Shadows of Memory
Draco pressed his forehead against the cool glass of his bedroom window at Malfoy Manor, wings the colour of moonlit pearl folded tightly against his back. The Veela inheritance that had manifested on his eighteenth birthday had brought beauty, yes—but also pain, longing, and an aching emptiness he couldn't fill.
Dawn was breaking over the grounds, painting the gardens in shades of gold that reminded him painfully of Gryffindor colours. Of *him*.
The manor's wards thrummed with the presence of Auror surveillance, a constant reminder of his family's fall from grace. But today, something felt different. The very air seemed charged with possibility.
A wave of foreign emotion crashed through him—anger, betrayal, determination. His mate's emotions were stronger than ever before. Draco's knees buckled and he caught himself against the window frame, wings flaring instinctively for balance.
"Harry," he whispered, knowing with absolute certainty now. The connection that had been forming since midnight left no room for doubt. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the saviour of the wizarding world, was his destined mate. Judging by the tumult of emotions flooding their nascent bond, Harry had just discovered something world-shattering.
Draco's own memories stirred, fragments he'd been piecing together over months of isolation. Conversations with his father that ended abruptly in blank spaces. Questions about Dumbledore that dissolved into a fog. Moments of doubt about pureblood supremacy that vanished without resolution.
"Young Master Draco?" Tibby, one of the few house elves still permitted to serve the family, appeared with a soft pop. "Your mother is asking for you in the conservatory."
Draco straightened, smoothing his robes with trembling hands. "Tell her I'll be there shortly. "The walk through the manor's corridors was an exercise in control. Each step took him past rooms that held memories of Voldemort's occupation—the dining room where Charity Burbage had died, the drawing room where Granger had screamed under Bellatrix's wand. But mixed with these horrors were newer memories, ones that had been slowly surfacing since Dumbledore's death.
"Mr. Malfoy, a moment of your time." Dumbledore's eyes hadn't twinkled that day. They'd been calculating, cold. "I notice you've been asking quite interesting questions in Professor Binns' class about the historical treatment of Muggle-borns..."
A wave of the Elder Wand and the questions had vanished. Along with his growing doubts about everything his father had taught him.
Narcissa waited in the conservatory, her pearlescent wings folded elegantly behind her as she tended to her prized moon blossoms. She looked up as Draco entered, her eyes immediately noting his distress.
"You felt it too, then?" she asked softly. "The disturbance in the old magics?"
Draco nodded, sinking into a chair. "It's Potter. He's come into his inheritance." He laughed hollowly. "Of course it's Potter. When has my life ever not revolved around him in some way?"
"Perhaps that should have been our first clue." Narcissa set aside her pruning shears. "The obsession was never entirely natural, was it? Even accounting for your father's influence."
"Nothing was natural," Draco said bitterly. "Every time I started to question, every time I began to see through the lies—" He gestured sharply, wings rustling with agitation. "Dumbledore was there, making adjustments. Like we were all just pieces on his chess board."
"And now the pieces are remembering their original positions." Narcissa moved to stand by the window, looking out at the Aurors patrolling the grounds. "The timing is interesting. Potter's inheritance, the surge of recovered memories across Britain..."
A fresh wave of emotion flooded the mate bond—determination now, and a fierce protectiveness that made Draco's breath catch. His Veela nature responded instinctively, wanting to submit to that strength while simultaneously yearning to prove worthy of it.
"He knows," Draco realised. "Whatever's happening, Potter's discovered the truth about Dumbledore's manipulations." His wings trembled. "But it won't matter. Not for me. The trials—""Are not yet decided." Narcissa turned, fixing him with a sharp look. "And if Potter is truly your mate if he's discovering the extent of Dumbledore's interference..." She left the implications hanging.
Draco stood abruptly, pacing the length of the conservatory. "Even if he believes the truth about Dumbledore, that doesn't erase what I did. What I was forced to do, yes, but still—my choices, my actions—"
"Were made under the influence of memory charms and compulsions, if what we're discovering is true." Narcissa's voice was steel-wrapped in silk. "The same way my marriage to your father was arranged through subtle manipulations none of us recognized until it was too late."
Another pulse through the bond—this one determination tinged with rage. Somewhere, Harry was making plans. Draco could feel it, could sense the methodical way his mate was arranging pieces of a puzzle none of them had known existed.
"The Wizengamot dates for our trials haven't been set," Narcissa continued. "And now, with everyone's memories returning, with questions being raised about Dumbledore's legacy..." She touched Draco's shoulder gently. "Hope is not foolish, my dragon. Sometimes it's the most practical choice we can make."
Draco closed his eyes, letting himself feel the full force of the mate bond. Harry's emotions were a storm of protective fury and calculated purpose. Whatever he'd discovered in his inheritance ritual, had awakened something powerful. Something that might reshape the entire wizarding world.
"I need to prepare," Draco said finally. "If there's even a chance... I need to organize my memories and document everything I've remembered. And..." He touched his left arm where the Dark Mark lay dormant. "I need to understand exactly how much of what I believed was ever really my choice."
Narcissa smiled, a rare expression these days. "Then let us begin. After all, your mate appears to be taking control of his destiny. Perhaps it's time we did the same."
As if in response to his mother's words, the mate bond hummed with approval. Somewhere, Harry Potter was preparing to change everything. And for the first time since his inheritance, Draco allowed himself to feel something dangerous:
Hope.