Exile

Being a Malfoy wasn't easy, Draco had quickly learned. From an early age he had to respect rules and expectations, not being able to leave anything to chance. His robes had to be of excellent quality and tidy, his collar buttoned and his hair perfect. He had to be careful about which forks he used at the table, not to confuse the dessert spoon with the teaspoon and above all, he could never, ever go up to the fourth floor of the manor.

"Don't ask," his mother would say, "always stay within the third floor."

"Don't even try to go up there," his father ordered. "It's not a place for you." 

As a child, he didn't think much about it, he loved his house and the manor was huge and full of corridors, secret rooms, tunnels and immense gardens. Draco enjoyed exploring every corner of that place, discovering stories about his ancestors and learning more and more about magic.

As the years passed, however, his beloved mansion began to change. More and more people began to occupy the once empty rooms. Men and women entered and exited the manor continuously, destroying the calm and fairy-tale atmosphere that Draco had grown up with. There were no more free rooms, there were people everywhere, black clothes and silver masks had become his daily life.

“Who are they?” Draco had asked. At seven years old he was certainly not stupid, he knew that something important was happening. 

“They are friends of your father, don’t worry about them,” his mother had replied. “But please, stay away from them.” 

That was the first rule Draco broke.

He didn’t do it on purpose, curiosity got the better of him. He began eavesdropping on conversions, spying on house-elves, peeking through the doors of the great hall to glimpse the secret meetings of his father and the great snake man. 

His mother was increasingly worried, trying to take him out to play in the gardens whenever she could, but it was inevitable that all this would have repercussions on little Draco, who at nine years old broke his second rule.

He woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, sweaty and scared, so much so that he couldn't fall back asleep. 

He quickly got out of bed and, careful not to make any noise, began walking through the corridors, looking for his parents' bedroom. 

Everyone in the house was asleep and for the first time in a long time Draco couldn't hear any noise apart from the thump of his bare feet on the floor. There was no drunken laughter or hidden whispers, everything was silent. 

When he was a few steps from the master bedroom he heard it. He wasn't sure what it was, maybe a hiss, but he found himself changing direction in search of that sound, the nightmare now forgotten. 

He hesitated at the first few steps of the staircase that led to the fourth floor, but took courage and, holding his breath, began to climb.

He got maybe ten steps up, he could even see something in the shadows, just beyond the railing, he didn't know what it was, but someone grabbed his collar, stopping his steps. 

"What are you doing?" It was his father. Draco turned to look at him, he had never seen him so tense and worried, he immediately lowered his gaze to his feet "you're not allowed up here, you know that". 

"But father, I just wanted to - " His cheek was burning and tears were falling. 

"Go back to your room, now" Draco ran.

That night he didn't sleep. 

From that day on he began to pay more and more attention to the hissing, to the shadows on those forbidden stairs, but with all those people around the manor it was an impossible mission. At night he stayed awake for hours, sometimes he could hear it, if he concentrated hard, but he never dared to go near those stairs again. 

At eleven, his letter to Hogwarts finally arrived, a respite from everything that went on inside the manor walls. He was starting to hate the place.

He was sorted into Slytherin and forgot whatever mystery his house held. Hogwarts was the only place still outside the Dark Lord's control, that was Dumbledore's kingdom. 

Going to school was nice, simple, it was a bubble outside of reality. He learned spells, became top of the class in potions, made friends and studied for his homework, like any child his age, and yet he could still see the taints of war. 

Draco did his part, together with his classmates he became the perfect Malfoy. He was a pureblood, he couldn't risk tarnishing his reputation by mixing with half-bloods and rotten blood, so he joined the feud. 

He only returned home in the summer, preferring to stay as little as possible. 

He could still hear the hissing.

It was late in the summer after his fourth year that Draco first heard something truly important. 

His parents were arguing in the kitchen, Draco lurking just outside. He had just wanted to get a glass of water when he heard voices that made him freeze on the spot. 

"You can't let this happen, Lucius, he's too young!"

"If we don't, he'll kill us all, is that what you want?" Lucius said. 

"And if he fails?" Mum's voice was shaking so much. "If he fails, it'll only kill him." 

"He won't, it's a simple task." Somehow Draco knew his father was talking about him. 

"It's not him I'm worried about," Narcissa said.

"If that happens I will ask the Dark Lord for mercy, I am one of the most important on his side, it will be of some use" Draco heard footsteps, he had to leave quickly if he did not want to be discovered. 

He managed to make sense of what he had heard about a year later, when he had just returned home at the end of his fifth year and had received his first summons from Voldemort himself. 

He was kneeling in the great hall, next to Lucius, scared to death of whatever the Dark Lord wanted from him. 

"I have always admired the loyalty of the Malfoys, I wonder if I will be as pleased with you as I am with dear Lucius..." Voldemort was in front of him and seemed to be piercing him with his red eyes. 

"Yes my lord, I will do my best" he replied. His father had taught him all the ways in which he should behave.

The Dark Lord waved his hand and out of nowhere, but it was probably just Draco who was too distracted to notice, someone appeared. 

A boy, perhaps the same age as Draco or a little older, very pale. They looked into each other's eyes and Draco had to fight the urge to run away. 

The boy licked his lips, watching him with his head slightly tilted, his gaze cold and calculating, as if studying him. 

"From today," Voldemort said softly, "you will be Harry's teacher. I want him to be able to understand and speak English by the end of the summer." 

Draco blinked, confused and terrified at the same time. He didn't understand. The confusion must have been clear on his face, and the Dark Lord spoke again. 

"The boy doesn't speak, he only knows Parseltongue, but as noble and ancient as it is, he must be able to communicate properly," he explained, "I don't have time for this, but you do, and I expect you to do a good job." 

Draco's eyes widened, everything making sense now. The ban. The mystery of the fourth floor. The hissing he could hear in the corridors. 

Draco wished he had never discovered what the fourth floor was hiding.