry through whatever pain was plaguing him. Sirius Black with clean skin and soft hair, smelling like sunshine and magic, fuller cheeks and full of love. 

He looked at them, the two of them, one on thinly clad knees before the other. Lightning striking a star-spun sky, two silhouettes against the pink-purple expanse of sunset. He heard the creaking of footsteps below them; of course, Lupin was missing. Draco had seen him in his visions, which meant that he had to be here. The universe was putting him in the right place. He felt something unwind in his chest at the thought. Lupin was level headed, he would be able to talk their way out of this. 

They just needed to wait for him to arrive. 

“We’re up here,” Hermione called, frantic, and Draco didn’t flinch at it; but Harry did. Harry looked like he was fighting a war within himself, a battle between vengence and mercy. 

“Please,” Sirius pleaded with him, looking up at him, yearning and begging for just a few minutes, for just enough time to expose Pettigrew for the coward he was and finally commit the crime that he spent twelve years in Azkaban for committing. Crookshanks let out a wailing meow, and leapt onto Sirius’s shoulders, shifting until Sirius caught the cat in his arms. It spread itself over his chest, head resting on his shoulders. Trying to protect him. 

“Harry,” Draco said, voice cracking. It was a pleading thing, the sound of a boy on the brink of begging for something. He didn’t want Harry to do this. He didn’t want Harry to face the fact that he killed a man who loved him; an innocent man, while Peter Pettigrew watched like a coward. “Trust me,” He asks for it, because that’s what they do now. “You promised you always would.” 

Harry’s jaw shifts, his hand slackens on his wand. 

“Expelliarmus.” The spell is calm, spoken over Draco’s shoulder. 

Harry’s wand goes flying into Remus Lupins hand. He catches it with deft accuracy — he’s pulled that move before. Did he fight, during the war? Had he been the soldier fighting on the opposite side to Draco’s father? It looked more likely by the minute. 

His footsteps were calm, when they paced past Draco, into the room. His eyes, deep and intense, were fixed on Sirius Black. Sirius stayed where he was, quivering, clutching Crookshanks to his chest and looking up at Harry’s face as if it was the last thing he’d like to see before he died. 

Harry looked relieved by Lupin’s presence. Relieved, confused, a hundred different emotions spelled across his face; an open book of a boy, heart on his sleeve. Like Sirius, he stayed rooted firmly in place. 

It was a long moment before Remus managed any words. When they came, they came calmly, loaded with intent. “Where is he, Sirius?” 

Sirius’s chest shuddered in a breath. His face flickered. Draco watched him blink away his tears, watched his face move through pain and grief. He watched it harden in an instant, like his mother sometimes did; as if he locked something vulnerable away within himself, and willed his skin to be solid marble instead of flesh. He swallowed down his tears and raised a hand. It pointed at Ron. 

Harry’s bafflement grew, and he shot Lupin one of those betrayed looks. Lupin didn’t seem to notice it. Lupin was still gazing down at Sirius. He rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder to guide him gently to the side, so that he could stand before the man and face the thing that had haunted him for all these years. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Remus breathed, his wand still pointed at Sirius. Sirius, looking up at him with dazzling eyes, pleading silently to be understood. “Unless…” Another breath, a shuddering thing. “You changed the plan and never said anything. You swapped places.” 

Sirius’s throat was bone thin, so it was easy to see when he shifted and swallowed past his own grief. With a moment to let it sink in, he nodded his head, not daring to speak a word — or too overcome to manage one. Draco knew how that could feel. Did Sirius know what the hollow feeling was? Did it press tight against his chest and silence him too? 

Remus’s breath shuddered, and his wand arm lowered, and all the rest of them could do was watch as he fell to his knees and pulled Sirius Black into a bone crushing hug. His cheek was pressed to the matted, dirty mess of Sirius’s hair, and Crookshanks was almost crushed between them before the cat yowled a meow and wriggled its way free of their clutching embrace. Sirius’s body was shaking more now, intense enough to see it, but Lupin only held him tighter. Draco was at just the right angle to see Sirius’s lips moving — but too far to hear whatever whispered words escaped him. It looked like he was saying the same thing over and over again; I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

But you didn’t do anything, Draco thought, and couldn’t find the strength to point it out. He just watched them, and after a brief moment, he felt another hand take his. Hermione’s dark fingers were a stark contrast against his own. His father would beat him for holding hands with a girl like Hermione, impure blood, and Draco clung all the tighter because of it. His fist was a vice grip around hers, but she didn’t flinch away from it. She clutched on to his arm fully instead. 

“What?” Was the sound that broke the silence. Harry’s lips moving around it in disbelief. “You, too?” He was looking at Remus with a kind of genuine horror, something that surpassed what he had given Sirius; because he had known Remus, because Remus had been kind and patient and warm to him all year, because Remus had been honest with him. Ever since Yule, Harry has been talking about Remus Lupin with an odd sense of warmth. He felt like he had… if not a family, than something close to it. A family friend. “I trusted you.” Harry tells him, confirming every thought Draco has had on the matter. 

“Are you sure?” Hermione whispered, just to Draco. She was looking at him like she needed an answer; but it felt like there was more to the question than Draco could understand. Hermione was a girl with a mind like a labyrinth, round and round she went and came to conclusions that no one else could. 

Draco nodded his head. He was sure. Hermione nodded, pale, and bit her lip. 

Remus was lifting a palm to placate Harry, a calming movement. “No one here wants to hurt you, Harry. Certainly not me.” 

“You’ve been lying to me all year. You’ve been helping him.” 

“I haven’t.” A beat. “I haven’t. A month ago, I would have drug him to the dementors myself; but now I know that Sirius Black is an innocent man.” 

“An innocent man.” Harry sounded like it was the one thing he could never believe. An impossibility so intrinstically tied with the universe that if one did, indeed, prove it possible, all else would surely crumble. “He admitted it himself. He did it.” 

“My fault,” Sirius agreed, sounding like a ghost. It was clear that every inch of his soul believed what he was saying. “My idea to make the swap.” 

Harry didn’t listen. “If you aren’t helping him, how did you know where he would take us?” 

“The map,” Remus confirmed. “I saw you on the Marauders Map; while I was searching for the very thing Sirius Black found tonight. The same thing young Draco and I spent hours looking for last night.” 

Harry looked at Draco, betrayed again. 

“Peter Pettigrew.” Draco supplied, tragedy and authority thick in his voice. He was tired of talking around it, tired of miscommunication and misunderstandings. This would go on forever, if he let Gryffindors deal with it. 

“We have to kill him,” Sirius managed, more lucid, as if that was the steadfast anchor of his existence. “That’s why I escaped. Have to kill him.” 

Draco spoke over him before he’d even finished, because right now Draco was the logical one. “I saw — I heard, I mean. I heard my father talking about him during the Holidays. About how Sirius was innocent, and he’d been a scapegoat for everyone else and — and then I had to be sure, I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions before I had any evidence, and then —” 

“But you didn’t tell me!” Harry argued, livid and red and looking like he was disgusted with each and every one of them. Even Ron looked taken aback by the anger in Harry’s eyes. 

“I had to be sure first!” Draco argued. “What would you have done?” 

“I would have told my friends.” Harry spoke the words like they were obvious, like he would have told Draco anything and everything. 

Draco advanced a step in incredulous anger. “You never told me that you saw Peter Pettigrews name on the Marauders Map.” 

“That was —” Harry looked between Lupin and Draco, one to the other. “The map is broken. Peter Pettigrew is dead.” 

“No,” Remus spoke, the calm cadence of his voice a sharp contrast to the teenage petulance of Harry and Draco. “The map isn’t broken, and it never lies. He’s alive.” A beat, “He’s in this room right now.” 

Something in Harry seemed to flounder, then. “There’s no one here but us.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Harry.” Remus got to his feet finally, and extended a hand to pull Sirius to his feet alongside him. Remus was a scant two inches taller than the other man, both of them looming over everyone else. Sirius looked at his face like it was a salvation, and nodded his head. 

“He’s here.” Sirius agreed. 

“You see, Harry. All four of us were at school together. Myself, your father, Sirius, and Peter Pettigrew. Our friendship grew quickly and…intensely, one might say. We shared things among each other that only the closest of friends could, closer than brothers. That bond was tested when the others found out —” There was a moment of hesitation in Remus, a pause where he fumbled. Shame on his face, shame in his heart. He hated himself more than he usually showed. 

“That you’re a werewolf.” Hermione supplied for him, more tender than could have been expected. 

“What?” Ron asked, wide eyed, scrambling back further on the bed. Draco couldn’t really blame him for it. Werewolves were the stories their parents told them at night; hideous creatures that preyed on the innocent, rabid beasts that couldn’t be trusted around regular people. 

But Lupin wasn’t a beast at all. He was a man. A kind one. 

He stood straighter, his face flattened out slightly. “Yes, just so.” 

“That’s when they became animagi.” Draco carried on, because yes, of course. 

Something in Sirius’s eyes seemed to light up at the memory, a scant shadow of a smile spread across his face. “We hated the idea of him being alone. Alone, in pain, with no one to help him. No one to keep him company.”

“Sirius was always particularly talented with transfiguration. He’d figured out the transformation by the start of fourth year. James wasn’t far behind. And then, with their help, Peter was able to make the change too.” 

“He’s a rat.” Sirius laughed. “Sneaky sneaky little rat.” He was more lucid again now, but he still had that wild edge to him that was made to set other people ill-at-ease. His head lolled, tilted, and he fixed his eyes on Ron again. 

“You’ve got to be joking.” Ron stuttered, face pale. He clutched scabbers tighter to his chest. “Scabbers isn’t — he’s not! He’s been in our family for years.” 

“Twelve years.” Lupin nodded. 

“An awfully long lifespan for the average garden rat.” Sirius continued for him. “Strange, don’t you think?” 

“Very strange,” Lupin agreed, “Unless it isn’t really an average garden rat.” He flicked his eyes in Sirius’s direction. “Tell me, how did you know? How did you find out he was alive.” 

“An excellent question, Professor.” Sirius laughed again, and announced the rest with an excited hint of grandness, as if he was thrilled at his own luck. “I saw it in the newspaper. It was dear old Bartimus Crouch Senior, he was kind enough to lend it to me when he came to visit his detestable little offspring.” A flourish, and a grin. “And there he was, on the front page. Atop the shoulder of a Weasley boy, in Egypt. I’d know Wormtail anywhere, and I knew for sure when I saw his itty bitty paws.” 

A breath punched out of Lupin’s chest. “His fingers.” 

“I don’t undnerstand.” Harry said, still pale, still untrusting.

“Scabbers is missing a finger.” Hermione explained. “That’s all they ever found of Pettigrew. A finger.” 

“Thats —” Ron floundered, That’s rubbish.” 

“He cut it off himself.” Sirius continued. “Right before he blew up twelve muggles and left me confounded in the rubble.” 

“No,” Weasley insisted. “You’re lying. You’re crazy.” 

“He’s not crazy,” Draco snapped, in a heartbeat, because he was so fucking sick of hearing that. It wasn’t the rhetoric he wanted to listen to for the next twenty minutes, when they could be proving that Scabbers was Pettigrew instead. The faster they did this, the better chance they had to actually make it up to the castle before anything with catastrophically wrong. 

Of course, that was when something went catastrophically wrong. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Severus announced from the doorway. No one had heard his approach. He was a man who could move as silently as a ghost when he needed to. Spy, Draco thought, viciously. “Black has always been almost rabidly insane.” 

Remus’s body tensed. 

Sirius’s head jerked, and he barked a laugh. “Snivillus!” 

And Draco… Draco turned to look at him with dawning horror. Yes, oh yes. This was what he had been dreading. The moment clenched around his heart like a vice grip. 

“I see I was mistaken in trusting you.” Severus said, feeling like a gut punch when that settled in Draco’s mind, a crushing blow. Then, he levelled his wand in the direction of Remus and Sirius. “When I found Parkinson and Nott lurking around outside I knew you were all up to something.” His eyes fixed on Lupin again. “I feel rather vindicated, I must confess. You’ve handed me incontestable proof that you’ve been sneaking murderers into the castle; and kidnapping children. I can’t say I expected you to go this far.” 

Draco tried to speak, and found he couldn’t. His throat felt tight, and there was a panic rising in his chest that he had to fight past. This was not the time to freeze up again — going quiet when things got intense was not allowed, was not befitting the soul scion of two noble houses, it was weakness at the core and it couldn’t happen now. 

Severus continued on, while Draco floundered in silence. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing Dumbledore’s reaction to this, Lupin. I warned him again and again that you would be helping Black, and he didn’t believe me.” 

“Severus,” Lupin said — it wasn’t pleading, no. It was the voice a professor used when talking to a student, or an auror used when talking down a crazed fool. Gentle, gentle, lets all stay calm and hear each other out. 

“Or maybe I’m more excited about turning the two of you into Fudge.” Severus did sound excited, he sounded — he souned like… 

He sounded like the men who drank whiskey in his father’s office, like Nott and Mulciber when they didn’t know Draco could hear them, the way they talked about all the things they’d like to see happen to muggles and mudbloods alike. He was taking pleasure in this victory over Lupin, and Draco felt terribly unlucky; it would blind Severus, he was sure, to the more important matters at hand. 

“He’s still up in the castle, you know? Fudge and the executioner; they’re staying to have a late meal with the Headmaster. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled for the interruption.” He continued, enjoying it.

Seeing Severus like this felt like a knife in the gut. Of course, Draco has always known exactly who Severus was; has always known the dark and cruel places inside him — but they’ve never been directed at Draco, or even in his general vicinity. He forgot, somehow, that Severus could be bitter and cruel and petty. 

He tried not to focus on it. There were more important things to freak out about. Like Pettigrew. Pettigrew, still clinging on to Weasley like the boy would be able to save him.

Pettigrew escaping, and the way they needed to stop it. If Severus had found Pansy and Theo outside the willow — had they managed to finish their part of things? Would Pettigrew be able to change? There was a small, hopeful part of him that wanted to believe everything would be fine. But there was a larger part of him that knew he had to prepare for the worst. 

“Be reasonable, Severus.” Remus tried again, his body covered Black’s by inches, and he extended a placating hand. He didn’t even have his wand raised. He believed that Severus was capable of being reasonable right now. “Childhood grudges are not a good reason to condemn an innocent man to Azkaban.” 

The bang of the spell going off made Draco jump. It shifted him back, away, and he accidentally brushed his arm against Harry’s. Harry was watching the older men like a hawk, face paling and body jerking when the spell hit Remus and the ropes bound him tight. Wrists bound tightly, arms to his chest, practically gagged. 

The sound Sirius made as he moved toward Severus was a jagged one, a gut-wrench, but he didn’t get far before Severus’s wand was pointed at him too. “Give me a reason.” Severus practically begged. 

“Sev—” Draco finally found the will to speak, finally forced half of a beloved name from between his lips. It was argumentative, even in the singular syllable. 

“Shut up.” Severus told him, without even tearing his eyes away from Sirius. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. They hated each other, that much was clear in their faces. He could see the steady fury in Sev’s posture, and the quick movement of Sirius’s chest as he breathed. 

“Profesor Snape,” Hermione tried, “It — Maybe we should just listen to what they have to say. Just in case?” 

“Quiet,” He snapped again, clearly struggling to hold on to any semblance of patience. His voice was dangerously level, as if he was scolding her for making a mistake during potions class. “I suggest you hold your tongue, Miss Granger, before you face a harsher punishment than the suspension you have no doubt already earned.” 

The words were designed to play on her fears; everyone knew what made Hermione tick. For someone who broke the rules so often, she was terrified of being punished for it. The idea that something like this may go on her academic record was enough to force her to close her mouth tightly; at least for the moment. If he knew her, she’d open it again once she’d had a moment to forget her fear and chose bravery instead. 

“Please, just listen —” Draco tried again, because Hermione probably wouldn’t get through to Severus, but Draco might. Severus loved him, after all. Severus had been his steadfast defender for nearly his entire life. The man who took care of him when he was sick, the man who taught him, the man who offered gentle guidance and compassion in the face of his fathers cruelty. 

“Shut up, you insolent brat, before I shut you up myself.” 

It was a phrase that had been thrown in his direction a thousand times. It was a pet name, or as close as Severus got. Insolent brat. A vexing little fool. It’s never stung before, but it stings now, and if the weight of tension in the room was any indication, everyone could see how it had hurt him. He’d flinched away from it before he could stop himself, the weight of Sev’s disappointment in him too heavy a blow to compartmentalise. 

Sirius finally spoke, clearly unable to stop himself. “Hey!” He snapped, “Don’t speak to him like that.” 

Professor Snape’s wand pressed against Sirius’s forehead suddenly. A spell cast at that range would be devastating. Sirius’ breath shuddered again. “You dare presume to tell me how I can and cannot speak to my own godson?” A tilt of his head, “When you have been such a sorry excuse for one?” 

He felt Harry’s hand wrap around his wrist, felt the steady comfort of it. It was for both of them, he realised. Harry needed it too, watching them with that rapt attention of his; a godfather he never knew or wanted, vs the godfather Draco had been beloved by for years. 

He twisted his arm so that he could hold Harry’s hand, a moment of utter insanity. He half expected Harry to jerk away from him — Harry had been so furious with him earlier, had looked at him with eyes thick with betrayal, so Draco wouldn’t blame him if he pushed Draco away — but the opposite happened instead. He felt Harry’s grip on his hand tighten in return, holding fast. Fingers twined around his, skin rough against the places where Harry held his broomstick so tightly. 

“Of course, you’ve always been presumptious.” The wand carressed the sharp contours of the face in front of it, “I so hoped I would be the one to catch you.”

“Thinking of me all this time?” Sirius managed to tease, “Fine, I’ll let you have exactly what you want. It doesn’t matter to me — as long as the boy brings his little rat back up to the castle with us.” He jerked his head recklessly in Ron’s direction, and even Remus’s eyes tracked that way, from where he was tied behind Sirius. “I won’t put up a fight.” 

Draco saw Severus’s face light up as the words sunk in. Sev looked savage, in that moment. Pleased with his own cruelty. “The castle?” Severus almost laughed as his mouth shaped the word. “Oh, we won’t need to go that far to satisfy me. The second we step out of that tunnel, the dementors will come swarming. They’ve been waiting for the chance to give you a Kiss.” 

Sirius’s face dropped at the sound of the word dementor. He looked like a man who was haunted, a man who was very scared of that outcome, and the fire that had been burning within him all night started to flicker and die. “Just listen,” He pleaded, “Look at him, it’s—” A swallow. “It’s Peter Pettigrew!” 

Draco could see himself in the frantic glint of Sirius’s eyes. With how emancipated Sirius Black was, that was the only place they really looked alike right now. Those eyes, burdened by so much they had seen and expected to see. They were his mothers eyes too, sometimes bright and happy, sometimes dead inside. 

Severus’ laugh was a derisive one, as if Sirius was the one beyond reason here tonight. “Come on, all of you,” he said. He clicked his fingers, and the ends of the cords that bound Lupin flew to his hands. “I’ll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the dementors will have a kiss for him too —” 

Draco felt Harry’s hand slip out of his again before he could process what was happening. He felt bereft of it, lost at sea again in the roiling storm of this night. Harry moved quickly, the way he always did, a lightning strike of a boy — and blocked the creaking doorway that led out of the room. His face was hard set in determination, stubbornness. Harry Potter had just become an immovable object.

“Move, Potter.” Severus snapped at him, with a quick flick of his wand to indicate movement. “I’ve saved your life once tonight; if i have to drag you kicking and screaming back to the castle, I will do it.” 

“Professor Lupin doesn’t want to kill me.” Harry announced. “And I don’t think Black does either. They’ve both had a hundred chances throughout the year — they would have done it by now if that was what they wanted!” 

“Because the werewolf and the insane tramp think so clearly,” hissed Snape. “Get out of the way, Potter.” 

That was when something like anger bled into the determined set of Harry’s expression. It bubbled up quick, and came out quicker, clearly before Harry could force himself to have any rational thoughts on the topic of yelling at the teacher who already hated him. 

“You’re pathetic,” Harry spat at him. “You’re really going to do this just because they played a stupid prank on you at school—” 

And oh, none of this was going well. None of this was right. It was like the moment during a Quidditch match when you realised your chances of winning were slim at best. Draco could almost feel the roar of failure in his ears, could feel the hollow place in his chest express itself at full force. None of this was going well, none of this was right, and in the absence of Harry beside him, Draco rested a hand on the fractured window to steady himself, glancing out at the quickly darkening sky. 

Night was falling. 

They needed to get back up to the castle, and they needed to do it quickly. Maybe it would all be okay; maybe Theo and Pansy doubled back after Snape sent them to the castle, maybe they returned to finish the job. 

He was so focused on that idea, and so focused on the labour of his own breathing, that he barely listened to what Severus was hissing in a response to Harry’s insubordination. He caught a sliver of it — “…Get out of the way, or I will make you.” — and knew that Sev hadn’t been kidding about dragging them all back kicking and screaming if he needed to. 

Draco turned his head to catch what happened next. Would Sev really force them? But before he had even laid eyes on the scene again, he heard the snap of magic and three shouts of; “Expelliarmus!” going off at once. 

The force of the spell made the whole room shake; or maybe that had been the force of the impact, as so many different spells hit Severus all at once, and he was thrown backwards off his feet and slammed into the wall. Draco felt stricken and sick at the sight of it. Sev’s crumpled body, laying there like that. It was half familiar, as if he’d seen a whisper of it before from the universe. Had he seen something like this in the first vision? He couldn’t remember, but the familiar feeling of nausea settled in his stomach regardless. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Sirius, somehow the voice of reason in the room despite his general attitude. He moved quickly to untie Professor Lupin, but Draco couldn’t pay any attention to them. “I would have handled it.” Sirius said, sounding far away and under water. 

“Sev—” Draco’s breath hitched, staring down at Severus Snape, unmoving. 

“Oh god,” Hermione whimpered, “We just attacked a teacher. Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble —”

Draco knelt on the floor next to his godfather, watching the blood trickle down from his forehead onto his pale, pale face. Tears stung his eyes, even as he reached out to touch and felt the steady rising and falling of Severus’s chest. He was going to be fine, as far as Draco could see, but the sight was so horrifying that he couldn’t get past it. Severus Snape was supposed to be the strongest man alive; unbent and unbreakable. 

But there he was. Broken and bleeding. 

Broken and bleeding and disappointed in Draco. 

Tears stung at Draco’s eyes, and with frustrated hands he brushed them away before anyone could see him. He was in a room full of people who hated Severus Snape, and he felt utterly alone in it. Burdened by his love, burdened by the future, burdened by caring so damned much about everything and everyone around him. 

Maybe his father was right. Maybe it was easier to be cold and calculating, to build a wall between yourself and everyone who might love you. Maybe love was a weakness that the intelligent rejected. To be the soul scion of a noble house was to put power before love. 

But love was all Draco had ever wanted, and all he ever longed for. And he would have more of it, that much had been promised to him by destiny itself. 

So he wiped away his tears again, and used delicate fingers to brush Severus’s hair out of his face for him. He wouldn’t appreciate it but — but Draco needed to put all of this tender caring somewhere. It was a motion he could use to pull himself together, to try and force himself out of his own head, past the hollow tightness of his chest and the aching of his limbs. 

While Draco had frozen over Severus, the rest of the scene had continued to play out behind him. No one else thought to pause for long — and Draco was surprised that he’d managed to not listen to most of it. When he glanced back at them, everyone looked… a little more vulnerable, a little more understanding, a little more frustrated too. 

“Enough of this,” Remus was saying when Draco checked back in to what was happening. He sounded stern, steely, as strong as the hardest substance in the world. His shoulders were straighter too. Every inch of him was lit heroically; he was a man who was putting his foot down. “There’s only one way to prove the truth of things.” A flick of his wrist. “Weasley, give me your rat.” 

Ron looked somewhat terrified, still; and pale. The wound in his leg was clearly still bothering him, and when Draco looked he could see the slow seeping of blood from the wound. When Sirius bit, he bit deeply — this was a creature whose bark was not, in fact, worse than its bite. For a moment, Draco thought that Ron would refuse again. “You won’t hurt him?” He asked, instead. “If he’s just my rat, I mean?” 

Remus shook his head, something more fatherly spreading across his face. “All I want to do is force Pettigrew to show himself. If your pet is just a rat, nothing will happen to it.” 

Draco watched Ron’s throat move on a hard swallow, watched the cold sweat bead on his forehead. Come on, he urged silently, do something smart for once. 

And Weasley did; after only a moment of more hesitation, he shuffled forward and extended his hands toward Remus. Pettigrew — the rat — was held tight within his grasp, and when Weasley moved the creature started to squirm and panic, as if it knew exactly what was about to happen. 

Remus steeled himself again, and Sirius took a place at his side. Both of them had wands gripped tight in their hands. 

“Ready?” Remus asked him, without a glance. He took the yelping, squirming rat from Rons hands and held it tight. 

“I think so.” Sirius nodded, voice shaking in the night, eyes gleaming like fire again. “Together?” 

“I think so.” Remus agreed, “On three?” 

Remus followed the count, and when he reached the third, a bolt of blindingly bright light erupted from their wands. It was incandescent blue, brighter than anything Draco had seen for a long time. His eyes were full of halos for the duration, white spots he had to furiously blink past, which made his eyes water terribly again for a moment. 

But when he fluttered his eyes open, there was a man instead of a rat. He was the man from Draco’s visions, that much was sure; though it was almost hard to tell at first. When Draco had seen him in the Manor, he had looked stronger and steadier. Here, in the shack, he looked almost has bad as Sirius did. His skin was dirty and grubby, his body thinner than it should be, his hair coarse and thinning where it should have been thick and healthy. Still — there was no doubt that it was the same man. 

And it struck fear in Draco’s heart. So he took a step back from him, even as his eyes stayed fixed on the scene before him, seeing too much. 

“What a pleasant surprise, Peter.” Lupin greeted him, as if it was normal, as if things like this happened every day. “We were just talking about you. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” As he spoke, he caught Sirius Black’s rising wand arm in a vice grip; as if that too was more muscle memory than anything else. Sirius was cowed, and inclined his head once again for Remus to take the lead. 

“Remus,” Croaked the man, “Sirius… my — my old friends.” He was glancing around the room, clever eyes tracking every corner. Looking for escape routes, looking for a way out of this. 

“Old friends. Just so.” Remus nodded. “I am now regretting the lovely speech I made at your funeral, Peter. It seems it was a tad premature. Would you like to explain the reason for that?” 

Peter scrambled, then, looking quickly back and forth between the two. “I didn’t have a choice. He tried to kill me, Remus! After everything else he did… I had no choice but to run.” A shake of his head. “And I was right; he’s been after me all year. Trying to finish what he started. It will be you next!” 

Sirius laughed that barking laugh again. “Kill you, kill you. I’d like to kill you.” He took a step toward the man, only for Remus to once again pull him back by his shoulder.

“No one is killing anyone until we have answers.” Remus says, harsh. 

Pettigrew was eyeing the door. But there was too much between it and him. Too many people, too many wands. “He’s twisted, Remus. Can’t you see it? Something dark and evil inside. I knew he’d come for me.” 

“And you waited for it for twelve years?” Remus pondered, “Even when he was locked away in Azkaban?” 

“I knew he’d get out. He knows magic the rest of us couldn’t even comprehend. No doubt his master taught him well.” 

“My master?” There was no laugh in it. Just hollow anger. “You think I would run to Voldemort for these precious lessons.” 

Pettigrew flinched at the sound of the name. Draco did too. It wasn’t a name you spoke unless you’d been given permission, or unless you showed it the proper respect. The Dark Lord, the heir to magic dark and true, the head of a terrible consortium of snakes. Lord Voldemort, his father would have said, if he’d been bold enough to speak the name. 

Sirius was fearless in it, and seemed satisfied to watch the discomfort spread across Pettigrews face. “Scared to hear the name again, after all these years?” He advanced, but his wand was low, and Remus didn’t move to stop him. “Thats who you’re afraid of, not me.” Words viciously spat out of his mouth. “You know they want you dead too. You know that they think you failed them.” 

Pettigrew shakes his head, frantic. 

“It’s true,” Sirius continues. “I heard them in their cells, crying for their precious dead psychopath. They think you betrayed them; that your pathetic double cross turned out to be a triple cross instead. My cousin Bella wants to skin you alive.” A shiver went down Draco’s spine at that. “Funny, never thought I’d have something in common with her after all this time.”

The head shook again, a denial of the fear? A denial of what he had done? 

“Oh,” Sirius said, softer now. It was cooingly soft, mockingly gentle. “But they’re not who you’re scared of, are they? They’re locked up far away, and they don’t have the same little tricks I did to escape. They don’t have the fire that learning you were alive gave me. They can’t slip through the bars looking like a cuddly little mutt. No — you’re scared of the ones that didn’t get locked up, aren’t you?” 

There were beads of sweat trickled down Pettigrews forehead, into his face. He should have looked pathetic, more than anything else. And in some ways, he did. But Draco knew that a man backed into a corner was the most dangerous kind; and that like Greg and Vince, Pettigrew was probably very good at masking his wit and intelligence. He would come up with some cunning plan as surely as any Slytherin would. He’d truly been sorted into the wrong house. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Pettigrew finally managed. “You’re crazy.” 

Remus was the one who left out a soft chuckle, then. “For every death eater locked up in Azkaban, there’s one who got away scot free. Biding time, playing at innocent.” 

“Playing innocent. Biding their time.” 

“Men who would leap at the chance to kill you, the second they found out you were alive.” 

Men like Draco’s father; who really didn’t know anything at all. Lucius Malfoy believed Peter Pettigrew was dead, no matter what lies Draco had told to save his own skin. And Lucius Malfoy would make Pettigrew hurt for what had happened to the Dark Lord, if he ever got the chance to. He would lock him in a dungeon and make it last. 

Or — would he? 

Pettigrew had free reign of the manor, in that vision. So there must be something Pettigrew could supply that would spare him the wrath of the death eaters. It made Draco feel dizzy, it took him away from what was going on again. Everyone was focused on the men before them, so Draco pressed his back to the jagged wall of the shack, and tried to find balance there. He tried to breathe. He tried to focus past the ringing in his ears.

The dizzy feeling stayed, and mixed poorly with the hollow in his chest. You already know how this is going to end, something inside him whispered. You know the dark gift this man will bring the world. 

He had Seen it. He could see it now, in his minds-eye, more real than reality. Peter Pettigrew, lit by wandlight and the luminescence of the potion that bubbled in its cauldron. Peter Pettigrew, and the hand that came out of the water. The Dark Lord. That was a gift that would earn him salvation from even the most vicious of men. 

And if he escaped tonight, he was going to do it. 

He put his fingers to his lips, forced himself to pull in a breath. It was panic, that was what it was. Pure panic, drowning out the rest of the world. Silent panic, the way that Draco did it best. 

Try to find the peace inside yourself, his mother would have told him. He tried to. To find a quiet place. To find a refuge. Somewhere in the stars, the way they reflected against a perfectly placid lake, calm like his mother’s face when she was thinking. His heart was beating quickly, but eventually he was able to force his breaths to come slower, to pull in some well needed air and actually make use of it. 

The roaring in his ears died down with air, and he tuned back in to what they were saying. Though for long moments they still sounded far away. Harry and Sirius were looking at each other. 

“Please,” Sirius was saying, hollow and desperate. “Believe me.” 

Harry’s chest was rising and falling quickly too, his face torn open — and he nodded his head, a slow up and down. “I do,” He said, breathless and dull, “I believe you.” 

Pettigrew fell to his knees, then. “No,” he begged, looking up at Harry with those damp, wet eyes of his. Draco was watching him beg. This man that sparked fear down to the very core of him. And oh, that was better than finding peace. He was relishing in the knowledge that whatever Pettigrew did to him in the future, Draco will always have seen him beg. “Please, Harry — your father wouldn’t have wanted this.” 

Sirius was finally allowed to touch Pettigrew, it seemed. Remus had stood back and started to roll up his sleeves, determined and cold. So he allowed Sirius to reach forward and pull Pettigrew away from Harry, to grab him by his thin hair and glare down at him. “Don’t touch him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even say his name. Not ever again.”

He threw Pettigrew backwards then, vicious and quick. “Sirius, please.” Prettigrew begged, but it was falling on deaf ears. No one in this room wanted Pettigrew to live. 

“I want you to admit it.” Sirius said, cold. “I want you to admit what you did, before I kill you.” 

“We’ll kill him together.” Remus said, the only argument to the words coming out of Sirius’s mouth. Sirius glanced over his shoulder at the other man, shoulders shifting in something like relief. 

‘Together?” He breathed. 

“Yes, I think so.” A nod, sure. 

“Remus!” Pettigrew wailed. “You know this isn’t right.” 

“Admit it.” Remus told him, “Go on.” 

“James —” 

“Trusted you!” Sirius interrupted. “James trusted you, the same way I trusted you, the same way Lily trusted you.” Sirius yelled at Pettigrew, burning fire in every inch of him — and somehow he was even more resplendent than Draco had seen in the vision. He was incandescent in his rage, as if it was a physical thing, as if Sirius Black was the very manifestation of fury itself. That was what stars were, weren’t they? Fury and destiny and light. “And you betrayed them.” He hissed it, looking Pettigrew dead in the eyes. “Do you deny it?” 

Pettigrew flinched from it, but said nothing, and when Sirius started to advance on him, he was quick to cower. Even now, with Sirius starved, Pettigrew feared him. Everyone could see what they were; a man scorned and the coward who had hurt him. 

He looked like he was going to kill Pettigrew. 

And Draco wanted him to do it. Because he couldn’t look at that face and not see the future in it. Peter Pettigrew was a pathetic little rat, but he was a cunning one too. If he escaped this night, he’d worm his way into Malfoy Manor, come scrambling back to his old death eater friends, back the man with the cold cold voice — he’d doom them all, in his cowardice. 

Sirius’s hands slammed against the creaking wall of the shack, as he pinned a shorter man against it. “You sold Lily and James to Voldemort.” He stated, choked in his grief. “Do you deny it?” 

The man beneath him burst into tears. He shuddered, and — 

“I had no choice.” He cried, “I had no choice. They would have killed me.” He leaned as fara way from Sirius as he could get. “They would have killed me — There was nothing else I could do!” 

“You were selling them information for months.” Sirius challenged. “You’re the reason Dorcas is dead. You’re the reason the McKinnons died, and the Dearborns, and the Prewett brothers. They’re all dead because of you. You turned us all against each other and you led them to their deaths.”

Pettigrew’s head was shaking, fat tears rolling down his face. He looked vicious, and devastated, but he didn’t look ashamed. He looked like a man who was willing to do whatever it took to survive. 

“There was nothing else I could do.” Pettigrew supplied, again. 

“You could have died.” It was a hiss, as Sirius catapulted away from him, as if he couldn’t stand touching him for a moment longer. Remus and Sirius both trained their wands on him. There was nowhere to go, and nowhere for him to run. “You could have died, instead of betraying all of your friends. It’s what I would have done.” 

Nowhere to go, nowhere to run. 

Kill him, Draco silently urged. Kill him, kill him, kill him. 

Remus looked down at him intently. He looked disappointed. The resigned set of his shoulders only made his determination to kill more chilling. “You should have known, Peter.” He said, like a father scolding a child. “If they didn’t kill you —” 

“We would.” Sirius finished.

Kill him, kill him, kill him. 

“No.” Harry said, a sudden burst. The whole room froze around the word, such a tiny thing to stop them all in their tracks. “Stop,” He said, semi-redundantly, as they already had. “Don’t kill him.” 

The gasp of Pettigrews relief grated on Draco. The man burst out into more tears, rolling down his face. His pale skin had gone sallow with fear, but there was a burst of colour in his cheeks. “Thank you,” He cried, “Harry — Thank you.” 

“Never speak to me again.” Harry said, a reiteration of the rule Sirius had given earlier. He glared daggers at the man. “You’re disgusting.” He shook his head, and looked Remus in the eyes, appealing to him as a voice of reason. It was a clever choice. “I want everyone to know what he did. And I — I don’t think my dad would want you to become murderers, just for a pathetic waste of space like him.” 

Sirius looked at Harry, shatteringly soft. His wand arm lowered, just slightly, while Remus’s stayed straight and determined. “But —” Sirius said, faltering. “Everything he did. Everyone he killed.” 

“They’ll send him to Azkaban.” Harry decided. “That’s what he deserves.” He looked away from Pettigrew’s shaking form, looked at Sirius, something innocent and hopeful in his eyes. “They’ll let you go.” 

Sirius’s arm fully dropped then, turning his back on Pettigrew, leaving Remus to keep the man in check. “Let me go.” He said, slow, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. Had Sirius ever believed that there was life beyond tonight? Did he have any plan beyond finally getting revenge? It sounded soft. Sounded vulnerable. “I’d be free.” 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “That’s what I want.” 

“Alright.” Remus agreed; the matter full decided in the span of three words. “I agree.” A tilt of his head. “But if he makes one wrong move. If he tries to transform, or escape — I’m going to kill him.” 

“Alright.” Harry said. “I agree.” 

“Would you like me to tie him up for you?” Remus offered, speaking as if Harry was now in charge of this entire operation. Of course, he was, in a way. Harry was the new moral centre of the room. Harry was the deciding force in every conversation, from here on out. If Harry wanted it, Harry was going to get it. 

They would do anything for him. 

“Yes, please.” Harry agreed, and Lupin’s wand moved in a delicate motion, ropes binding Pettigrew in place.

Draco readjusted his grip on Weasley as he trudged his way through the tunnel that connected the Shack to the Willow. It made Weasley wince; and made Draco regret his position in this exodus even more. 

Hermione and Remus were guarding Pettigrew. Sirius was floating Severus, still unconscious, down the tunnel. Harry was following the man, walking beside him, the two of them sharing some quiet conversation. It left Draco and Weasley in the back, with Draco being tasked with getting Weasley out the other side without causing too much damage to that leg of his. 

He had his eyes trained like a hawk on the back of Sirius’s head. He couldn’t see Severus beyond the bodies of Harry and Sirius. But Merlin, he wanted to be up there instead of here. Was Harry angry with him, he wondered? He had been angry before; but Harry had been angry in general, only some of it directed at Draco to a point. Draco had proved his own innocence at the same time he proved Sirius Black’s, hadn’t he? 

He wasn’t sure. 

He still felt half pulled between the hollow place and the sting of destiny. The world still felt slightly unreal around him.

He didn’t expect Weasley to speak. 

“Hey, Malfoy.” 

“Yes, Weasley?” 

“You came through the willow to get me.” 

“I— yes, I suppose.” Draco’s hand fluttered in uncertainty. He had been swept up in the moment just as Harry and Hermione had been. It made him feel a little itchy. Most of him had just wanted to follow Sirius, to follow Harry. Part of him had known he needed to be in the Shreaking Shack that night, because he had already seen it happen. But yes, there was a small part of him that knew they needed to make sure Weasley was alright. 

“I’m sorry I called you crazy.” Ron said, slow with the weight of it’s sincerity. There was a hint of pain in the saying of it; and Draco couldn’t tell if the words themselves were a struggle, or if it was just hard to talk when your leg had been ripped open by a rabid dog. “You’re actually alright.” 

Draco stared, blankly, then flicked his eyes down to the gaping wound on Weasley’s leg. It was the leg. It must have been. “You’re in shock.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Weasley; this insanity will pass once Pomfrey gets a good blood replenishing potion in you.” 

Weasley huffed out an amused breath. Draco had to shift his weight to help carry him better. “No,” Weasley says, “I mean it. You’re an alright guy. It’s just —” 

“Hard letting go of centuries old blood fueds?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Draco nodded, “I think you’re bloody annoying too.” 

“Blimey, you’re hard to apologize to.” 

Draco snorted out a laugh before he could stop himself. “Well, its a bad apology.” 

Ron laughed, and… well, it wasn’t a mean laugh. He was laughing like he thought Draco was funny; and yes, like he was slightly delirious from shock and blood loss. 

“Sorry for everything, then. Especially tonight. You seemed pretty freaked out.”

“Well. I’m sorry that your rat turned out to be a thirty five year old man.” 

“Yeah.” Weasley nodded. “Its bonkers.” 

“At least I have the comfort of knowing Salazar isn’t secretly a human. I’ve had her since a hatchling.” 

“Comforting,” A beat. “I wish she’d eaten Scabbers, now.” 

“Hm. I’ll get her to work on that for next time.” 

“I’ll work on being less of a dick to you.” 

Draco let his own semi-delirious laugh. It caught in his throat, and then started again. Weasley caught his eye and it got him going too. Then Draco tripped, and Ron let out a pained gasp, and it sobered both of them up. 

“Don’t whine, Weasley, honestly.” He scolded. “One must look stoic and brave when confronted with a situation like this. You’ve done a wonderful job so far. Let’s not fail now.”

“Stoic and brave?” Weasley pondered the words, filing them away. “Yeah,” He decided, and Draco could feel him trying to take even more weight on himself. “I’m stoic.” 

They lapsed into silence for a long moment, until Draco locked eyes on the front of their group. Harry and Sirius, talking in quiet whispers as they led the group. 

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” Draco asked, a moment of vulnerability, “For lying, all this time?” 

“Harry?” Weasley asked, “Yeah, I think so.” A beat. “Pretty sure he already has.” 

Harry would forgive him. Harry had taken his hand when he needed it; and Draco had been right. Sirius Black was innocent, and Harry would be grateful for what Draco had done in the end, the work he had put in to try and prove it was true. He had also slammed his elbow into Draco’s face in that mad scramble before, and it really hadn’t helped with the post-willow dizziness. Draco could feel it now that he was trying to focus on moving and talking at the same time. His brain felt fuzzy. 

The two of them watched as Sirius’s face broke into a wide smile. Whatever Harry and him were talking about, it was clearly going well. It made Sirius look younger by decades — more like the man that Draco had seen in his visions, with soft hair and bright eyes. They were building a connection that they had both yearned for for years. 

With a glance at Severus in front of them Draco felt a stab of jealousy. It felt like Harry was gaining what he was losing. Was this how it worked? Was Draco going to spend the rest of his life exchanging his happiness for someone else’s? Sacrificing his love so that someone else could get their share? It didn’t feel fair, that the night where Harry gained a family was the night where Draco’s started to fall apart. 

Jealousy came to easy to Draco. He’d been bred for it; raised to want everything, and to get everything, except for the things he wanted most. It mixed poorly with the anxiety in his stomach and the fog of his head. 

He barely felt it when he tripped again, and barely managed to stop himself from falling flat on his face. It punches him in the stomach, lightning quick, a flash of a vision; The full moon, heavy over head. A man warping in unfathomable pain. And Sirius, trying to transform and being caught in the same wards they’d counted upon for keeping Pettigrew in check —

He forced the future out, and made himself exist in the present.

”Blimey,” Ron said, a hushed tone in the dim light. “Are you okay?” 

Draco pulled in a breath, pressed a hand against the cold, damp, earthy wall of the tunnel. It felt crushingly small, but he pushed the fear aside and nodded his head. “Claustrophobic.” He said, as an easy excuse, considering that it wasn’t technically a lie at that moment. He’d never been claustrophobic before, but now as as good a time as any to start. He steadied his grip on Ron and kept shuffling forward. 

Ron looked at him like he didn’t quite believe it. But he didn’t challenge it, only nodded his head. “Right,” He murmured. 

“Wait.” Draco called, loud enough for everyone to hear. They were all on alert, primed to react to something that needed their attention. Several faces looked back at him, and he wished that he could get his heart to beat more steadily through sheer force of will. 

He tried to do the mental arithmetic on how long they had been walking, on how much longer it would be until they came out the other side. If Pansy and Theo had managed to set the warding stones around the willow, Sirius wouldn’t be able to transform either, which would leave them relatively defenceless against a moon drunk werewolf. “I think Sirius should transform back into a dog before we get outside. There could be dementors nearby, and they’ll be pulled toward us with all of the… heightened emotions. We won’t be able to fight them off if they do come.” 

“I don’t think they’ll get this close to the castle.” Remus shook his head, the slightest hint of disagreement. “And someone needs to float Professor Snape up.” 

“Harry can do that,” Draco offered. The boy was talented enough at magic where it counted that Draco knew Harry could manage a simple levitation. “I think… I think you should, Sirius.” He said, meeting the mans eyes. He looked bright still, from whatever conversation had unfolded between him and Harry. “It will keep you safer.” 

Those were the magic words for Harry, it seemed, who started to nod his head. Remus wasn’t far behind in seeing the logic of it, “Alright,” He nodded his head, speaking still like a force of authority. 

Sirius and Harry took another moment, to talk in quiet whispers and stolen smiles. Draco couldn’t watch it. He looked away, glanced at Ron and his fucked up leg. “This would be a lot easier if we had a broomstick.” He mused, to distract himself. “Then I wouldn’t have to carry you all the way.” 

“Carry me?” Weasley scoffed. “You were barely helping.” 

“You’d be crawling if it wasn’t for me!” 

“Honestly,” Hermione sounded exhausted, “Can you two please stop it?” 

Sirius was able to slip out of the willow in his dog form and freeze the tree once again, for long enough that the rest of them could scramble upwards and outwards. 

Thus began the ordeal of helping Weasley climb up and out. Draco was beginning to reconsider a truce with the other boy. Things would be easier of he could wash his hands of Weasley tonight and focus on himself, and on Pettigrew. The Gryffindor’s ‘leave no man behind’ mentality was annoying, but now that he’d thrown himself in with their lot, it was the kind of sentimentality that he had to go along with. 

“Arguing like children,” Hermione told them, as she got clear of the willows branches and began brushing dirt off herself. “I’ve had enough of it. The two of you are going to get along or stay quiet from here on —” 

The clouds broke, the moon lit her, glinting silver-blue against her hair. If the previous scolding made his heart stutter, the moonlight hitting her made it stop. The sun had gone down and the moon had risen, in the time it took them to travel back from the shack. 

It stopped her from speaking. Hermione’s eyes tracked up to it, and when they turned in unison, it was to the sight of Remus Lupin stumbling and letting out a groan of pain. He was shaking, now, and he fell to his knees, barely managing to catch himself on his hands. 

Hermione shook her head, took a stumbling step backwards until she almost collided with Draco. Except she had to reach over and tug Harry back as well, to stop him from taking his own stumbling steps toward the man. “He didn’t take his potion tonight, did he?” She asks.

“I don’t think so,” Draco breathes. But his eyes aren’t fixed on Lupin. They’re stuck on Pettigrew. The man with ropes around his arms, around his ankles to keep his gait short and prevent him from running. With a flick of Draco’s wrist, his wand is firmly in his hand. 

He’s ready. Ready to act. Ready to be the backup plan if something goes wrong. The dog — Padfoot, Draco supposes — is whining at the man as he transforms, comforting little doggy sounds. He’s crowding his body against Lupins, moving him back by inches away from the children. When Padfoot turns to growl at them, Draco takes the message for what it is; that they should run the first chance they get. 

In a flash, the transformation is complete. The wolf is snarling, furious at the dog for daring to come so near, for daring to try and tell it, or anyone else, what to do. Of course, this is a dog that growls back. 

He almost doesn’t see Pettigrew reach for Lupin’s wand. 

He definitely doesn’t expect a burst of soundless magic from the pathetic little man. He’s too slow raising his own wand in defence. He’s too slow on the stunner he had mentally prepared to cast when he needed to, and that might as well be the Draco Malfoy life story; too slow, when he needed to go fast. 

The last thing he remembers seeing is the flash of light, before the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing was gently lit. Candles flickering against walls. It was dark outside. Deep, deep, dark; lit only by full moon and twinkling stars. He could see the moon. It was hanging heavily over Harry’s bed. Draco was leaning up, head carefully tilted, looking stone faced ahead of him. 

He wasn’t thinking about Harry. 

He was listening.

To Severus Snape and the Minister for Magic. 

He had heard the gentle hum of their voices when he awoke; head raging with the headache that came from being shot with a stunner directly in the face. They had been distant, foggy, but Draco had sat up anyway, needing to hear anything he could. 

What had happened? 

“Nasty business,” Fudge said. 

“Yes,” Distant; Severus’s low tones were far harder to hear than Fudge, who always talked like a politician. He sounded… Draco tilted his head further, pondering the quiet intensity of the word. “Nasty business.” An echo. He must have been shaken. 

The tone was one of deep concern. They felt like a heavy, dark weight on the opposite side of the door. He could see three… no, four other beds filled. 

Harry. Hermione. Ron. He flicked his eyes down them. 

And another one. Curtains drawn. 

“I still can’t quite believe it.” Fudge sounded like he was pacing. Back and forth, Back and forth. “And the boy witnessed the whole thing?” 

“No. Yes.” Severus still didn’t sound right. “Some of it.” 

“Nasty business.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ve called in the head auror to deal with this personally. I expect they’ll be escorted up from the gates any moment now.” 

“What will happen?” Severus asked. “Will he get the Kiss?” 

“We’ll have to get all the details.” Fudge sighed. “The full story, as much of it as we can get. I’m not sure what to make of it all.” 

“Do you believe it?” 

“I believe that the journalists are going to have a field day.” 

Draco was still staring at the curtains of the fourth bed. It couldn’t be Lupin, on the other side. The moon was still hanging heavy and full in the sky. It wasn’t Severus, despite the injury he had sustained earlier. 

“The journalists?” A monotone question, judgement laced in every ounce of enunciation. 

“If Potter is right that Black is innocent; that he did not, in fact, kill all of those muggles. If Sirius Black is innocent, and if he received the dementors kiss anyway… with no auror supervision… there will be uproar.” 

A prisoner. Singular. Black or Pettigrew. Pettigrew or Black.

“It was what the Ministry ordered they do.” 

Draco’s stomach dropped. 

“Which is no excuse for why they tried to do it to Harry Potter. It won’t just be Lucius Malfoy we have breathing down our necks about this.”

Draco sat upright. He pushed back the blankets and slipped out of the bed. Hissed, quietly, at the feeling of the cold tiles under his feet. Moved as quietly as he could, across the room. 

When he reached Harry’s bedside he saw that Harry was awake too. Listening. His eyes fixed on drawn curtains. Or they were, until he flicked his eyes over to Draco. He shifted over, so Draco crawled on to the edge of his bed, all the better for whispered conversations. He lay his head down on the far corner of the pillow, blocking Harry’s line of sight to the closed-off bed. 

“What happened?” He whispered. 

Harry was pale. He looked grim. He looked like he’d done some crying. He shook his head, quiet. His green eyes stood out starkly against his face. He brought a finger to his lips. Hush. 

Draco settled, rested his head on Harry’s pillow, tried to focus on the voices outside again. 

“…we’ll have to see what Alastor says,” Fudge was sighing again, “I thank Merlin that his retirement hasn’t officially started yet.”

“It seems we’re in luck.” 

“Black was something of a protégé. Until the incident with…”

There was a distant thunk of wood on the floor, it made Harry jump somewhat, but he steadied when the rougher, louder voice joined the fray. “I don’t have my heart set on a heartwarming reunion.” 

That was the rough voice of Alastor Moody. His presence made Draco feel apprehensive, even from behind a door and several beds away. His father hated the man with the kind of passion that Draco rarely saw. It was no wonder why; Moody was notoriously hard and unforgiving on anyone who practiced even a scrap of the dark arts. 

“What does Pomfrey say?” He barked, the comment must have been directed at Severus, because that was who answered. 

“Only that it will be impossible to tell until he regains some level of consciousness.” 

“If he’s capable of it.” Fudge breathed. 

“Oh, he’ll be conscious, at some level. If he can speak he’ll be fine.” Moody grunted. “If all he can do is blink and drool, he’s a goner.” 

“Sirius Black…” A fourth voice spoke, more hesitant, younger. “Which one are we supposed to be hoping for?” 

“Whichever one gets us more answers.”

“And this is…?” Fudge asked. 

“My newest protégé. She’s got something of the same issues as the last one; mouthy, talking out of turn —” 

“Sorry, sir.” 

Draco shifted, he couldn’t take it anymore. He arched back to look at the closed curtain of the bed. Sirius was in there. He had to be. Sirius was in there, and no one was sure if he still had a soul or not. 

“Exhibit A.” A huff. Draco blinked, and shifted. He sat up, and looked at the curtain. Sirius was in there. He might be empty. “But that isn’t the case we’re working on, and —” The clang of the wood on the ground again, a raised voice. “Is that your bed, Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco froze. Harry froze too. With a shaking breath, Draco put his feet back down on the cold floor, and retreated back across the room. Back to his own bed. He sat, delicate, on the edge. 

“Ah, to be young. At least we know the night hasn’t broken their spirits.” 

“Let’s hope what comes next doesn’t do that for them.” Moody grunted.

“Only time will tell.” Severus’s voice was a drawling thing. He sounded much less dazed about things than he had earlier; more alert now, more pointed. “I believe Professor Dumbledore is expecting us upstairs. Now that we are all here, we’d better not keep him waiting. There will be time to check on the children later.”

Alert. Pointed. He knew Draco was awake, and knew he was being eavesdropped on; and against his better judgement, Draco felt hurt that Severus wouldn’t even come into the room to scold him for it. 

The sound of voices retreated away, down the hall. They were walking away. 

Draco, Harry and Hermione all stayed put, still and silent, until the footsteps had echoed far away. The light was on in Pomfrey’s office, but the door was closed, the windows frosted. With a rebellious glint, Draco got back to his feet, stepping quietly until he could stand in the middle of Hermione and Harry’s two beds. 

“What happened?” He asked, again. 

“Pettigrew stunned us.” Hermione explains. “He got you good, Draco. Right in the face.”

Yeah, he remembered that part. 

“Pretty sure he remembers that part, ‘Mione.” 

“Professor Snape woke up and floated us back to the castle.” She barreled on. “I heard them say it.” 

“I’m sure he’s loving the hero treatment.” Harry muttered, glum. Draco leveled him with a cutting expression. 

“Anything important in the middle, there?” 

Hermione and Harry both cut a look toward the covered bed. They both looked stricken by it. By Sirius, on the inside. 

“What happened to Pettigrew?” Draco asked, insistent. 

“He — I don’t know. No one has said anything.” 

“He tried to transform but he couldn’t.” Harry finally manages. “I saw him. He ran into the forest. I started to follow him but then I…” His eyes fixed on the curtain. “I almost caught him but then I heard Sirius — the dog — and he sounded hurt so I…” 

“We think the wolf hurt him, and then…”

“I found him by the lake. The dementors were all over him. All over me. I couldn’t fight them off.” 

Draco’s heart was cold, at that. How long and Sirius been alone with those creatures? The ones who wanted to devour his very soul? How long had Harry been there, in the cold with nothing but his fear and an incorporeal patronus to protect him?

And now, they didn’t know if Sirius had a soul left or not. “But you’re okay.” He managed, a hope he needed to cling on to. “You got out of it.” 

Harry gazed down at his own hands. Dark skin, fingernails still caked in dirt from Merlin-knew-what. “Someone saved us.” He said, like he was in a dream. “Someone cast a patronus, and then I passed out.” 

“Sev?” 

A shrug of a shoulder, a shake of head. “I don’t think so.” 

Draco sat again. There, on the edge of Hermione’s bed. She sat up too, dangling her feet off the bed next to his own. He could feel the warmth of her body in the scant inches between them. 

“Do you think he’ll be… okay?” Hermione asked, looking at the drawn curtain. 

A beat. A shrug. “I don’t think so.” 

Draco pulled in a slow breath, holding on to the image of Sirius in the future. Sirius, with clean hair in a delicate curl. Sirius, with star spun eyes. He was supposed to smell like sunshine and wet dog, someday. He was supposed to be okay, and call Draco starshine. “Only time will tell.” 

The words were an echo. Severus had said them. They needed to wait. Time would tell. His head tilted. He considered it. The pointed nature of the words, the care Severus had taken to lead the majority of their authority figures away from the infirmary. Had there been a message in the words that Severus had wanted Draco to hear? Was it a prompt to action? 

He couldn’t see Severus encouraging him to do anything that would help Sirius Black. But Sirius Black was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to have a soul. 

He had seen the future. It was supposed to happen.

Unless he had changed something.

Unless he hadn’t changed enough. Was Draco supposed to make sure that happened? Was he supposed to give Sirius a way out of all of this? Was he supposed to have done more? 

It was possible. 

More than possible. 

Draco had spent all year frozen in bouts of restless indecision. He had frozen when he should have been acting; he had let the year get away from him. Desperate for visions; never knowing what he was supposed to do with them once he’d gotten them. 

How much time had he wasted, searching for answers that were impossible to find? Pouring over books, pouring over timelines and pro-con lists with Hermione. He’d wanted to know all of the facts before he made any decisions. He’d wanted to believe that he could find a logical path through the chaotic churning mess of his visions. 

Maybe he should have been more reckless. Maybe he should have started grabbing at. the future and tearing it apart between the palms of his hands and his delicate fingers. Maybe he should have shouted every fear and doubt he had from the rooftops. 

How would this year have changed, if he had knocked on Remus Lupin’s office door and said: I can see the future, and I need you to help me. Or if he had stopped doubting himself and demanded Severus put the past to the side and choose him over everything else. He could have looked up at his godfather with pleading eyes and said; Please, I need you to be on my side. 

“They still think he did it.” Hermione was saying. “If they don’t have Pettigrew…If the aurors decide there isn’t enough proof that he’s innocent.” 

“Even if he wakes up, they’ll give him the kiss anyway.” Draco monotones, grim with the weight of it. Only time would tell. 

Harry shuddered at that. Of course he would. He’d been so close to it, if what he said was true. He’d felt the cold and the pull of his own soul. Draco eyed him, the red rim of his eyes and the exhaustion deep in every line of him. “We need to stop them.” 

“We need Pettigrew.” Draco nodded. 

“But how…” Hermione let out a soft breath. Her palms came up, and she scrubbed them over her face. When she looked up again, she had her eyes fixed on Ron, who still hadn’t woken up. “How?” 

The three of them sat in what felt like a never-ending glum silence. Draco laid back against the foot of Hermione’s bed. He rubbed his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose. It felt like he’d been hit by the Hogwarts Express as it pulled into Hogsmeade station. It hurt so badly that he could feel the beating of his own heart in the back of his skull. 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” He breathed again. It earned him strange looks, but he wasn’t looking at them, so he couldn’t feel thrown by them. As his body shifted, he felt the slither of the time turner falling against his collarbones. The thin chain was perfectly warmed, almost imperceptible against his own body temperature — except the weight of the chain moving tickled him, and he sat upright. 

As if highlighting a point, Harry opened his mouth. “It’s my fault. I didn’t get to either of them in time.” 

Only time would tell. 

Brown eyes met grey. Dark eyelashes fluttered against a wave of understanding. Hermione glanced at Harry, and then back again. “Of course.” She breathed. 

“So let’s change it.” 

Her head shook. “It’s dangerous.” 

“Life is dangerous.” 

“We could make things worse.” 

“Or better.” Regulus came to mind, with his face like a suit of armour, with the body he held like a weapon and the words he wielded like blades. “The future is never set in stone. You can always try to change it.”

“What are you two on about?” 

His head snapped in the direction of Harry’s voice. He let out a breathless, flustered laugh. “Time travel, Harry.” 

Hermione had already hopped off her bed. She was finding her shoes — ratty sports shoes that had seen better times, so alien from anything that Draco would have bought, something that Pansy had never worn, pink shoelaces against white canvas — and pulling them on over her socks. “How far back?” 

“What time was it when we went down to Hagrid’s?” He asked. 

“What?” 

He ignored Harry, he looked at Hermione. “By the time we left the castle? Almost seven.”

He looked at his own watch. It was half past midnight. “Five.” 

“It’s a stretch.” 

“But it’s possible.” 

“We haven’t gone that far back before.” 

“We’ll have to.” 

Harry was out of his bed, now. He was pulling on his own shoes, as if he would blindly do whatever Hermione was doing. His trainers were in even worse condition than hers were. “We can’t time travel.” He argued, a low huff. “We’re thirteen.” 

“Speak for yourself.” Hermione and Draco spoke the words in unison, with the same huff, both firmly fourteen and well in possession of the potential to time travel. 

Hermione shook her head, her own little laugh bubbling over her lungs. She shoved Draco firmly in the direction of his own bed. His bare feet were could against the ground, so he moved where she pushed him. Moved, sat, fumbled with shoelaces. 

“It’s how we’ve been getting to all of our classes this year.” Hermione was saying, in hushed tones, to Harry. “A time turner. We got special permission from the Ministry to use one.” 

“You’ve been —” A breath, a huff. “Time travelling, all year?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded her head, a movement that Draco could see out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry.” 

“Another thing no one told me.” 

“We weren’t allowed to.” 

Draco stood, stretched out his arms. The hit-by-a-train feeling wasn’t exactly fading, but he was certain it was something he could work past once he set his mind to it. I must be a fortress, he told himself. He needed to don the strong, glossy armour that Regulus Black had learned to paint over himself. “We’re technically not allowed to do this either, but;” Another laugh. “Fuck it. Let’s break the rules.” 

All he could do for a moment was watch the shift in the expression on Harry’s face. Confused, astounded, utterly grateful. Green eyes met his, and Draco realised that he would do nearly anything to make this work. 

It was time to be reckless. 

All three of them navigated their way through the castle, fuelled by breathless bursts of adrenaline. They had hours at their disposal to get this right; and maybe Draco was being delusional, but he really believed that they could do it. 

“We can’t be seen.” Hermione told Harry, when she had pulled them into a secluded alcove, five hours ago and also right now. They all had to press a little bit too close. Harry’s eyes were intense, and very green. 

The three of them were a dangerous combination. 

They needed to be careful. 

It was one of the rules of time travel. Impact the world around you as little as possible. Don’t accidentally destroy the full timeline, don’t disturb your own path through passage of it. Don’t look yourself in the eye and quick-strike insanity and paradoxes in your own life. 

“At least, not by ourselves.” Draco corrected, adjusting the collar of his shirt, feeling distinctly ruffled. It was easier to avoid your past self when you were safely ensconced in separate classrooms. The risk of crossing paths tonight was higher. “We need to… maintain cognitive equilibrium.” A beat. Harry’s brow ruffled. “We’ve gone back in time. We’re going to change the past. But you can’t change it in ways that will change your original perception of the night. Otherwise… you might create the kind of mind bending paradox that will slowly drive you insane.” 

“Right. Okay.” Harry said. “Great. Lets avoid that, then.” 

There was a flatness to it, a franticly applied sarcasm. Such a bland Potter-ism that Draco almost wanted to start a fight with him. That was what he would have done last year. Poke and prod until Harry couldn’t apply the sarcasm and had to start throwing punches. Punches wouldn’t help today, as much as the idea of skin on skin contact was always thrilling. 

“We need,” He decided. “A structured list of goals.” 

“Exactly.” Hermione breathed, as if she was relieved she wasn’t the one who needed to say it. The look that crossed Harry’s face implied he strongly regretted ever letting the two of them become friends. 

“Save Sirius. Catch Pettigrew. Don’t get caught.” Harry supplied. 

It was as if it was simple to him. Those were the things that needed to happen today, tonight, and Harry was ready to stare them down with steadfast determination. He could imagine that this was what Harry had done last year, too, when little Ginny Weasley got taken into the Chamber of Secrets. He had simply decided she needed saving, and he had done it. 

“I’ve got an idea on that second one.” Draco mused; because yes, he would like to make sure Sirius Black kept his soul firmly in his body, but it wasn’t really the most important part of this. Sirius’s soul wouldn’t do him any good if they sent him back to Azkaban, and without proof that he was innocent, they’d just take it from him later. “We should —” A breath, a beat. “I cannot believe I am suggesting this, because it really does sound like the height of stupidity, and really it’s indicative of the contagious nature of Gryffindor heroics but — I think we should split up.” 

A look of uncertainty crossed both of the faces before him. “I don’t know, Draco.” Hermione said. “Wouldn’t it be safer if we tried to stay together?” 

“Nothing about this is safe.” It was a simple declaration to make, a statement of truth that couldn’t be denied by either of the friends who stood before him. They knew this was dangerous. Dangerous was what they did. 

“You want to face a murderer, a man who blew up twelve muggles just for a distraction. Alone.” Harry deadpanned, again. His disapproval was plain as day in his voice. Draco would have quaked at the sound of it, bent for Harry’s approval, if he hadn’t decided that tonight he was being steadfast and strong in his own right. 

He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear — he hasn’t cut it, even though his father told him to, and it’s longer now than it’s been in years — and fixes Harry with a look. He’s stolen this one from his mother, placidly calm and not to be argued with. “I know,” He sighed, put upon. “It’s a particularly Potter-esque move. I don’t mean to steal your thunder.” 

“Draco,” A scolding tone, and Hermione rubbed a hand over her exhausted face. 

“Hermione.” Comes out quick, before Draco straightens his shoulders and speaks with as much authority as he can muster. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. This way, you can devote all of your attention to Sirius. I’m not going to be helpful in a fight against a hoard of dementors. In fact, I may be a hinderance. But what I can do is handle a man like Peter Pettigrew.” 

Even as he said the words, he wasn’t certain that they were true. But that was the thing about confidence and authority; you had to believe the lies you told other people. They would be able to tell if Draco let himself falter, so he needed to believe that Peter Pettigrew was an obstacle that Draco could face. Draco couldn’t afford to think of him as the spectre in a vision of the future, the one who had filled Draco with so much dread that even his boggart had been a symbol of it.

Draco couldn’t afford to be afraid. 

Later, maybe. When all of this was done, Draco could have a nice proper emotional breakdown and sob into his mother’s dresses like he was six years old again. But that was after, and this was now. 

“We should vote on it.” Harry said, with the air of someone who had just discovered the winning move in a game of chess. It was an idiot’s gambit at best. 

“Exactly,” Hermione said, like a traitor. Now Draco was the one wishing that Hermione had never been Harry Potter’s friend. 

“No.” Draco decided, firm. “This is not a democracy.” 

“You’re insufferable.” Harry told him, a burst of action from the boy, voice too loud when they were1 three people who ought to have been hiding. Draco and Hermione both moved at the same time, to cover Harry’s mouth with their palms, but Draco got there first. His pale palm stopped further noise from escaping Harry, eyes ablaze with annoyance in a way that Draco hadn’t seen for months now. 

He looked Harry dead in the eyes, and didn’t move his hand. 

“Do you trust me?” The words were becoming a litany between them, a mantra. Draco wondered if that card was ever going to become overplayed — but he only asked it when he needed Harry to say yes; and Harry knew that. 

A beat passed. Harry nodded, the smallest movement of his head, up and down and up and down. All three of them released a breath, when Draco pulled his hand away. 

“I don’t like it.” Hermione shook her head, a movement more gentle than it should have been. She wasn’t really arguing, and she sounded resigned, like she knew this was a battle that had already been lost. 

“You don’t have to.” He told her, because it was something that all children needed to hear at one point or another. He’d certainly heard it more than his fair share of times. “You just have to do it. Theoretically, you already have done it.” 

Her chest heaved with a huffing breath. Harry’s forehead wrinkled in thought. Draco reached out, he rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “I promise.” He tells them. “This is what we need to do. And I’ll be careful if you will.” 

A beat passed, before Harry nodded his head again. “You’d better be.” Intense green eyes met his, and Draco understood it as an order; or at least as close to an order as someone like Harry was willing to throw around. 

“A promise is a promise, Potter. I’m a man of my word.” Shoulders straightened, smile falling into place. “Now, tell it to me again. Which way did Pettigrew run?” 

Splitting up with Gryffindor’s golden children left Draco on his own — and he was equal parts relieved and unsettled by it. He’d catalogued both of those emotions as abnormal reactions to the present situation; but he didn’t need to linger and unpack them. They would both be rectified soon, in one way or another. 

He let Harry and Hermione slip away — down and down toward Hagrid’s hut again, retracing their steps. He goes down and down too, toward the sprawling expanse of Slytherin House. Footsteps quick, lingering cuts and scrapes covered as best as he can manage. 

He thinks for a moment about his friends. Maybe he could grab them, quickly, and get help with his plan. But — interfering more than he needed to would be a recipe for disaster. He had to believe that this was something he could do on his own. He had to believe that fates hand would have guided him differently if this was not the path he should have been taking. 

It was important to believe. 

It was important not to waste time pining for Theo and Pansy, when he knew that they would already be hard at work on his behalf in an hour or so. 

His housemates were at dinner, he knew that much. So he was able to slip into the common room while it was at it’s quietest, scant students littering the room, and none of them all that concerned with what Draco Malfoy was doing on an evening like this. 

He threw his trunk open, and considered the problem at hand. Deft fingers opened his potions kit and pulled out the small knife within, slipped it away again in the pocket of his robes. He hesitated, then, before his fingers slipped between the lining and he found the small glass vial he had hidden within, long ago. The potion he’d made to bring a vision. The potion that had tasted like metal and blood and destiny, and left him shaken. He hadn’t liked it. He slipped it out anyway, and tucked it in the pocket close to his heart. 

What else did he need? What was to stop Pettigrew from just turning back into a rat the second he stepped inside the Forbidden Forest and escaped the wards that Theo and Pansy had painstakingly laid in place?

More wards. He pulled out rosemary and rue, a small satchel, for protection.

Draco’s head turned, he shifted and threw Theo’s trunk open instead. He’d written a guide for his wards, but he’d left the book behind, and Draco grabbed it without a moment’s thought. He got back to his feet, took a shaken breath, and ran back up the stairs. 

He nearly collided with Blaise at the top, which was a bad sign. It meant that everyone would be flooding the halls and the chances of someone noticing his sorry state would be all the higher now. 

“Sorry!” He told Blaise, “Got to go!” 

The Marauders Map would have been helpful, and Draco thought bitterly of the way that it was probably sitting on Remus Lupin’s desk at this very moment. Sprawling parchment full of names that would lead Lupin where he needed to go. 

He could go and get Lupin now. He could get Lupin to the willow earlier, and maybe things would happen differently. Those were the kind of dangerous thoughts that drove men mad and utterly destroyed timelines. He walked through the halls with purpose instead, and got outside and away from the castle as fast as he could. 

The grounds of Hogwarts were sprawling, expansive in a way that could make the younger students feel lost and overwhelmed. Draco wasn’t lost. He knew where he was going. He knew the trail he needed to take down toward the Willow, down toward the edge of the forest.

That was where Pettigrew would run. Between the two birch trees that stood like sentries. It was still light out, but as Draco stood before them he could sense the creeping dark within. The light was dim in the forest, where leaves bloomed and branches climbed high, blocking the last vestiges of sunlight from breaking through and shining on the earth below. 

With a deep breath, Draco stepped inside, leaving sunlight behind and resigning himself to wait in the dark.

Draco held the knife in his hand. 

He gazed at the tall and sturdy Elm tree that sprouted from the earth and climbed high. The trees in this forest were some of the most ancient in all of Scotland, for they had been long protected by those who dwelt in the Castle. This tree had been here far longer than Draco had, and would be here far after he died. 

He’d meant to carve the ruins upon the trunks — but looking at them now, he couldn’t bring himself to raise the blade and make an etching. Theo had said that in the old days, Irish witches and druids used to carve protection runes into earth and stone and trees. It would add power to the act.

But he couldn’t do it. The trees were alive, in their own ways; they had small but powerful spirits, and when you hurt them they wept for what they had lost, tree-blood and the cry of wind through their branches. This tree’s roots, the roots of it’s magic, likely went all the way down to the underworld, otherworld, place beyond. 

With a huff of breath, Draco kicked at the ground, frustrated with his own sentimentality. His father would have driven the blade deep and taken what he needed from it. His father would have claimed the tree-blood strengthened the magic. His father… was a cruel man, and Draco knew that more than anybody else did.

He didn’t want to be a cruel man. 

His mother would have lowered her forehead to rest against the bark. She would have whispered magic and stories and songs into its wooden flesh. She would have taken her time, and when the tree came to love her, she would have asked for what she needed; no conquest, just a gift that the tree would grant to her. That was the way things should be done. Gently, gently; the way the old builders needed to beg the trees for their wood, and pray to the mountains for their stone, so that they may build great and powerful magic-homes. 

Draco didn’t have time to be gentle. He put the knife away regardless.

“I need to catch him.” He told the trees. “I’m scared I won’t.” 

The trees rustled around him in the late evening breeze, the moon began to crest overhead, and Draco fell to his knees. He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled out the small satchel of rosemary and rue. They would strengthen a ward, if he could find something to paint the wards on with… he fingered at the dry ground beneath his knees. It was flaky and course, already feeling the drain of their recent dry spell of weather. The forest needed a rain storm, life water from the sky. 

He could make water with his wand. It was a sixth year spell; but his mother had taught it to him a long time ago. It was one of the essential spells that all young witches and wizard learned from their parents, the people who worried that they would get lost and die of thirst. It was a spell of soft movements and soft words, and Draco had learned it quickly. A steady wave of his wand, left to right. “Aguamenti.” He whispered to the night, and water, clean and pure, began to trickle from the end of the wand. 

“Paltry daubings of mud and rue will not serve you well.” The voice behind him made Draco jump, made his fingertips slip from where they had been drawing out small amounts of the herb mix , spilling a pinch of it on to the now-wet earth. 

The Centaur had made no sound as it approached. Of course it hadn’t — it was a denizen of these woods, and knew them as well as Draco knew the castle. He was startled to see him standing there — gleaming pale in the moonlight, long hair of silver and a handsome face looking down on Draco from on high. 

“It is dangerous to be in the forest tonight,” The man told him, and gazed down intensely. “The planets whisper of dark tidings. And yet I do not think you are wrong for being here.” A tilt of his proud, regal head. “Tell me, star-touched-one, what business have you?” 

Draco’s throat clicked in his ears as he swallowed. A Centaur wouldn’t hurt him. A Centaur may actually be… helpful. They were powerful creatures, weren’t they? More intelligent and more skilled with divination than Draco could hope to be in his lifetime. The Centaurs would have been reading the circumstances of this day in the stars for weeks. 

“There’s a man on the grounds.” Draco began, voice steadier than he’d imagined it would be. He was glad for it; that at the very least he could pretend at grace and confidence. “A murderer. He’s going to escape through this part of the forest tonight. He can change into a rat.” 

“And you seek to lay a trap for him?” The head tilted again. “Why not carve your magic with that blade? It would be far quicker, and more powerful, than dirt and water.”

“I—” He faltered, then. “I didn’t want to hurt them.” 

“A human who knows how to show empathy for the trees.” The centaur moved, rounded Draco, “That is a rare thing indeed. Many have lost sight of the old ways.” 

“My mother and I keep them.” 

A huff of breath, and Draco jolted in surprise as the Centaur suddenly dropped a thick-woven bag before him. “Take the ochre and the juniper berries. Use the bowl to mix them with the dry earth and your herbs. Spill some clean water inside; and add a drop of your own blood.” With a staff, he drew a sigil in the dirt. “This will serve your purpose, if your heart is true.” 

“If my heart is true?”

“Magic is shaped by your intent. You are doing a brave thing, Draco Malfoy. You must be steadfast.”

He punched out a breath. The trees were pressing down around him, and he sounded less than steadfast when he opened his mouth again. “I’ve never been a particularly brave person.” Draco admitted, that secret fear of his; there was a part of Draco whose instinct was to hold back. “I’ve proved that in this forest before.”

“You witnessed a great evil that night.”

The night he’d spent with Harry, in the Forbidden Forest. Eleven years old and bitterly resentful, quick to lash out at something that had hurt him, quick to try and bring about the downfall of those who had jilted him. The night that he’d seen the unicorn, dead, and it’s silvery blood wasted in the ground while that thing drank from it.

He swallowed, shivering suddenly in the night. 

A unicorn was one of the most sacred magical creatures. They were pure. They were perfect. They were wrought from magic incarnate. To have seen one in his lifetime should have been a blessing — instead, it haunted him. He’d been tainted by it, in some intrinsic way that only he could sense. It had been a sign, he’d been sure. An omen; that his life would be a cursed one. So far, he hasn’t been able to prove himself wrong. Maybe it really was a sign from the universe.

“Yes,” He agreed, throat tight. “I witnessed a great evil, and I ran away.”

“It is natural for a child to flee from a sight so horrible.”

“Harry didn’t run.”

“No,” The voice rumbled behind him, deep and steady. “It may have killed him. Sometimes it is right to run from an evil such as that. You must ask yourself; will you run tonight?”

“No,” Draco swallowed again. It was a promise he needed to make. Speaking the words gave them power over him. The universe would hold Draco Malfoy accountable. “I can’t.”

“Then take the ochre and the berries. Make the signs.”

Draco touched the bag. Hesitant. “I have nothing to give you in return.” He told the centaur. 

“Take them.” 

Draco didn’t hesitate a second time. He opened the bag and set to work, hands steady under the guidance of someone who knew what they were doing. The heavy footsteps began to pace around him, as if on a parole, as he set to grinding and mixing with the bowl and spoon.

“You seek to prevent the coming of a great evil.” The centaur told him. “We have seen this darkness; it has touched us all before, and if it comes to pass over this land once more there will be no way to prevent the death and mayhem that will sweep this land.” 

He took his knife and pricked a fingertip, letting blood drip drip drip down into the intricately carved wooden bowl below it. The sight of it made him feel dizzy. 

“Know this, child; this coming evil may be unpreventable. In the great unwinding of the universe some things must come to pass. Some things may never be changed.” 

He used his finger to blend the mixture together, and winced at the sting of dirt in his freshly pricked wound. “Why are you helping me, then?” 

“Because even the Prince of Sighs was able to escape his doom, when a kind stranger stopped to help him.” 

The Prince of Sighs was an old story. An old fairytale, the kind that every mother knew and told to their children. The Prince of Sighs and the bakers son. It was Draco’s favourite. He’d once made his mother read it to him every night for a year. Prince of Sorrow, Prince of Sighs, gleaming tears upon thy eyes — one hundred and ninety-nine seers had foretold his doom, so he plotted with the bakers son to fake his death and flee his kingdom. He outran his destiny. 

“Thank you,” He said, and meant it. “I hope I won’t fail.” 

The centaur smiled. “I hope for the same.” He tilted his head again, an inclination that felt somehow more respectful than Draco had earned. “Keep the supplies. May they serve you and your gift in whatever way the fates decide.” 

Draco paled slightly, and felt the chill of the night rising around him. “You’re leaving?” 

“This is a matter for humans, little one. We do not meddle in the doings of wizards.” He said, steady. “I will be close. If you have need of me; if your life should be in danger, call for Firenze.” 

Firenze left the small clearing in a cacophony of hoofbeats. Draco was alone again. He cradled the bowl in muddy palms. He took it and scrawled the marks of magic against smooth patches of bark. 

He should have felt feral, really. This was exactly the kind of behaviour his dad would punish him for. Filthy, in the forest, fighting to defend a fucking blood-traitor, like a degenerate savage — except that wasn’t Sirius, and it wasn’t Draco either. He didn’t feel feral and disgraced at all. 

He just felt like he was doing magic. 

He worked his way around the trees, marking each and every one he could, imagining the lines of magic connecting them and creating a delicate web. It was a reflection of nature; Pettigrew was a tiny little fly and Draco was a far more cunning spider. 

There was a large oak tree that stood at the end of the logical path through the trees. Two diverging roads rejoined there. Draco pressed his back against it and waited. 

For a brief moment Draco let his eyelids flutter closed. It was too early for Pettigrew to make an appearance, so all Draco could do was wait. His head ached. The mixture he had crafted was caking and dry on his fingertips and palms. When he flexed his hands some of it cracked and flaked away. These were sensations that Draco tried to focus on so that he could stay grounded in the moment. 

He leaned his head back against the tree behind him and fluttered his eyes open again. Up above him he could see the darkening night sky vivisected by the sprawling branches of the oak. 

The wait was long, but Draco didn’t let himself flinch away from the monotony of it. He kept his thoughts centred on his goals. That was how you got through things like this. That was how the Prince of Sighs had escaped his doom; single mindedness. 

He imagines himself that way. Single minded. Sharp as a blade and laying in wait. He has his wand in his hand and magic surrounds him, which means that Draco has the advantage. He knows that Pettigrew will come, but Pettigrew won’t be expecting him. Draco Malfoy will be nothing more than a boy he stunned to run away.

But Draco Malfoy is waiting for him. 

And Malfoy’s always get what they want. 

He can hear it, distantly, when things start to go wrong at the willow. The moment that they noticed the rising of the moon, the raised tone of Sirius’s as he begged Remus to focus on who he really was. He moved away from the tree at his back and stood in wait, wand at the ready. 

Pettigrew’s footsteps were loud against the ground. He tripped on gnarled roots and branches whipped at his face as he ran down Draco’s path. Draco could hear him swearing in frustration before he saw him. But then he saw him, trying and failing to transform. 

Draco smirked.

A fly, caught in a web. Pettigrew looked around in frantic terror until he saw Draco. 

Draco pointed his wand at him.

“Malfoy,” Pettigrew sighs the name as if Draco is little more than a nuisance. It only made Draco feel harder and more certain, and he had to fight to keep his body loose instead of freezing up. Pettigrew smiles a slimy, cunning smile. “Saw me coming, eh?” 

“You won’t be able to change.” Draco told him. 

“Yes,” Pettigrew’s eyes darted around the woods. He saw the runes and sigils after a long moment. “Someone’s been doing arts and crafts.” 

“It’s called magic, actually.” Draco shook his head. “Shame you’re not smart enough to recognise. But if you were smart, you would have run away a long time ago.” 

“And now you’re going to stop me?” 

“Harry wants you to rot in a cell.” Draco shrugged one delicate shoulder, as if it was the natural conclusion. “I’m rather invested in giving Harry what he wants.” With a flick of his wand, he cast the disarming spell, and caught Lupin’s wand in his off hand. 

 Pettigrew’s face did pale at the name, and paled further when he lost the wand. Draco had to wonder if the man felt shame for what he had done. Did guilt plague him, as he lived near Harry’s side these last three years? Did shame dog his every step? Or was Pettigrew the kind of evil that cared only for himself? 

“Your change of heart was very moving.” Pettigrew told him. “I’m impressed by your steadfastness, little Malfoy. They struggled to trust you, but you slithered your way into their lives regardless.” 

Draco smiled at that. “A Malfoy always gets what he wants.” 

Pettigrew’s head tilted. “Do they?” A hum, as if he was considering the question himself. “Have you thought about what you’ll lose, if you do this?” 

His fingers tightened their grip on his wand. Draco should stun the man now, but the sound of his voice was like poison in his ears. Pettigrew must have been good at talking his way out of trouble. He must have practiced it for a long, long time. 

“You’ve already ruined whatever relationship you had with Sevvy,” Pettigrew inclined his head back the way he had come. “Your father won’t forgive you for pleading your pathetic little life to Harry Potter.” 

It stung as the words landed. He thought of Severus; the disappointment and anger in his voice, the way he had looked at Draco like he could never be forgiven for the betrayal of siding with Sirius Black. Severus had been a steadfast force in his life. He had been the calm and steady presence that guided Draco through his days. A man of gentle scolding and soft encouragement, affection ill-hidden by barely barbed words. 

He had to swallow against the grief of it. If walking this path meant alienating himself from Severus… 

“The boy has lost nothing yet.” A voice told him, and as if the very thought of the man had summoned him, Severus Snape appeared from between the thick expanse of trees. His wand was raised in shaking hands. “Except, perhaps, any sense of logic and restraint.” 

Severus’s face was a pale, stricken thing. The deep red of the blood at his temple from where he had struck the wall stood out stark against the pale expanse of his face. He was a lesson in contrast, dark and bright in equal measure. His wand was raised, his mouth slack with a distant kind of shock. 

He looked at Pettigrew, and knew him. 

“So, it was true.” He rasped. “Peter Pettigrew lives.” 

“He confessed it.” Draco leapt to say. “He confessed to everything. He killed those muggles. He’s the reason James and Lily Potter are dead.” 

Sev paled further at that. It made him look like a ghost. “Is that so? You sold them to the Dark Lord for your own safety?” 

Pettigrew smiled, a wavering thing. He looked over his shoulder at Severus. 

“He’ll go free, you know? If you bring me back.” Pettigrew met Sev’s eyes, and he wasn’t pathetic, suddenly. It was if he knew that whimpering wouldn’t get him anywhere. The cowardly rat had transformed into something more cunning. He’d chosen the one path that might lead to his own safety, chosen to tug at the puppet strings that he had available to him. “Sirius Black, innocent and pardoned.” 

Severus’s jaw clenched, so did his hand, knuckles gripping his wand so tightly Draco thought it might snap. Draco had seen the power of his hatred before. Severus Snape was a man who believed things with his entire heart; and he believed that Sirius Black should be doomed to an eternity in Azkaban; or better yet, the Dementor’s kiss. He didn’t want Sirius Black to go free. 

“Shut up.” Draco snapped, keeping his own wand pointed at the man before him. He looked at his godfather, then, across Pettigrew’s insidious form. 

“Already defending him,” Pettigrew let out a small laugh. “Do you see it, Snape? Black and Potter would take away all that you hold dear. You know they would. They’ve done it to you before. Do you really think little Draco here will pick you over them?”

Draco shook his head, emphatic in his belief that they could get out of this. Severus said he hadn’t lost anything — yet. That meant that Severus was still willing to fight for this, fight for him. “That isn’t true.” Draco said. “The only thing that can drive me away from you is… you.” 

That did make Severus flinch. For a moment Draco panicked, thinking that he was only playing further into Pettigrew’s hand. “If you don’t help me, you’ll drive me away.” Draco told him, he said it as steadily as possible. “I need you to help me. I’ve seen it, okay? I’ve seen it a dozen times — this man is going to do awful things. He’s going to hurt me, someday. He’s going to make me wish I were dead so… So, I need you to choose me.” 

They looked at each other. Severus’s dark eyes met his. There was a raw vulnerability there; and Draco knew that this was dangerous. Severus hadn’t asked to be a guide-light. He’d never cared for children. But he’d let Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy lay a baby in his arms and he had vowed to protect him, from that day until his dying day. He’d sworn on magic itself. 

“Sev?” He questioned, and found his own voice thick with pleading desperation. 

A beat.

Pettigrew smiled at him; that same chilling, slimy smile. “He won’t. He’s too loyal to —” 

But Pettigrew didn’t get to finish what he was saying, because Severus had moved quicker than the words could find shape in his mouth. The spells had been cast silently, in only the stern flick of Severus’s wand under moonlight. It left Pettigrew, stunned and bound, at their feet. 

Draco felt something in himself crumble. His arm lowered, his wand hanging limply at his side. His body moved before he could really comprehend what he was doing, and when he reached Severus’s side, Severus’s arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. 

“Idiot child.” Severus scolded him, and Draco nodded against his chest. Severus’s palm cupped the back of his head protectively, as if Draco were still a small child. “I presume Potter came up with this idiotic plan.” 

Draco shook his head. “No, no. It was — well, Granger and I came up with it at about the same time.” He lets a shaky breath out. “It was something you said, that made me think of it.” 

“So I am to be blamed for your hubris.” Severus stepped back, his voice betraying acceptance of the fact. His palms rested on Draco’s shoulders. “You could have been killed.” 

“I’m sorry.” He breathed, because he would have to say it at some point or another. “It was reckless.” 

Severus nodded, exhaling. “Go on.” 

He wanted more. 

“I’m sorry for not telling you what was happening.” And he meant it, suddenly. He felt it gnawing in his chest, an awful kind of catharsis, and suddenly he realised that he had started crying. “I’m sorry for — being scared you wouldn’t help me.” 

“It was foolish of you.” Severus told him, scolding, but the harsh words were softened by the way he pulled Draco back into a hug, fiercely tight. “Never do it again. Promise me.” 

“I promise.”

Severus just hugged him for a moment, until with a heaving sigh that he pulled away and seemed to steady himself. “I’ll drag him back out to the willow, and send a patronus up to the school. You, my insufferable child, will find your despicable little co-conspirators and get to a place of safety until you can return to the school unseen.” 

He nodded his head, and Severus stopped him with a sharp look. “By ‘somewhere safe’ I mean; out of the forest. It is far too dangerous to linger here.” 

Dangerous, yes, because of the massive werewolf that Professor Lupin had transformed into. That did pose a threat, and it made Draco feel cold and clammy. “They’re at the lake, I think.” Draco told him. “That’s where — you need to warn them, in the castle, the Dementors are about to swarm the lake because that’s where Harry and Black will be.” 

Severus’s nod was stiff, quick. He nudged Draco gently. “Go, Run.” 

Draco ran. 

He ran through the trees. Ran as fast as he could. 

Footsteps thundering on the ground, until the stitch in his side became so painful that he had to double over and place a palm against the nearest tree. The bark was coarse under his fingertips, crumbling against the weight of his palm. 

A cold shiver of déjà vu ran down his spine. 

The panting of his breath felt loud in the air around him. His heartbeat was thudding inside his own ears like a heavy drumbeat; but he still felt hyper-aware of the woods around him. When he heard the distant crack of a branch, he flinched. 

It was a concentrated effort to steady is breathing, to blink past the exhaustion and the dizziness and the ache of the stitch in his side. It took a concentrated effort to look around the woods around him and check for any danger. 

He barely saw it through the trees. The hulking, furry, massive form that Professor Lupin had shifted into. It was a bare scrap of fur in the distance, sniffing around the earth as if it was hunting for something. 

Draco held his breath. 

It seemed like a death sentence.

Too late, he remembered what he had glimpsed in the orb during his divination exam earlier that day — and Merlin, that felt like weeks ago. The boy who ran from the wolf. The boy who was pursued. It had been Draco, all along. Another set of signs that Draco had been blissfully ignorant to. 

Maybe he could escape without the wolf knowing he was there? 

He focused on breathing quietly. That meant not panicking. 

Draco has always been panic prone, so that second thing was more difficult than he could have imagined. He’d always been a drama queen, everyone said it. When his hummingbird heartbeat kicked up in his chest, he always struggled to quiet it back down again. Which meant that moving quickly had really become the important thing. 

He moved his foot, wincing at the rustle that even that small movement made. The ground of the Forbidden Forest was littered with leaves and dry branches, earth parched and at-odds with the idea of quiet footfalls. 

If moving quietly was out of the question, the best thing Draco could count on was speed. He wished he had a broom; he wished he had anything more than his own two feet and quick-beating heart. 

A breath, and he launched himself away from the tree and down toward the lake, thankfully in the opposite direction from the wolf. The sound of it had to have caught the beast’s attention, but Draco tried not to look back. It would only slow him down. 

“Firenze!” He called out, a desperate plea, a scant moment he heard the pounding of the wolf’s galloping run in the distance. Yes, he had caught it’s attention. Yes, it was coming after him. 

He runs. 

He runs until his chest burns, until he’s practically crying with exhaustion, but the desperate rush of adrenaline in his system is carrying him through the moment, and he manages to keep his feet moving. 

Just keep going, he tells himself. Keep going, or die, or worse. 

He has to dive to the side when Firenze comes speeding down the path ahead. There are others, too. At least three centaurs swarming out from the trees around them, corralling the werewolf back and away. 

Draco didn’t hesitate. He just kept moving. 

As he neared the lake the lingering warmth of the summer night began to leech away. It was as if a creeping frost was expanding outward and through the forest, until Draco was shivering and his breath felt like knives in his own chest. 

He could see the swarm of dementors through the trees — they get thinner, at the edge of the forest that leads up to this secluded inlet of the lake. It makes Draco run all the faster, with scant time to process the fact that he’s grateful for the way the foliage gets thinner as you approach the lake. 

He barrels to a stop and catches himself against a tree at the same moment Harry stands from his hidden perch at the edge of the lake. There’s another Harry, on the other side, valiantly trying to summon a patronus strong enough to beat the dementors back. But they’re too strong, and there are too many of them, and they fight their way through his misty summoning as if it were barely there at all. 

But his Harry stands straight, and closes his eyes, and holds himself as if he’s confident in his own success. “Expecto Patronum!” Harry cries, and Draco almost flinches backwards at the blinding light that explodes from his wand. 

The light takes shape; a massive stag, royal and majestic antlers and strong limbs that carry it across the lake, hunting down the swarming dementors with ruthless efficiency. Harry has summoned a saviour, and given it a job to do, and the stag will hunt the dementors until the last one of them has fled the grounds. 

Draco feels breathless at the sight of it; but then again, maybe that was from all of the running, and the fear. Even as he tried to explain it away, he knew that the excuses were useless. The only thing taking his breath away right now was Harry Potter. 

Hermione gasps too, which makes Draco feel steadily better about his own reaction. Surely, Harry made everyone feel a little bit breathless. How could he not? 

All three of them watch the stag at work, until the only thing left to look at is Harry and Sirius, on the far bank of the lake. The other Harry has collapsed against the sand from his efforts. He had fought so hard to save this man, this shadow of a man that he barely knew. That was who Harry was. 

Sirius had collapsed too, of course he had. He’d been the main target of the attack. All Harry had been to the dementors was a distraction, someone who was getting in the way of a good meal, in the way of the justice they believed needed to be wrought. Sirius was the one they really needed to worry about; and they all watched that emancipated body shift. Black raised his head, shuddering  and shaking as if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He’d been wounded by the wolf long before he collapsed here, but now all three of them watched as he shifted. 

He’s looking at Harry, Draco realised. In this moment, when Sirius Black was so exhausted, nearing death — he’d taken the time and spent the effort to look for Harry Potter. He could see the visible relief that coursed through Sirius’s body when he reached out and felt the gentle rise and fall of the other-Harry’s chest.

It was in that moment of relief that he collapsed again. 

“He’s going to be okay.” Draco breathed. That was when Harry and Hermione spun to look at him properly for the first time. Harry’s eyes locked onto his, wide eyed and — 

They weren’t the only ones. A massive, feathered form arched its long neck out from a cluster of trees. Buckbeak. 

“You saved the Hippogriff?”

He pants the words. They’re the only thing he can say. The only thing beyond: fuck, you’re beautiful. Those were words that could never come out of Draco’s mouth. Not if he wanted to be the kind of boy who survived his adolescent years intact — finding a normal boy beautiful would be one thing; finding Harry Potter beautiful was a death sentence. 

But he was beautiful, that was the problem. 

His patronus was beautiful. The fact that he could cast it, fully corporeal, spoke to the pure and unsullied nature of his spirit, of his magical core. He looked wide eyed and proud of himself, like he had done the impossible. 

And the fact that he had saved Buckbeak was kind of beautiful too — the thought hadn’t even occurred to Draco. That was what set them apart, wasn’t it? Harry thought he could save everyone, and tried to. Harry believed that he could succeed when he set his mind to some foolish plan, and Hermione encouraged him, and together they came up with potential plans that Draco couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

Draco was simply more selfish than they were. He had been single-minded in his plan. Even if he had the idea to save Buckbeak, he probably would have written it off as a waste of time and neglected to put the effort in. 

Hermione let out a breathless, half hysterical laugh. “Why are you so out of breath?” 

“I —” He stopped, put his hands on his hips, ripped his eyes away from Harry, finally. “I outran a werewolf, thank you for asking, Hermione.” 

“And Pettigrew?” 

He tried not to look back at Harry’s face, despite the fact that the boy had spoken. It was rude, not to look at someone who was talking to you; but Draco was allowed to be rude, because he had done his part of the job perfectly. “Throughly stunned and safely in the arms of Professor Snape.” A breath, “He sent a patronus for — look.” 

Draco pointed out across the water, before pulling Harry and Hermione away from it. Professor Flitwick and Hagrid had appeared from the grounds-proper and converged in the two unconscious figures. 

“It won’t be long until Pettigrew is back up at the castle.” Draco whispered, as they took cover near Buckbeak’s hiding spot. The beast was preening and fixing it’s feathers, occasionally stopping to arch its head around, examining their surroundings with a critical eye. “Fudge is still there, with Dumbledore. He’ll see Pettigrew face to face. It will be proof, at the very least —” 

“Sirius will get a trial.” Harry interrupted, voice thick with relief and awe. “Or acquitted straight off.”

“They’ll have to admit they were wrong.” Hermione nodded. 

“Yes.” A breath, “I should think so.” 

Harry embraced him rather suddenly, and Draco’s breath hitched at the feeling of arms closing around him. Hugging. Harry Potter. Harry Potter was hugging him. They were standing on the edge of the forest, a wild werewolf running within, and Harry Potter was hugging him. 

There were only a select few people in the world who Draco was used to touching at all, and now Harry Potter was hugging him, and he felt overwhelmed by it, shivering even as he returned the embrace. 

“Thank you,” Harry breathed against his hair, and there was that shivery feeling again. “Thank you,” And broke out into a huff of laughter that time, something that grew louder by the second. Draco could feel the surge of Harry moving just a heartbeat before he processed the fact that Harry was leveraging strength to pick him up, to spin him in triumphant circles. 

It felt like a head rush, he felt laughter escape his own chest before he could stop it. Draco squirmed, trying to escape, getting his feet back on the ground and batting Harry away from him. Hermione, laughing too now, shushed them as steadily as she could. “Stop it! They’ll hear us.” 

“Brute.” He scolded, even as his palm made contact with Harry’s shoulder to push him away. 

Harry was beaming at him as he stumbled back from the push. Cheeks dimpled, eyes bright, grinning a devastating grin. He looked flush with happiness, satisfaction, and it was all fixated on Draco. It almost made him feel sick, with the way his stomach squirmed. Beautiful, he thought. 

He swallowed his own damnable longing, willed back the flush of his cheeks and thanked every god he knew that it was too dark out for anyone to notice the way his pale cheeks had pinked up under the attention. 

“We should go.” Draco whispered. 

“We’ll need to be careful.” Hermione nodded. “We’ll need to slip into the hospital wing somehow, without anyone seeing us.” 

Harry pulled his invisibility cloak out of his pocket with a grin and a flourish, holding it up and wiggling it in front of their faces. He seemed to like doing that to Draco. All Draco could do was try and snatch it from him, but even then, Harry pulled it away before his fingers could make contact. 

“Come on, then.” Harry whispered, sounding more at ease than Draco had heard him all night. “I want to see if Sirius is awake when we get back.” 

An invisibility cloak was a rare thing. An artifact that was intricate, and expensive, and rarely built so beautifully as the one Harry owned. Draco could see why it had become such a consistent accessory. No wonder Harry had been able to pull off so much rule breaking in his short career at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

As they moved across the grounds and through the hallways of Hogwarts, Draco decided that he loved the cloak. He would cherish it and bless it’s name until his dying day. It allowed them to move without notice, allowed them to slip through the great hall and up the grand staircase, until they reached the floor that held the hospital wing. 

They waited on the stairs without finishing their assent. Hermione was the one to stop them short. With a finger against her lips, she tilted her head, and Draco realised that they could hear the Minister, Severus, and the Aurors talking from their post outside the hospital wing doors. 

“…got something of the same issues as the last one; mouthy, talking out of turn —” 

“Sorry, sir.” 

“Exhibit A. But that isn’t the case we’re working on —” 

Draco shifted from his spot tucked behind Hermione, arching his head closer. Part of him wanted to try and peek around the corner, hoping he could see who the other auror was, hoping he could see that Severus was doing okay now that he had gotten back to the castle. 

“Is that your bed, Mr. Malfoy?” The words, accompanied by the banging of a wooden cane on the cold stone floor, made Draco flinch and freeze again. No one could see them beneath the invisibility cloak, but all three of them stood as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. 

He was certain they’d been caught; yet at the same time, he remembered slipping off Harry’s bed and retreating to his own. That was the logical Mr Malfoy for Moody to be talking about.

“Ah, to be young. At least we know the night hasn’t broken their spirits.” Fudge’s voice was lofty, tinged with nostalgia. Harry met his eyes for a brief, fleeting moment, a smile quirking his lips. 

“Let’s hope what comes next doesn’t do that for them.”

“Only time will tell.” The drawl of Severus’ voice was a comfortingly familiar sound, words that Draco had heard before. “I believe Professor Dumbledore is expecting us upstairs. Now that we are all here, we’d better not keep him waiting. There will be time to check on the children later.”

“Right you are, Severus.” 

“Lead the way.” Moody grunted. 

He held on to Harry and Hermione for a moment, watching with hawk eyes as Severus and his companions walked down the long hallway, up the adjacent set of stairs. He caught a good glimpse of Moody and the woman who had come with him — her hair was black and curly, barely coming down to her shoulders; she wore plain make-up, but she had drawn her eyeliner into a sharp point, a striking frame around her grey-blue eyes. She followed the others like she wasn’t certain she should be there at all. 

When the adults had ascended out of earshot, the three of them shifted again. They had to wait outside the door until they heard their own voices grow slightly louder and then fall silent. Once they’d waited a beat, they pushed the doors open a crack and stepped out of the past, firmly into the present. 

Harry whipped the invisibility cloak off them and hurriedly hid it beneath the sheet of his bed. All three of them rushed to take off shoes and tidy appearances before anyone could see them. 

Of course, Weasley was the master of inappropriate timing, and that was the moment he had chosen to open his bleary eyes and finally catch up to the rest of them.

 “W’z goin’ on?” He asked, voice thick with the heavy sleep he had been in. Draco supposed he couldn’t be judged for staying passed out for so long. Sirius really had done a number on his leg, which was still tightly wrapped in bandages, looking rather painful. Really, Draco was savagely glad that Weasley had been left behind. 

All three of them froze at the sound of his voice. All three looked at him, and then at each other. 

Draco burst out in a laugh before he could stop it, and had to slap a hand over his mouth. The reality of their night had suddenly dawned upon him, adrenaline fading away into waves of relief and breathless hysteria. His mouth did little to cover the laughter, and it was seemingly infectious, because Harry began to echo it in short order. Even Hermione seemed caught in a breathless giggle. 

“We’ll explain later.” She tried to whisper, and failed utterly, voice quavering too much under the weight of her own hysterical giggling. 

Ron had fixed his gaze on Harry, flicking it to Draco and back again. “They’re laughing. Why are they always laughing now?” 

It set Harry and Draco off further. They locked eyes, and the infectious nature of it doubled under the weight of the question. This time last year, they had been mortal enemies. Now, they couldn’t look at each other and feel anything like malice. No more ill-will. Just… all of the good things Draco never thought he would have. 

“I think you’ll really have to get used to Draco now.” Hermione actually managed the whisper, this time. 

Ron just groaned, but didn’t say anything, he flopped back against his pillows and rubbed at his eyes instead. 

Madame Pomfrey gave them all a generous dose of dreamless sleep after she had scolded them for their childish laughter. A hospital wing was a place of healing, and they were meant to respect it, and they were meant to be resting. Hermione and Ron had both gotten off scot-free, which seemed to please the redhead.

“I’ll wake you the moment we know something.” She’d had to assure Harry before he would take the potion from her. He’d been staring anxiously at Sirius’s bed again, trying to peek between the curtains at the man who lay beyond. 

All Draco did was watch as he swallowed the potion. He didn’t argue when she handed him his own vial, mere moments later. A dreamless sleep sounded ideal to Draco in that moment; the exhaustion of the last few weeks — frantic searches and desperate plots, exams and expectations and monsters lurking around every corner —were finally catching up with Draco in a way that he couldn’t escape. 

He took the vial and swallowed the contents, laying his head on the pillow.

 Hogwarts pillows weren’t as soft as the ones at home. Malfoy Manor housed only the best, the highest quality of everything. He was achingly homesick suddenly, and sick with anxiety. He wanted his mother, as if he were a child sick in a bed. He wanted her to brush his hair and tell him everything was going to be okay. At the same time, he couldn’t stomach the thought of having to face his father. 

His father and his anger. 

His father and his disappointment.

His father and the lessons he always wanted to teach Draco. 

In a couple of days, he would be going home for the summer, and it would be weeks before he could be free of that pressure again. 

It had been worth it, though. It will have been worth it, to have helped Harry. It will have been worth it, when Sirius wakes up and everyone see’s that he really is okay. It will have been worth it when they lock Peter Pettigrew up in a tiny little cell and let him rot there. 

Those churning, vicious thoughts were the barrier that stood between him and the sleep the potion should have brought to him. Pomfrey’s dreamless sleep never had quite the same kick to it that Severus’s private reserve did; it didn’t lull you to sleep with quite the same intensity. 

So Draco remained awake long after the others had drifted away. He was just Draco, alone with the moon and the stars and the gentle breathing of his co-conspirators, daydreaming about vengeance and all the different ways his summer was going to be miserable. 

He stayed awake long enough that he heard the door to the infirmary creak open. Another teacher coming to check on them. Draco relaxed and turned his gaze to the figure when he recognised the footsteps as Severus’s steady gait. 

Severus noticed his wakefulness, one of his graceful arms went to the pocket of his robes and withdrew the delicate silver watch that hung from the chain. He checked the time, gaze landing on Draco as the watch snapped closed again. 

“You should be asleep by now.” 

“I’m thinking too hard.” 

Severus fixed him with a stern look. “There is no need to worry. I administered the first dose of veritaserum twenty minutes ago. Alastor Moody is extracting Pettigrews confession as we speak; with the Minister of Magic for a witness, no less.” 

The wave of relief Draco felt mingled poorly with the anxiety in his stomach. It was good news. Yet Draco couldn’t quite quench the fear that had begun to brew in his own stomach. 

“He’s going to kill me,” Draco sighed, heavy with the weight of it. “When Pettigrew tells them what happened. The papers will write about it, and my father will kill me.” 

Severus’s face was intense and innocent all at once. “I’m afraid Pettigrew remembers very little of his capture.” 

“What?” 

“He doesn’t remember anything beyond running from the willow.” Severus told him. “I made sure of it. The world will believe I awoke in time to stop his escape.” 

He’d made sure of it. 

Obliviation. 

Severus had taken the time to stop and make sure Pettigrew couldn’t say anything that would reveal what Draco, Harry and Hermione had done that night. 

Severus did it to protect him. So that Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t find out that his son had bent time to prevent Peter Pettigrew from escaping, and dooming them all to a life under the boot of Lord Fucking Voldemort. 

Draco’s throat felt tight with a wave of gratefulness. 

“So, what will you tell them? My parents?” 

“The truth of things, I suppose.” He hummed, “That their loyal, brave son, caught three Gryffindors breaking the rules and tried to stop them. And that when he found out the man who betrayed the Dark Lord was alive, he told me, and I dealt with it.”

Lying to Lucius Malfoy wasn’t an easy thing; but Severus had always been good at lying. He made lies into truths by believing them so steadfastly that even the strongest legilimens couldn’t catch him in his falsehood. Severus was good at lying, and he was willing to do it for Draco now, despite what a pain Draco had been all year. 

Severus had meant it, Draco knew it now. He was on Draco’s side, wherever that took them, however it doomed them. Draco’s face twitched, lips forming into a smile. Severus rolled his eyes. He rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze at the same time, and then pushed Draco back down into his pillows. 

“Sleep, you foolish boy.” He muttered, “There will be time to talk about everything in the morning.” 

Draco found Harry at the edge of the lake again, early in the morning before they needed to leave for the train. He was sitting cross-legged on the large, flat stone that Draco had claimed as his brooding spot.

He was staring out at the lake intently, as if he could see something no one else could. This was nowhere near the spot where the dementors had found Harry last night, but Draco couldn’t help assuming that the memory was plaguing Harry. 

A lot of things were probably plaguing Harry. 

He folded his limbs as gracefully as he could, mimicking Harry’s pose and looking out at the water. 

“Brooding, eh?” 

“Mm.” Harry nodded his head, brows furrowing, the movement slightly pinched in the place where his lightning bolt scar vivisected his eyebrow. There was a narrow patch of hair there that simply refused to grow. 

“You’re going to steal all my special, secret places, aren’t you.” 

“Seems likely, yeah.” 

“I take issue with this. It’s unfair to deprive a young man of all his secret places. A brooding rock is a sacred, sacred place.” 

“Shouldn’t have brought me here, then.” 

“I didn’t know that would mean I had to share.” Draco argued, hand over his heart. “I’m very bad at sharing.” 

Harry cracked a smile, shook his head. It was a fleeting thing, but it felt a lot like victory. “You are such an only child sometimes.” 

“Hm,” Draco nodded. “Everyone needs to have at least one flaw. Yours is being a horrible little thief.” 

Something in Harry’s eyes sparkled, just a little bit, as he turned to look at Draco. He seemed burdened, still, but lighter than he had when Draco sat down. “You think,” He started, slow and sarcasm-touched, “That you’ve only got one flaw?” 

“Rude, Potter.” It was a halfhearted response, too gentle for the joke of it. He shifted an elbow, poking into Harry’s arm softly. “No need to lash out at me just because you’re feeling frustrated.” 

Harry’s head shook again, and he squinted at the water as if it held all the secrets of the universe. “I don’t see why they can’t just let him go.” 

Sirius had been taken from the hospital wing last night. Draco hadn’t actually seen him all that much — he’d been content to be quietly pushed to the side while proceedings unfolded, unwilling to draw too much attention to himself, unwilling to take attention away from the happy reunion and the flurry of activity. He’d just been relieved to know that Sirius had woken up, sharp as ever, and that the Ministry had reopened the investigation into what happened that night. 

With Pettigrew having turned up alive after all these years, and confessing to committing the crimes Sirius had been convicted of, it was a near certainty that he would be acquitted and turned loose sooner rather than later. Still, the Ministry had come to take him away. 

“I think they’re going for a ‘following due process’ thing, this time.” 

“And where was that attention to detail when they were throwing him into Azkaban in the first place.” 

“They’re not throwing him back into Azkaban, Harry.” He breathed, “It’s just one of the detention rooms in the DMLE. Much nicer. They’ve got beds. And taps.” 

It wasn’t helpful, he knew it even as he said it. 

“They’ll let him back out again.” Draco tried again, “They’ll have to, there won’t be a choice not to. I bet they’d even let you visit, if you kicked up enough of a fuss.”

Harry’s face twisted in longing, and in frustration. “No. I’m going back to my Aunt and Uncle’s on the train. Same as always.” A jagged sigh slipped from his lips. “He asked me to live with him, you know?” 

“Which you instantly accepted, I imagine.” 

“Yeah.” It sounded almost petulant. “Yeah, I did. But now it feels like they’ve taken him away and he might not come back again. He’s gone. Professor Lupin’s gone.” 

Empathy twinged in Dracos chest, an annoying stabbing pang, aching on Harry’s behalf. “Don’t be silly. You’ll see them both soon.” 

“It just feels like —” Harry cut himself off. 

Draco could have prodded. He could have tugged at Harry and made him finish. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sometimes, words fail, and you need a minute to rebuild the parts of your soul that conjure speech. He let silence wash over time, let himself just breathe quietly next to Harry for a moment. 

“It just feels like I’ve been alone forever.” Harry told him, heartbreakingly quiet. “It feels like the universe is dangling a family in front of me and — I don’t think i’m allowed have something like that. I feel like it’s just going to get taken away from me, and then I’ll be alone again, but I’ll know exactly who I’m missing out on.” 

Draco started to speak. 

“Don’t.” Harry interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say.” 

The look that Draco shot in his direction was reproachful. He tilted his head and considered it, letting the silence sit again, letting Harry feel whatever he needed to feel for a moment. When the silence had stretched out beyond uncomfortable and into something more relaxed. 

“Give me your hand.” Draco said, finally. 

“Why?”

“I want to read your palm.” He laid his own out, expectant, waggling his fingers in encouragement. 

Harry turned suspicious, confused, looking like he was going to brush Draco off. Draco pulled out the one trump card he thought might work. “You’re not scared of a silly little palm reading, are you, Potter?” 

Seconds ticked by on Draco’s watch before Harry defiantly flopped his hand on top of Draco’s, palm up. Draco didn’t hesitate to grasp it and bully Harry into a better position. He made a show of staring intently down at his palm. His eyes tracked the delicate lines wove their way along the skin. Harry’s hands were bigger than his, slightly, and Draco made a concentrated effort not to feel something about that. 

He hummed, as if he had seen something entirely conclusive. An irrefutable truth.

“Yep. Just as I thought.” 

“What is it? Your grand prediction.” 

“I predict that you’re going to have a happy reunion, bond with your godfather, and next year will finally be normal.” 

Harry looked down at his own palm as Draco let it go, the dead weight of it dropping down between the two of them. Something crossed Harry’s face, a fleeting shifting expression that Draco couldn’t place. 

“A normal year.” He said, like it was a silly idea, but a silly idea that he longed for. It was a mark of amusement for the fact that Draco had suggested it in the first place. “You believe that?” 

“All of my predictions come true.” Draco leaned back on one arm, looking at Harry intently. “It will be so normal you’ll be crying of boredom before Christmas.”

He could imagine it. Harry was a chaos junkie, deep down — he wouldn’t know how to navigate a full school year without someone trying to murder him. Part of him wondered if Harry agreed with him, as he watched a savagely amused smile cross Harry’s face. Finally, another one. 

“You promise?” 

A nod. “I promise.” 

Harry looked at him, a flash of something challenging in his expression. “Pinky promise.” 

He felt his face twist in confusion, and Harry must of seen it too, because he was already laughing by the time Draco managed to find his words. “What’s a pinky promise?” 

The laugh stayed thick in Harry’s voice as he explained. “It’s a thing muggles do, I guess. Its… it’s one of the most serious promises you can make someone. When you’re a kid, at least.” 

Draco rubbed his palms on his sleeves for a second, before shifting. “Go on, then.” 

Harry held up a hand, pinky finger extended. When Draco did the same, Harry hooked his finger around Draco’s and kept it locked there as Draco followed suit. 

“Do I need to say something?” He asked, deadpan.

“Just your promise.” 

He looked at Harry, at those amused green eyes and the way his smile cut across his face. “I promise.” He said. “Everything’s going to be okay.” 

Harry looked at him for a long second, the air around them a little too heavy with the weight of it. Their fingers stayed linked for a long time, before Harry nodded and they broke the connection. 

It really did feel like a binding vow. 

It was a promise Draco hoped he could keep.