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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was about to tear her own hair out. 

It had been, an incredibly frustrating few weeks for Hermione. Between preparing to search for the Horcruxes, Harry suddenly abandoning his Malfoy obsession, and being dragged out of bed by Ron, to run to the Slytherin dormitory to abscond on a wild adventure to Italy, Hermione was more than a little stressed. 

So when, after a few days at Grimmauld, Draco Malfoy showed up, a good few inches taller, and something off behind the eyes, Hermione just accepted it. 

Harry had told her and Ron about seeing Malfoy at the Death Eater meeting in his dream, but wouldn't tell them about why he cared so much, or why he had to bring Zabini of all people with them. 

And Hermione hated to admit it, but she didn't mind Malfoy as much as she used to. It was obvious to anyone who wasn't Ron that Malfoy had changed, Hermione couldn't say why or how, but he had. 

She was sure Ron would be able to figure it out if only he stopped to look, he was the best of them at that sort of thing. He always knew the right words to say, when it mattered. 

Malfoy had told her about the first wizards, and Hermione still couldn't figure out why. She'd spent days pouring over every book about Fae she could find, learning all sorts of folklore, and lots of what looked to be creation myths like the one Draco had told her, but nothing factual. She almost dismissed it all as a cruel prank, but something about Malfoy's face nagged at her. She couldn't let it go. 

So Hermione went to the only person she could think of. 

She braced herself, before walking up and tapping Luna's shoulder softly, "So sorry to bother Luna, but do you have a moment?" 

Luna smiled brightly, "Oh of course! Have you given any thoughts to the wrackspurts lately?"

"No, I haven't," Hermione grimaced, "But I had a question for you." 

Luna blinked, "About what?"

"Faeries." Hermione blurted out, her cheeks going red. It all sounded like some childish nonsense, a muggleborn girl wanting to believe in fairytales now that she knew magic was real. 

But Luna just bounced on her heels, clapping her hands, "Oh! You've noticed! I thought I was the only one who knew!"

"Knew what?" Hermione asked, surprised. 

"About Draco!" She responded, before lowering her voice, "Though I don't think he'd be too pleased if we went around yelling about it, come with me!" 

Luna grabbed Hermione's hand, pulling her out the door, towards the courtyard. 

"Luna? What are you talking about?" Hermione pressed, so close to the answers she needed. 

"Well, I only know because my father's a Malfoy," Luna said, seemingly unconcerned for the way Hermione began to choke, "Only distantly related to the main line, you see, he swore it all off ages ago, but he was still raised to be aware."

"Aware of what, Luna?" Hermione barely resisted shaking the small girl, she didn't have time for family histories. 

"Of the fair folk, and their rules." Luna answered, "The Malfoys are the closest thing we have to the First Ones."

Hermione stared, "You mean, Malfoy is a Fairy?"

Luna looked startled, "Oh no! They don't like that name, they're Fae, or Fair Folk, or-" 

"What?" Hermione growled, tugging a hand through her hair, "That makes no sense! Everyone says the Fae disappeared!"

"They did," Luna said, growing like it was obvious, "But they had to leave some people behind, to make sure we didn't mess things up too badly." 

"And Dark wizards-" 

"Dark is subjective." Luna replied, with the cadence of something quoted. 

" Dark wizards are part Fae?" Hermione breathed, thrilled to finally get somewhere. 

"Not at all," Luna corrected, ignoring how Hermione threw her hands up, "Just the really old ones, like the Malfoy's," She tilted her head, "and the Black's I suppose, that must be why Draco's so obvious." 

"Let me get this straight," Hermione squinted, "You're saying Malfoy is a Fae, and that's why he's so strange."

"Oh, he's no stranger than any of us." Luna smiled dreamily, "Anyways, I've got class, it was lovely talking to you Hermione, watch out for your nargles." And like that, she walked away, leaving Hermione gaping after her. 

Alright, Malfoy was a fairy, sure! Why not! 

But this? Malfoy strutting into the room, making himself right at home with that insufferable smirk, already knowing about the Horcruxes? No. Hermione couldn't do it. It was absurd. 

"How do you know about the Horcruxes?" Harry asked, standing up. 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, "I live with the bastard, you think I wouldn't be able to tell if his soul's been torn to shreds?" 

"You can sense that sort of thing?" Hermione interrupted, leaning forward. 

"Well, none of you could, but yes, I can." Malfoy replied, causing a muscle in Ron's jaw to twitch. 

"Oh yeah? What's that supposed to mean?" He snarled. 

"Exactly what I said, Weasley." Malfoy snarled right back, making Zabini rest a hand on his shoulder, to comfort him, or hold him back, Hermione couldn't tell. 

"Because you're not human." Hermoine interrupted, she needed confirmation before she could do anything else. 

Malfoy snapped his head to look at her, eyebrows raised, she noted that Zabini didn't look the least bit surprised. 

"Well, I guess they don't call you the cleverest witch of our generation for no reason, when'd you figure it out?" He grinned, not looking upset at the sudden exposure.

"What?" Ron cried, spinning to look at Hermione. 

"He's not human, Ron, he's a Fae." She said bluntly, "And I figured it out a few days after we spoke in the library." 

Malfoy nodded, "Quick, well done." 

Ron went red, "When? You spoke to Malfoy and didn't tell us?" 

"It's not like I owe it to you, Ronald" Hermione frowned, something going sour in her mouth, "I don't need to report my conversations back to you."

"You do if they're with Malfoy! Harry does!" He cried, throwing his hands into the air. 

Harry went red, and Malfoy raised an eyebrow, expression cold, though he didn't speak. 

"Not anymore, haven't you noticed?" Hermione challenged, "He's not said a word to us about Malfoy since he went after him." 

Harry was now staring at Malfoy, who just sat, perfectly composed. And Hermione couldn't help but notice what was probably the most obvious difference between the Malfoy she knew, and the Malfoy here. 

The Malfoy Hermione knew would strike back immediately, and leave no insult unpunished. He was loud in his hatred, constantly smirking and snarling. 

The Malfoy in front of her was quiet. He clearly took offense to what her and Ron were saying, but he bit his tongue, something Hermione had never known him to do. 

It made her uneasy. Why was he so quiet? 

"I believe I have the solution for that, as well." Malfoy said, leaning his head onto his hand, looking entirely comfortable. 

"Malfoy-" Harry tried, but he was cut off. 

"What, Potter? Don't want your friends to know the whole story?" He sneered, something familiar coming back into his expression. 

Ron snapped his head to look at Harry, and Hermione couldn't blame him, "Harry, what's he talking about?" She asked, fear growing in her. 

"It doesn't matter!" Ron claimed, shaking his head, "He's trying to turn us against each other." 

"Tell them Potter." Malfoy commanded, ignoring Ron. 

"I-" Harry stuttered. 

"Go on, unless you're scared." Malfoy snapped, rising to his feet. 

Zabini looked between Harry and Malfoy with a grim expression, but didn't intervene. 

"I can see this is getting nowhere. I know when I'm not wanted, but when you find the first Horcrux, and it's already gone, don't say I didn't warn you." Malfoy spat, turning and stalking out of the room in a whirl of black robes. 

Zabini lingered in the doorway, "Tell them, Potter, and then come and find me." 

Then he too left the room, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione staring at each other. 

"Well, Harry," Hermione sighed, "Tell us everything."

"I- Well- you know-" Harry said, wincing. 

"Oh come on, mate, just spit it out. It can't be that bad." Ron waved his hand, sitting back. 

"I used a dark curse on Malfoy and almost killed him." Harry blurted, wrapping his arms around himself. 

Hermione stared, " What?"

"Well I'm sure-" Ron started. 

"He was already bleeding, and just standing there, and he started laughing- and I just-" Harry forced out, his face twisting in guilt and grief. 

Ron grimaced, but walked over to put a hand on Harry's shoulder, "Mate, he's a dark wizard, it was self defense."

"I killed him." Harry cried, looking up at Ron angrily, "He died, in my arms. I had to call Snape-" 

" Professor Snape was there?" Hermione asked, incredulous, this was getting stranger every second, but the sadness and guilt on Harry's face was too real to be an elaborate joke.

"Snape had to do CPR, because his heart had already stopped, and he was asleep for ages, and then he started-" He cut himself off with a choking noise, "He didn't deserve that."

Ron looked to Hermione, who could offer no help. How had Harry kept this from them? 

"Why didn't you tell us?" Ron asked, speaking for both of them. 

"He told me not too." Harry replied, looking down at his hands. 

Ron scoffed at that, but didn't say anything further, he just sat down heavily on the couch. 

Hermione mimicked him, flopping back. 

This was going to be a long few months.

Chapter Text

Blaise followed Draco out into the hall. He knew it wouldn't be pretty, trying to get Potter and Pals to work with Draco, but knowing and seeing were two very different things. 

He saw the edge of Draco's robes disappear around the corner, and started off to follow. 

Walking much faster than proprietary would have allowed, damn Draco and his inhumanly long legs, Blaise finally managed to catch up, "Do you truly already know where the first Horcruxes are?" 

"No, don't be ridiculous," Drace sneered, still reeling from the earlier argument, "But Salazar damn me if I don't find them first."

Blaise sighed, why Draco and Potter couldn't let go of this ridiculous rivalry even in the midst of war baffled him, but he supposed he would be more worried if Draco didn't see everything Potter did as a personal affront, "He will be useful, eventually." 

"Oh I know, the prophecy has been allowed to progress too far. Potter will need to be the one to kill him now. But that doesn't mean I can't cut the bastard off at the knees and do the heavy lifting for Potter. Incompetent fucking Gryffindors, I can't belive-"

Draco's angry muttering proceeded to get more and more incomprehensible as Draco yanked open a door Blaise was 90% sure did not exist beforehand and walked in. He continued to scowl and murmur increasingly vicious and uncommon threats while pulling potions ingredients from the shelves and assembling what looked to be a very old cauldron. 

Blaise blinked, apparently they were at the "stress brewing" stage of things. 

Wait, had he said? 

"What prophecy?" Blaise asked.

Draco growled, eyebrows screwing up into such an intent look of rage the bundle of sticks he was holding literally burst into flame, "The same prophecy that Dumbledore so kindly set into motion. The same prophecy my father lost his favor with The Dark Lord over. The same fucking prophecy that says Potter must be the one to kill The Dark Lord." 

He sniffed at the on-fire branches he was holding, and the flame doused itself immediately. 

"Well," Blaise drawled, not particularly surprised, " That's world shattering information."

"I know!" Draco cried, turning to Blaise and throwing his hands up, "Everyone knows prophecies are utter bull! But oh-so-great Dumbldedore- '' He paused, his face draining of all colour "Oh my Merlin. Oh fuck."

He sat down heavily on the stool, burying his face in his hands. 

Blaise immediately pushed himself up, coming around the workbench to put a hand on his fiancés shoulder, "Draco?"

"He knew." Came the hoarse reply, "He fucking knew and-"

Draco looked up harshly, "Dumbledore grew up magical. In a magical community, Blaise. The Board of Governors would never have let him be headmaster if he wasn't. He's not a muggleborn, ignorant to divination magicks." 

"Oh fuck." Blaise echoed, heart thudding, "You think he knew prophecies are entirely preventable, and chose to let it play out?"

Draco shut his eyes tightly, bending his head down so his forehead touched his clasped palms, "It's smart." 

"It's horrific. Not to mention wildly unethical." Blaise replied, sinking down onto the stool next to Draco. To force a prophecy like that, just to have some guaranteed plan of attack, was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and a large part of why divination was considered a serious dark magic by most purebloods. 

Most average wizards looked at it like a joke, but anyone with family from the Blood Wars, who still remembered Merlin and Morgana, knew it was far darker than that. Prophecy magic was dangerous. To presume the fate of another, living, breathing being of free will was a great violation. 

Draco had taken divination, at the behest of his family, and gotten top scores. Trelawney had even pulled him aside to offer additional mentoring, something about being a 'beacon.' Draco refused to even entertain the idea. 

"It's Dumbledore." Draco bit back, completely hunched over. " Fuck."

He looked up, staring at some unidentified point across the room, "We can't tell him." 

"What? Draco, how could we-" 

"Not yet." Draco interrupted, "I will tell him. Eventually." He licked his lips, chewing on them slightly, "But, Love, imagine it from his perspective. He obviously looks up to Dumbledore, probably sees him as family, at this point, you know how Gryffindors are, to find out Dumbledore let his parents die?" He shook his head, "It would crush him. Not to mention Sirius and Lupin."

Blaise sat back, considering what Draco had said. It was true, Potter would be crushed to find out Dumbledore had basically forced him into his fate, anyone would. It was one of the worst things you could do to someone, absolutely vile in every measure. 

"You'll tell him?" Blaise asked. 

"I will," Draco replied, "But I need to look into some things first. As much as I hate him, Dumbledore is smart, and he'll have other plans. I need to know what they are before I come stomping in like a hippogriff. Morgana knows what Potter will do if I don't have sufficient evidence."

He stood, going back to his potion ingredients, "Salazar, why is everyone so obsessed with fate and prophecies and adventures?" He muttered, scowling at the innocent root in front of him. 

Blaise snorted, at least some things were constant. He politely ignored the fact that Draco, as a child, had once longed for adventure and fate and prophecy. 

He emptied his mind of problematic Gryiffindors, and let himself fall into the familiar habit of watching Draco. 

Blaise loved to watch Draco make potions, it was strangely domestic, the closest they would come, anyways, as neither of them cooked or did any other household tasks. 

Because Draco had learned nearly everything there was to learn about potions from Snape, including safety, when they were alone, Draco wore goggles and an apron. 

It was the dorkiest thing imaginable, and Blaise loved it dearly. 

Especially when Draco would take a break, and push the goggles up into his hair. The steam and heat from the cauldron already caused the smoothing charms to fail and his hair to curl wildly around his face, making the resulting style wild and half-feral. 

Blaise would never tell Draco, but he preferred Draco’s hair as it was naturally, with his mother’s soft waves and curls. The Black Family genes had become unfashionable in recent years, for obvious reason, and so Draco applied a strict regimen of spells and potions to keep it straight like his fathers. Just another strike against the man, as far as Blaise was concerned. 

Now, snarling at his potion ingredients, hair a wild mess and an apron tied snugly at his waist, Draco had never looked more like his mother. 

Truthfully, it saddened Blaise, that his fiancé would be so far removed from his family, as many problems he had with the Malfoy-Blacks. Draco loved his family, and Blaise loved Draco, thus, he had been at nearly every family event he could from the time he was old enough to be formally a part of Society. Not to mention all the time he spent with Draco informally.

It was that informal time Blaise reflected on now, as Draco butchered some leaf or another while managing to preserve it perfectly for potion making. The time Draco and Blaise spent alone was vastly different than the time they spent in the company of adults, and even around their friends they were more subdued, hyper aware that every move could be reported back to their parents. 

Not that any of the Slytherins would tattle, but as perfect as they were, every wizard lost track of their information at least once, telling the wrong person the wrong thing. Blaise honestly had no idea how Draco managed now, working as a double agent.

But perhaps he wasn't managing as well as he'd like Blaise to believe, given the way he snarled at the potion ingredients in front of him. 

"If you're going to stare like a creep, you can help. Get your lazy arse over here and chop this ashwinder." Draco huffed, looking up at Blaise from where he was hunched over the cutting board. He stepped back and crossed his arms, hip cocked.

"Yes Dear." Blaise drawled, with a smirk only half mocking on his face. He stood, walking around the counter and behind Draco to take the knife from his hand, "Making your poor fiance do all of the work. I see how it is."

Draco raised an eyebrow, "Well, only one of us recently got maimed on several fronts. I've already lost my looks, could you imagine if I developed calluses?" 

The words were obviously meant to be joking, but they held a bitter undercurrent only Blaise could hear. 

"Draco," He began, setting down the knife and turning around, "You haven't lost anything."

His fiancé scowled, "Don't lie to me. We both know what's going to happen. I'm just lucky you and Severus are the only ones who know."

Blaise felt the words like a knife, "It's not all you are."

"Isn't it?" Draco asked, voice more tired than angry, "Blaise, I-"

"No." he interrupted, "No, Draco. I'm not going to let you think like this."

"Let me?" Draco snarled, face twisting in anger. He stepped forward, shoulders already drawn up 

"Yes, let you." Blaise snarled right back, "You are a massive fucking idiot if you think-" Draco made an indignant noise, "That I could ever, in a million Merlin-damned years, think you anything less than absolutely perfect." 

Blaise stepped forward, taking Draco's still-angry face into his hands, brushing his thumbs over the invisible lines of Draco's scars, knowing their path even under the glamour, "I could never hate you. I could never see you as anything less than beautiful, not because of your name, or your family, but because you're Draco, and I love you."

"I love you. You absolute prick. Not because of your face, or your father, but because I wake up in the morning and choose to."  

Blaise set his jaw, "Do I make myself clear?"

Draco set his hand over Blaise's, leaning into the hand as irritation slowly drained from his face, "I want to get married."

"What." Blaise blinked, taken off guard at the sudden shift, "To who? Right now?"

Draco's mouth curled into a fond smile, "Idiot. To you. When this war is over, The first thing I want to do, is marry you."

"Oh." Blaise said, still reeling from how fast Draco could jump from topic to topic, "Well, that's fine with me."

"I wasn't asking for your blessing." Draco replied, like this was a normal conversation, "It's inevitable at this point, you have no choice."

Blaise allowed himself to smile, "I don't?"

"No, I think not. You've spent all this time seducing me with your unending loyalty, I've swooned. No going back." Draco grinned, "Now come, I've got to finish this before tomorrow."

He turned his back to Blaise, pulling down a silver spoon, and Blaise thought he might have been offended, but when he tried to summon the irritation at being thrown so far off balance, it wouldn't come. 

No one could ever say dealing with Draco was easy.

Chapter Text

Draco woke the next morning knowing he had to leave. There were no summons, no notes, just a sense of foreboding. He knew if he didn't leave now, he never would, and everything he was working for would fall down like the house of cards it was. 

He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay more than he'd ever wanted everything. But that wasn't how life worked, Draco knew that better than anyone. 

Blaise. He was the real victim in all of this. He'd proven time and time again he'd stand with Draco through anything and everything, but as Draco saw it, that was more curse than blessing. 

After all, his mother was still faithfully devoted to his father. Fuck, Draco was still devoted to his father. 

Draco turned and put his feet to the floor, pushing off the bed slowly. He wouldn't wake his fiancé, Blaise would need all the sleep he could get in the coming months. Draco dressed quietly, keeping the lights low, but just as he made for the door, Blaise stirred. 

"Draco?" He asked, sleep tugging at the edges of his voice. 

Draco shut his eyes, grimacing. He turned, walking softly to the edge of the bed, "I've got to go, Blaise."

Deep brown eyes opened, "Not going to say goodbye?"

"I'm sorry." Draco couldn’t say more than that. Wouldn’t. 

Blaise closed his eyes again, hand coming out of the covers to grip Draco's, "It's alright. Soldier of my heart, go on." 

Draco smiled, but it felt like a rock was lodged in his throat, blocking his breathing. It was so much harder to leave like this, having to look into Blaise's eyes and walk away. Draco much preferred being the coward he was and leaving under the cover of night. 

He lifted Blaise's hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the knuckles, "I'll be back." He wouldn't say 'soon.' 

Blaise didn't answer, and Draco didn't expect him to. What could he say? 

" I know?" "Alright?" "Please?" 

They both knew Draco was operating on time he couldn't give.

So Draco pulled away, "Go back to sleep." 

He turned before Blaise could answer, shutting the door quietly behind him. He could apparate out, but again, it was such a grievous breach of etiquette Draco refused it on principle, even if closing the door in Blaise's face felt like molten glass being poured down his throat.  

As if summoned, the second Draco walked out of the door, and into the foyer, Sirius appeared.

Draco kept walking, he had no interest in being shamed for his choices today. 

"Draco." Sirius called, stepping forward. 

"Can I help you?" Draco was almost at the door now, his back still to Sirius. If he could just take two more steps, he could leave. 

But he'd already given so much. If he abandoned all sense of politeness now, what was the point in any of this? He couldn't walk away in the middle of a conversation. 

"Where are you going?" 

Draco couldn't help it, he laughed, "Again? Really? Is this the only way you know how to start a conversation?"

Sirius snorted, "Not much opportunity for conversation in Azkaban." 

"No, I'd imagine not." Draco looked over his shoulder, seeing Sirius in the doorway. The only reason he didn’t walk away then, was the uncertain look on his cousin’s face. 

It wasn't anything someone outside of their family would notice, in fact, it was only visible in the absence of other gestures. A complete blankness in the face, completely still hands folded behind the back, stiff posture. Draco recognised every sign like a funhouse mirror. 

"Neither of us know how to do this, I think." Draco said, because he could already feel his mind slipping sideways into wherever it went when he wasn't at Grimmauld.

"I think you're right." Sirius sighed, looking to the ceiling, his eyes flicking briefly to the covered portrait of Aunt Walburga.  

Draco turned to face his cousin fully, "I'll see you soon, Sirius." because his mother raised him to be polite, and because he could lie to Sirius in a way he couldn't to Blaise. 

Sirius pursed his lips, "I'll see you soon, Draco."

Conversation over, Draco donned his outer-cloak and opened the door, stepping out and onto the street. It wasn't raining this time, the sky was clear, and grey. 

But before Draco could return to The Manor, he had an errand to run, so he apperated to a small, nondescript building in London. Stepping out of the closet the apparition point was set in, he walked out of the door and onto the main street, feet automatically knowing the path to the bright red phone booth, so cloaked in dissolution charms Draco could physically see them. They shimmered through the air, wafting like smoke into the faces of muggle passers-by. 

Picking up the phone, he dialled the designated Malfoy number, 624426. 

There was a small pause, before a feminine voice spoke up, "Right away, Mr. Malfoy."

Let them assume Draco was his father, it would make his path all the easier. Though Lucius Malfoy didn't technically have a job at the Ministry, he was there so often he might as well have. Being the personal barrister to almost every senior level employee would do that. 

As the phone booth lowered into the Ministry, Draco reflected on what he had to do. It wasn't like he had a perfectly clean record, even before joining the Death Eaters. Draco would admit he wasn't the kindest, or most selfless person. In his defence, he'd never claimed to be. 

But the things he'd had to do recently made even his time at school look like an absolute rainbow. But 'had' was a strong word? Wasn't it? Draco chose this, he walked into it, quite literally asked for it even, so who was he to regret it? 

Draco walked through the near-empty halls of the ministry in a daze, one foot in front of the other, as he made his way to the Minister of Magic's office. 

Rufus Scrimgeor was not his idea of an ideal minister, much too righteous, with little to no bite to back it up. He would be easily dealt with.  

He didn't need a disillusionment charm or invisibility cloak to walk through the halls of the ministry, anyone who might have questioned him saw the white hair and cane, and left him alone. 

This meant he quickly reached the minister's office, barely stopping by the secretaries desk. A few smooth words and smiles kept him from signing in for an official visit, but he did think he saw a flash of Weasley-red hair out of the corner of his eye. When he turned however, there was nothing. 

Walking into the office itself, Draco couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of loss. He shouldn't be here. This was his father's job. Why was he here? 

For a moment, Draco couldn't remember. 

No, he was here on behalf of The Dark Lord. He was here because he'd been entrusted with the Ministry. 

Because he'd asked for it. 

"Mr. Malfoy." Scrimgeor said, hardly looking up from his desk. 

"Minister Scrimgeour." Draco replied. 

The minister's head whipped up, his eyes widening in surprise. 

"I have something to ask of you." Draco kept on, working his wand from his sleeve silently. 

Scrimgeor squinted, surveying Draco as his hand twitched quite obviously to his own wand, "Last I heard, you were missing." 

"Funny how fast things change, isn't it?" Draco smiled, his wand in hand, though he left it at his side. He didn't want to do this. 

He really, really didn't want to do this. Draco had made a decision, a long time ago, to act under his own will. 

The last time he'd used the Imperius Curse had been over the summer. She was a lovely woman, a mother, and he'd led her into a fantasy. He'd convinced her she was exactly where she wanted to be. Safe. 

When he looked into her mind, to see what her ultimate want was, she was in her living room, with a cup of tea, and her daughter asleep at her side. 

That was her idea of the best possible scenario. That was her only wish. 

Bellatrix had killed her a week later. 

Draco had decided, a long time ago, to spare Madame Rosmerta. 

And today, he made the decision to condemn Rufus Scrimgeor. 

In the end, all of it really had been for nothing. Here Draco was, still the monster he was raised to be. 

Draco raised his wand, quicker than the minister could raise his own, and, voice horse, whispered, " Imperio."

He felt the spell connect immediately, but past that, there was the familiar sensation of being at an important crossroads. Like he had tipped over the side of a ship, and cold water was running into his nose and throat. 

Draco felt like he was choking, and in his ears, there was a small snapping noise, like a thread being cut, as he fell apart. 

It began to feel as though he was building a wall, a clear here and there. Both with different Draco's. 

Just like with the Malfoy Lordship, there was a separation.

This Draco was no longer privy to that Draco's thoughts. They were different modes of being, the same person on two planes of existence. 

They had to be. He wouldn't survive if they weren't. 

One half of him had Blaise, and Sirius, and pain, and love, and betrayal. 

Another had Bellatrix, and Voldemort, and security, and power, and sacrifice. 

So Draco surfaced from the cold waves, and took a breath unburdened by thoughts of family. 

"You do not remember these instructions, but will nonetheless follow them.” Draco commanded. 

“Nothing is wrong, and the Ministry is strong. Death Eaters are back, but you have arrested all the most dangerous members, and the remaining are nothing but a small fringe group, concerned with the preservation of pureblood culture.” 

“There are no further disappearances, or murders that can be connected to the Death Eaters, or He-who-must-not-be-named. If it seems like there is, you will reassure the public, and anyone involved, even remotely, that the ministry is strong, and will fix things, but you will take no further actions concerning Voldemort, or anyone associated with him.” 

“You will tell The Profit, if they ask, that you are perfectly fine, and so is everyone else.” Draco said, leaning forward and watching the minister's face to make sure the instructions stuck, “That you have already won this war, in all but name.” 

“When I wave my wand, you will resume things as normal, and all you will remember is that we had a polite, if strained, conversation about my father’s retirement.” He waved his wand, quickly slipping it back into his sleeve as Scrimgeor came back to himself. 

The minister harrumphed, “So sorry to hear about that.” He said it with an absolute lack of sincerity, but Draco couldn’t have cared less. 

He smiled, “So sorry to take up your time, minister. I’ll be taking my leave now.” 

And with that, Draco left. The command wasn’t immediate, or saddled with over-specific instructions, and so there would be no noticeable change of behaviour. In fact, it was only a reinforcement of the thought process Rufus Scrimgeor already seemed to possess. Draco had done nothing that would not have already been done. 

Draco left, using one of the floo stations to return to The Manor, where he could feel the dark blight of The Dark Lord.

Already, he could feel the ministry fading from his mind, like someone had pulled a curtain around it, obscuring everything but the base details. 

Before he knew it, Draco was standing in front of the study door, knocking softly. 

“Enter.” The Dark Lord’s voice drawled.

Draco opened the door, and stepped into the room, “My lord, I’ve come to inform you of my return.” 

The Dark Lord grinned.

When he woke up the next morning, Draco found that he couldn’t remember what he said next, or what The Dark Lord had told him. 

His only proof the conversation had occurred at all was the ache in his leg, and the familiar feeling of dread.

Chapter Text

Draco felt like his head was full of cotton. 

He resisted the urge to rub at his temples, keeping his face blank as he sat across from The Dark Lord. 

“You’ve promised me something, Draco, but yet you deny me.” He hissed, practically snarling. 

“I deny you nothing.” Draco replied, trying to keep the ire out of his own voice, “I have promised you Hogwarts, and I will deliver.” 

Voldemort bared his teeth, standing from the desk, “Are you loath to give up your home? Do you still feel loyal to Dumbledore?” 

Draco continued to stare ahead, not meeting The Dark Lord’s eyes, “Dumbledore holds none of my heart, and Hogwarts is not my home.” 

He looked up finally, “Not like it is yours, my lord.” 

Voldemort jerked his head harshly, stalking around the desk to loom in front of Draco, “What did you say.” 

“You need the ancestral magic.” Draco smiled, all of his teeth on display, “This body is a magical construct, and right now you use my family magic to maintain it. But it is not your own, and you are not the magic’s-” 

He was cut off with a vicious slap directly across the face. It sent him clear out of the chair, his arm and leg igniting with pain as they landed harshly against the floor, his head spinning as it rebounded off the wall. 

Immediately, he could tell his jaw had been dislocated. 

It was easy to forget with how lithe and thin Voldemort was, that his body held incredible strength. Draco himself was much stronger than he looked, but even he was physically weaker than The Dark Lord's magically constructed body. 

He stayed on the floor for a moment, his head reeling as he tried desperately to recalibrate himself. 

“P-” Draco let his head fall back against the wall, flinching at the pain it brought, “Patience is a virtue, my-” 

Draco doubled over as a sharp boot lodged itself solidly into his ribs, catching the scars from Greyback’s attack perfectly. He groaned as he slumped furthur onto the floor, pain consuming every inch of him. But he could handle this, it wasn’t anything close to a crucio. 

And wasn’t that funny? The Dark Lord hadn’t used the cruciatus on him since he’d returned, instead choosing more physical means of expressing his displeasure. 

Draco strongly suspected Severus’ influence, though it rankled to think about his proud godfather begging on his behalf for anything. 

“You dare- to lecture me on virtue?” The Dark Lord removed his foot from Draco’s ribs, “You, who is nothing without me? You, who would lie, murder, and pillage in my name?” 

He hissed, “ Pathetic,” before stalking from the room, “Get out of my sight.” 

Draco couldn’t remember how long he laid on the floor, but he did find it distantly amusing how frequently this exact situation had become recently. He probably spent more time on this floor than in his own bed. 

Eventually, when the aches had faded to a manageable amount, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, feeling blindly for his cane. 

It was still hooked over the arm of the chair, miraculously, and he used it to help him stand, even if it took longer than he would ever admit. 

It was enough he broke every rule of etiquette his mother had drilled into him, and apperated directly into Severus’ rooms. Leaning hard into his cane, he took a moment to fight down the nausea he hadn’t felt since he was incredibly young and still apperating with his father. 

He tipped hard into the wall, rattling the frames of paintings hanging there. 

Hearing the noise, Severus rushed out of the inner rooms, throwing open the door to the sitting room violently. Seeing Draco leaned against the wall, his face lost the panic and determination it had held a moment before, and instead fell into tired resignation. 

“Sit down,” He sighed. 

“Ngn,” Said Draco, his displaced jaw preventing him from any further words. He dropped himself onto the small sofa, the developing bruises on his back and chest throbbing in time with his heart. 

Severus stood over him, hands surprisingly gentle as they grabbed Draco’s jaw, prodding until Draco flinched back. 

“Hm,” He hummed, studying Draco with squinted eyes, “Dislocated. You’ll need a sedative.” 

“Nhm!” Draco protested, he was already taking quite a few potions, a sedative on top would throw the whole regimine out of balance.

Severus scoffed, “You’ll need at least a painkiller. Stay here.” 

He moved away, to a large cabinet full of vials and bottles, removing two before locking it again with a flick of his wand. He then moved over to what appeared at first glance to be a bar cart, but quickly revealed itself as an emergency potions station, pouring a small amount of each bottle into a small bowl, sprinkling dried leaves and herbs in before mixing. 

He didn’t bother bottling the new concentration, instead walking back over to Draco with the bowl, “Open.” 

Draco opened his mouth as wide as possible, which wasn’t far at all, actually, but Severus didn’t seem to mind, pouring the awful tasting concoction down Draco’s throat without warning. 

He would have gagged, but Draco had been subject to his godfather’s unusually foul smelling and tasting potions since he was born. He swore Severus did it on purpose, just to spite him. 

The painkiller immediately took effect, dulling the feeling in his face and chest, though not dismissing it completely. 

Severus wasted no time shoving his thumbs into Draco’s mouth, ignoring Draco’s muffled protests. He placed his thumbs over Draco’s back teeth, hooking his fingers under Draco’s jaw, before pushing down and back harshly. 

There was a loud pop as the bone relocated, and Draco took the opportunity to flex his jaw, opening and closing his mouth. 

“I can’t believe,” He began, “that bastard slapped me.” 

“You do tend to inspire that reaction.” Severus raised his brows, “Can I ask what specific instance inspired this?” 

“No, you can’t.” Draco sighed, half-truthful, half-petty. He really didn’t appreciate the attitude. 

Severus sighed, “Anything else I should be aware of? You do know I’m not your healer, correct?”  

Draco let his head drop back against the back of the sofa, “If you aren’t my healer, you should probably stop healing me.” 

He should probably stop before Severus un-fixed his jaw. 

“Do you have any brewing you need done?” he asked. Draco could already feel the fog closing in, clouding his thoughts until he felt he could melt into the couch. 

Severus surveyed him for a moment, frowning harshly. Eventually, he relented, “Follow.” 

His godfather led him further into the rooms, where a proper potion making setup was situated. Severus walked around the counter, absently pulling out gloves and aprons, while he gathered ingredients from various shelves. 

The second they were placed in front of Draco, he could tell what they were for. A sleeping drought, which was a heavy handed hint, coming from Severus. 

Still, he began prepping the various roots and leaves accordingly, the repetitive motions allowing him to drift even further from the situation. 

They continued in silence for several long minutes, but eventually Severus spoke, “Your fiancé would have my head if I let anything happen to you.” 

Draco stopped dead. Blaise. 

There wasn’t anything past this, it was like his mind had tried to reach through the fog, only to find nothing on the other side. There was the disconcerting feeling of freefall as his head seemed to spin around this gap, but eventually he re-balance himself, continuing in his chopping as if he’d never paused.

Draco only realised he hadn’t responded to Severus when his godfather put down his own knife to stare at him, “Draco?” 

Severus squinted at him, moving closer to scrutinise, “Sit down.” 

“Why?” Draco asked, because he was nothing if not difficult. 

Severus didn’t respond, only moving closer to pull one of Draco’s eyelids up, twisting his head in various strange angles. 

He didn’t seem pleased with whatever he found, stepping back and scowling. 

“Are you quite finished?” Draco asked, not at all liking the look on his godfather’s face. 

“No.” Severus said flatly, turning to a small book he’d left on the table, “Sit there for a moment.” 

Draco tried to peer over his godfather’s shoulder, but he only caught a few words before Severus snapped the book closed with a glare. 

“ Stage 4: Memory Loss” 

Chapter Text

Sirius knew his family was strange, and more than a little fucked up. He also knew he himself, was not exempt from that designation. Not even before Azkaban had Sirius been good at communicating, or dealing with emotion, or any of the other strange ‘ adult skills’ Remus liked to insist on. 

And damn him, Sirius really wanted to try. 

He was so tired of running. He’d done it for years, from his family, from his guilt, from the law, it didn’t matter. He was practically an old man now, his metaphorical knees couldn’t take it. 

Hence, Draco.

Sirius didn’t know why, but he was a little fixated. Maybe it was because Draco and Regulus (Merlin, didn’t it hurt to say his name) had the same eyes, sharp and cruel. Maybe it was because Draoc had chosen to run into his problems instead of away from them. 

It just felt like Draco was the pinnacle of all the things Sirius had left, when he ran away. Like if he could be civil with Draco, it meant hadn’t ruined it all. 

Sirius was the one who did the leaving. He didn’t get left. 

But when he did, he found he really didn’t like it. Remus, of course, thought it was hilarious it bothered Sirius so much. Something about karma, but Remus was quite rude, if you let him be, so he could suck it. 

All of this ran through Sirius’ mind, when he walked into the kitchen on a random Tuesday afternoon, to find Draco sitting at the table next to Kreature, sipping something from a mug. 

And look, he didn’t have the most ‘ emotional intelligence’ (See Moony? He knew the vocab) but he’d learned quite a few things in Azkaban. Sirius knew what it looked like when someone separated from themself. 

Draco looked lighter, but not any happier. More like he was a piece of silk web, practically intangible, not even there. His blank grey eyes were focused on the wall, mechanically lifting the mug to his lips, though Sirius doubted he was actually drinking anything. 

He inched into the room, pouring a glass of pumpkin juice from the ice box, almost spilling it everywhere when Draco spoke. 

“Where is he?” 

Sirius blinked, he wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand the question, but the blankness behind Draco’s voice was unnerving, “They’re in Italy, wrapping up some unfinished business, whatever that means.” 

Draco nodded, looking unperturbed by his fiancés absence. 

“I could floo them, if you’d-” Sirius began. 

“No.” Draco cut in firmly, finally looking up at his cousin, “No, I’m only here for a moment.” His eyes cut sideways to Kreature, who got up from the table and walked away without saying anything. 

It wasn’t convincing. Draco’s voice was broken, and he sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as Sirius. 

“Alright.” Sirius nodded, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.

He sat in the silence for a few moments, eyes darting around as it stretched, before eventually, he had to speak again, “Harry’s here.” 

Draco closed his eyes, though he still had no expression, “I’d prefer if you left him wherever he is.” 

“Ok.” Sirius agreed. 

He’d dealt with screaming, physical violence, magical outbursts, curses, and knives, but Sirius couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with a family member that was awkward. 

It was awful. He preferred the knives. 

What would Remus tell him to do? 

“I’m . . .sorry?” Sirius tried. 

Draco opened his eyes, face finally breaking from its cold mask, “Was that a question?” 

“No?” 

Draco looked at him, face slowly thawing, being replaced instead by confusion.

“No.” Sirius coughed, “No, not a question.” Why did he feel on trial? He was an adult Merlin-damn it. 

Draco sighed, “Well then, what are you sorry for?” 

“What do you mean, ‘ what are you sorry for?” Sirius said incredulously, “We were both there.” 

“I’m aware.” Draco sneered, confusion giving way to annoyance, “But I’m afraid some of us have bigger issues than family infighting, and don’t exactly keep a running tally. Merlin knows how long it would get.” 

Sirius felt the same irritation rise in him, and forcefully pushed it down, he wasn’t here to argue this time, no matter how easy it would be, “Fine. I’m sorry for pushing you about Moody’s plan.” 

This seemed to actually give Draco pause. His face faltered, anger giving way to an open confusion that made him look less like the imposing Lord of two families, and more like a teenager. 

“It was fucked up.” Sirius concluded, because it was. People thought he’d been responsible for the death of his family for years. He hadn’t even been guilty, but it still hurt worse than anything he’d ever experienced. 

Draco stayed silent, simply looking at Sirius for a few moments before replying, “Yes, it certainly wasn’t the most convincing argument to help your lot.” 

“You-” Sirius paused, looking away, “You didn’t deserve that.” 

At this Draco seemed to come back to himself fully, sneering at Sirius, “How would you know what I deserve?” 

He stood from the table, pushing away from Sirius and his still-full drink, “Maybe I do deserve it. Maybe I deserve worse.” 

Sirius recognized himself in every piece of Draco’s self loathing. It was practically inherited, in their family, that all consuming hate. The certainty that you’ve made all the wrong decisions at all the wrong times. 

He didn’t know what to say. Sirius had thought all of that and worse. He’d never figured out how to refute it. 

Even if he wanted to, Draco would never listen to him. 

“Even so,” Sirius replied, “We’ve all done things we regret. I once ate a possum.” 

Draco was back to confusion, “Raw?” 

“Fur and all.” Sirius confirmed. 

Draco blinked, “Somehow, I feel that’s more shameful than anything I’ve done.” 

Sirius smiled, “I’m inclined to agree.” 

They lapsed back into silence, this time much more comfortable. Draco sat back down, actually taking a sip of the drink in front of him. 

“Have you heard from Dumbledore recently?” Sirius asked, not because he particularly wanted to see the old headmaster, but because he hadn’t been to Grimmauld since Draco had come back. 

Draco’s face twisted into obvious disgust, “No, and I don’t particularly regret it.” 

Sirius snorted, “You and I both.” 

“I would have expected you to be one of his groupies,” Draco commented, raising an eyebrow. 

He didn’t like it, but Sirius couldn’t exactly deny he’d been an avid fan of Dumbledpre until Harry came around. He would probably have polished the man's boots.

But then he tried to deny Sirius’ plea to have Harry live with them, when he knew what kind of place the Dursley’s was. His mother made sure he’d never forget what growing up like that did to you. 

And Dumbledore wanted to keep Harry there. 

He’d never been so angry in his life. 

Sirius didn’t give a single fuck about the ‘blood-tie’ bullshit Dumbledore tried to push. There were no better warded houses than Black ones, aside from maybe the Malfoy’s, there was no good reason Harry should be forced to live as he had, not with Remus and Sirius right there. 

The part that enraged him the most, was that it seemed to be Remus and Sirius specifically that Dumbledore opposed. The bastard had even suggested Harry live with the Weasleys, when Sirius made it obvious he wouldn’t accept the current arrangement. 

The Weasleys. 

Sirius didn’t have the issue Draco and the rest of their families seemed to have, but he did have personal issues with Molly, no matter how much she’d done for the order. He could never trust her after all she had said, after how hard she tried to keep Harry out of the loop. 

Harry had a family . Family that knew what James and Lily would have wanted. And he hated that Molly didn’t see that. She meant well, yes, but Harry wasn’t her son, she had no right to make decisions for him. 

“Dumbledore and I don’t always see eye to eye.” Sirius said finally. 

“That’s reassuring,” Draco approved, “Someone in this house should have some sense.”

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t only there for a few moments. 

He just couldn’t bring himself to leave. Which in turn made him feel weak, and soft, and idiodic, but still, leaving Grimmauld seemed an impossible feat. 

So, Draco stayed away from The Manor, on the excuse of some ministry errand or another, while he really reviewed the family accounts. The familiar rows of numbers gave him focus, a numbing goal he could let run his mind with completely. It wasn’t true accounting, but instead drawing his money out of the London branch of Gringotts and into the Swiss one, among other various trusts and accounts that couldn’t be seized should he be arrested. 

He gave the same treatments to Blaise’s accounts, though given they were mostly in Italian banks it wasn’t nearly so necessary. Still, he did his Fiancé the favour, as Blaise was scared of both goblins and accounting. 

The fragile peace Draco had crafted for himself broke, however, as it so often did, when Harry Potter crashed into the room. 

The saviour didn’t seem to have anything to say, as he simply stared at Draco for a few moments, still in the doorway. Draco made the executive decision to ignore him. 

Potter didn’t seem to enjoy that, and dropped himself into the chair across from Draco, “What are you doing.” 

It wasn’t a question, more a flat statement.

“What does it look like, Potter?” Draco sneered, “Reviewing the accounts.” 

Potter blinked, “What?” 

Draco blinked, “Do you-” He squinted, “Do you not have an accountant?” 

“Why would I have an accountant?” Potter questioned, more taken of guard than hostile now. 

Draco closed his eyes. Harry Potter, last of the Potter family, Boy Who Lived, Saviour of the Wizarding World, didn’t have an accountant. 

“Potter, is your money in Gringotts?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“And you don’t check it?” 

“No,” Potter replied, now much more hesitant. 

“Right.” Draco sighed, if Potter didn’t know, Draco wasn’t going to tell him. 

Potter squinted, “Do you have an accountant?” 

Draco pulled a face of disgust, “Absolutely not.”

Merlin only knew what would happen if he left the family money in the hands of a stranger. Potter didn’t seem the type to have a head for numbers, so he obviously needed the help, but Draco had been raised reviewing account summaries and bank statements. 

“Well why not?” Potter asked, back to suspicious, apparently. 

“Why not?” Draco said incredulously, “It’s my job .” 

“Shouldn’t you be licensed or something?” Potter tilted his head. 

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Yes, my greatest concern is whether or not I have a piece of paper from The Ministry saying I can do what I’ve been doing since I was old enough to count.” 

Potter seemed to take that at face value, and they sat in silence for a while. Draco tried not to fidget under the frankly unnerving amount of attention, but he honestly couldn't remember being this close to Potter for this long without starting a fistfight. 

It prickled over his skin, almost painful after how long he’d spent numb. 

Just as he couldn’t stand it, just as he was ready to throw things and scream, Potter spoke. 

“How do you deal with it?” He asked, like that made any sense. 

“With what?” Draco replied, mostly just to be difficult. 

“ Him. Voldemort. Him knowing you.” Potter refused to look at him, like the question was something that should be avoided. 

Draco thought about it. It was, after all, quite a large question. 

“I don’t. Not really.” 

He watched as Potter deflated, and rushed to clarify, “Voldemort doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anyone. He couldn’t, because that would require empathy. He only knows what he perceives me as.” 

Now it was Draco’s turn to look away, because it felt like peeling back his skin, being this vulnerable with Potter. 

“To him, I’m just the first son of a powerful family, with fair blood. A pretty tool to be picked up and twisted to his liking. It's hard to feel known, living like that.” he licked his lips, a wry smile on his face, “I’d imagine being a monster already is no small help, either.” 

Draco looked up, seeing Potter’s defiant expression.

“You were never a monster. A bully, a bigot, sure, but not a monster.” Potter’s jaw shifted as he clenched his teeth, “How do you know what you are? What if you are what he perceives you as?” 

“That’s the awful part.” Draco picked up his pen, just for something to do with his hands, “You are. I am the first son, I do have fair blood, and I am his tool.” He sighed, “But I’m also more than that, I suppose. That’s what Blaise would say, anyways.” 

Potter actually looked hopeful, “So you use the people around you?” 

Draco winced, “Suboptimal phrasing, but I suppose. You could always lean into the strangeness, I find being off-putting helps ground your sense of self quite nicely.” 

Potter blinked, “You know, that explains quite a bit about you.”

Draco gave him a flat look, “I find that quite insulting.” 

Potter smiled, before the expression seemed to catch, falling instead to a guilty frown.

“Oh come on,” Draco groaned, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Potter asked, taken off guard.

“ That,” Draco cried, waving his hand in the general direction of Potter’s face. “Don’t do the whole self-pity thing!” 

“Well why not!” Potter replied, just as incensed. 

Draco snarled, “Because it’s me who has to deal with it!” He stood, gesturing to his chest, “ I’m the one who has to live like this! You’re just feeling sorry for yourself!” 

“I am sorry!” Potter yelled, toeing the line between anger and sincerity in a very strange way. 

“And I’ve forgiven you, haven’t I?” Draco yelled back.

Potter leaned back slightly, “You have?” 

“Of course I have.” Draco scoffed, “That was the terms of the deal, wasn’t it?” He looked at Potter, “I forgave you, and you are forever indebted to me. That’s our relationship now.” 

“Well I don’t want it to be.” Potter said flatly.

“What?” Draco asked, utterly baffled at how pig-headed Gryffindors could be. 

Potter turned up his nose, the picture of pureblood confidence, “I don’t want you to forgive me because you have to. I want you to forgive me because we’re friends.” 

Draco simply stared, uncomprehending. Had he slept in? Was this some strange, lucid dream? 

“I think it’s high time, don’t you? How long have we known each other?” Potter continued, barrelling through Draco’s non-response, “Call me Harry.” 

Draco rubbed his eyes, still unsure of himself, “Have you gone mad? Have I gone mad?” 

“Not anymore than usual.” Potter- Harry? replied, “Anyways, I’d say we're both mad, Draco.” 

Draco sighed, he would be more likely to win a fight against a hurricane, “Alright, Harry.” 

Harry smiled at Draco, and for a moment, Draco let himself enjoy the disconnect from reality. 

Chapter Text

Draco knew he must have gone back to The Manor from the ache in his arms and face,

but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember a thing. 

All Draco knew, was that one moment, he was in the foyer, donning his cloak on his way

back to The Manor, and the next, he was stumbling through an apparition, blood on his hands and face. Who’s? He didn’t know, or more accurately, couldn’t remember. 

The loud thudding must have alerted the rest of the household, as Draco looked up to see the Blaise, Dymphna, Harry, Weasley, and Granger as they stared at him with alternating looks of shock and horror. Draco tried to take a step forward, but ended up falling shoulder-first into the wall, as his vision spun rapidly in circles. 

It felt like dancing, almost. Like he’d spun too fast without spotting. His chest heaved, in exhaustion, panic, or a genuine need for oxygen, he again, didn’t know. 

Draco clutched at his throat, trying to force more air into his lungs, but he could already feel the encroaching black at the edges of his vision. He reached in the direction he had last seen Blaise, grateful when his palm touched cashmere robes, the exact kind his finacé loved. 

“-aco? Draco, you need to calm down.” 

He took another stumbling step forward, his forehead coming down to touch something he intrinsically recognized as Blaise.

“Draco? Draco you need to breathe-” He could hear the panic leak into Blaise’s voice, but honestly couldn’t find the effort or energy to listen. 

With one, final, gasping breath, Draco succumbed. 

—-------

Harry watched Draco’s legs give out, slumping into Zabini’s arms. 

Zabini reacted near immediately, picking Draco up and practically slinging him over his shoulder. He began walking back into the hallway, jerking open random doors until one opened into a plain room with well-stocked cabinets. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, rushing into the room beside Zabini and his mother, “What’s happened?” 

Zabini laid Draco out on the bed, gentler than Harry had seen Zabini do anything else. Instead of answering, he prodded at Draco, examining every bloodstain. 

Finally, he stepped back, only giving Harry, Ron, and Hermione a passing glance, “He’ll be fine, it’s not his blood.” 

Harry heard Hermione choke, though she covered it last minute with a cough, “Well, that’s . . . good?”

Zabini remained unimpressed, turning back to where Draco laid on the bed, “Yes. It is. I’ll come find you when he’s awake.” 

It was obvious Zabini didn’t want them there, but Harry had only recently told Draco he wanted to be friends, about a week ago, and he wasn’t about to give up so soon. What was the point if he made no effort to help Draco like he would Ron or Hermione?

So, Harry sat himself down in one of the old armchairs by the bed, “No need, I’ll stay too.” 

Ron blinked in surprise, but no one seemed more so than Zabini. He turned to Harry, every inch of his face covered in Slytherin condescension. 

“Why? Afraid he’s up to something, even asleep?” Zabini said coolly. 

Harry huffed, pushing down the urge to snipe back. Zabibi was only concerned about Draco, just the same as Harry, “Can’t I be concerned for a friend?” 

Zabini outright glared at him, “A friend, maybe. But we both know you and Draco aren’t that close.” 

Hermione looked between them, biting her lip, before she put her hand on Ron’s arm, “Let’s go,” She said, “Let them sort it out themselves.” 

Zabini turned to them, even colder than before, “Yes, let’s all avoid the uncomfortable fact that your golden boy gutted my fiancé like a pig.”

Hermione looked away, but Ron only clenched his jaw. 

Harry flinched, “He told you?” 

“Did he tell me? ” Zabini snarled, “Did my fiancé tell me that he had nearly been murdered twice in the same day?” He laughed, though it was empty and cold, “No. No he didn’t.” 

The slytherin sat on the edge of Draco’s bed, “That’s the awful part, isn’t it? He didn’t tell me anything past that fact he’d gotten into a fight, and didn’t win.” 

Harry opened his mouth, before closing it again, well aware of the limits Draco had given him in their ‘deal.’ 

But surprisingly, he found he had no trouble pulling the words to the surface, “He-” Harry cleared his throat, “I thought he would have told you.” 

Zabini looked at Harry, gaze now more tired than angry, “You would, wouldn’t you? But no,” He inhaled, shoulders rising and dropping, “Even after everything, he wouldn’t name you.” 

It shocked Harry to his core. After everything, some part of him expected Draco to throw him to the dogs and drag his reputation through the mud. The only question was why. 

“That’s what your lot don’t get,” Zabini continued, “That we have any sort of loyalty. That we hate this as much as you do.” Zabini closed his eyes, “They have kids, they have families.” 

“Who?” Ron asked.

“The Death Eaters.” Zabini responded readily, “You think a bunch of proud old men enjoy being glorified servants for some young upstart?” 

Hermione furrowed her brow, “Did you just call You-know-who a young upstart?” 

“That’s what he is. He’s only about, what, 70? Just a speck on the map. He’s not even a true pureblood.” Zabini answered flippantly. 

This time, Harry choked, “You know about that?” 

“How couldn’t we?” Zabini sniped, “Do you know how far our family histories go back? If there was anyone even remotely matching his description born to any pureblood families in Europe, we’d know.” 

So they didn’t know his name, or at least Zabini didn’t. Harry honestly felt some smug satisfaction at knowing something they didn’t. 

“And they still follow him, even knowing he’s not one of them?” Hermione continued.

Zabini sighed, “Just because they are old, and proud, does not mean they are smart. They liked his politics, and how he made them feel, and by the time they realised it was much more serious than a simple social club, it was too late. He had them under magical contract, and he knew their homes, and families. Now, none of them could leave if they wanted to. There's no incentive. If they defect, The Dark Lord kills their families, and ends their legacy, and your side brands them slippery cowards who are only looking to save their own hide. If they stay, The Dark Lord gives them wealth, acknowledgement, connection. What would you choose?” 

Ron wrinkled his nose, looking at Zabini with contempt, “I would choose not being a raging bigot.” The words were obviously Hermione’s, but Ron said them with absolute conviction. 

Zabini laughed, and again, it was cold and empty, “There it is, you’re only proving my point. You’re so quick to assume everyone not in your little club is an evil neerdowell that deserves to die, can you imagine why our lot are so hesitant to throw it in with you?”

Ron didn’t have an answer, and neither did the rest of them. Harry remembered everything he’d ever been told about slytherin, about dark wizards. He was hesitant to completely revoke his earlier views, not after everything he’d seen and had done to him. Harry knew full well why dark wizards had such a bad reputation. 

But he knew what it was like to have the whole of society brand you a monster. 

Harry bit his lip, “I get it.” He said finally. 

Zabini’s head whipped towards him, “Do you, Potter? No matter what, you've always had people who believe the best in you always. For fucks sake, you mauled Draco and he still trusts you enough to be here. He still trusts you enough to let you keep your secrets.” 

“Really? That’s what you think my life is like?” Harry tried to push down the rage he felt, “I didn’t always have that. I was alone too. Remember second year?” He turned away, “And I know that I don’t deserve Draco’s forgiveness.” The idea that Draco would trust him like Zabini said was absurd. It was Draco they were talking about. 

Zabini snorted, “Well, as long as you’re self aware.”  

It was the most obviously sarcastic sentence Harry had ever heard. Harry, for once recognising a fight he wouldn’t win, simply sat back with a huff. Hermione looked like her mind was spinning with what Zabini had said, eyes a million miles away. 

Ron spent a few more minutes glaring, but seeing Hermione so obviously distracted, trudged his way out of the room, leading her away. 

There was a clock ticking somewhere. It’s even tick-tock tick-tock both soothing and irritating in the same measure. 

So Harry and Zabini sat, waiting for Draco to wake up.

Chapter Text

There were some days his Little Dove was a godsend, running the more administrative tasks overthrowing the Ministry entailed, and there were others when Draco seemed to curl into himself, casting a dark shadow over Lord Voldemort’s mood. 

“Draco, what excuses have you brought me now?” He drawled, genuinely curious about the reason the littlest of his Death Eaters would deny him. 

Draco’s eye twitched, the closest thing to an outright sneer he’d been able to pull from the Malfoy recently, “Actually, my lord, I think the time might come soon.” 

Voldemort sat forward, intrigue on his face, “Oh?” 

“Not immediately, but-” 

He scoffed, of course. More excuses. That seemed to be all Malfoy’s were good for.

“Excuse me, my lord.” Draco’s voice cut in, icy cold, “But as I’ve said, these things cannot be rushed.” 

“That is all you ever say,” Lord Voldemort replied, he was sick and tired of Draco pushing the deadline, “If you will not  deliver on what you have promised me, I will be forced to reconsider our deal.” 

This gave Draco pause. He held himself perfectly still, like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. 

The both of them held like this, simply staring as they considered calling the other’s bluff. 

Draco broke first, because of course he did, when faced with the full attention of the Lord Voldemort, “Fine. I’ll begin, but I must-” 

“Draco,” He cut in, this was truly annoying, and he was determined to have some proof of loyalty today, “I begin to question your commitment to me. We did make a deal, and I for one value loyalty.” 

He looked at the youngest of his disciples, his Little Dove, one of the many jewels in his crown, “Pick up your gun, if you would, Draco.” 

Immediately, Draco’s hand went to his back, pulling out the silver machine from where it had been tucked into his waistband, completely without the grace of his usual movement. 

“So obedient, was it so hard?” Lord Voldemort asked, eyes fixed on Draco’s face. So beautiful, especially when frozen in fear. His normally porcelain skin lost any colour at all as it drained of blood, and his ethereal silver eyes went so wide they looked like tiny moons in a lake of milk. He knew as soon as he’d heard Lucius and Narcissa had a child that it would be exquisite, and he had been right. 

He knew as soon as he’d seen Draco through the small Weasley’s eyes that he would have Draco, and it had only been confirmed when he’d seen the boy in person and been able to feel the cool touch of the Fae in him. 

“Please, put it to your temple, Draco.” Lord Voldemort continued. 

Unbidden, Draco’s hand turned the barrel of the gun to his forehead, pressing lightly just above his eyebrow. 

Draco’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly, breath coming harsher and harsher, “My lord-” 

“Draco, my dove, you must understand,” Lord Voldemort stood from his place at the head of the table, walling closer, “You belong to me, you will do what I say, and if I ask something of you, I expect a timely result, am I clear?” 

“Yes my lord.” Draco responded, his gaze flickering rapidly. 

He looked down at the young Lord Malfoy, considering, as angry as he was, he did still have use for Draco. 

“You may put the gun down now,” He said finally. 

Draco’s hand dropped like a stone, the gun falling from his grip with a clatter onto the table. 

“I need the prisoners in cellar four dealt with, they’ve been exceptionally troublesome, so I want you to make sure it’s slow, Bellatrix will help.” 

Draco stood on shaky legs, his eyes distant. It wasn’t until Voldemort tsk’d that he even remembered to shallowly bow, a hastily muttered “Yes, my lord” thrown over his shoulder as he went to carry out the orders. 

Truly, he would say he didn’t enjoy such drastic measures, but he would be lying, and he made a habit of not lying to himself.  

—-------

Draco stubbled out of the room, uncaring he’d left his gun on the table. He could still feel the cool press of metal at his temple, blood rushing to his face as he thought about what would happen if The Dark Lord had asked him to pull the trigger. 

Every one of his carefully laid plans, dashed like that. A snap decision, not even his own. 

Draco’s feet moved without thought to the dungeons, only requiring the barest of intent to carry him forward. It wasn’t until he heard the cackling laughter of his aunt that he was forced back into himself. 

He paused at the top of the steps, considering how awful it would have been if The Dark Lord had gone through with the order. He certainly wouldn’t be doing this if he had. 

But the ends justified the means. Even if the specific means were escaping his memory at the moment. He would carry through, if only to see the other side and know he was the one that had built it. 

—------

Draco came back to himself with a violent jerk, shooting upright in bed to clutch at his head and the splitting headache that came with it. 

Immediately there was a cool hand on his forehead, and the familiar scent of citrus and ice and sandalwood. 

Blaise. 

Something in Draco relaxed, and he reached a hand up to Blaise’s wrist, needing the simple touch to ground him. 

“What day is it?” he asked. The dry cotton feeling in his mouth told Draco he’d been out of it for more than a few hours. 

“Does it matter?” Blaise answered, his tone light enough Draco wasn’t annoyed. 

Taking the rare moment of rest offered, he flopped back into the pillows of the bed, distantly recognizing it as the same one he’d been in after Greyback and Potter. 

Potter. The smell of grass and lightning and magic. 

“Why is Potter here?” Draco questioned, opening a single eye to glare at his fiancé. 

“You said you’d call me Harry.” Potter squinted at him, seeming sulky.

When had this become Draco’s life?

“Sure, Harry, why are you here?”  Harry opened his mouth to answer, still sullen, when Draco shook his head, “Actually, doesn’t matter. I need to speak with Dumbledore.” 

This time it’s both Blaise and Harry that give him strange looks. 

Blaise speaks first, “You’ve only just woken up, are you sure?” 

It’s nice that Blaise isn’t stopping him, Draco thinks. That was the best thing about his fiancé, he’d never hold Draco back, even if he blatantly disapproved. 

“I’m sure,” Draco responded, pushing himself to the edge of the bed, “It’s important.” 

Now Harry speaks, “I don’t think-” 

“That’s nice, Harry, I don’t particularly care.” Draco snapped, “I need to see Dumbledore. Soon, it’s important.” 

Harry’s mouth clicked shut, anger clear on his face, but Draco had spent the better part of seven years on the other end of a temperamental Harry Potter’s wand, and it took more than that to phase him now, “Nope.” 

Now Harry looked confused, “ Nope? What-” 

“Exactly what I said. No.” Draco replied, finally pushing himself off the bed, one hand going to clutch at the bedpost while he scanned for his cane. Spotting it leaning against the door, Draco took a small step away, testing his knee before he used his full weight. It buckled a small bit, but the ache was better today than it had been yesterday, and that was enough. 

Before he could take another step, Blaise was up and at the door, grabbing his cane, “Come on then, we’ll get Lupin to use the floo.” 

Harry opened and closed his mouth, jaw twitching, but Draco only grabbed his cane and followed his fiancé out the door. 

Eventually, Draco could feel the staticy tingle of Harry’s magic at his back. Draco almost paused, he’d never been able to feel the magic like this, only smell and sense it in abstract terms. This was a genuine physical sensation crawling up the back of his arms and back, only years of society training kept him facing forward. 

They walked down the hallway until Draco smelt the lake-and-dog scent of Lupin, with no accompanying feeling, thank Morgana. 

“In here,” He said to Blaise, as the door swung open on its own. 

Lupin startled, hand shooting to his wand pocket before he registered who exactly was in the room, “Ah, Harry,” his eyes shot left and right, with only a barely perceptible twitch, “Draco.” 

“And Zabini!” Blaise smiled, the edges sharp. 

Lupin smiled, more sincere than anything Blaise could’ve produced if he’d tried, “Of course. Draco, are you quite sure you should be up?” 

“As if I haven’t walked through worse,” Draco replied flippantly, “I need you to get Dumbledore.” He dropped into the chair across from Lupin, hooking his cane on the desk. 

A sudden cough developed, and Lupin turned his head politely into his elbow, “Ah, well, he’s quite a busy-” 

“Floo him. Merlin only knows what actual administrative duties he has, everyone knows McGonagall runs that school.” Draco pressed, “Just floo the bastard.”

Again, Lupin choked at the bold phrasing, but quickly recovered, “I can’t just-”

“If you don’t,” Draco began, his best and most innocent smile in place, “I will.”  

There was silence for a few moments, during which Lupin seemed to seriously be regretting every decision he’d ever made. 

Eventually, the professor nodded, “Alright, I’ll pass on a message. However, I’ll give no guarantee he’ll respond.” 

“Oh, that’s alright, he will.” Draco knocked his fist on the desk twice, and a large white quill, along with paper and an inkwell appeared. He picked it up with a flourish, the elaborate feather bouncing along as he scribbled a note. The ink appeared a bright red to him, but as Lupin and Harry leaned unsubtly to look over his shoulder, he knew the paper would appear blank. 

Merlin-bless secret quills. 

Quickly folding the note, Draco passed it on to a resigned Lupin, “I’ll be in the study, he’ll know where to go.” 

And with that, he took hold of his cane and stood, turning his back and walking out of the door. Harry scrambled to follow, while Blaise simply waved at Lupin, walking behind Draco at a much more leisurely pace. 

“What did the note say?” Harry asked immediately, walking faster to look Draco in the eye. 

“Nothing you need to know about,” Draco sneered, “Go run along with your little Gryffindors why don’t you?” 

Harry stopped cold in the hallway, causing Blaise to almost run into his back, “I thought we were over this! Why are you such a prick?” 

Draco turned on his heel, “because, Potter, I’m in the middle of a war, and you’re pissing me off.” 

“God? Why do I even bother with you!” Harry cried, stomping away. 

Both Draco and Blaise watched him go, and Draco waited for the smell of grass and lightning to fade before he spoke, “Finally.” 

Blaise turned to him, just as resigned as Lupin had been, “I’m not going to like the next few weeks, am I?” 

Draco gave him a grim look, “No, you’re really not.” 

He didn’t like it, but Draco would need to do this part alone, “We’ll talk tonight.” 

Blaise smiled without any humour and looked up at Draco, moving to rub his thumb over Draco’s hand, “It’s close then?” 

Draco sighed, “Closer than we ever wanted it to be.” 

“How soon?” 

“Not immediately,” Draco answered, knowing Blaise would understand, but he switched tone when he felt Dumbledore come through the wards, “But I don’t want you near the action.” 

Blaise picked up on the new direction, following Draco’s lead, “That makes no sense, and we both know it Draco, I’m capable of taking care of myself.” 

“I know.” Draco said harshly, miming agitation, “Merlin, I know. But that doesn’t mean I want you there if he-” 

Draco stopped suddenly, just as Dumbledore came around the corner. Let him chew on that. 

“Headmaster,” Blaise said, much more pliant than he’d been with Lupin, “I was just going.” 

He and Draco shared a long look, one Dumbledore wouldn’t be able to decipher even had he tried, and left. 

If Draco stared at his back for longer than usual, well, it was for the act. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Dumbledore asked. 

Draco gave him a flat look, “Are all of your personal relationships pristine?” 

Dumbledore smiled, “None ever are.” 

And with that, they both entered the study. Draco took the large wingback chair behind the desk, another petty power play, but one that worked. 

“Can I ask what exactly made you change your mind? I quite remember this being a . . . difficult issue for you.” He sat in the smaller chair with no comment. The bastard. 

“Well, previously I had no chance to set things up properly. If you lot had gone in guns blazing it would have surely resulted in the death and destruction of my family and home.” 

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, considering, “And you believe it will be less destructive now? These things are never certain.” 

“It won't be any less destructive, that I’m sure of, but my parents are no longer Death Eaters.” 

This visibly surprised Dumbledore, as much as anything could, “I had not thought Lucius capable of such change.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow, “Do you think about my father very often?” 

Dumbledore smiled again, “No, no I don’t. But one must admit, your father had always been very unsubtle in his views.” 

“Yes well, he may have been in the past, but he’s always been reasonable to a certain extent.” Draco tilted his head, keeping his eyes level with the old headmaster, “But I am now the only Malfoy in Malfoy Manor, and I want The Dark Lord out of my house.” 

Chapter Text

Blaise lounged on the bed, revelling in the simple luxury of being somewhere that smelled like Draco again. The familiar sandalwood and rose and something clean seemed to fill his nose, leaving him more settled than anything else possibly could. 

But still, something itched at the back of his mind, a nagging sensation that told him he was forgetting something vital. He shifted in the bed to look over at Draco, where he was dressing for some very-important-and-also-very-secret-whatever-he-did-during-the-day. 

Though every Slytherin knew the importance of plausible deniability, that didn’t mean they had to like it. 

So he watched as his fiancé patted his forearms and pockets, one hand going absently to pat at his right breast, where he kept a silver tin of black cigarettes. 

That’s when the itching stopped. 

There was no smoke. The sharp, acidic, clove smell of Draco’s specific brand of cigarettes was gone. 

“Draco,” Blaise called idly, having no trouble keeping an even and casual tone, “When was the last time you smoked?” 

Draco’s eyebrow twitched, the only sign he’d heard as he continued to get ready, “Don’t know.” He also spoke casually, though it was probably more distraction and a sense of security than any attempt to deceive Blaise. 

Blaise sat up, feeling something in his chest drop, a long forgotten alarm ringing, “Seems like something you should know, doesn’t it?” 

Draco turned around, crossing his arms, “Who are you? My father? Going to ask how much I’ve been spending while you’re at it?” 

"Well, how much have you been spending?" Blaise asked, more on autopilot than 

anything. Something was wrong, Draco had been smoking since he was 13, a nasty habit he'd picked up from his mother when they took their trips to France. It was the only thing Blaise and Draco's father had ever agreed upon. Both of them of the firm opinion it was a nasty habit that didn’t belong outside of that awful place. 

Blaise had grown to find the smell almost as comforting as the rest of Draco, if only in familiarity.

Draco had smoked at least once a day for as long as he'd had the habit, for him to suddenly drop it with no explanation was . . . worrying. 

This wasn’t a polyjuiced stranger, Draco had already proved that through a thousand little behaviours only Blaise would know, ones Draco himself had no idea even existed. 

“Alright,” Blaise said finally, “Doesn’t matter, just surprised is all. Anything fun today?” 

Draco studied him for a moment, but evidently decided it wasn’t worth pursuing, “Not unless you consider endless hounding by Potter.”

“Well, I know some who would.” He replied, getting up from the bed and crossing the room to Draco, “But alas, you should never meet your heroes.” Blaise reached out to smooth Draco’s lapels, pressing them flat, even if they were already pristine, “When will I see you today?” 

Draco seemed to study him again, looking for any final sign Blaise was unnerved, but even in the current circumstances, Blaise was much better at keeping his head level out of the two of them, “Later, Fleur is coming, and I quite think she’d like to see you.” 

“Oh, I love Fleur, did she send word yesterday?” Blaise asked, leaning back onto the wall. 

His fiancé smiled, seeming to relax fully at the topic of his favourite friend, Blaise included, “Last night, the harpy, she didn’t say when either.” 

Blaise smiled back, count on Fleur to skim under the wire, “Alright, let me know when she gets here, I’ll be there.” 

“I know,” Draco said simply, taking Blaise’s hand in his own for a moment. 

“Well, off I go to defend my very existence to Gryffindors, wish me luck,” He sighed, dropping Blaise's hand and walking to the door. 

Blaise watched him go, some sense of resigned deja vu making a home in his chest. But as always, the only choice was to either let Draco walk away, or condemn him to a slow and quiet death. 

Merlin, when did he become the maudlin one?

So Blaise took a deep breath, and prepared for the day. 

Getting ready alone was fairly new to Blaise; Draco had always been a night owl, and subsequently the farthest thing from a morning person one person could be, which meant usually, Blaise would dress and get ready while Draco slept, and then he’d wake his fiancé. The fact Draco was now the one getting ready and waking him was . . . odd. 

Everything was so strange now. Blaise just wanted to go back. 

Alas, who else would disprove the Slytherin stereotype of cowardice? Certainly not Draco, loved as he may be. 

Another strange thing was the fact Blaise had nothing to do. At school, he’d have classes and parties and quidditch, at home he’d have galas and afternoon tea and time with Draco. 

Here, there was nothing. 

Blaise might not have the connection to Grimmauld Place Draco did, but he was the future Lord Consort, so it would help him in small ways, a fact Blaise and Draco had been delighted to discover in their childhoods at The Manor. 

So, Blaise knocked politely on the wall, “Hello, I need to speak to Potter, if you’d be so inclined.” 

There was a long pause, but eventually a door swung open, and he could see the third floor room Potter and his friends had claimed. They were all sat in a circle, murmuring to each other in conspiratorial tones before all noises stopped, Granger whipping around to look at Blaise. 

“Wha- How long have you been there?” She asked, looking dismayed. 

“Long enough,” Blaise replied, mostly to be difficult, “I sensed conspiracy and came running.” 

Potter and Weasley donned twin glares, “And? What do you want?” 

Blaise took a moment to remind himself to keep the animosity to a minimum, Draco had already taken up the role of enemy, it was his turn to be friend, “To talk.”

He cut his eyes to the side in a faux-guilty expression, “Without Draco.” 

Weasley immediately looked suspicious, but Blaise could tell he had them hooked. It pleased him so that he could still hold an audience by the throat, even now, “He’s . . .” Blaise took a long pause, “Being a bit difficult at the moment-”

“When isn’t he?” Weasley snorted, and Blaise once again reminded himself that he needed these idiots, even if he’d rather gouge out his eyes than listen to the weasel talk about his fiancé.

“Draco’s got his reasons, I’m sure of it, but he’s surprisingly tight lipped when he wants,” Blaise continued, “And I’m going to go insane if I don’t do anything, so, I came to enlist your help.” 

Granger squinted at him, just short of a sneer, “Enlist our help? So you think you have more of a lead than we do?”

Blaise let his eyebrow twitch, even though he’d been trained to disguise the tell since he could talk. Slytherin subtlety wouldn’t work here. 

It was almost too easy. When he was lying to fellow Slytherins, there were layers upon layers of deception and truth, here, all he had to do was look very, very faintly guilty and they thought they had him cornered.

“I had thought the Gryffindor pride would lessen when there was a war afoot, but if you’d like this to be a race between schoolmates instead of the life-or-death situation it is, than by all means-” Blaise bowed, just to be a dick, “I’ll take my leave.” 

He spun on his heel, slowly putting his hand on the doorknob. 

One, two, three. 

“Wait!” 

There it was. 

Potter’s voice rang out, obviously annoyed, but Blaise could work with that. 

“Yes?” He turned, making sure to force a beaten, pitiful expression onto his face.

Potter bought it hook, line, and sinker, “What do you know?” 

Blaise could practically see the saviour complex kick in.

“Not much,” Weasley snickered, and Granger sighed, “But The Dark Lord is a traditionalist, and you’d have trouble finding someone more familiar with pureblood culture.” Blaise took a careful seat on the floor next to Granger, by far the most tolerable of the trio. 

“And if we did want to find someone more knowledgeable?” She asked, giving him a poorly disguised look of distrust. 

Blaise smiled without humour, “Draco’s downstairs, I could fetch him if you’d like.” 

The trio looked at eachother, having a silent conversation, before Potter’s face scrunched in discomfort, “Fine. You know about the Horcruxes, we need to find them.” 

“Succinct.” Blaise noted, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm, “So, where are you staring, is there a specific order? There will be seven, I suspect.” 

“How do you mean?” Potter asked, leaning forward. 

Blaise stopped, staring at the Gryffindor, “What do you mean ? The idiots gone and made more than one, obviously. If it’s not one, it’s seven.” 

It was Granger's turn to ask now, “Yes, but why?” 

“Have you all taken bludgers to the head? Or are your professors just that daft? Do you truly not recognize the importance of seven?” 

They all gave Blaise blank looks, so he continued, “The seven points? Sacred seven? The Seven Pillars of Magic?”

Granger cried out, slamming her hand to her forehead, “Oh! How could I have forgotten! I’m an idiot!” 

“Weasley?” Blaise asked in a grave tone, “You’re a pureblood. Tell me you remember the Seven Pillars.” 

The redhead's mouth went flat, “I’m not. And I don’t bother remembering any of your lot’s nonsense superstitions.” 

Blaise reared back as if he’d been struck, “ Nonsense superstition?” he repeated, “Try as you fucking might Weasley, you will always be a pureblood. You can preach about fairness and equality all you’d like, but the fact is, you were a part of the Sacred 28 once, and the magic knows it.” 

Weasley laughed, “I’ve never been a part of your little cult.” 

“Oh no,” Blaise laughed back, “But yet you feel it. I know it. No matter what you do, who you marry, what your politics are, you, Ron Weasley, are a pureblood.” Blaise jabbed a finger into Weasleys chest, “And you've nearly doomed us all by denying it.” 

“How are silly childs lessons going to doom us?” he mocked, though his face had gone an alarming shade of red.

“Ronalds right,” Granger interrupted, “Seven is a common number in many creation myths, even for muggles.” 

Blaise sighed, annoyed, “And have you ever wondered why? So much of muggle myth is wizard fact, something your lot likes to forget. We are the creation myth, Granger, we’re the demigods of old, the prophets and oracles and creatures muggles sing about.” 

Grangers mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged, so Blaise continued, “The Seven Pillars of magic,” He looked around for a quill and paper, finding some abandoned near Granger’s feet, “One, word-” 

“The incantation itself,” Granger explained. 

“Two, motion-” 

“The direction of which the magical energy flows.”

“Three, channel-”

“The tool used to direct the motion.”

“Four, intent-”

“The caster’s purpose for the spell.” 

“Five, Element-”

“Earth, air, fire, and water.” 

“Six, power-”

“Natural magical talent.”

“And seven, blood.”

“That one never has an explanation,” Granger huffed. 

“Because it doesn’t need one.” Blaise muttered, genuinely dumbfounded, “How did any of you pass Magical Theory?” 

The trio looked between themselves, but only Granger spoke, “I told you-” 

“ It’s a practical class’ Yeah ‘Mione we know!” Weasley cried.

Blaise felt his ire rising, “You haven’t taken Magical Theory?” 

Potter began to look defensive, “It’s an elective!” 

Blaise buried his face in his hands, if he hadn’t hated Dumbledore before, he did now. Magical Theory was the class meant to correct muggle-borns and half-bloods lack of knowledge, a compromise between the two extremes of the school board. Weasley, being a pureblood, should have been brought up with the knowledge, but evidently the Weasley matriarch decided being blood-traitors meant she could neglect her children's culture and knowledge. 

“ Granger.” Blaise pleaded, she had taken every OWL test, hadn’t she? Surely she must have made time for one of the most basic classes offered.  

She had the gall to look sheepish, “It’s not a NEWT, and Pavarti said it was basically a free period-” 

“ Pavarti Patil,” Blaise began, “Is a pureblood, who grew up magical, and had parents who cared about her success-” He said the last part with an unsubtle sneer at Weasley, causing the redhead to go even redder. 

He was cut off by Potter, who was glaring at Blaise, though he hadn’t interrupted any part of the explanation. 

“So it’s not just a myth or superstition, there really are seven pillars of magic?” The saviour asked, green eyes drilling holes into Blaise. 

“ Yes.” 

“Then what’s blood? Hermione didn’t give an explanation.” 

“That’s because there are none.” She huffed, annoyed. 

Blaise sighed again, “Like I said, you would know if any of you bothered-” 

Potter’s glare heightened in intensity, and Blaise abandoned his rant. 

“Blood is the most basic principle. Simply put, it is magic. There is no magic without blood, and no blood without magic.” 

Granger still didn’t look satisfied, so Blaise continued, “Have you ever heard of someone getting stripped of their magic? The Wizengamont and old houses used to use it as a punishment, before the ministry was a thing and outlawed death sentences. Magic is a part of every wizard, regardless of blood status, we wouldn’t exist without it. On the other hand, magic wouldn't exist if we didn’t pay it back.” 

“What do you mean, pay it back?” Potter asked. 

Blaise looked away, stories of gruesome spell flashbacks and botched sacrifices running through his mind, “Any spell of real power has a price, sometimes its physical blood, sometimes it’s a piece of your soul, or sometimes a piece of your magic.” 

Blaise thought suddenly of Pandora Malfoy. A distant cousin of Draco’s, from the Japanese branch of the family, “Or sometimes your life.” 

“A blood sacrifice is the most surefire way to guarantee your spells go through, and one of the only ways to gain more raw magical power.” Granger quoted, her gaze far away. 

Weasley looked sick, “I’m not sitting here and listening to you preach about Dark Magic! You can sacrifice children all you want-”

“Don’t even start! We’re not the ones using child soldiers!” Blaise argued. 

“Oh yeah? And Malfoy’s just here for kicks?” He shot back. 

Blaise smiled, “One man, here not by choice, versus the,” He paused for effect, pulling an exaggerated face of confusion and concentration, “Three here, who need to be dragged away kicking and screaming? Stellar argument, Weasley.” 

Weasley had been cornered, and they both knew it, “You make it sound so simple, but that's how they get you, Dark Wizards. Blood will make you more powerful, sure, but the spell never tells you how much. You could bleed yourself dry, and if the spell doesn't think it’s enough, it’ll drain your family too. It never ends.”  He hissed, face now an alarming red. 

“That’s what you’ve been told, is it?” Blaise asked, “The reason the magic keeps taking, is because none of you have ever given anything. Your magic is starving, has been for generations, ever since you rejected your blood and became traitors. I could do a spell right now and give only a drop, because my family knows what it takes to keep magic. My family knows the meaning of blood, we’ve been giving for generations. It’s why your wand keeps breaking, and none of the creatures in your Burrow have helped you, even when you’re obviously in need of it, and you live on ancestral grounds!” 

Blaise was snarling now, leaning into Weasley’s space, “You’re a Blood Traitor, and that has consequences.” 

Weasley looked between Potter and Granger, “Fine,” He spat, “You lot stay and see if you can learn anything from this Death Eater scum, I’m leaving.” 

Weasley stopped in the doorway, looking back at Potter for a moment, “I’ll be downstairs.” 

Granger stood, “I’ll go talk to him.” 

Blaise noted she didn’t take a side, neither apologising for Weasly’s actions nor glaring at Blaise. 

Begrudgingly, he found he respected it. 

With Granger's exit, it was only Blaise and Potter, which Blaise found uncomfortable at best, but he was a Zabini, awkward wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. 

“So, I was right about the seven horcruxes?” He asked. 

Potter frowned, “Yes, you were,” he took on a more thoughtful expression, “Do you know what they could be?” 

Blaise sat back on the floor, managing to grimace only slightly, “No, I’d assumed you’d have a lead, and if you’ve got one, you’ve got the rest.” 

“How so?” Potter asked, annoyed.

“I mean, the magical signatures on a piece of soul? It’s insane,” He looked away, toying with a stray piece of string on the floor, “That’s where Draco’s got a head start, if he can find even one of them, the rest will practically fall into his lap.” 

Potter sighed harshly, scowling at the floor, but didn’t reply. 

“So,” Blaise continued, “Where to first?” 

Silence. 

“You do have a hint? Don’t you?” He asked.

Potter looked away. 

“Don’t tell me,” Blaise began, “That you were just going to tramp around Britain hoping something showed up?” 

More silence. 

“Oh my Salazar you were.” 

“Listen-” Potter cut in. 

“No!” Blaise exclaimed, “Granger approved this plan? I know being the golden boy of Gryffindor skews your perspective, but really?” 

Potter obviously meant to argue, but the door opened suddenly. Potter jumped, hand immediately going for his wand, while Blaise got to his feet. 

He lightly tapped his foot twice, and was met with an answering two creaks from the wooden door, “Well, Potter, as much as I’d like to stay and hash this out, I’ve got a prior engagement.” 

“What?” Potter asked, dumfounded, staring at the door in thinly veiled suspicion. 

Blaise sighed, “Nothing.” 

Dealing with non-magical people could be so tiring. 

Blaise walked out of the door, not into the hallway, but into the master’s sitting room, where Draco was fixing the collar on his robes, which were a completely different set than the set he wore that morning. 

Already used to the more unusual aspects of both Draco and his magical house, Blaise simply moved to help him. 

Not that he needed too, Draco was more than capable of fixing his own cufflinks, curse his ambidextrous nature, “If you’d warned me earlier, I would’ve changed too.” 

Draco snorted, “Your robes wern’t scorched, what you have on now is fine, besides, I only just got the wards request.” 

“Scorched?” Blaise’s eyebrows shot to his forehead, “What could have possibly-” 

“Draco!” A heavily accented french voice called, Fleur sweeping into the room with Kreature hot on her heels, “And his wonderful fiancé too! Ça fait longtemps, dis donc!” 

“ Bonjour, Fleur,” Draco replied, looping one of his arms through Blaise’s as he opened his other to his old friend. 

Fleur immediately shot into both of them, wrapping her arms around their shoulders and squeezing tiger than someone as fragile-looking as herself should have been able to, “I’m so glad to see the both of you! I was so worried!” 

She stepped back, taking inventory of Blaise and Draco, “Blaise, my dear, it ‘as been too long, I see Draco ‘as corrected ‘is mistakes.” 

Draco smiled, “Only some of them, and who knows what may happen yet?” 

Only Fleur and Draco’s parents brought out this side, all of the old european houses were pretentious and borderline shakespearean at the best of times, but when confronted with another french person, Draco practically became a poet. 

Yet another testament to the fact Draco hadn’t been replaced by a polyjuiced stranger. Blaise needed to get Fleur alone, she out of everyone would understand his concern for Draco. 

“My fiancé is prone to overcomplication,” Blaise said simply, “Hello, Fleur, how have you been?” 

They continued like that for a while, with small pleasantries that somehow never felt empty when Fleur spoke them, until Draco stood suddenly. 

“I’m terribly sorry, give me a moment,” He excused himself, walking out of the room with barely a backwards look. 

Rather than the offence Blaise expected, Fleur looked at him with a sombre expression, “Things are serious then?”

Bliase hesitated in answering, but this was Fleur, the closest thing Draco had to a sister, “Yes. Yes, they are.” 

Fleur smiled, though it wasn’t happy by any means, “I ‘ave always wondered, why do you not ask ‘im to stay?” 

“It’s not my job to ask,” Blaise replied simply, “If I did, he’d probably follow me to Italy that very day, but then where would we be? I ask him to leave, he has to live with the knowledge that The Dark Lord is still out there, and angry with him.” He paused, looking at the cufflinks of his robes, the same bright silver as his fiancés eyes, “I love Draco, but if I give him any reason to leave, he’d take it in a heartbeat.” 

“Thus, you protect ‘im from ‘is own cowardice.” Fleur finished, her tone completely devoid of any mockery, but rather filled with understanding, “He is lucky to ‘ave you, Blaise Zabini.” 

“There’s no luck,” Blaise laughed, “Just two very smart mothers.”

Chapter Text

Draco felt the tremor in the wards and left immediately, though it wasn’t just the house pulling at him. The magic he’d sunk into the deal with Mundungus seemed to writhe, making his skin crawl. 

The thieving wretch had come through the main floo, and Draco took the longer route purposefully, not using any of the doors Grimmauld Place provided for him, needing the time to let his anger simmer. 

He felt sharp. Sharper even than when he had first made this deal, sharper than when he had found out Dumbledore had been poisoning the Order against him. Which made no sense, this was a vastly better day, but who was Draco to judge his own mental state? He’d long ago given up with that. 

It felt so good to have an outlet for his anger, and he could feel the house in the back of his mind agreeing. Though, Draco could tell the house was annoyed with Mundungus’ return, past the basic irritation at having a worm like him within its walls. 

No, it was almost . . . desperate. 

It seemed like Number 12 Grimmauld Place was trying to point Draco to something, but it was evidently not something within its power to show. 

Before he could think on it more, Draco was in the main sitting room, looking down his nose at one Mundungus Fletcher. 

When he stepped through the door, it slammed close, all exits disappearing, including the windows and fireplace. 

Draco mentally sent his thanks, and settled his cane by the door, making himself at home in the large arm chair, “Hello, Mundungus, how was your errand?” 

The worm froze, so Draco continued, “If you don’t have every piece of my property you’ve ever so much as laid your grubby hands on in that sack, I’ll make good on my threats, and you’ll see how unstable I can be.” 

Mundungus paled, though he put on a very brave face, “I’ve gotten everything I can,” He spat. 

Draco paused, “So you didn’t retrieve all of it.”  

The Gryffindor looked away, muttering.

“Speak up.” Draco hissed, hands scratching gouges into the arm of the chair.

“There was a necklace-” He said finally. 

“Where is it then?” Draco questioned, expression stormy. He could feel magic stirring in his chest, a cool burn rushing through his veins. 

The moment felt heavier than it should have, Draco thought.

“What is your excuse for not completing the task I gave you?” 

“It’s in the fucking Ministry! I can’t exactly waltz in now can I?” Mundungus exploded, throwing his hands up as the deal he’d made with Draco no doubt tightened around his throat. 

Everything went still. 

“You stole something of mine, and put it in the Ministry of Magic?” Draco screeched, shooting out of his chair and stalking towards Mundungus.

The order member scrambled, pushing his hands up, “I sold it! I tried to get it back but that pink bitch refused to give it!” 

Oh, Draco doubted it was just a sale Mundungus used the missing necklace for. He’d personally overseen the new legislation coming out recently, the muggle-born registry was a particularly beautiful spin, even if Draco shuddered to think about what was undoubtedly going to happen with it. 

Oh, of course mixed-blood individuals should be registered! It was only for their protection! What with all of those nasty rumours of Death Eater resurgence! Just a precaution! 

And if a poor order member had a family member they needed off of said registry, alongside a house full of prized pure-blood artefacts . . . well, Draco couldn’t say he wouldn’t take the same route. 

So Draco knew exactly what was going on, and why Mundungus could not retrieve whatever it was he’d left out. 

And though it pained him to admit, he’d spent a fair amount of time during his third year in the presence of someone who’s first and only description was simply ‘ Pink.’ 

Draco sat back down, “Alright. I understand.” 

Mundungus started, staring with wide eyes, “What?” 

“You heard me,” Draco answered, “I understand. You needed a bribe.” 

He smiled, “But we did have a deal, didn’t we?” 

Draco stood, “Kreature.” 

The elf popped into the room, “Yes Lord Draco?” 

“How much foot traffic does the dungeon see?” 

Kreature smiled, “None at all, if Lord Draco decrees it.” 

“No-” Mundungus tried, “I’ll get it back-”

But Draco only smiled, reaching a hand into his pocket, where he kept a knife, stolen from his aunt a few days ago, “Perfect.” 

—-------

The Ministry was a cold building, some remnant of pureblood culture even here, in the supposedly neutral place. It was seen as a horrendous breach of etiquette to have a warm house. 

Robes, though they could be charmed to adjust for temperature, were warm, and not everyone had the money to spend frivolously on cooling fabrics, even purebloods. So to force your guest to forgo their best and most stylish clothes in favour of something more suited to your house's specific climate was quite rude. 

It was a marvel, thought Draco, that no one ever thought to question the true extent of pureblood culture. Even as they condemned it, people like Dumbledore accepted the old ways, as long as they could get away without mentioning their origins. 

It was shameful to condemn a system while working it to your advantage. At least Draco was honest about it. 

He descended into the Ministry thinking these thoughts, hiding behind nothing, as he knew his way around enough to avoid ever being seen. Perks of having a high-ranking father, Draco had spent many days running through back-door entrances and hallways here, and he could probably get all the way to the Department of Mysteries if he wanted to. 

Thankfully, the Department of Muggle-born Registration wasn’t nearly so hard to find. 

He stepped into the office, seemingly phasing through a painting in an abandoned hallway. The department might be important for The Dark Lord's plans, but Umbridge had always been too annoying to even pretend to favour. 

There was a young witch at the desk in front of Umbridge's door, no doubt some niece of a member of the inner circle. No matter, Draco could do this in his sleep. 

“Hello,” He called, letting his voice dip lower, pulling on a small smile, “I’m here to see Ms. Umbridge.” 

“Oh!” The girl startled, looking up as recognition dawned on her face, “I-” she looked down, flustered, definitely someone's niece, she recognised him, “I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?”

Draco grinned, even if this witch was a good few years older than he was, they both knew he had the upper hand, “Oh, nothing like that, I was just in the area, thought I’d stop by and say hello to my old teacher.” 

“I’m really not supposed to-” 

“Please?” Draco asked, leaning over the desk slightly, “I’m on an errand and can’t dally, but seeing an old student might improve her mood a bit.” 

The receptionist looked around at the mention of ‘an errand’ but seemed to relent at the chance her boss might be a bit more bearable, “Alright, she’s just having her afternoon tea.” 

“Thank you,” Draco smiled, “I won't forget it.” 

The witch smiled, blushing slightly before returning to her work. Draco pushed away from the desk, knocking politely on the door and waiting before he entered. Though he could easily force his way through, his game would have to be played much slower than that. 

“Come in!” A shrill voice called, heavy with thinly veiled annoyance. 

“Professor!” Draco tried to infuse as much glee into the syllables as possible, but anyone who knew him at all would have seen straight through it.

Umbridge took the bait, “Draco, my dear! Hello!” She crowed, her irritation no less hidden, but instead replaced with a small amount of fear, “I haven't seen you in ages!” 

“So sorry professor, but I’ve been quite occupied as of late.” Draco smiled, the same smile he’d learned from his father, sinister and secretive and inviting. 

It was immediately obvious what he was here for, the bright green pendant resting on Umbridge's chest, probably the only thing in the room besides Draco not doused in pink. 

Umbridge seemed taken off guard at the blatant reference, but gathered herself quickly enough, “Ah yes! Aren’t we all?” She laughed. 

She paused, looking Draco up and down, “Though I haven’t heard any word of your attendance at Hogwarts?” 

The toad seemed to think she was subtle, Draco played along, adopting the role of the arrogant schoolboy he once was, “Father’s decided my skills would best be spent elsewhere.” 

He let his chest puff and mouth quirk, feigning proud joy at being so mature as to be allowed to drop out. 

The necklace seemed to call to him, fighting to draw his eyes its way. 

Umbridge smiled thinly, “Well, an education is always important, wouldn’t you say?” 

There it was, the backhanded condescension she loved so dearly. 

“Well professor, when you’re a Malfoy, there are just things that are below you,” He paused, “When ranked against other things, of course.” 

He smiled, not letting her in on the fact he knew exactly what she thought of him dropping out. Draco had the sneaking suspicion that if he kept referencing his work as a Death Eater she might just drop dead from the absolute gall of it all, and he could remove the pendant with no problem. 

“Of course, of course,” She echoed, “I suppose I’m just a traditionalist.” 

At this, she smirked, and Draco’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. 

It was the height of insult, to imply he was forgoing tradition, one she would not get away with. 

“Speaking of tradition, Professor, I do really hate to ask this . . .” Draco trailed off, watching with glee as her face froze, “But I have a few orders to carry out . . .” 

“On whose behalf?” Umbridge sniffed, looking away as her face paled, “I didn’t know you were employed by the ministry.” 

“Professor.” Draco replied simply, as though he was talking to a child, “I don't speak of Ministry orders.” 

She took a step back, quietly reaching for her desk, where her wand no doubt sat, “Well, Ministry orders are the only ones I follow.” 

“Dolores,” Draco smiled, stepping forward, “Give me the necklace.” 

“What?” She cried, “My necklace? Absolutely not!” 

In her surprise, she stopped reaching for her wand, so Draco drew his own, “Dolores, It’s in both of our best interests if you give me my necklace.” 

As if sensing it was being talked about, the deep emerald of the pendant seemed to gleam, light swirling and catching the light in odd patterns. 

“Why my necklace of all things! It’s a family heirloom you know! ‘S’ for Selwyn!” She cried, clutching at the silver chain. 

Dolores Umbridge had no relation to the Selwyn family, he would know. 

Draco cast a silencing spell, not that they would have to worry about the receptionist, Ministry doors were very thick for this exact reason, “Dolores, please give me the necklace.” 

Agitation prickled at his face, something almost animalistic rising in his chest as he bared his teeth. It was his, and Draco wouldn’t let anyone take anything from him, ever. 

His hand tightened around the wand, knuckles going white. 

“Alright, alright! Just please don’t hurt me! Oh you brute!” Dolores cried, reaching up to unclasp the necklace from around her throat. 

The necklace didn’t seem to like being given up so easily, and immediately turned red hot, burning her hand as she reached out to drop it.

Draco caught it easily, all heat gone, only cool silver left. 

It was heavier than he thought it looked, but also lighter somehow, like some invisible pressure behind his eyes was lifted now that he finally had the necklace in hand. Draco lost himself for a moment, tracing the ornate green and black and silver of it with his eyes, taking in every dip and delicate curve. 

Dolores let out a shrill wail and he came back to himself. He’d gotten what he came for, he could leave. 

But, Draco thought, she was the type to make trouble, not on the side of the Order, or the Death Eaters, only herself. 

Draco knew how dangerous an individual on their own side was. 

Being completely true to himself, Draco knew he could simply obliviate the woman, and erase every memory of the necklace from her mind. It was the easiest, most effective way to finish this. The undeniable best route.

But something stirred within him, the same something he’d felt the day he’d become Lord Malfoy, bolstered by some other unidentifiable thing. 

Draco watched with sick fascination as his once-professor began to cry. Her face went all splotchy and red, almost mimicking the pink lace she was surrounded by. 

Dolores turned her face away. What was it that had her so afraid? What was different between him now, him only a few moments ago, and him in third year?

He was happy she was crying, it was strangely gratifying to watch someone react in an expected way. To know he had done something, and it had produced such a simple reaction. 

Draco pointed his wand, and felt magic burn in his veins. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

—-------

Draco smiled at the receptionist as he walked out, leaning over the desk and tilting his head just so. When the young witch blushed, Draco raised his wand and killed her too. 

Vanishing spells were so handy when used correctly.  

Chapter Text

In the past few weeks, Harry had come to an uncomfortable realisation. 

He would never understand Draco.  

It was like being dragged through a storm, keeping up with his moods, perfectly civil one moment, and screaming rage the next. He’d thought they’d reached an understanding with their deal, but Draco now seemed determined to snub Harry at every turn. 

The only thing was, it’s hard to stay angry at someone when you’ve quite literally cut them open and held their chest together with your bare hands. Makes you a bit guilty. You start feeling bad for them, even if they're a git who seemed like he deserved it at the moment.

This wasn’t helped by the fact Harry still saw through Voldemort’s eyes. 

How do you tell someone you know what they sound like when they're being cut open and flayed, thinking they'll surely die this time? How do you look someone in the eyes after watching them force themself to their knees in service of a madman you know they hate? How do you say ' I'm sorry you think you have to do this, but also it’s quite helpful apparently so please continue?' 

Even when he was awake, Harry could hear Draco screaming. Sometimes it was after the sectumsempra, sometimes an echo of Bellatrix and her games, most of the time horrific. 

Because he knew Draco spent most of his time as a Death Eater in Malfoy Manor, he saw it every time. 

And tonight was no different. 

As he went to sleep, begrudgingly as always, Harry began to recognise Voldemort's sitting room.

It was dark. Draco was sat to the side, scribbling notes with his right hand, twirling his wand with his left. 

Harry felt Voldemort’s annoyance like his own, some abstract feeling of being denied. 

He watched his own hand raise to Draco’s chin, grazing lightly. 

Draco didn’t respond, and Harry felt his annoyance grow.

“Draco,” His voice called, “Have you no updates?” 

The young Death Eater still didn’t look up, “I will not risk our plans yet, they are quite precarious.” 

“So you have not made sure they are stable before you implemented them?” Harry felt his eyes squint. 

Draco still did not look up, though he did stop writing, “Any of our worthwhile plans have a certain amount of risk, that risk is minimised when as few people as possible know of the plan in the first place.” 

Harry grabbed Draco’s chin, “Look at me when you-” 

And Harry felt fear. 

There was nothing behind Draco’s eyes. No thoughts, no feelings. There wasn’t even the mental block of a shield, as there was when someone was using occlumency. 

No, it was like walking into a familiar room, but all the windows were gone, and it was cold, and dark, and the door had just slammed shut behind you. 

Harry felt something brush against his mind, a sudden distinction between him and Voldemort that wasn’t there before. It was cool and quick, retreating before Harry could analyse the feeling further. 

He felt Voldemort try to pull out of Draco’s mind, but there was no escape. He was no longer the aggressor, and all exits had closed. 

Distantly, in the part of his mind that still saw the physical world, Harry realised Draco hadn’t blinked once, his wide silver eyes staring past Voldemort, into his very being, and somehow, seeing Harry through all of it. 

Draco tilted his head, his chin still firmly in Voldemort’s hands, and Harry was thrown violently back into himself. 

The sudden feeling of being himself again was jarring, to say the least. It always took a few moments for Harry to fully shake off Voldemort’s mind, like a particularly stubborn tick.

But this time, he was Voldemort, and then he was Harry. No transition, no blend. 

Harry sat for the rest of the night, thinking about what he saw, and trying to reason out what the hell happened. Why was it just Voldemort and Draco? Usually there were more people. It obviously wasn’t a meeting, they were in the sitting room, and Draco wasn’t telling Voldemort something, something important. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long, as a few hours later, the door to his room swung open. 

Now, Harry, in all of his strange years living, had more than enough reason to be suspicious of self-opening-doors, but this was Grimmauld Place, and for some odd, unexplainable reason, it felt safer here. 

Walking out of the room he shared with Ron and Hermione, careful to tiptoe around them, Harry only spared a brief thought for what Grimmauld was leading him too. Perhaps he was wrong to do that, as he was soon faced by one Draco Malfoy. 

It was obvious Draco knew that Harry knew. His eyes gleamed, so much brighter than they’d been even a month ago, almost reflective. 

“You’ve seen.” he says, more statement than question, all of the hostility from the past weeks gone.

Harry opened his mouth, to reassure, to defend, to explain, but all that came out was, "Yeah."

There was something strange about this, but Harry couldn’t tell what. 

Draco sighed, looking out of the window from where he was leaning against the desk. His leg must have been bothering him again. He always made the leaning look so casual, but Draco, for all his tendency to lounge, had always stood straight when holding an important conversation.

It was hard as ever to reconcile this Draco with the one from a month ago, and the one from Hogwarts. It seemed like whenever Harry got too close to figuring him out, Draco would run the other direction, just to piss him off. 

“Don’t tell them.” Draco said suddenly. 

The command took Harry off guard, “What?” 

“Potter-” 

“Harry.” He interrupted. 

“Harry,” Draco corrected, annoyed, “I’m asking you not to tell them. Not about anything you’ve seen, and especially not Blaise.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, “He cares-” 

“Oh screw off,” Draco rolled his eyes, “This is bigger than that. And I’m not telling you not to, I’m asking you,” he paused, “So, don’t tell them, not yet.” 

“I think your fiancé has a right to know what’s happening.” Harry said finally, a thought he’d kept to himself bubbling to the surface. 

He thought about what it might be like, to sit by, not having a clue what your partner was doing. It made an ugly feeling rise in his chest, the idea that Draco just left Blaise for days on end, with no idea about where he was or what he was doing. 

“I know, Harry.” Draco sighed, looking away, his hand flexing harshly on the handle of his cane. 

His face was as calm as ever, no evidence of the spell Harry had used on him earlier in the year, but still something just looked wrong. 

“Please,” Draco asked, the word shocking enough Harry shut his mouth and stopped his impending interruption, “Think of it from his perspective, will you? I leave him, and he’s forced to wonder for weeks if I’m alright, where I’ve gone, if I’ll come back.” 

He dropped his cane, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, looking a thousand years old, even if his eyes were bright and his skin perfect, “He knows the work I’m doing is dangerous, deadly, even. But I come back, and we can both be happy knowing I’m not dead.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow as Harry sunk onto the floor across from him, their legs taking up the narrow hallway, “I still have to leave from time to time of course, but we both get to live in a wonderful world of plausible deniability, wherein I am schrodinger's cat, alive and dead every time I leave his sight.” 

“But there's a possibility, however slight, that every time I leave, I’m perfectly fine, doing good work on behalf of the order safely behind a desk or something.” Draco looked at Harry, and for the first time, Harry thought Draco’s eyes were a bit unsettling. 

“Would you take that from him? Would you make him confront the reality that every time I leave, I willingly subject myself to torture, and it might be the last time he sees me?” Draco’s hand went to the base of his throat, right where a necklace would sit, “He’s loyal, he’d never ask me to stop. You would make it his fault this is happening, in his mind, for knowing, and not stopping me. 

Harry swallowed, “I don’t know-” 

“Harry, I’m asking you, because there will come a day when I don’t come back.” Draco interrupted, “One day, there is nothing but possibility, and I’ll need you to tell him.” 

He stood, leaning heavily on his cane, “He doesn’t deserve that kind of hope.” 

Chapter Text

Blaise will be entirely honest, he was upset Draco couldn’t attend Fleur’s wedding. He and Fleur had discussed any of them coming at all, but in the end, the event was supposed to be safe, and Fleur shouldn’t be getting married without at least one familiar face. She was already going to be surrounded on all sides by Weasleys, she needed someone on her side. 

He and Fleur had discussed all possible solutions when she’d visited, after Draco had rushed out. She would need at least one other pureblood there who understood the old ways, and could help her with her own family traditions. 

But Draco couldn’t go, that much was undeniable. No one wanted to risk it, even with polyjuice, least of all Blaise. 

Oh, he knew Potter was attending, but anyone with half a brain could see he couldn’t be kept away if you chained him to the floor. Draco, however, was a good bit more sensible than Potter, even if that didn’t say much. 

Still, that didn’t mean Blaise couldn’t regret the chance to dance with his fiancé. 

Tugging on his robes, picked out by Draco, of course, his fiancé adjusted the lapels, smoothing them gently until they lay exactly right. 

He watched Draco squint, entirely focused on the fit of Blaise’s suit. His eyebrows creased lightly, in a way Blaise knew would become permanent, because Lucius and Narcissa both had the same wrinkle in the same place. 

“I love you.” Draco said suddenly. 

Blaise felt his heart drop, “What’s going on?” 

Draco didn’t respond, trailing his hands over Blaise’s tie.

“Draco.” He repeated. 

“What? I can’t say anything without suspicion anymore?” The words were said with a smile, but it was hollow, “You’re spending too much time with the Gryffindors.” 

“Well, someone stuck me with the good guy role,” he caught one of Draco’s hands, simply holding it to his chest, “They’re leaving tomorrow, we won’t have to deal with them much longer.” 

Draco sighed, “About that-” here it came, the reason for Draco’s odd mood, “I think it’s best you go back to Hogwarts tonight.” 

Blaise frowned, “You’re sure?” 

“I am.” Draco replied, “It’s almost time, you need to get them out.” 

Blaise closed his eyes, dragging a deep sigh, “It could be worse.” 

He opened them again, “I’ll see you there, eventually?” 

Draco smiled, more genuine this time, though it held more sadness than Blaise would have liked, “Of course, I’ll finish things here, and we’ll be done.” 

“And we’ll be done.” Blaise echoed, holding the promise close to her heart. How soon ‘done’ was going to be was vague at best, but Draco wouldn’t lie to him about this. 

Eventually, they would be done. 

—-------

The wedding was plain, by pureblood standards at least, and very obviously a Weasley affair. Draco had left Blaise right before he apperated to Fleur, standing in for Draco as part of her court; his fiancé’s job being to spend the day at The Manor, keeping the Death Eaters busy and hopefully, unaware of the wedding. 

Which meant Blaise had to spend the evening awkwardly rubbing elbows with one Ginerva Weasley. Gabrielle was there as well, and much more pleasant company, but the young witch was also overly-fond of Draco, and thus had a slight chip on her shoulder about Blaise. 

“Well,” Her adorably squeaky, very french voice drifted, “I wish Draco could have come instead.” 

“You and no one else.” Weasley snarked, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the delicate gold dress Fleur had chosen for her. 

Blaise repressed a sneer, leaning close to whisper to the younger DeLacoeur, “Gabrielle, it might be best to keep talk of Draco away from the blood traitors?” 

Her nose wrinkled, “Ils n'ont pas de goût.” 

“I agree,” Blaise nodded, casting a quick tempus, “It’s almost time, come on.” 

“Hold on!” Weasley shouted, suddenly very suspicious, “Time for what?” 

“Nothing,” Blaise replied casually, sharing a glance with Gabrielle, “We’ve got a secret handshake, see-” 

Weasley scoffed, “No, you don’t. Where are you going?” 

Blaise studied her for a moment, weighing his chances. 

If it had to be any Weasley, she was the best bet. 

“Old family tradition,” He smiled, "the wedding’s not real without it.” 

She didn’t like this answer, but seemed to accept it nonetheless, “Alright then. Take me with you.” 

“Are you sure?” Blaise asked, dropping his voice comically low, “It's quite dark magic.” 

Gabrielle giggled wildly, and Blaise couldn’t resist a small smile of his own, “Hush, you cretin, you’re ruining my mystery.” 

Weasley’s face twitched, her face going red, “I don’t care. Let’s go.” She huffed, walking off through the crowd, despite the fact she had no idea where Blaise and Gabrielle were going. 

Luckily, she seemed to be heading towards where Fleur and Older Weasley were talking to a few relatives. 

Catching her eye, Blaise saw Fleur smile in relief, so he slid smoothly into the conversation, “Pardon me ma’am, but I must steal the bride and groom for a few minutes, official business, you see,” He winked, watching the old witch flush and wave them off. 

“Blaise! Is it time already?” She asked, smiling brightly. 

It changed her face, usually, being part veela, and a high ranking member of the order, it was easy to forget Fleur wasn’t very old at all. She looked younger, hanging off of the older Weasley’s arm in her wedding dress. 

“It is,” Blaise smiled back, patting his pocket for the box Draco had given him. Being much closer to Fleur, Draco knew best what to use for the spell. 

“Time for what?” William asked, looking to Ginerva for answers.

“A family tradition,” Fleur answered, “Come on!” 

Blaise could see the original Weasley and Granger out of the corner of his eyes, keenly watching them leave, but the Gryffindors made no move to stop them, too busy talking to Lupin and Sirius. Perhaps decorum could be taught. 

Exiting the reception tent, standing under the glowing gold sky, just as the sun began to set, Blaise removed the box from his jacket. 

Opening it revealed several glass vials filled with various substances, a bowl, and four potions that glowed brightly. 

Blaise took out the first few bottles, reading the labels as he poured them into the bowl, “Bloodied earth, Fire beetle wings, Dragon tears, and Dragon ash,”

“Earth, air, water, fire,” Gabrielle dutifully repeated, solemnly taking the bowl and holding it between her small hands. 

“Woah hold on-” The older Weasly tried, only to be shushed harshly by Fleur. 

“Your hands, please,” Blaise asked, pulling a thin, decorative knife from the box. 

Fleur held hers out without hesitation, while Weasley hesitated visibly.  He looked unsubtly to his new wife, and back to Blaise, before seeming to come to a decision. 

Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out, right next to Fleurs. 

Good choice, Blaise though, if he’d refused this, the marriage would not last long at all. 

Unsheathing the knife, it was hard for Blaise not to think of Draco again. One day, he’d be doing the same thing: standing under the setting sun, binding themselves in the old ways. 

He cut a simple line across both palms, gently guiding their hands together, so that they were entwined over the bowl, their blood dripping slowly in a rhythm only they would be able to understand. 

The older Weasley seemed enraptured, staring at the way their blood mixed with fascination, the same way Blaise used to watch his mother do blood magic when he was small. 

When the blood hit the mix in the bowl, it seemed to spread outwards until a mirror-like liquid was left, reflecting the bright purples and reds in the sky. Blaise took the bowl from Gabrielle gently, pouring some of the liquid into a small vial, and leaving the rest. 

Fleur kneeled on the ground, shifting her skirts to keep them clean, and Weasley scrambled to follow, probably getting grass stains all over his nice robes. 

Blaise took the remainder of the liquid and lifted it to Fleurs lips, “Tuo sanguine unus es,” He whispered, feeling the magic of the words rush through his veins. 

He so desperately missed Draco at this moment, it almost crushed him. Even if he’d seen his fiancé only that morning, it wasn’t enough. He missed the Draco unconcerned with safety, so arrogant and headstrong he would have never dreamed of danger. 

Draco should be here. He should be doing this ritual. 

“In Aeternum.” Fleur responded, completing the spell. 

“In Aeternum.” Weasley echoed, looking surprised at the words coming out of his mouth, like he hadn’t known them until this moment. 

Fleur drank from the bowl, exactly half, before handing it gently to her husband, who drank with only a small amount of hesitation. 

When the bowl was drained, Weasley gasped, his hand shooting to his throat. Ginerva immediately shot to his side, but Gabrielle held her arm out, stopping her. 

“Bill?” She cried. 

“I’m fine, Ginny,” He gasped, coming back to himself, hand still over his heart, “That was . . .”

“Incredible?” Fleur finished, “Oui, now you might think twice before condemning others.” 

Weasley looked ready to respond, but a piercing shriek cut through his words. 

Fleur was immediately on her feet again, running back to the tent, Blaise, both Weasleys, and Gabrielle on her heels. 

Getting there revealed the source, a bright, silvery patronus. 

Blaise’s heart stopped, this could mean only one thing. 

The cat opened its mouth, a hoarse voice speaking quickly. 

“The Ministry has fallen. 

Scrimgeour is dead. 

They are coming.” 

Chapter Text

Somewhere in London, Draco overlooked the Ministry atrium with Severus. They both wore their masks, despite all workers having been evacuated as soon as the Minister had been assassinated. 

“You know what’s next.” Severus said, his voice coming through tinny and strange through the silver. 

“I do,” Draco replied. He’d personally done the ward spells, putting all the time he spent working on the Vanishing Cabinets to use, “You’ve put down the taboo?” 

“I have,” Severus drawled, “You know there’s no way to guarantee his safety.” 

Draco simply stared out over the Ministry, nothing but an empty calm in his mind, “I know, but I trust him to know what he has to do.” 

“You’d trust him that far?” Draco didn’t need to see his godfather’s face to hear the surprise and doubt. 

“He’s Blaise Zabini, and my fiancé, if he can't handle himself now, then we really are doomed either way.” 

Severus sighed, “And what would he think if he knew what you were doing today?” 

Draco paused, thinking of the necklace he’d retrieved earlier in the week, and the way it seemed to burn through his pockets as he took it back to Grimmauld Place. 

He wasn’t an idiot, The necklace reeked of The Dark Lord, even without smell, he could see the same aura of black that surrounded them both. 

“I think he could find it in himself to understand.” Draco said finally. 

He had to hope the words were true. There was nothing else, if not Blaise, and Draco’s foundations had been so chipped away that he was no longer sure if he could trust anyone anymore. 

As horrible as it sounded, it was less genuine belief in his fiancé’s character, and more the desperate delusion of a mad man holding onto a single thread, hoping it would turn into a rope. 

Draco believed in Blaise’s loyalty and love because he had to. If he didn’t, all was lost. 

Tuning back into the conversation, Draco turned to face Severus, “Are you ready?” 

Not bothering with a verbal reply, Severus only held out his arm. Draco looped his hand through his godfather's elbow, and they were off. 

They landed in a field, and the chaos of the evening was evident. There were guests running and screaming left and right. 

Instead of the crushing panic of his first few raids as a Death Eater, Draco felt only calm, and the smug satisfaction of knowing he was going to win a fight. 

Without words, he and Severus turned on their heels and began to walk in opposite directions, closing the perimeter. 

Draco walked for only a few moments, just outside the wards of The Burrow, before he felt Severus’ spells take effect. It was only a few moments more when he encountered another wizard. 

It was one Remus Lupin, leading a pack of people Draco didn’t recognize. Most likely distantly related Prewetts, ousted from the main bloodline. 

It was comical, watching recognition dawn on Lupin in two fronts, first, as a Death Eater, and second as a Malfoy. 

It wasn’t like Draco was well disguised, even wearing his mask, he’d opted to leave the hood of his robes down, making his white hair incredibly apparent, especially with the bright moon over them. 

Lupin shuffled the party of wedding guests behind him, raising his wand. Lucius’ sudden departure from Britain was a tightly guarded secret, only open to those in the inner circle.

He had always looked too much like his father.

Draco thought he might have been more afraid, once, facing another werewolf after Greyback permanently mangled his leg. But in all honesty, that night was a distant memory, overshadowed by far more horrific crimes. 

He didn’t have his cane now, but he’d taken several ill-advised potions, on top of the ones Severus required he take for the crucio damage. 

Draco looked at the group huddled behind Lupin, completely ignoring the werewolf. 

“Go.” He said, jerking his head. 

Lupin’s eyes squinted, and realisation dawned a third time. 

He looked to the side, calculating, and also jerked his head. 

Some guests looked ready to argue, but Lupin repeated Draco’s words, “Go.” 

So they went, and it was just Draco and his former professor. 

Lupin still didn’t lower his wand, so Draco lowered his mask, smiling. 

“There's no need to be scared Remus, you’re family.” 

Lupin paled, and Draco took sick satisfaction in it. It felt once again like his anger was alive, trying to claw its way out of his chest, shredding his heart and lungs and throat, leaving a hot red glow over everything. 

No, Draco would never forgive anyone in that room, that day they suggested he help desecrate his family home. 

He would be angry forever, it felt like. A never ending torrent of all the hate he’d ever spewed directed back into his face. 

Draco rarely felt anything these days, and when he could remember feeling anything at all, it was usually anger, or cruelty, or spite. 

“I need to leave a mark, you understand, don’t you?” Draco asked, still smiling lightly. 

Lupin only looked at Draco, eyes roving over his face, before he answered, “I do.” 

His jaw set, an accepting look crossing his face as he lowered his wand. 

“Tell Sirius I say hello,” Draco grinned, “ Stupefy.” 

After watching Lupin fall, landing harshly in the dirt of the field, Draco removed a knife he’d stolen from his aunt, leaning down and slashing a quick gash over his former teacher’s face. 

But something felt missing. Like a chord not played till its last note. So Draco surveyed Lupin, looking for a solution. 

It wasn’t only Lupin who’d made an enemy of Draco, in fact, it was another of his so-called family that he truly aimed to hurt. 

Carefully picking up his once-professors left forearm, directly under the elbow where his own mark laid, Draco carefully began his carving. 

Perfected under months of Bellatrix’s teaching, the words were perfect, looping delicately in Draco’s pureblood handwriting.

‘ The Noble House of Black sends its regards.’ 

That done, Draco continued to circle the perimeter of the house, keeping an eye for any more Order members.

Soon, he reached the exact halfway point, a predetermined location. 

Casting a quick tempus, Draco confirmed Severus should be exactly across from him, on the other side of the grounds. He quickly began laying the new wards, careful to place them just outside the bounds of the pre-existing Burrow ones, preventing any movement in or out of the house. 

Anyone with half a brain would be out by now, but it was more a front than anything else. None of the Death Eaters actually cared about taking the Burrow, but it was a strong show of power. 

Once he was done, Draco simply aperated away, leaving the loose ends to be tied up by newer members that could still be tricked into thinking they could climb the ranks. 

He landed in the woods outside The Manor, not inside as any others likely would have done, but he wasn’t alone as he thought he would be. 

No, instead Draco was faced with his aunt, tall and cruel, smiling at her nephew. 

“Draco, dear, I feel like we haven't talked in ages,” Bellatrix pouted, twirling a loose strand of hair around her wand, further musing the already messy curls. 

“Probably because I’ve been terribly booked,” He sighed, resigning himself to a pointless and nonsensical conversation. 

Flowers bloomed in the clearing, bright Narcissus and purple Columbines. 

Bellatrix grinned, “Oh, but dear, we both know it’s more.” She began circling, walking clockwise around Draco. 

Draco had no choice but to move with her, keeping his aunt in his line of sight always. No one with half a brain would let Bellatrix Lestrange in their blind spot. 

“So sorry, but I’ve no idea what you-” 

Bellatrix’s wand was under his chin in a moment, “You can’t lie to me, little bird. You know that, I know it,” She pulled back slightly, “We’re the same! You can’t lie to me, and I can’t lie to you!” 

Draco swallowed his initial words, he did know what his aunt was on about, but only vaguely, spoken about by his parents in hushed and panicked whispers. 

The oldest child of two powerful bloodlines, he would be an idiot not to put it together. His own blood hummed in response to his aunt’s, two twin stars. 

But he also knew something in his aunt was wrong in a way Draco himself wasn’t. More tightly controlled in a worse way, bound, rather than controlled. 

“I don’t see what that has anything to do with this.” Draco responded, sliding his own hand along his wand. 

“Because!” Bellatrix cried, throwing her arms up, “You! Have taken my place! And I don’t care for it!” 

“I’ve not taken anything I’m not owed.” He shot back, hoping desperately blood loyalty would carry him though. 

Bellatrix’s mouth curled upwards into a grin Draco knew he shared, “Little bird, if you are owed anything, I am owed it tenfold.” 

Her gaze darkened, “ I am the eldest Black.” 

Draco was genuinely surprised, though he supposed he shouldn’t be, “You want the title?” 

“No,” Bellatrix answered simply, “It’s too late for that, and I am but a silly woman,” her tongue came out to lick at her teeth, “I had what I wanted, but I suppose I’m past my prime! You are my successor! But in order to succeed . . .” She trailed off. 

Draco put the pieces together, “If you can’t have it all-” 

“Then I will have nothing.” His aunt finished, “If it had been anyone else, I might’ve fought,” 

Draco relaxed, an unconscious tension leaving him. 

“But it’s you, my little bird, and I rather think we should settle this traditionally.” 

Bellarix cackled, nearly bent over with the force of her laughter, “So! What do you say? One last bonding moment with your dear old aunt?” 

Draco considered for a moment, but what other choice did he have? Things were nearing their natural conclusion soon anyways, he had no reason to deny his aunt. 

“Alright, we’ll duel.” 

Chapter Text

Remus woke up the next day in an unfamiliar room, to a very worried and pale Sirius. 

“Ugh,” He groaned, stunner headaches took ages to fade, especially when you were as old as he was, even with advanced werewolf healing factors. 

“Moony?” Sirius shot up from his cramped chair, immediately at Remus’ bedside, “Are you alright? What happened?” 

Remus pulled a face, and Sirius winced, lowering his volume, “Remus?” 

“I’m alright Sirius,” Remus muttered, “Just a nasty headache is all.” 

Sirius sighed, slumping into the bed next to his husband, “Are you sure?” 

Remus hesitated, knowing how sensitive a topic his cousins could be for Sirius, “Draco found me.” 

Sirius shot up, looking down at Remus with double the concern, “What?” 

The professor sighed, knowing he had no choice but to recount the whole story now, “It’s fine Sirius, better him than any of the others.”

His husband looked caught between his feelings, concern for Draco and concern for Remus pulling at his sides, “How-” 

Sirius paused, recomposing himself, “How was it?” 

The “ How was he?” went unspoken. 

Remus tilted his head, “It was . . . both better and worse than I would have expected.” 

On one hand, Draco had looked physically fine, he hadn’t even had his cane with him, but he retained the blank look that had worried both Remus and Sirius in the past. Draco had let Remus and his group leave, but had also done lord knows what to him while asleep. Hw would be under careful observation by The Order for weeks. For all they knew, Draco had imperiused Remus while he was out. 

If it had been Sirius, Remus would have bet Draco would have gone to some extreme, but it wasn’t Sirius who had gotten caught, it was him. 

He and Draco didn’t know each other very well, due to Remus’ own hesitation, and in some small part, fear, straining any chance at a relationship. 

Though he longed to somehow show Draco the same kindness he would Harry, or even Ron and Hermione, something was just off. His senses, which had only ever failed him once, way back in the beginning of the war, told him Draco was treading a fine line and about to fall off the deep end. 

To put it simply, Draco was extremely unsettling. 

“What does that mean?” Sirius asked, his face wrinkling in distaste. 

Remus paused, trying to find the words, “He wasn’t exactly kind,” Sirius snorted, “But he could have done so much worse than he did.” 

“Not exactly a golden standard, is it?” Sirius tugged Remus’ arm, turning it over gently, “And I don’t know if I could call this a good outcome.”  

He hadn’t noticed it before, probably because there was no pain, not even a slight ache. 

Remus raised a hand to the bandages, looking to Sirius for permission. Sirius nodded grudgingly, and Remus unwound. 

In stark pink and red the words were clear and unmistakable, the handwriting mockingly perfect for what must have been a knife. 

Spell scars didn’t heal that nicely, even with dittany. 

“Well,” Remus mused, “That wasn’t what I was expecting.” 

Sirius gave him an unimpressed look, “He is still Lord Black Remus, no matter how hard you insist the title doesn't matter.” 

“I’ve told you before Sirius, not every Lord is the same, and Draco didn’t even know your Father.” 

Sirius’ nose twitched the way it always did when his family was brought up, but he otherwise didn’t respond. 

Remus reached for his husband's hand, stroking his thumb over the scarred knuckles. That was the way they sat, waiting for the sun to rise, and more news to arrive. 

—-------

Draco’s breaths tore from his lungs like sandpaper, and the earth around him was soaked with blood.

His or his aunts? He didn’t know. There was no difference, just more metallic clang in the air, and more power for The Manor. 

How many times would he have to learn? Blood was blood. 

Part of him had expected it to be different. For his aunt’s soul to somehow turn her body just as black as their name, but she ran red like any other. 

The exact same red as his. 

Draco buried her on the grounds, as was traditional, and The Manor did its part too, blood red amaryllis springing up around the freshly turned earth. 

Draco wished he could remember the duel, wished he could immortalise his aunt's last moments, but truly, he couldn’t even remember digging the grave. One moment, he and his aunt stood back to back, ready to fight, and the next, he sat at the edge of her grave. 

At least, he thought it was her grave. Draco couldn’t even know for sure. 

Standing, he brushed the non-existent dirt from his trousers. 

He had other business to attend.

Chapter Text

Harry, Ron, and Hermione hadn’t been seen in days. Not since the wedding, at the very least. 

Sirius wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Lord knows he’d be a hypocrite criticising the choice, but he had to admit it didn’t feel good to be the one left. He’d seen every sign. He knew what was coming. So why did it hurt?

He was suddenly glad he and Remus agreed to no kids. 

It felt like he should be searching for some hidden parallel to his own parents. Did they feel like this when Sirius left? He doubted it. And thinking about that felt dangerous. There was no motive for his parents, beyond the obvious. They didn’t care about Sirius, and he needed to stop searching subconsciously for signs they had. 

Had. Because his parents, and Regulus, were long dead. 

They died, just as he might die, and just as Harry might die. 

Merlin, how awful. His life was so fucking depressing. 

And yet, anything was better than Azkaban. 

—-------

It wasn’t long after that Remus found him, pacing in their shared room. He noticed his husband’s nerves, but didn’t comment.

“There’s been word.”

“From who?” Sirius asked, already exhausted. 

“Snape, we think.” Remus replied.

Sirius’ mouth twitched, trying not to snap, “ Think?” 

Remus sighed, already turning out of the doorway, “Yes, think, it’s not like they can sign them.” 

“So,” Sirius drawled, catching up with his husband, “It could also be from Draco.”

“It could,” Remus replied, eying Sirius critically, “but we have no reason to disregard his word yet, we haven’t seen him since the fall.” 

Sirius stopped cold, unsure of what to make of the situation. On one hand, he didn’t have a very good track record of guessing who was a traitor and who wasn’t, but his chest still hurt at the idea of trusting his cousin. 

Sirius, for the life of him, couldn’t make up his mind about Draco.

Whether that was actual intuition or his own biases, was yet to be determined.

“Alright.” He said finally, following Remus to the meeting room. 

Dumbledore was already there, along with Tonks and the older Weasleys, Sirius tipped his head to Tonks, but otherwise didn't speak. 

The old headmaster held in his hands a nondescript, small, and unopened envelope.

His eyes were serious, uncharacteristic for the old bastard, but then Sirius supposed there wasn’t much to be jolly about nowadays. 

“Ah, Remus, Sirius, now we can begin.” He waved his wand over the envelope, and it glowed green for a moment, showing no danger. Tucking his wand back into his sleeve, Dumbledore ran a thin finger under the lip, opening the envelope cleanly. 

Pulling out the paper, there were no words on the back, so it must have been rather simple. Even if the letter arrived under suspicious circumstances, they hadn’t been able to do anything for so long. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had left almost as soon as The Burrow had been attacked, and none of them had heard any word since. They had no way of making any progress, every option being more risk than reward, shot down directly by Dumbledore himself. 

At least when Harry had been here they could feel useful, Sirius thought, how much more useful could you get than protecting the chosen one?

Dumbledore’s eyes scanned the paper, flicking rapidly over the words before he finally put the letter down. Sirius grabbed it quickly, too anxious to wait for the recap.

The headmaster eyed him, but otherwise didn’t comment, “Truthfully, I have no idea of what we should do.” 

You could have heard a pin drop the way silence fell across the room. Dumbledore? Admitting any kind of vulnerability? Perish the thought. 

Sirius quickly looked down at the letter, seeing only a handful of words. Reading aloud for the rest of the members present, he began. 

O.O.T.P - Potter is close to H. Den will be empty in 3 days.

That was it. An opportunity they might never get again. 

“And we don’t know for sure who sent it?” Remus asked, mouth set into a line. 

“I have strong reason to believe it was Severus.” Dumbledore replied evenly. 

Sirius’ nose curled, and Molly looked less than pleased, but Tonks only looked contemplative. 

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” She said, “The longer we wait, the more useless we become. Harry’s already out there, and he’s proven he can protect himself. It’s risky, but taking back The Manor? That would give us a serious boost.” 

Molly seemed to be almost blowing smoke at the words, “We should be protecting Harry! Finding out where he is and helping him!” 

Dumbledore sighed, “I too wish to help Harry, but it’s not so easy to know where he is without also alerting the Death Eaters.” 

“What’s H?” Remus asked, silencing everyone else. 

Dumbledore folded his hands, looking at Remus steadily, “I believe it means Harry is close to a horcrux.” 

Remus paled, “You can’t be serious.” 

Sirius thought he had heard or seen the word before, but couldn't remember exactly what it was. He could tell it was some kind of dark magic however, as the word itself seemed to have weight, like just the act of saying it was enough to curse. 

“You’ve had us fighting him and didn’t mention he has HORCRUXES?” Remus nearly growled. 

Sirius stepped forward, putting a hand on his husband's shoulder, even if he didn’t know exactly what was being discussed, anything that could make Remus that angry deserved a close eye. 

“Explanation please.” Sirius asked, eying Dumbledore with contempt. 

“A horcrux,” Remus began, “Is a piece of a wizard’s soul. It means He cannot be killed unless the horcrux is destroyed first .” 

Sirius remembered now, it was old magic, only spoken of in the hushed tones of a taboo. 

Unless, of course, you were the cousin of Bellatrix Black, who’s love for power was only second to her love of taboo. 

He remembered her, close to when he left, toying with the idea casually as she picked at the underside of her nails. He’d been disgusted then, just as he’s disgusted now. 

“You’ve had us fighting, knowing he couldn’t be killed at all unless it was found? Why have you not had us searching?” Remus demanded. Normally Sirius’ husband was not so outspoken with Dumbledore, but since taking Harry in, they had both gotten much shorter tempers. 

“I had my reasons-” Dumbledore began. 

“No.” Sirius interrupted, “I’m sorry, Headmaster, but no. You should have told us.” 

Dumbledore was clearly unhappy with this turn of events, but seemed to consider his words before speaking, “You're right, of course. But things are rarely so black and while in the moment.” 

Sirius snorted, how like Dumbledore it was to admit wrong in the most ‘ I was right’ way possible. He was more than familiar with the tactic. 

Remus seemed more accepting of it, but he and Sirius rarely agreed on these things, which, as far as Sirius was concerned, made them a better pair. Sameness made him itch.

Molly seemed confused at best, but also annoyed. Though she’d never admit to agreeing with Sirius. 

“Dark magic?” She shuddered, “None of us would be much help with that, would we?” There was a subtle dig at Sirius there, but he chose to ignore it for the time being. 

“It’s He Who Must Not Be Named, everything he does is dark magic. The point is, we’ve been doing nothing.” Sirius looked around the table seriously, “We’ve had no shot at taking him down, because he can’t die. And our lovely headmaster didn’t see fit to tell us that. ” 

Dumbledore remained unflapped, “We couldn’t risk this information getting out. You should have known, but one must consider the morale of wartime.”

Obviously, this conversation wasn’t going to be resolved anytime soon. They needed to decide what to do, and quickly, before the opportunity soured. 

“Well,” Sirius smiled, “All those in favor of kicking the filthy fuckers out say ‘ Aye.’ ”

—-------

Blaise was having a stressful day. 

He was supremely glad all of the Slytherins had been slowly phasing out of Hogwarts life, or his continuous absence might’ve raised alarms. Fortunately, Snape, and maybe Flitwick were the only ones who'd even care. 

All of the youngers milled about in the common room, buzzing with nerves as they gathered their bags. Thankfully, Pansy had kept a tight leash while he was on his trips away dealing with the Order and Potter’s gang. 

“They look like rats,” She scowled, looking around the common room. 

“Give them a break,” Theo laughed, "this is probably their first go of it.” 

Blaise sighed, “At least we were prepared at all. Imagine we had no warning.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes, though she smiled at the same time, “Yes, yes, all hail Draco, mother of all Slytherins.” 

“Ha-ha.” Blaise replied flatly. 

As Pansy, Theo, Greg, and Vince helped the others pack and load into the illegal floo in his and Draco’s room, Blaise heard a knock.

“Visitors!” he shouted, causing the students who hadn’t gone through yet to pause, before they quickly stuffed themselves back into their rooms, leaving only the older years in the common spaces. Vince and Greg set up a chess board, as Pansy kicked her feet up onto the couch, and Theo sat by the fire with a random book. Some of the seventh years positioned themselves around the room, talking in smaller circles as they watched carefully. 

It was like nothing had happened at all. Every piece of evidence erased in seconds. 

Blaise strode up to the door. It was technically a secret, though it wasn’t hard at all to find it, most just pretended not to know out of respect for the tradition of it. So whoever was knocking either disregarded that tradition, or was one of the few outsiders allowed in. 

All of the relevant gryffindors were away, so this was someone new. 

Warily making his way to the door, he reached for the handle only visible from the inside, turning it once. 

The handle melted back into the wall, a snake carving slithering up from the floor, forming the shape of a door before the stone slowly melted away.

In the hallway, stood Luna Lovegood.

Chapter Text

Draco sat in an empty parlour room, toying with his wand, and waiting. 

He truly did feel bad about the deception, but they’d come to realise this was the best path. Severus would forgive him, eventually. His godfather knew they were being led into a trap, but he had no idea to what extent. 

The order, plus Severus, would be trapped in The Manor indefinitely, with no access to defensive magic. The house elves were still there, so they wouldn’t starve, but no smart wizard would speak freely in front of another man’s elf. All the important rooms would be closed off, of course, but even if they could disable some of the wards, Draco would feel everything. 

The Manor was his home, and it would obey him. 

Even if it didn’t necessarily appreciate the methods. Oh well. 

Feeling several unfamiliar magical signatures step foot onto Malfoy land, Draco took a deep breath. They were muted, obviously being smart enough to try and disguise themselves, but they were foolish for thinking they could hide any kind of magic from him. He waited, letting The Manor deal with them as it saw fit for now. Too much silence would make them suspicious, so Draco gave The Manor permission to be a little extra spooky. 

He could feel The Manor’s pleasure at being allowed to show off a little, and Draco let himself have a moment of content. Nowadays, his sense of theatre was very dulled. 

They were getting close now, and a sense of anticipation welled up in Draco. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could almost see them, converging just outside of where a normal wizard’s senses ended. 

How would they do it? Draco thought to himself, he’d initially expect them to just barge on in, especially with the forewarning of it being empty, but even Draco had to admit they were smarter than that. Draco had convinced the rest of the Death Eaters to leave a few of their ranks behind, turns out genocidal idiots were quite keen on the ‘for the greater good’ argument. That would keep them sharp. 

They’d experience just enough resistance to make them feel accomplished, and to not worry about where all of the important people were. 

As he felt them enter The Manor, he let his senses linger only long enough to confirm that they would kill, or at least incapacitate, the dummies. 

Then he let the real wards snap closed. 

These wards were not built for times of peace. These were the War Wards, meant to keep people in just as much as out. They would have very limited magic, and nothing of any substance could enter or be removed. 

No owls, no accios, not even a patronus could leave. 

These were wards built on blood and intent, and they had been made for far more powerful things than wizards.

Draco finally allowed himself to draw back into his own body, putting The Manor out of his mind for now. He stood, stretching out his arms above his head as he prepared for what he must do next. 

He’d fought it. Oh, how he’d fought it. But if Draco wanted to be free of Voldemort, if he wanted his family to be free of Voldemort, he must first let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. 

If he was a religious man, and truthfully, he wished he was, he’d pray that Blaise had upheld his task. 

But Draco wasn’t a religious man, he was just Draco, and that would have to be enough. 

He drew himself up, using his cane to balance the familiar twinge in his leg, and let any doubt wash off. His world began to narrow, nothing but here and now mattered. There was a disconnect within him, he’d be an idiot not to see it, but he nonetheless clinged to it, knowing he’d be drawn under and drown if he let himself truly feel the weight of what he was doing. 

Draco was himself, and wasn’t. The hands that pulled open the door to the backroom of Borgin and Burkes were Draco’s, but they didn’t feel like his. It was like he was a puppet master, pulling the strings on a limp doll.

One foot in front of another, Draco saw the inner circle crowded into the cramped room, all huddled around one half of the vanishing cabinet. Draco raised his wand, a mostly aesthetic gesture, as he knew this cabinet inside and out. Honestly, he could probably recreate it from memory with one hand tied behind his back. 

There should be nothing further that needed done, Draco had been dragging this out as long as possible, mostly through lies. 

It was almost nostalgic, seeing it again. 

Draco stepped through the crowd easily, coming to a pause when he caught sight of Voldemort himself. 

“I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us,” he said simply, not letting his tone lean either way. 

“It’s something that deserves my personal attention, don’t you think?” The Dark Lord asked in return, the closest thing to a smile he could make on his face. 

Draco resisted the urge to sigh, he was right, of course, but that didn’t mean Draco had to like it. 

Electing not to respond, Draco stepped forward, raising his wand with a showy motion. These people were probably the only ones more dramatic than he was, and they were looking for a show. 

The cabinet glowed silver for a moment, before slowly turning black. A simple bit of magic meant for children, but effective. 

“It’s done.” He called, turning to face Voldemort, “How would you like to proceed?” 

Voldemort hummed, looking at Draco with scepticism, “I think it’s rather fitting you go first and clear the way. I’m sure your classmates will be overjoyed at your return.” 

“After all,” he continues, his already cold voice dipping into something almost glacial, “You still have a task you’ve yet to complete.”

If Draco were capable of fear, he would have frozen. Luckily for him, the point where Draco had any sense of self preservation was long gone. 

“Alright,” He agreed, putting the jeers of the surrounding Death Eaters behind him. He stepped up to the cabinet, his hand curling around the familiar mahogany. He hoisted himself into the cramped space, closing the door behind him. 

There was no feeling. Nothing but endless darkness.No indication it had worked at all. 

Draco reached to push open the door, his hand faltering slightly. 

What if it didn’t work? What if he stepped out to the same cramped room, with flickering lights, and Voldemort ready to kill him for his uselessness?

He pushed the door open, prepared to see Borgin and Burkes, but he could tell immediately that it had worked. Hoogwarts had a very specific feel, one any student could recognize, even without his unique situation. 

It was like stepping into a warmly lit room and immediately being handed a glass. It was the feeling of cold snow landing on your nose as you laughed. 

The feeling of safety and youth. 

If it had been a few months ago, it would have given Draco pause. This was the desecration of holy ground. Sacrilege and pure evil. 

He was dooming hundreds to die, for his own selfish gain. 

And he wished he cared about that. 

Truth was, Draco didn’t care. Not right now. 

There was a part of him that cried, a part of him that didn’t want to do this at all, but that part of him had died a long time ago. That part of him couldn’t have survived this, not the way he was doing it. 

Draco was almost glad, in a way. Glad for the numbness that ringed in his skull instead of the pain. 

So instead of taking the moment to reevaluate his choice, Draco stepped out of the cabinet, and into the room of requirement. He found the door, winding through the towers of lost things, cast a disillusionment spell, and began the walk to the Headmaster’s office.

Chapter Text

“Lovegood?” Blaise said, not incredulous, because he didn’t do incredulous, but as close as he could get without embarrassing himself. 

“Hello!” She said brightly, walking past him and into the common room without a second thought, “Are we leaving already?”

Once again, Blaise’s patience and capacity to remain unflappable is tested. Though, he had to admit, Lovegood was a far sight better to deal with than any gryffindor. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about,” He said neutrally, after all, Lovegood was still technically one of his in-laws.

Lovegood doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest, in fact, her face splits into a wide smile, “Yes you do, silly,” she chides, hiking the bag she was carrying higher up onto her shoulder, “I’m coming with you!” 

Blaise blinked, considered her words, and quickly came to a conclusion, “Yeah, alright.” 

Coincidentally, there were suddenly several choking noises from around the room that Blaise politely ignored. In Blaise’s experience, there was no use talking Lovegood out of anything, least of all something she by all means shouldn’t have known about at. 

Damn Malfoys. 

Pansy pushed herself off the couch, her smile a touch too wide to be genuine, “Blaise, a word?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed him by the elbow and marched him into one of the many winding hallways of the slytherin dormitory, “What in Merlin’s hideous beard are you doing?” 

Blaise sighed, waving his wand in a simple privacy charm, “Pans, she already knows, if we leave her behind, who’s to say she doesnt go blabbing?”

“Ugh,” She growled, “Damn Malfoys. Fine, she can come, but if she gets annoying, I’m obliviating her.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees, cancelling the privacy charm and turning on his heel to walk with Pansy back to the common room, where Lovegood seems to be specating Greg and Vince’s chess match with great enthusiasm. 

He claps his hands, not needing a sonorous to project his voice, “False alarm! Resume!”

Immediately, students began poking their heads out of their dorms, quickly tidying and forming lines of organised chaos to the Floo in Blaise’s and Draco’s room. 

“Alright Lovegood,” Blaise sighed, “You’re already packed?” 

“Mhm-hm,” She hummed, practically jumping off the couch, “I’ve even got my nargle repellent, you know, for stealth.” 

Blaise nods with what he hopes is the proper amount of sincerity, “Fantastic. Stick with Crabbe and Goyle, they’ll show you where to go.”

Lovegood nods happily, her eyes holding the same distant look as always, but Blaise could see something else there too, something he’d never noticed before. It was odd, with how much magic he was surrounded with on a daily basis, that he’d been one of the people to discount her as air-headed and, well- loony . 

These days, Blaise felt more open minded. 

—-----

The password gave him some trouble, but the castle was just another sentient building, the same as his Manor. It only took a bit of coaxing, some well placed compliments, and a slight twist of magic, before the griffin revealed the staircase. 

His cane clicked ominously against the stone, loud and warning to anyone, but something in Draco knew it didn’t matter. Dumbledore had already let him get this far, and Draco would not be so arrogant to assume it was anything other than let . He could be egotistical sometimes, but at the very least he’d had the good fortune to learn some self awareness in the meantime. 

When he stopped for a moment to check, there wasn’t a single flicker of magic in the dungeons. 

That was . . . good. 

That was good, he told himself, even if there was a visceral sense of wrongness he could feel, like a pit had opened in the castle that had then been plastered over. The castle seemed to ache at the missing students, something Draco spared a brief moment to linger on before almost physically dragging himself away. Now was not the time for melancholy. 

He climbed the spiral staircase with what he hoped was the right amount of respect, considering he was about to kill one of the most beloved Headmasters Hogwarts had ever seen, but Draco couldn’t help but feel a bit silly. He was a Lord , of two great houses no less. He had done more before 17 than most adult wizards could dream, thus, being scared of his headmaster was childish and immature. 

It still didn’t stop the way his fist tightened around the head of his cane, or the cold, oppressive feeling across his chest, but it was a nice thought. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, he was almost surprised to see the door to the headmaster’s office wide open. Taking the invitation, Draco didn’t hesitate to enter, not even bothering with a customary knock. 

The old man didn’t even look up, taking a moment to finish reading something on his parchment before letting his eyes flick upwards to Draco, “Well, I must say, this was later than expected.”

Draco barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, feeling more like a petulant child than he had in months, “Well, It’s hardly good form to be predictable.” 

The headmaster let out a small chuckle, folding his hands on his desk, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” A smile creased its way onto his face, “Sit, please.”

There was the smell of old books and dust in the air, but for Draco, the scents were underscored with lemon drops and mahogany wood, not to mention the familiar and ambiguous comfort of Hogwarts itself. He unconsciously drew in a deep breath, the smell turning in his lungs and settling there heavily. The last time Draco had seen Dumbledore, he'd been intent on putting the fear of the Malfoy name into him, now, he could only find himself above such overt displays of emotion.

Draco let out a weary sigh, “Must we?” He asked, already feeling half like he was going to crawl out of his skin. 

Dumbledore had the audacity to laugh again, “When you reach my age, Lord Malfoy, you’ll find that looking death in the eye and having a nice chat is far more preferable to any alternative.”

Draco chose to ignore the assumptions of that sentence. Dumbledore’s age, please, he thought to himself scornfully, at this rate he’d be lucky to reach his father’s. 

Still, he sat. 

“I don’t know,” He mused with a sigh, settling his cane on the arm of the chair, “I think there’s something to be said about unexpected surprises.”

Dumbledore nodded, “I suppose I can’t disagree. I’ve always loved being surprised, no matter how infrequently it happens.” His eyes shone, peering over his spectacles at Draco, “You’ve managed to surprise me more than expected, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Lord Malfoy,” Draco corrected, mostly out of habit, “And isn’t that backhanded.”

Dumbledor’s mouth twitched upwards, “Maybe so, but nonetheless true. You’ve grown in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It’s almost supernatural.”

“I think petty wordplay is above you,” Draco said simply, one hand disappearing into his sleeve to feel the cold silver edge of the knife, “If you don’t mind, headmaster, I have an appointment that can’t be avoided.”

“Yes yes,” Dumbledore nodded, adjusting his spectacles, “If you must be on your way.” 

Draco stood, pushing himself upwards without the cane, rounding the desk, “You’ve played a good game, Albus, I’ll give you the benefit of choice.”

“Sitting, I think,” The headmaster answered easily, “My knees have been giving me trouble recently.” 

Draco raised his eyebrows, but accepted, letting the knife he’d taken from his aunt’s body slide into his palm. His last gift to her. 

She’d have been so pleased, he thought. 

The cold of the knife seemed to bite into the skin of his hand, but there was no hesitance when Draco lifted it to the headmaster’s throat, a hair’s breadth away.

“Last words?” Draco asked, thinking it appropriate. 

The headmaster tilted his head, thinking over it for a few moments, “it’s hard knowing what to say in these moments, even for me,” He said simply, “But there’s nothing more to do, I suppose. It’s in your and Harry’s hands now.”

Draco didn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes this time, though he waited a moment more before committing the final act, feeling the weight of it pressing on his chest. 

Though strangely, he felt more at peace with it than he had all those months before. The necklace was crude. Impersonal. He liked it better this way. 

Without a moment more, he plunged the knife into the headmaster’s throat, quick and simple. Not at all his aunt’s style, but that could be done postmortem. 

Draco had had enough of the cruciatus curse, he found. 

Withdrawing the knife, Draco tilted his head, looking down at his former headmaster. As the man took his last breath, Draco could feel the aged and almost wooden magic drain from his body, sinking into the floor and dispersing through the castle. It was strange, though not unlike the flashes of memory he had from when Voldemort had him work in The Manor. 

He stayed for a moment longer, dropping the knife onto the headmaster’s desk, then using a wave of his hand to vanish the blood from his robes, not bothering to do so for the headmaster and the desk itself.

Still, it was too clean. He singular stream of blood dripping from the dark wood of the desk to the stone floor would never be believable as the work of Bellatrix Lestrange, so Draco pressed his fingers to the would, using magic to draw out some blood from the headmaster’s eyes, ears, and nose. 

In the past, this had been the exact picture Draco saw in nightmares. It would have made his stomach turn even a few weeks ago. 

Now, only the dull press of nostalgia and relief remained. It was over.

Chapter Text

Severus had been ordered to stay in The Manor, an assignment that twisted low in his stomach. It was unusual for the Dark Lord to ask Severus to stay anywhere, usually, he was ordered to ping between locations like a muggle pin-ball machine. 

Not to mention things had been . . . different since Draco rose to favor. It had once been Severus at the Dark Lord’s left hand, but he couldn’t find any relief at no longer having to act so closely to his master. 

No, instead there was only dread. 

Where once, Severus had taught Draco complex charms and potion making, now he dedicated any and all time with his godson to nerve damage potions, dittany, and frankly unsubtle memory exercises. 

It worried him in a way he hadn’t thought possible, when he looked to his godson and found a grown man in his skin. Sharp where he had once been soft, calm where he had once been raging with fury. 

Selfless, when he had once been selfish. 

So yes, Severus was worried sick about Draco. All too often he’d found the boy slumped over in some study, eyes vacant and fingers trembling faintly. 

But it was worse when there was no blood, no bruising. That was the truly horrifying fact of it. Severus worried more when he found Draco with no new gash to sew up. 

It had been embarrassing, humiliating even, to ask the Dark Lord to cease his regular use of the curse on Draco. It made his mood sour further even to think of it, knowing that one small display of weakness would henceforth be preyed upon at every opportunity. 

Once again, he’d turned a charge to protect into a target to strike down. 

Ever one to brood silently, Severus was in his chambers when the book fell from its shelf. Looking up sharply from the cauldron he was stirring, he eyed the book wearily. Old muggle habit told him to dismiss it as paranoia, a small shift in the foundations, but Severus now knew better than to dismiss anything even remotely out of place in the Malfoy Manor. 

Leaving the cauldron, Severus placed a quick stasis charm to ensure nothing blew up, and crouched to examine the book.

It was then he felt it, like his world tipping sideways. He stumbled to the side, catching himself on the wall as his throat constricted. 

His chest tightened, and no matter how many deep, frantic breaths he took, the feeling didn’t lift. It felt as if he’d been wrapped in an impossibly heavy wool blanket, every sense dampened to the point he felt blinded. 

Severus reached for his wand, only to find the wood cold and unresponsive.

No. No no no no-

He scrambled for a spell, a simple lumos , and nothing came. His chest didn’t warm with the familiar rush of magic, his wand didn’t so much as spark. 

And for the first time since he’d felt his godson’s heart stop beneath his hands, Severus felt true devastation. 

His magic, it was gone, totally and completely, like a nightmare from his childhood. 

Distantly, he could hear several other panicked shouts, the lingering members of the Death Eaters apparently experiencing something similar, but Severus couldn’t lift himself from the floor. It was as if his heart had been torn from his chest, a physical emptiness gnawing at his energy and sapping his strength, both physical and mental. 

Severus forced himself to slow his breathing, a hand clutching at his chest as he forced a calm he didn't feel. The shouts continued, but they took on a new tone, and there was the vague sounds of crashing. 

Pulling himself up from the floor, Severus dusted a hand over his robes, an awkward flinch stopping his hand when the instinctual vanishing charm didn’t flick the dirt away on its own. 

Gritting his jaw, Severus drew another deep breath. Millions of muggles lived without magic, so could he. 

Manually dragging open the door of his potion chambers was a foreign task, and more difficult than he’d expected, but he didn’t let himself pause on it too long.When he got to the main portion of The Manor, he was forced to pause again, this time shocked for an entirely different reason. 

Standing in the foyer, wrestling with the few lesser Death Eaters that had been left behind, was the Order of the Phoenix. Unsurprisingly, Lupin and Black seemed to be the only ones actually succeeding, but Molly Weasley was holding her own shockingly well. 

Severus stayed out of sight for a few moments, letting the Order bodily knock down the young Death Eaters as he cursed every choice he’d ever made. Once the fighting seemed to come to a stop, he stepped out of the shadows, letting his heels click upon the marble and alert the Order. 

“Well, it seems I’ve been left out of multiple plots today,” he drawled, the strange absence in his chest already fatiguing him. 

Lupin’s head snapped up a fraction slower than Severus would have expected it to, “Did you do this?” He demanded, his face pained, though more accepting than the others seemed to be. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Severus snapped, “I have no power over The Manor.” Imbeciles. 

Lupin rolled his eyes while Black slumped against the wall behind him, already looking paler and sicker than he usually did, “Snape’s right,” he forced out, his voice thin, “He’s not a Malfoy, only one of them could do this.”

Lupin turned, his face softening a sickening amount at his husband's pain, “Do you know what's happening?” 

Black scoffed, dropping to sit, “This has Draco written all over it. Where is the little bastard?” 

Seveus stiffened, keenly aware most of the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord himself, were away. It was no doubt Draco who had done this, though Severus still wasn’t quite sure what this was, and it was no doubt entirely intentional the Order were here.

“Draco is out,” Severus said simply, “why are you lot even here?”

“We were told everyone was out,” Nymphadora cut in, “Seemed a good time to stop by.”

“Of course,” Severus sighed, “And did you bother verifying this information beforehand?” Taking an unwilling page from Black’s book, Severus swept over to a nearby lounge chair, dropping more heavily onto the chair than he had intended.

“Well obviously it was true,” She huffed, dropping to sit with Black, a barely noticeable sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“Draco,” Severus drawled, trying his best not to succumb to the tiredness pulling at his eyes, “Has lured you all into a trap.”

“ Obviously.” Molly snapped, leaning heavily against her son. 

The Weasleys, plus Fleur, looked just as bad as Black did, though they seemed keen to put up a brave front. Severus could only guess how ill the part-veela must be feeling if the purebloods were already on the verge of collapse. 

Thinking over what he knew about magical biology, Severus guessed the majority of them had maybe a few hours before they were bedridden. Being a half-blood himself, his body could use the muggle parts of his biology to compensate for the lack of magic, but the pure-bloods would have no such luck. 

There were a few magical maladies he’d read on as a young boy, in his darker moments, that dealt with stripping a wizard of his magic. The results were never pretty. 

In muggle born and half bloods, there was enough non-magical genetic material to survive without the magic that stitched together a wizard’s body. But purebloods, after years of carefully designed bloodlines, relied almost entirely on their natural magic and magic of the land to maintain themselves. This was the price of a strong magic bloodline, Severus had come to understand. It was ungrounded, prone to sickness and weakness if deprived of magic entirely. 

Black, Weasley, and DeLacour would frankly be screwed, if this problem continued for long. He wasn’t exactly sure of how Lupin would fare, being technically a magical creature, but still half-blood. 

It seemed, once again, Severus must save the day. 

“We don’t have time to argue, if this is a ward issue, it’s not likely to let up soon, and you'll all face rather painful deaths.” Pushing himself up from the lounge with great effort, Severus moved toward his chambers again. He needed to see if existing charms sustained themselves, or if any of his potion ingredients retained their properties. 

If his potions were ruined, he was going to kill his godson, Dark Lord’s favor be damned. 

He heard Lupin mutter tiredly, most likely reassuring his colleagues, before steps sounded behind Severus. 

“So, you do know what’s going on?” The werewolf asked, drawing up next to him. 

Severus let out a pained sigh, his hand jerking in a half-aborted motion to charm open the door before he remembered. Pushing the door open manually, he disregarded the irritation at exposing his private sanctum to another’s eyes, “I have some idea.”

“And?” Lupin pressed, shuffling himself out of Severus’ way. Smart man. 

Severus looked over his cauldrons with a disappointed eye, “it seems Draco has activated a magic-suppressing ward.” 

Lupin sighed, a long, drawn out sound, “And I’m guessing that’s more of a problem than it sounds?”

“Obviously,” Severus scoffed, his hands on his hips as he studied the un-magical remains of his current potions experiments. It seemed this was more than skin deep, as even the warming charms had cancelled themselves, his usually bubbling and swirling concoctions no more than dull and lifeless lakewater. 

If he didn’t have bigger issues to worry about, he’d have been distraught, but thankfully, Severus was quite used to brewing magically sensitive potions, and thus had non-magical brewing setups. 

At the very least, some non-magical remedies would be needed until Severus could chew out his godson properly. Draco would certainly rue this day. 

Chapter Text

With the Slytherins safely stowed away in Italy, behind enough wards to make your bones shake with the power of them, Blaise felt like he could breathe a bit easier. His chest was still tight with the feeling of uncertainty, but that had no chance of being lifted until this whole mess was definitively over.

In the meantime, He planned. 

Sitting with his lovely mother when Pansy, Theo, Greg, Vince, and even Luna, weren’t hanging at his coattails, the Zabini’s pulled every string possible. 

Tariffs, manufacturing issues, embargos, and downright illegal sabotage on the international scale, that was the Zabini family specialty. Sure, outwardly the Zabini’s made their money in fabrics, fashion, and socialites, but every competent individual knew that the real power of the Zabini’s was public favor. There was a well loved relative in every government this side of europe, not to mention enough married-in connections and well placed mistresses to twist the spin on anything. 

In Britain, a Dark Lord flaps its wings, in Italy, a tragically beautiful wife whispers into her husband’s ear. 

And if that husband is the Minister? What coincidence. 

The Zabini’s were larger than most families, and ironically enough, one of the least inbred. They appreciated hierarchy, and the addition of new skills to the family, too much to limit themselves to only the 28. 

This all made it quite easy to slowly gather resources outside of Britain, making sure that The Dark Lord’s plans ended at the border. 

—------

Draco resisted the urge to sigh as he looked at the front of Gringotts. He, as head of two families, had enough money in this bank to house all of the Weasley’s ten times over, but it still rankled to have his money handled by anyone other than a Malfoy or Black. 

Truthfully, it was only a small amount of the family fortune in this bank, it was stupid to keep everything so close, but in the interest of assuring Britain based clients, and Goblin relations alike, he was forced to accept it. 

Avoiding the main entrance, Draco’s cane didn’t click against the stones, layered with so many silencing and dissilusion charms it would take a true bloodhound to sniff him out. He slid into the side entrance, reserved for more private financial matters, and lowered his hood. 

The goblins didn’t care for The Dark Lord, but neither did they care for the Order. Or wizard politics at all, as a matter of fact, So, when the usual Goblin Woman lifted her head to greet him, he knew the annoyance and slight disgust on her face wasn’t a result of the typical reasons. 

“Lord Malfoy-Black.” She said curly, waiting for him to state his business. 

He didn’t question how she’d known about the change in titles, Goblin magic was different from wizard magic, after all, “I need to access Lady Bellatrix’s vault.” 

She lifted a wrinkled eyebrow, “Lady Bellatrix is a Lestrange, not a Black.”

A very, very thin argument, and they both knew it. Bellatrix was a lestrange in the way a werewolf was a puppy dog. 

Without any real thought, he reached into his pocket, his hands closing around familiar curved wood. 

His aunt’s wand. 

How had he gotten it? He tried to reach for the thought, but the effort only caused a headache to bloom behind his eyes.

Without further thought, he pulled it from his robes, presenting it to the woman, “I trust this will suffice.” truthfully, he didn’t even need the wand, as Lord Black, he had full permissions for any family member's vault. But he didn’t feel like the extra steps pulling rank would require, and everyone knew a Wizard only parted with their wand in dire circumstances. 

The goblin took the wand, squinting at it with sceptical eyes, but there was no denying the dark smell of it.

The woman didn’t bother with more words, handing the wand back and leading Draco through the tunnels without further word. Strangely, the ride didn’t make him as nauseous as it did when he was younger. He sat, feeling nothing more than slight boredom as the cart twisted through the caverns and vaults. 

Ironically, it felt more like accompanying his mother to the market than a life threatening mission to tear down the single most evil being Draco knew of. 

Only when the sound of rushing water approached, did Draco feel anything at all. My glamour, he thought, his brain stuttering over vanity as a reflex, before he could remember Goblins didn’t gossip. He forced his shoulders to relax, sitting pin-straight in the cart as enchanted water poured over him, stripping the glamour from his face harshly. Draco kept his face still, looking at the goblin evenly. 

She studied his face, but said nothing.

Finally, the cart slowed to a stop at one of the oldest and deepest caverns, and Draco immediately remembered why he had loved the bank so much growing up. 

The dragon sat chained in front of the vault, half blind and older than anyone could remember. 

Draco’s breath caught at the sight, what used to awe him as a child now tore at something deep in his chest. Dragons were old, old magic. Older than even the Malfoy’s. For one to be so chained . . .

Draco’s jaw clenched, his eyesight sharpening for a moment before he could curtail himself. 

Then, he remembered there were no wizards here, this deep below the earth, only Goblins, and Irsysdid. He hadn’t known the name of the dragon, but now it sprung to his mind as fast as it was his own. 

The goblin reached for a tool to drive it back, but Draco stopped her, “One moment.” He said simply, exiting the cart and approaching. The goblin, for all her credit, still didn’t say anything, not warning him away, clearly content to watch him make his own mistakes.

The beast raised its head as Draco approached, hot air falling off the winged creature in waves. Draco kept it’s- his eyes, stopping just short of the dragon’s claws. 

“Irsysdid,” He called, his voice high and clear without the dampening glamour. He felt no fear as a wizard might, only kinship, a strange bond to a chained and broken creature of old magic. 

Irsysdid huffed, a lick of flames drifted from his nose as he tilted his head at Draco. Blinking with milky white eyes, the dragon seemed to look through him with better certainty than any seeing animal. 

After a long moment, Draco felt a small shift in the magic of the room, and the Dragon stood, its old bones cracking as it moved aside. 

Draco watched it go, the beginnings of a truly selfish plan taking place. 

“Alright then,” he called back to the woman, standing at the door to his aunt’s personal vault, “Go on.”

The goblin looked at him with what could almost pass as curiosity, but withdrew the key from her robes and interested it into the door. 

Draco was no longer phased by the complicated locks on the door, he’d seen enough of them in his life to only feel a slight impatience as the machines clicked. When the door was finally open, he wasted no time sweeping into the vault. 

It was overcrowded, magical artifacts spilling over the shelves in a way that would make most historians salivate. Bellatrix had never cared much for history, and it showed in the dust already swirling into the air. 

Draco spared a moment of sadness for the lack of care, but it was quickly overshadowed by anger. How could someone from his bloodline be so careless? Bellatrix was his closest equal, and she squandered her potential with a silly obsession with dark magic. 

He scoffs, listening to the vault door close behind him as he casts his eyes over the hundreds of artifacts. For anyone else, it might’ve been hard to find the horcrux in the mess of his aunt’s vaults, but Draco wasn’t anyone else. 

He took a deep breath, his eyes shutting as he let his magic unfurl. He felt it like a phantom limb made solid, and sure enough, Draco could feel something resonating back at him. 

The second his foot lifted, lightning seemed to flick up Draco’s back, and he had only a moment to duck when the foundations of Gringotts began to tremble. 

Fuck. 

Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had planned a bank trip today, and frankly, he wasn’t on good terms with anyone who could do that. He needed the horcrux, and quickly. 

Setting forward and letting pure instinct guide his feet, Draco ducked through the teetering towers of artifacts and wealth with single-minded purpose, hopefully whatever nonsense going on upstairs wasn’t related to him.  He could feel the pull of the horcrux in the back of his throat, dark and tempting as it urged him forward, almost enough for him to ignore the growing ache in his knee. 

It wasn’t long before he came to it, the only dustless object in the whole of the vault. 

A gleaming golden cup sat on the shelf, almost like it was trying to feign normalcy, but any wizard with half a brain could tell there was something . . . off.  

It felt the same as the necklace, like something deep in his soul both rejected and embraced the cup in equal measure. If Draco were any lesser, he would have reached out and pulled it to his chest immediately, but as it stood, he had gotten quite good at the mind games The Dark Lord and his aunt played. 

He stepped back, raising his wand to cast a few diagnostic spells when there was another tremble in the foundations, this one even worse than the last, and Draco tipped sideways, his knee unable to handle the act of rebalancing on something so unstable. He caught himself against the shelf, his fingers brushing the edge of the goblet, and he had only a moment to regret his life when another golden cup sprang into being on the shelf. And then another, and another, and another. 

Swearing to himself, Draco grabbed the original cup and began to run, pointedly ignoring the waves of copies beginning to pour forth and the agonizing pain beginning to spread up his leg. 

As if his life couldn’t get any more difficult, as he rounded the corner and saw the great doors of the vault, they were already opening. 

Sure, why not? 

The goblet was too-warm, but Draco couldn’t release it, and as duplicates kept appearing, he needed a way to nullify the spells, and he needed to do it soon. 

He took a deep breath, shoving the glorified cup into his pocket where it wouldn’t touch skin, he could figure out a proper cursebreaking technique later, for now he ducked behind a nearby shelf and raised his wand at the door, ready to kill whoever came through.