Draco was very aware of the kind of person he was going to be from a very young age.
His father was an important man who taught him all the proclivities of a lavish life. It was in his opulent upbringing as an only child that Draco learned something vital: he was important. Not only was Draco important, but the people he was to keep in his company were to be important, as well.
At age eleven, a faux pas, social blunder with the savior of the wizarding world desecrated his world view. He was important, and the boy was important. The weasel in hand-me-down robes, was not.
It wasn’t personal; it was life.
Despite the most powerful young wizard of their generation denigrating himself to the lowest levels of society, Draco still managed to spend his preliminary school years as Slytherin house’s most promising young wizard, competing only against his own ego and the weight of his father’s expectations.
Later in life, he would go on to do things so grand he barely even thought of the boy-with-the-scar anymore; Draco came to know him not as the promising young man, not important like Draco, but the soft boy who longed for home.
It was laughable in hindsight. How could he ever think they were meant to be friends?
When asked at the end of his life about his greatest achievements, Draco would always cite one fateful night as the night that changed everything.
It wasn’t until a cool summer night in 1994 that Draco’s life truly began.
Draco watched Potter slide down through the hole in the base of the Whomping Willow. He held his wand out before him, cautiously watching the leaves on the paralyzed tree sway minutely in the breeze. The orange cat, paw still poised at the knot, stared at Draco with a tilted head.
Draco sneered at the feline, “What are you looking at?”
He scoffed before slowly walking forward to peer down into the hole. He heard Potter and Granger’s voices fade into nothing as they traveled further down the tunnel. He looked up to make eye contact with the cat before looking back down.
He braced himself on the edge of the opening, turning back to the only witness to his espionage once more, “Don’t eat me if I die down there.”
The cat dropped its paw, leaning over to lick his back. The disinterest made Draco confident that he had communicated his point clear enough. He closed his eyes and launched himself into the abyss as the Whomping Willow creaked to life above him.
Draco’s breathing was ragged as he tumbled unceremoniously down through the tunnel. He felt something sharp slide up his arm, pulling apart the seams of his skin. He could feel his shirt soak up the blood and dirt like a sponge. As he reached out to slow his descent, his injured elbow slammed into the wall, knocking him off course and flailing his entire body weight down to the ground in an undignified belly flop.
He lied with his face in the dirt for a moment, groaning and trying to come to his senses. The voices spilling out from the room before him caught his attention, and he lifted his head slowly, holding very still to try his best to hear. Annoyed at the lack of audible clarity, Draco crawled forward slowly, peering through a small hole in the rotted wood of the wall before him near the floor.
He watched a pair of disintegrating, ragged, brown-colored, leather loafers pace before him.
It took his throbbing head a moment to orient the voice: Professor Lupin.
“I had tried to tell my friends I was dangerous, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Selfish as it was, I was happy when my friends succeeded and could join me. They were always good at keeping me company.”
He saw the small tail glide past as its owner slithered from a pair of pale hands to the mildew floor. It was only a moment–only a flicker of a pale tail in the moonlight–but he saw it, nonetheless.
Not thinking of the consequences, he lunged forward, throwing open the rickety door, surprising the room’s occupants, and dove down for the rat.
“Scabbers!” Weasley protested, propped against the far wall with blood gushing out of his knee.
“Draco, what are you doing?” Professor Lupin asked, his hand in front of him, placatingly.
“I know who this is,” Draco breathed, quietly, grasping the rat in both hands tightly, “My father spoke of him.”
“Who?” Weasley asked in disbelief, and Draco fought to roll his eyes with the way Granger and Potter stood protectively in front of him.
“Reveal him already Remus!” A scraggly man, exclaimed–loud and perfunctory–as he stepped out from the shadows.
Draco froze, his grip on the rat becoming death-like.
“Is that–?” Draco began.
“Sirius Black,” Potter finished, voice tight.
Draco swallowed heavily, regretting all of his choices this evening already.
This is why he didn’t try to do good-people things.
Of course, he knew Black wasn’t crazy, that’s why he was looking for the rat, after all. But, he’d spent the past twelve years locked up in Azkaban, his cell just beside the one of his aunt–and she was crazy.
“Draco,” Professor Lupin said, his hand extended, “Let me have him. If it is Peter, then he’ll turn back. If not, then it’s just a normal rat and no harm will come to him. Alright, Ron?”
Draco felt the rat squirm under his fingers. He nodded and placed the rat in the professor’s hand.
“Revelio!” Professor Lupin shouted.
The rat aimed to flee once more, but as it scurried, the features began to elongate to resemble that of a rather rat-esque man. He was a man small in stature, but not orientation. Although he appeared to have once been rotund, the years of stress and rat-frolicking had slimmed his frame. He had thin, colorless hair, with a large bald patch at the top. His skin was wrinkled and leathery, like the rat’s had been. The small, beaded eyes, and long, pointed noise were distinctly rat-like features still.
The man looked around at all the attendants within the dilapidated shack.
“Hello, Peter,” Professor Lupin said, his face full of pain and looking far beyond his years.
“S—Sirius... R—Remus…,” The man spoke, almost in a croaked wheeze as he crawled towards Professor Lupin, “My friends... my old friends.”
Black launched forwards, a wand–where that man procured a wand from who knows–pointed at the rat-man.
“Give it up, Peter,” Black spat, “It’s too late.”
The man shrunk down deeper into the unnaturally fuzzy floorboards, pressing himself as flat as his body would allow, turning to Professor Lupin, “Remus…please.”
The man spared a glance to Black, before his eyes darted back, speaking in almost a hoarse whisper, “He tried to kill me.”
Black barked out a deep laugh, “That’s rich coming from you!”
“Sirius,” Professor Lupin chided, reaching across the man’s chest to pull him back.
“He’s come to try and kill me again!” Peter cries out.
“No one's going to kill you yet, Peter,” Professor Lupin promises.
“You sold Lily and James to Voldemort!” Black pulled against Professor Lupin’s hold.
Peter cried, pressing his face to the floor, “What was I supposed to do Sirius? He would have killed me.”
“You should have died!” Black shouted, looking every bit as mad as his wanted poster, “Died rather than betray your friends! As we would have done for you!”
Professor Lupin watched Black with a careful look. With a comforting hand on the taller man’s shoulder, Professor Lupin turned back to his old friend flailing on the ground, “You should have realized Peter, if Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would.”
Potter speaks up, “No! No one’s killing him.”
Draco watched the man’s eyes dart to the door, and suddenly he also wanted to flee this scene.
The man instead turned back towards Potter, crawling to him and latching on to Potter’s pant leg, “Thank you! Thank you, sweet boy.”
“Don’t you touch him!” Black jumped forward again, and Professor Lupin intercepted his movement.
“We’re going to take him to the castle,” Potter stated, his voice wavering only slightly, “To Dumbledore.”
As if the mingy shed wasn’t crowded enough to begin with, Professor Snape waltzed into the room. The door collided with the wall in a gusty cloud of grime, soot, and splinters. Snape zeroed in on Black the instant he saw him.
Before Professor Snape could utter a sound, Potter exclaimed, “Expelliarmus!”
Professor Snape flew into the distant wall, collapsing into a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Harry! You attacked a teacher!” Granger shouted, her hands over her mouth in disbelief.
“He wasn’t going to listen,” Potter said, “This is ending. Tonight.”
Draco followed the rag-tag group back up and out of the Whomping Willow and onto the school grounds.
He was frustrated, if he was being perfectly honest. He began this night hoping to grab the rat from Weasley and take it back to Dumbledore. He wanted to be the one to set Black free, to rectify his family name. Ever since his father went to Azkaban at the end of last year for the part he played in the Chamber of Secrets, there’s been a distinct air of shame looming over him and his mother.
They didn’t need him, in fact, they were better off without him. However, his mother didn’t deserve the brigade of judgement she’d received in his father’s absence. Draco thought if he could do this one thing, maybe his mother wouldn’t be the basket-case of the Black Family any longer. If people only had someone else in their family tree to focus on, his mother would be left alone.
Then his cousin Sirius escaped from prison, and Draco remembered the stories he heard his father tell about the rat-in-disguise, and he hatched a plan.
Much like his plan to impress the most famous boy in wizarding Britain on the train in his first year, this did not pan out as he envisioned.
He watched his head of house float along, Black banging his head on a branch of the Whomping Willow momentarily, his cape billowing in the moonlight.
That thought struck him.
The moonlight.
Oh shit.
“Professor!” He shouted, as the man stepped out behind Granger and Potter supporting Weasley.
The man turned to the pale light streaming into the clearing through the branches. He took a hesitant step back towards the tree, his facial features already morphing into the vestiges of a long snout.
“Remus, my old friend, have you taken your potion tonight?” Black asks, dropping Professor Snape to the ground immediately. He grasps Professor Lupin by the shoulders, their faces inches from one another. Black whispers to him as he holds the Professor’s arms tight to his side, “You know the man you truly are, Remus. This heart is where you truly live! This heart.”
The words seem to have no effect, as Professor Lupin contorts painfully in Black’s grasp.
Draco cannot tear his eyes off the rat slithering off into the weeds below.
No! He needs that rat.
He slides down the hill, lunging for the slippery skin of the rat at the first chance. He feels the lithe body of the rat wiggle relentlessly beneath his fingertips as they continue to tumble down the hill from the impact. He lands on his back, the air expelled painfully and forcefully from his lungs.
He holds the rat tightly in one hand, reaching carefully to his pocket with the other. His weak elbow throbs as he twists it at an unnatural angle to pull his wand up. He places the tip of his wand on the back of the rat, who is currently squeaking up a storm.
“This isn’t personal,” he whispers, “Petrificus totalus.”
The rat freezes in his grasp.
He smiles and drops his wand, knowing the frozen rat is his mother’s key to a better life. Draco feels more elated than he has all year. He allows his head to fall back to the Earth below with a thunk as he laughs, cradling the rat close.
His jubilee is cut short with the sound of a snarl as two more figures come tumbling down the hill.
He watched with bated breath as the Professor wrestled a large, black Grimm. The dog collapsed with a painful yelp as the werewolf flung the skeletal frame into a lofty rock structure. The quick gasp Draco let out had the werewolf whipping its head to where he lay.
Draco had forgotten momentarily that he had the rat between his fingers and not his trusted ten-inch hawthorn, and he brandished the rat before him, “Flipendo!”
He felt ridiculous the moment the word flew from his lips.
However, in a blast of purple light, the knockback jinx propelled the werewolf away from him.
Draco laid there stunned. He sat up, holding the rat close to his face. How had he managed to do that?
Draco held the rat in front of him, pointing it carefully over at the whimpering Grimm.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” he said, clear and authoritative and he watched as the dog began to float before him.
Draco laughed.
Holy shit.
He could do magic with a rat.
“Sorry, Mr. Malfoy, can you say that once again?” The Minister asked.
“I can do magic with a rat,” Draco proclaimed, holding Pettigrew’s immobile body tightly.
He held out the rat before him, clasped tightly in both palms, “Wingardium Leviosa,” he said.
They all watched as a quill floated delicately up off of Dumbledore’s desk.
“Fascinating,” Dumbledore stated, a twinkle in his eye.
The minister sputtered, while Draco simply held his rat-wand.
Draco was not surprised at all when Black was pardoned of all his crimes. Several weekly articles detailed how the “Heir to the most Noble and Ancient House of Black” was fairing with his new freedom and the fresh custody of his Godson–the savior of the wizarding world. The headlines about his mother stopped.
The summer was pleasant.
He started his morning with a daily walk with his mother. They would leisurely stroll through the gardens of Malfoy Manor and simply enjoy each other’s company. During the day, they would lounge in the study together–Draco reading while his mother knitted. In the evenings, they would sit close together, alone, at one end of the long dining room table meant for twelve to fourteen guests and laugh over their meal.
The monotony of the serene summer was momentarily broken when his mother gave him a gift in Mid-July.
Draco looked at her confused, holding the small box in his hands as they sat out on the gazebo listening to the peacocks chatter distantly across the lake, “My birthday is already past?”
“Can I not give my son a gift when I wish?” Narcissa asked, smiling softly as he delicately ran his finger along the shiny ribbon. “Open it, Draco.”
“Thank you, mother,” he said, softly, pulling on the ribbon carefully.
Inside of the box was a green, knitted, distinctly rat-shaped…holster? He raised an eyebrow before setting it down to pick up the other knitted, more appropriately shaped, wand holster.
“This way you can always have your wands with you,” Narcissa said.
“Thank you, mother,” Draco said, a bright smile on his face, “I love them.”
To be seen is to be loved, and Draco has always been loved.
When Draco went to board the Hogwarts Express in September, it was with his petrified rat in one holster and his hawthorn in the other.
“Are you sure you have everything?” His mother asked smoothing down his hair.
“Yes, mother.”
“All your clothes?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Your books?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Both your wands?”
“Of course, mother.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around her middle as she pulled him close and kissed his head gently.
“You will write, yes?”
“Yes, of course, mother.”
“Every week?”
“Every week, I promise.”
She released him from the hug and cradled his face in her hands, “You’re growing up too fast, my sweet boy.”
Draco smiled, “I love you too, mother.” He leaned up and kissed her on the cheek.
“Cissy! My dear cousin, how lovely it is to see you here!” A boisterous voice called over the crowd.
“Oh goodness,” Narcissa sighed, placing her hand delicately on Draco’s shoulder.
“Hello, cousin,” She greeted Sirius with a smile when he, Professor Lupin, and Potter walked over.
“Malfoy,” Potter greeted, curtly.
“Potter,” Draco nodded his head in return.
“It’s good to see you up and about, Sirius,” Narcissa said, smiling diplomatically.
Sirius smiled and patted Harry on the back, “Of course! Had to see the lad off for the train.”
“The time goes so quickly, doesn’t it? It feels like they’ve only just come home when they leave again.”
Sirius barked out a laugh, running his fingers through his long curls, “Yes. Especially when you’ve got lots of lost time to make up for.”
“I’m sure,” Narcissa said.
“Speaking of lost time…” Professor Lupin spoke up, with a light cough.
“Oh yes,” Black said, as if only just reminded, “It’s been a long time Narcissa. Us Blacks need to stick together these days. We’d love to have you over sometime, for dinner, perhaps.”
“That would be wonderful, Sirius.”
“Yes, well…” Black trailed off, “you were always Regulus’s favorite cousin.”
Narcissa smiled sadly, “He meant a great deal to me.”
“We’ll be sure to reach out,” Black said, clearing his throat.
“I eagerly await your letter. We’ll leave you three to say goodbye,” Narcissa said, starting to steer Draco.
“Yes, of course,” Black nodded, “Happy to see the rat is in good hands,” he said, winking at Draco.
He hugged his mother again before climbing onto the train. When he looked over his shoulder once more to wave goodbye, he watched as both Black and Professor Lupin took turns pulling Potter into a firm hug. He tilted his head, slightly confused, when Professor Lupin stepped back from Potter and Black slipped his arm around Professor Lupin’s waist.
How strange.
Draco shook his head and boarded the train.
In his fifth year, when Draco heard the soft crying in the bathroom, he almost spun on his heel and walked back out.
He didn’t do emotions very well. At least, not the emotions of his peers. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the contrite interpersonal drama of the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. As he turned to leave, his shoe squealed against the wet floor. He closed his eyes and wished for death.
“Who’s there?” The soft voice called, instantly. A voice he recognized immediately.
Why me, Merlin? Draco thought as he spun back around again.
He turned the corner to see Potter hunched over a sink, his tie hanging loose
“Malfoy,” he said, straightening instantly.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, curt.
Potter shook his head and turned back to the sink, watching the water run from the faucet.
Draco reached down with his left arm to his larger holster, his elbow twinging slightly from the old injury.
Potter sighed, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What?” Draco asked, double-checking his other holster now.
“I’m standing alone in the bathroom crying. This is usually the part where you say something to me about how I’m pathetic and have dead parents and then I quip back, and then you walk away. Let’s hurry up and get this over with so we can get to the part where you walk away.”
Draco scoffed, “I don’t care what you do with your free time, Potter. Cry alone in the bathroom, for all I care.”
Harry met his eyes in the mirror, “Really?”
Draco shrugged, also wanting to get to the part of this interaction where he walked away. He started to walk away again, and Harry’s head dropped back to the faucet. Draco paused, knowing he was going to regret this, but feeling the pull to speak.
“Potter,” he began, turning back.
Potter’s head lifted again, meeting his eyes once more in the mirror.
“I believe you…about the Dark Lord being back.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed, “Only Death Eaters call him the Dark Lord.”
Draco cringed, knowing the taboo was gone, but remembering the stories. He sighed, “I believe you. That…Voldemort is back.”
Harry’s features softened, “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“I’m not sure what you’re upset about, but I wanted to say that,” Draco wasn’t sure why he kept talking, but he did, “I believe you. I believe he killed Diggory, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I remember June of 1994. Pettigrew betrayed your family. That kind of pain…” he trailed off, “People don’t lie about pain like that.” Draco patted his hip, “And I have the rat. So…if it wasn’t the rat, and you wouldn’t lie,” he shrugged, “It’s him.”
Potter shook his head, rubbing his eyes harshly, “I don’t know how we’re supposed to stop him. No one will listen to me.”
“They will,” Draco said.
“Not before people get hurt,” Potter slammed the edge of the sink.
Draco shrugged, “That’s war, Potter.”
Potter let out an exasperated noise, “Well, that was a nice moment you ruined, Malfoy. We can get to the part where you walk away now.”
Draco shrugged, “See you around, Potter.”
As he walked out of the fourth floor boy’s bathroom, stroking the rat in his knitted holster, Draco hatched a new plan in his mind.
Deep inside the dark, confidential halls within the Ministry of Magic’s Hall of Prophecy, a prophecy that Draco Malfoy had never heard before glowed strikingly on its pedestal. Although this prophecy stated that the Dark Lord was to be defeated by a boy born at the end of July, it was actually a boy born at the beginning of June who would end the war once and for all.
Draco took a deep breath, following his mother and the guard down the hall to his aunt’s cell. He tried to ignore the cacophonous sounds of the waves crashing thunderously into the mossy stone walls around them.
She wrapped her darkened, cracked fingernails around the bars, “Cissy! You’ve come to visit me. And, you brought Draco,” his aunt crooned, laughing.
“Bella, Draco has come to speak with you,” his mother said, reaching out to grab his elbow.
She nodded him forward.
Draco stepped closer to his aunt, being able to not only see but smell the rot on her teeth from here, “Hello, Aunt Bella.”
“It’s been so long since I last saw you,” She grabbed his hand, “You were so little, then.”
Bellatrix’s eyes filled with tears.
She beckoned him in and he leaned in closer, “Those filthy, disgusting Mudbloods and blood traitors killed our Dark Lord, and now here you are, all grown. I missed everything.”
Draco crafted a political smile onto his face, “It’s alright, Aunt Bella. We’re going to fix it.”
She smiled, manic, whispering “How?”
“The Dark Lord isn’t dead,” Draco said as quietly as possible, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the guard was too far away to hear their conversation.
Bellatrix didn’t look surprised. Good.
“I’m going to help him,” Draco said, “But, I need to know where he is.”
Bellatrix also glanced over to the guard, “Albania.”
“Are you sure?” Draco whispered.
His aunt nodded.
He smiled again, “Thank you, Aunt Bella.”
“Time’s up!” The guard yelled, keys jingling as he walked back over.
“You’ll come back for me won’t you?” Bellatrix called as they walked away, “When we win, Draco. You’ll come for me?”
Draco turned back to his aunt, nodding, “Of course.”
They walked briskly down the winding staircase wrapped along the perimeter of Azkaban. He focused on his mother’s blonde hair and the jangle of the guard’s keys as they descended back to the docks where they could apparate home.
Once back in their entry hall, the two of them fell silent. The weight of their excursion settled in.
“I’m sorry mother.”
Narcissa smiled sadly, a single tear sliding down her cheek, “She hasn’t been my sister in a long time.”
Draco hugged his mother tightly.
Draco walked up the long, winding walkway to the little shack in the countryside of Albania. Once he knew for sure this was where Voldemort was hiding, a book in the Malfoy Manor library had helped him narrow down the proper locating spell.
He slammed open the door.
Voldemort looked over his shoulder, surprised at the intrusion. His long, dark cape, billowed from the cool air, whisked into the small room upon his arrival. The roaring fire beyond the armchair basked the Dark Lord in a warm glow.
“Lucius’s boy,” The Dark Lord breathed out, nasally and deep.
“Draco,” He corrected.
“Are you here to follow in your father’s footsteps, Draco? To fight for…me?” The Dark Lord raised his eyebrow, gesturing to his chest with a pale hand.
Draco scoffed, “No. I’m here to kill you.”
Before Voldemort could blink, he reached into his holster and whipped out his rat, pointing it at the Dark Lord, “Avada Kedavra!”
The Dark Lord collapsed dead onto the cabin floor with a flash of green light.
A thin wisp of smoke emerged from the tip of the nose of the rat, as Draco stood, one hand on his hip. He blew out the smoke, turned, and walked out the door back into the cold stormy night.
Harry James Potter was forever remembered as the Boy Who Lived. The Boy who Killed Voldemort once and for all.
Voldemort never returned. He never wreaked havoc again on the good people of Wizarding Europe.
Harry spent the rest of his school years living with Sirius and Remus. The Lupin-Black household (as the Prophet came to proclaim it) provided him all the love and care he never received as a young boy. Harry got the home he always wanted. Nowadays, Harry Potter can be found within the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If he’s not in the classroom teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, then he’s usually down at Hagrid’s Hut visiting his old friend.
The students adore him, and people still tell the story of how he defeated Voldemort on that fateful night of Halloween, 1981.
Draco isn’t sure that Potter ever knew what really happened in Albania in 1996.
But that was alright, Draco thought, looking out at the Peacocks beyond the lake at Malfoy Manor. His mother’s knitting needles clinked quietly. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air.
Draco was free.