Bitter Moon

Draco sat in the wooden chair in the middle of the room, his wrists resting on the arms of the chair, a scowl firmly in place. It was a calculated scowl—just sharp enough to convey irritation but not so much as to make him seem too defensive. He was acutely aware of the eyes on him. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat across from him, calm but imposing, while Lupin hovered nearby, his expression unreadable. Potter stood against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Draco like a hawk. Weasley and Granger flanked him, their distrust palpable.

A small vial sat on the table between Draco and Kingsley. The Veritaserum inside shimmered faintly in the dim light.

“Do we really have to go through with this?” Draco drawled, though the dryness of his mouth betrayed his nerves. “I already told you why I defected.”

“We need to confirm your intentions,” Kingsley said, his voice smooth but firm. “This is standard procedure.”

“Standard for prisoners?” Draco muttered.

“Enough stalling,” Harry snapped, pushing off the wall. “Drink it, Malfoy, or we’ll make you.”

Draco shot him a sharp look but didn’t reply. He knew how this would go. He unscrewed the cap and tipped the vial back, letting the peppery liquid slide down his throat. For a moment, he thought maybe he could outlast it—force his mind to stay sharp, keep his tongue locked. But soon, a strange haze settled over him, and his body felt heavier, his thoughts looser.

Kingsley leaned forward slightly. “State your name.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he said automatically, his lips moving of their own accord. He glared at Kingsley, but the Auror was unfazed.

“Why did you defect from Voldemort’s service?”

Draco’s jaw clenched as he tried to resist the pull of the potion. But the words spilled out, unbidden. “Because the Dark Lord ordered Greyback to turn me into a werewolf. Thought it would make me more useful. More violent.” He spat the last word, bitterness evident. “I saw how deluded he actually is. I wasn’t going to stay loyal to someone like that. I stayed this long because I thought it was my safest option. But now, I have a permanent date with the full moon. So, I guess I can’t say staying under him was ever safe.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t soften, but Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Lupin.

Kingsley’s voice was calm but carried a weight of authority that filled the room. He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into Draco’s. “What are your intentions?” he asked, his tone steady and deliberate. “Are you here to help us, or do you mean to cause harm?”

“I don’t want to cause harm,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. “I want to survive. I want the Dark Lord to die. And if that means helping you lot, then so be it.” He hesitated, the Veritaserum prying loose words he would have otherwise never said. “But I’m not doing this out of some noble sense of duty. I’m doing this because I don’t have a choice.” His gray eyes flicked up to meet Kingsley’s, defiant even in his vulnerability. “Take that however you want.”

Kingsley nodded, his tone measured. “How long have you been working for Voldemort?”

Draco sneered. “Since my father dragged me into it. Officially? Since the 6th year. Unofficially? My entire bloody life.”

“What do you know about his plans?”

“Not much,” Draco admitted, though the frustration in his voice was clear. “The Dark Lord doesn’t share his grand schemes with anyone, not really. But I know some things.”

Kingsley’s expression didn’t change, but he pressed on. “Do you know where he’s stationed his forces? Where his strongholds are?”

Draco hesitated, his mind scrambling to hold back the truth, but the potion pulled it from him. “He’s paranoid,” Draco said bitterly. “He’s got people guarding key places: Gringotts, Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor… though I can’t imagine why. He’s obsessed with keeping these places protected, but no one really knows why. He doesn’t explain his decisions.”

The trio stiffened, but didn’t say a word.

“Have you ever been sent to guard any of these places?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes,” Draco said reluctantly. “Once. I was stationed at my aunt Bellatrix’s vault in Gringotts. It made no sense; there’s already a bloody dragon there. But the Dark Lord didn’t trust the dragon alone, apparently. He insisted we keep watch. It was ridiculous.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand, and Harry shot her a quick look, his mind already racing. The pieces were starting to come together, but they couldn’t afford to let anyone else know.

“What else do you know about the Dark Lord’s movements or his plans?” Kingsley asked.

“He keeps everything compartmentalized. We follow orders, no questions asked. But I know he’s been restless. Agitated. Like he’s worried about something slipping out of his control.” Draco replied, his voice tinged with frustration.

Kingsley glanced at Lupin, who nodded slightly. The questioning continued for several more minutes, covering minor details about Death Eater operations and Draco’s own actions during his time with them. By the end, Draco looked drained but defiant, glaring at everyone in the room as if daring them to challenge his answers.

Kingsley finally leaned back, capping his quill. “That’s all for now.”

Draco slumped in his chair, rubbing at his temples as the effects of the potion began to wear off. “Lovely chat,” he muttered. “Can I go back to being locked up now?”

Lupin stepped forward, his tone gentler than the others’. “Before we leave, there’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What now? A lecture on how to be part of the light?”

“The full moon is in three days,” Lupin said evenly. “We’ll need to make arrangements for your transformation.”

Draco stiffened, his sneer faltering. “And what does that entail?”

“There’s a field just outside London that’s heavily warded,” Lupin explained. “It’s safe, secure, and far from any Muggle areas. You’ll transform there.”

Draco frowned. “And what am I supposed to do? Just let it happen?”

“This time, yes,” Lupin admitted. “We don’t have any Wolfsbane potion on hand, but we’ll do our best to get some for next month.”

“Fantastic,” Draco muttered. “So I’m just supposed to rip myself apart in some field while you all sit around sipping tea?”

“No one said it would be easy,” Lupin said quietly. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

Draco didn’t reply, but his eyes narrowed as the door shut behind them. Alone again, he stared at the empty room, the looming reality of the full moon settling in like a lead weight in his chest.

-

The morning Potter came to unlock the door, Draco could feel the change in the air before the key turned in the lock. He had spent nearly two weeks pacing this wretched room, feeling the wolf bristling at every boundary, gnawing at every wall, both literal and metaphorical. The smell of breakfast—eggs and something slightly burnt—drifted under the door, and Draco stiffened as footsteps approached.

When the door swung open, Potter stood there, his hair in its usual mess and his wand clutched loosely in his hand. He didn’t look pleased about his decision. In fact, he looked downright miserable, but he didn’t back down.

“I’m not going to lock the doors anymore,” Potter said, his tone brusque. Don’t make me regret it.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, stepping forward with exaggerated slowness. “Am I supposed to thank you?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Just—don’t be an arse, Malfoy. And don’t touch anything.”

“Touch anything? What do you think I’m going to do? Hex the furniture? You’re the one who has my bloody wand.” Draco drawled, and noticed Harry ears turn a warmer shade of red.

-

Grimmauld Place wasn’t what he actively remembered. The walls were still dark and oppressive, the house still carried that faint, musty scent of decay, but it no longer felt like a monument to pureblood supremacy. The Black family heirlooms had been removed or shoved into forgotten corners, and it was clear that much of the home’s former grandeur had been replaced with functionality.

Draco wandered aimlessly, letting his fingers graze over the bannister as he descended the stairs. He wasn’t sure where to start, or what to do with himself now that he wasn’t confined to a single room.

He ended up in the drawing room, where Hermione was seated by the fire, flipping through a stack of papers. She didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Malfoy,” she said, her tone neutral but not unkind.

“Granger,” he replied, smirking faintly as he sauntered in. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me.”

Hermione sighed and set down her papers. “Hardly.” She reached for a small stack of books beside her, lifting the top one and holding it out. “I thought these might help.”

Draco eyed the book warily before taking it. The cover read The Anatomy of Lycanthropy: A Comprehensive Study. He turned it over in his hands.

“What’s this?”

“Information,” she said simply. “You’re not going to get through this without understanding what you’re dealing with.”

Draco snorted but opened the book anyway, skimming the first few pages. The tone was dry and academic, but it immediately pulled him in. The author described the process of transformation in excruciating detail: the pain, the loss of control, the way the wolf and the human mind struggled for dominance.

He swallowed hard. “Cheery.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Hermione said, folding her arms.

By the time Draco made it back to the room he’d claimed as his own, he was carrying three more books. He spent the rest of the day reading, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the information.

One passage stood out:
“Wolves rely heavily on their sense of smell, not only for survival but for social structure. Scents provide comfort, hierarchy, and communication. For newly turned werewolves, scents often carry an overwhelming emotional weight, particularly those tied to individuals they perceive as important or threatening.”

Draco’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He slammed the book shut and ran a hand through his hair. Important or threatening. That explained a lot. He didn’t want to think about how Potter’s scent had wormed its way into his senses, how it was becoming something he recognised instantly, something grounding and infuriating all at once. Hermione and Weasel smelled mostly neutral. The redhead too hormonal for his tastes.

-

The next day, Draco wandered the house again, finding the kitchen this time. Ron was seated at the table, shovelling food into his mouth while Hermione read from a thick tome beside him. They both looked up when Draco entered.

“You’re not dead, then,” Ron said through a mouthful of toast.

“Not for lack of effort on your part, I’m sure,” Draco retorted, grabbing an apple from the counter.

Hermione sighed. “Don’t start.”

Ron scowled but returned to his breakfast.

Draco lingered by the doorway, feeling awkward but unwilling to leave. Eventually, Hermione glanced at him and said, “There’s tea if you want it.”

He didn’t thank her, but he poured himself a cup and sat down at the far end of the table.

-

Draco grew more familiar with the house and its odd inhabitants. He roamed the halls with less hesitation, though the ever-watchful eyes of Hermione and Ron made him keenly aware that he was not trusted. The wolf didn’t care; it prowled restlessly in his chest, pushing him toward the heart of the house, where Harry always seemed to be.

He told himself it was coincidence. He didn’t mean to end up wherever Potter was, whether it was the library, the kitchen, or the drawing room. But somehow, their paths kept crossing, and each encounter left Draco more unsettled.

One afternoon, Draco was wandering near the upper floor when he heard voices coming from the room he knew Harry used as his. He froze, leaning against the wall, eavesdropping without shame.

“…he’s been different lately,” Harry was saying, his voice low but agitated.

“Of course he is,” Hermione replied, her tone logical as always. “He’s been turned into a werewolf and thrown into enemy territory. I’d be shocked if he wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry hesitated. “I don’t know, there’s something else. He’s—he keeps looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s weird.”

Draco’s face heated. He clenched his fists, irritated that Potter had noticed anything at all.

“Well, maybe you should talk to him,” Hermione suggested.

“Talk to Malfoy?” Harry scoffed. “No, thanks.”

Draco rolled his eyes and stepped away before he could hear more. Typical Potter, he thought. Always assuming everything’s about him.

Later that day, Draco found Harry in the kitchen, scrubbing at a pan like it had personally offended him. Draco leaned against the doorframe, smirking.

“Careful, Potter. That pan might cry if you’re not gentle.”

Harry looked up, his green eyes narrowing. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Nothing.” Draco walked in, plucking a biscuit from the plate on the counter. “Just thought I’d grace you with my presence.”

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, turning back to the pan.

Draco hesitated, watching him for a moment. The wolf stirred again, and he felt that strange pull in his chest. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why are you always cleaning? Don’t you have a house-elf for that?”

Harry turned, glaring. “Not all of us rely on others to do everything for us, Malfoy.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, spare me the self-righteous lecture. You’re going to scrub a hole in that pan if you’re not careful.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, then sighed and set the pan aside. “You’re exhausting.”

“I try,” Draco said, his smirk returning.

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them tense but not hostile. It was… odd. Draco didn’t feel like snapping another insult, and Harry didn’t seem like he wanted to strangle him, which felt like progress.

The wolf settled again, satisfied, though Draco was still at a loss to explain why.

It won’t last though. The full moon is tomorrow and he was dreading the night.