Secrets and shadows
The tawny owl perched on Draco’s desk was surprisingly persistent. It fluffed its feathers, rapped its beak against the polished wood, and fixed him with a glare that would have made even the sternest Hogwarts professor proud. The folded parchment tied to its leg was plain and unassuming, but Draco could feel the weight of it before he even reached for the letter.
For a moment, he considered ignoring it. He could send the bird away, keep the letter unopened, and claim he’d never received it. But the very thought made his stomach twist—not with guilt, but with the bitter acknowledgment that he couldn’t escape this. He’d made the mistake of opening the door, and now there was no closing it.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and untied the parchment, the owl hooting in triumph as it hopped to a nearby perch. Draco broke the seal with deliberate slowness, letting the tension build as if delaying the inevitable might somehow soften the blow.
Malfoy,
One question: how many more artifacts are we dealing with? And how far does this curse reach?
Hermione Granger’s handwriting was sharp and precise, the strokes as neat and clipped as her voice had been when she’d spoken to him earlier that day. The directness of her words grated on him—not because they were unreasonable, but because they demanded something he wasn’t sure he could provide. How many more artifacts? How far did the curse reach? If he had the answers, he wouldn’t be sitting here, staring at her letter like it might bite him.
Draco folded the parchment and set it down on the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. The study was dimly lit, the fire casting long shadows that flickered across the bookshelves and the walls. It was one of the few rooms in Malfoy Manor that felt lived-in, though even here, the air carried the weight of the past.
The locket they had found earlier still lingered in his mind, its dark magic clawing at the edges of his thoughts. The way it had resisted their combined spells, the shadow it had unleashed—it was unlike anything he’d seen before. And yet, there was a familiarity to it, a thread of recognition that he couldn’t quite grasp.
He reached for his glass full of firewhisky, the amber liquid swirling as he took a long sip. The burn was welcome, grounding him in the present as his thoughts threatened to spiral. Granger’s letter was still sitting on the desk, a silent reminder that this wasn’t over.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t even responded to her first demands for answers, and now she was already asking for more.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced toward the door just as it creaked open, revealing a familiar figure. Pansy Parkinson stepped into the study without bothering to knock, her emerald-green robes swishing as she crossed the threshold.
“Pansy,” Draco drawled, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “To what do I owe this… unannounced visit?”
She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment before striding across the room. There was something about her demeanor that caught his attention—a tension in her posture, a hesitation in the way her fingers brushed the armrest of the chair before she sat. She looked tired, though she would never admit it. The emerald green dress she wore had a deep cut on the side exposing her snake tattoo. Draco remembered the day vividly, the day he, Pansy, Blaise, Theodore and Daphne got matching tattoos.
For freedom, for new beginnings, for surviving.
“Don’t start,” she said, waving a hand dismissively as she sank into the chair opposite him. “I’m not in the mood.”
Draco arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Since when are you ever in the mood?”
“Funny,” she said dryly, though her lips twitched in what might have been a faint smile. “You’re still insufferable, I see.”
“And yet you’re here,” he replied, gesturing vaguely to the room. “What is it this time? Another crisis of conscience? Or have you finally decided to leave the Boy Who Lived and rejoin the rest of us mortals?”
Pansy stiffened, her gaze flicking to the fire for a brief moment before returning to him. “It’s not like that,” she said, her tone defensive. “It’s… complicated.”
Draco’s smirk widened, though there was no real humor in it. “Complicated,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Isn’t it always?”
She glared at him, her usual sharpness returning. “If you’re just going to mock me, I’ll leave.”
“No, you won’t,” Draco said smoothly. “Because you’re here for a reason. So, out with it.”
Pansy hesitated, her fingers drumming against the arm of the chair. For a moment, she seemed to weigh her words, her usual confidence faltering. “It’s Harry,” she said finally, her voice quieter than he expected.
Draco’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. “Potter,” he said flatly. “Still sneaking around with the Chosen One, are we?”
Pansy’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s not sneaking,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “It’s… different.”
“Different,” Draco echoed, leaning forward slightly. “Do elaborate. I’m fascinated.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “He’s not what I thought he was,” she admitted. “And I’m not… who I used to be.”
Draco studied her, the faint vulnerability in her voice catching him off guard. Pansy Parkinson was not the type to bare her soul, even to him. For all their years of friendship, she had always guarded herself, hiding behind sharp words and an air of superiority. But now, sitting across from him in the dim light of the study, she looked almost… human.
“Go on,” he said quietly, his tone losing some of its edge.
Pansy hesitated, her gaze fixed on the fire. “I hated him,” she said, her voice soft. “For years. Everything about him—the way he looked at us, like we were beneath him. The way he always had to be the hero.”
“And now?” Draco asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Now I see him for what he is,” she said, her voice steady. “A man who’s trying to move forward. And he’s making me feel like maybe… maybe I can too.”
Draco leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “How poetic,” he said, though his tone lacked the usual bite.
Pansy narrowed her eyes at Draco’s remark, her lips tightening into a line. She held his gaze for a moment before sighing and leaning back in her chair. The fire crackled softly between them, filling the silence with a quiet, steady rhythm.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “You’ve buried yourself in this mausoleum of a house, surrounded by ghosts and memories. You’ve hardly even tried to—”
“To what?” Draco interrupted, his voice cool but sharp. “Redeem myself? Reclaim my place in the glittering Wizarding world that still whispers my name like it’s a curse?”
Pansy exhaled slowly, her eyes drifting to the fire. “To move forward, Draco. That’s all.”
“And Potter is your way forward,” he said flatly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.
Her gaze snapped back to him, her expression hardening. “You think it’s that simple? That I’ve just attached myself to the first person who offered me a shred of kindness?”
Draco raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. “Haven’t you?”
Pansy’s hands tightened on the armrests of her chair, her knuckles whitening. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This isn’t about Harry. This is about me. About who I am—who I want to be.”
“And who is that, exactly?” Draco asked, his tone softening slightly. “Because the Pansy I remember wouldn’t have given Potter a second glance, let alone her time.”
Her lips curved into a wry smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “The Pansy you remember is partially --gone, Draco. A part of me died with the war.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Draco stared at her, his expression unreadable, as the firelight flickered across her face. For all his mockery, he couldn’t deny the truth in her words. The war had changed them all, stripping away layers they hadn’t realized were there until they were gone.
“Does he know?” Draco asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. “About… everything?”
Pansy hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of the chair’s armrest. “He knows enough,” she said finally. “He knows I was cruel, that I said things—did things—I’m not proud of. But he also knows I’m trying to be better.”
Draco snorted softly, shaking his head. “And he believes you?”
Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, the old Pansy was back, sharp and unyielding. “Why shouldn’t he? Do you think I’m incapable of change?”
“I think,” Draco said carefully, “that change is harder than you realize. And that Potter has a tendency to see what he wants to see.”
“And what about you?” she countered, leaning forward. “Have you even tried to change, or are you just sitting here waiting for the world to forget you exist?”
The words stung more than Draco cared to admit. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the fire. “You know why I stay here,” he said quietly. “It’s not about hiding. It’s about… keeping the past contained.”
“Is that what you call it?” Pansy asked, her tone softer now. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like running.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unrelenting, until Pansy sighed and stood. She smoothed her robes, her movements sharp and practiced, but her expression betrayed her weariness.
“I came here because I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me,” she said, her voice steady but low. “I should’ve known better.”
“Pansy,” Draco started, but she shook her head, cutting him off.
“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t get to sit there and mock me for trying to move forward while you wallow in the past. When you’re ready to face the world again, let me know. Until then, enjoy your self-imposed exile.”
She turned and strode toward the door, her head held high. But just as she reached the threshold, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice softer now, “I think you could change too. If you wanted to.”
With that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her. Draco stared after her, the weight of her words settling heavily on his chest. He didn’t move for a long moment, his thoughts a tangled mess of resentment, guilt, and something else he couldn’t quite name.
The owl on his desk hooted softly, breaking the silence. Draco turned to it, his gaze falling on the folded letter it had delivered. Granger’s words echoed in his mind, demanding answers he wasn’t sure he could provide.
How far does the curse reach?
Draco’s fingers brushed the parchment, his brow furrowing as he felt a faint prickle of magic. He froze, his pulse quickening as he lifted the letter to examine it more closely. There, just along the edges of the parchment, was the faintest shimmer of an enchantment—barely visible, but unmistakable.
His stomach sank as realization dawned. The curse wasn’t just in the artifacts. It was spreading, creeping into the cracks and corners of their lives like a shadow too long ignored. And Granger’s letter—innocuous as it seemed—might be the next link in the chain.
Draco set the letter down carefully, his mind racing. He didn’t know how far this curse reached, but one thing was clear: it wasn’t finished with them yet.
The courtroom buzzed with quiet murmurs, the air heavy with judgment. Draco Malfoy sat in the defendant’s chair, his posture stiff, his hands clenched in his lap. The imposing chamber of the Wizengamot was both intimidating and suffocating, the high, circular benches filled with robed figures who looked down at him as though he were a specimen under a glass.
He didn’t flinch under their scrutiny. He couldn’t afford to.
To his left sat his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, her expression calm and unreadable. She hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived, but the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her nerves. To his right, his lawyer shuffled through a stack of parchment, a look of thinly veiled anxiety on his face.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” the Chief Warlock intoned, his voice reverberating through the chamber. “You stand accused of aiding and abetting Death Eaters, assisting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and contributing to the war efforts of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How do you plead?”
Draco’s throat felt tight, but his voice was steady. “Not guilty.”
A ripple of whispers passed through the chamber, and Draco felt the weight of every gaze upon him. He forced himself to remain calm, though his pulse thundered in his ears.
“Very well,” the Chief Warlock said, glancing at the parchment before him. “The court will now hear testimony from Harry James Potter.”
Draco’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t expected Potter to testify—not on his behalf. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but he quickly schooled his features, his expression returning to one of detached indifference.
The courtroom doors opened, and Harry Potter strode in, his dark robes billowing behind him. He looked calm, composed, but Draco could see the faint tension in his jaw, the fire in his green eyes as he approached the witness stand. For a moment, their gazes met, and Draco felt a strange mix of emotions—resentment, gratitude, and something he couldn’t quite name.
Potter took his place, his hand raised as he swore to tell the truth. The Chief Warlock gestured for him to begin.
“Mr. Potter,” he said, his tone measured. “You have come forward to offer testimony on behalf of the defendant. Please state your case.”
Harry’s gaze swept the room, his voice steady and clear. “Draco Malfoy was raised in a family that valued loyalty above all else—to blood, to legacy, to a cause he had no choice but to inherit. But when the time came to prove that loyalty, he hesitated. And that hesitation saved lives.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber, but Harry continued undeterred.
“Draco Malfoy did not kill Albus Dumbledore,” he said firmly. “He was forced into a position no child should ever face, and when the moment came, he couldn’t do it. That hesitation bought us time—time that ultimately helped us win the war.”
Draco’s breath hitched, though he masked it with a shallow inhale. He hadn’t expected Potter to frame his actions as anything other than cowardice. Hearing them described as something more… it was disorienting.
Harry’s gaze shifted to Draco, his voice softening. “He made mistakes. We all did. But I believe he deserves a chance to rebuild his life, just as so many of us have been given.”
Draco felt Narcissa’s gaze on him, a fleeting gesture of reassurance. He didn’t look at her, his focus fixed on Potter as he continued.
“I’m not asking you to forget what he did,” Harry said, addressing the court now. “But I am asking you to consider the circumstances, to recognize that redemption is possible—even for those we once called enemies.”
The murmurs grew louder, but the Chief Warlock raised a hand, silencing them.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” he said, nodding. “You may step down.”
Harry left the stand, his gaze flickering toward Draco once more before he returned to his seat. Draco’s lawyer leaned over, whispering something about the strength of the testimony, but Draco barely heard him. His mind was racing, grappling with the unexpected weight of Potter’s words.
The trial adjourned for the day, the tension lingering in the air as the crowd filtered out of the chamber. Draco remained seated, his hands gripping the edges of the chair as he tried to process what had just happened.
Pansy Parkinson approached him, her heels clicking against the stone floor. Her expression was stormy, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and determination.
“Draco,” she said sharply, her voice low. “What the hell was that?”
Draco glanced up at her, his face pale but composed. “That was Potter doing… whatever it is Potter does.”
Pansy’s lips pressed into a thin line, but before she could respond, a voice interrupted them.
“Parkinson.”
She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she faced Harry Potter. He stood a few feet away, his expression calm but watchful.
“Potter,” she said coolly, folding her arms. “Come to gloat?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Why would I gloat?”
“You just played the hero—again,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “I’m sure it feels good, doesn’t it? Defending a Malfoy.”
Harry’s expression didn’t waver. “I didn’t do it for him. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
Pansy opened her mouth to retort, but the words caught in her throat. There was something about the way he said it—simple, honest, unyielding—that unsettled her. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say.
Harry studied her for a moment before speaking again. “Not everything is about sides, Parkinson. Maybe it’s time you figured that out.”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Pansy standing there, her thoughts a tangled mess of anger and something she couldn’t quite name.
The fire in the study had burned low by the time Draco returned to his chair, a fresh glass of firewhisky in hand. The letter from Granger sat untouched on the desk, its weight disproportionate to its size. Pansy’s words from earlier still circled in his mind, tugging at memories he preferred to keep buried.
“You’ve buried yourself in this mausoleum,” she’d said. “Pretending the world doesn’t matter.”
Draco scowled at the thought. Pansy always had a way of cutting to the quick, but this time her words had bitten deeper than usual. Perhaps it was her admission—of trying, of letting go of the past, of being with Potter. It was absurd, the thought of Pansy Parkinson finding solace in Harry Potter. And yet, Draco knew better than most that the absurd was often closer to the truth than people cared to admit.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he stared into the dying embers. The cursed locket from earlier lingered in his thoughts, its dark power a chilling echo in his mind. He reached for Granger’s letter again, this time turning it over in his hands. The faint shimmer of magic he’d noticed earlier was still there, almost imperceptible but undeniable.
It wasn’t just a letter. It was marked—touched by something old, something dangerous. Draco set it down carefully, his mind racing as the implications began to take shape. The curse wasn’t confined to the artifacts. It was spreading, creeping into places it shouldn’t be.
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Draco turned toward the door, his brow furrowing. “Come in,” he said tersely, his hand still resting on his wand.
The door creaked open, and Pansy stepped inside. She looked more composed than when she’d left, though there was a faint tension in her movements. Draco raised an eyebrow as she crossed the room, stopping near the chair she had occupied earlier.
“Forgot my gloves,” she said briskly, her tone clipped. Her gaze scanned the room, landing on the gloves she’d left draped over the back of the chair. “I had to apparate to my apartment and then, to Grimmauld before I realized I left them here. These are my favorite and Daphne and I agreed we would match tonight- ”
Draco smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “And here I thought you came back to apologize.”
Pansy snorted, snatching the gloves up with a swift motion. “Don’t flatter yourself, Draco.”
“You know,” Draco said lazily, his smirk widening, “I could’ve sent them to you with an elf. Or did you just miss my charming company?”
Pansy rolled her eyes, but instead of leaving, she lingered by the desk. Her gaze fell on the package sitting beside the letter, and her expression shifted, curiosity flickering across her face.
“What’s that?” she asked, nodding toward the package.
“Another delivery,” Draco said, his tone curt. “Unmarked, of course. But it’s not hard to guess.”
Pansy’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer. “You opened it?”
“Not yet,” Draco replied, his gaze fixed on the package. “The magic on it is… unusual.”
“Unusual,” Pansy repeated, her tone skeptical. “You mean dangerous.”
“Obviously,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Why else would it be here?”
Pansy studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re not planning to deal with this alone, are you?”
Draco leaned back, crossing his arms. “What choice do I have? The Ministry doesn’t exactly have a department for ‘ancestral curses gone rogue.’”
She ignored his sarcasm, her gaze sharpening. “Write to Granger.”
Draco’s expression darkened. “Why does everyone insist that I—”
“Because you’re not an idiot,” Pansy interrupted, her voice rising. “And because whatever this is, it’s bigger than you. Bigger than both of us. You think I don’t feel it? That pulse of magic, that darkness? It’s suffocating. And I know you feel it too-- and I know you know how familiar this feeling is, Draco. You’ll drown in it if you keep pretending you can handle this alone.”
Her words cut through him, sharper than he expected. He stared at her, his jaw tightening, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue. She was right, as much as he hated to admit it. The weight of the curse was already pressing down on him, and the thought of facing it without help was suffocating.
“I don’t need Granger’s pity,” he said finally, his voice low.
“This isn’t about pity,” Pansy said firmly. “It’s about survival. And if you’re too stubborn to see that, then maybe you deserve whatever this curse throws at you.”
Draco’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t respond immediately. The silence between them was heavy, charged with unspoken tension. Finally, he exhaled sharply, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment.
Pansy watched him, her expression softening slightly as he began to write. “Good,” she said quietly. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
Turning back to the package, Draco sat down and stared at it, the weight of the past pressing down on him once again. Whatever this curse was, it wasn’t finished with him. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know where it would lead.
Pansy lingered by the door, her hand resting on the frame as she glanced back at him. “Be careful, Draco,” she said softly before turning on her heels. “You may not want to admit it, but some of us still care. I will tell Daphne you send your love--”
The owl lingered on the windowsill, its sharp amber eyes fixed on Draco as though it, too, was waiting for his decision. The parchment sat before him, blank and expectant, its emptiness mocking him. Draco twirled the quill between his fingers, his mind racing with possibilities—half-formed sentences, unfinished thoughts, words he didn’t want to write.
Granger’s letter had been straightforward. How many more artifacts? How far does this curse reach? Two questions, simple on the surface, but weighted with implications that twisted in his chest. He’d always hated how direct she was. There was no artifice with Granger, no room for evasion. It was infuriating.
Draco leaned back in his chair, the quill still poised in his hand. The faint shimmer of magic along the edges of her letter caught the firelight, a subtle but persistent reminder of the creeping danger they faced. He didn’t want to involve her any further—not because he doubted her competence, but because her presence in this unraveling mess made him uncomfortably aware of just how far his family’s sins had spread.
But Pansy’s voice echoed in his mind. This isn’t about pity. It’s about survival.
Draco exhaled sharply, setting the quill to the parchment with more force than necessary. The words came haltingly at first, each stroke of the pen feeling like a concession.
Granger,
Another artifact arrived tonight. It’s unmarked, and the magic on it is unlike anything I’ve encountered before. I haven’t opened it yet—the pulses alone are enough to tell me it’s connected to the others.
This isn’t contained, and it’s not random. Someone—something—is doing this deliberately. You were right about the spread. It’s not just the artifacts. Whatever this is, it’s… moving. Reaching.
I don’t have answers yet, but it’s clear we’re not dealing with isolated incidents. You wanted to know how far this curse reaches? I think it’s reaching for us.
We need to talk.
Malfoy
He paused, the quill hovering over the parchment as he debated the next sentence. The word we grated on him, the implication of partnership making his skin crawl. But there was no avoiding it. If anyone could help unravel this, it was Granger—and he hated that he knew it.
Draco scrawled the final line quickly, sealing the letter before he could second-guess himself. He attached it to the owl’s leg, its feathers ruffling as he secured the parchment.
“You’re an insistent little creature, aren’t you?” he muttered, earning a sharp hoot in response. The owl stared at him for a moment, almost as if to say About time, before it launched itself into the night, disappearing into the darkness.
Draco stood by the window, watching until the faint flicker of wings was swallowed by the shadows. The cold air seeped into the room, carrying with it a sense of unease that settled deep in his chest. He didn’t trust this—any of it. The artifacts, the curse, the unspoken threads tying it all together—it felt like walking blindfolded through a minefield, each step more precarious than the last.
The fire crackled behind him, a faint reminder of the warmth he’d left behind. Draco turned away from the window, his gaze falling on the unopened package still sitting on his desk. It seemed to hum faintly in the silence, a presence he couldn’t ignore.
He reached for his wand, casting another series of detection spells over the object. The magic rippled under his touch, sharp and electric, like the edge of a storm. It was powerful, volatile—and undeniably linked to whatever game they’d been dragged into.
Draco sat back in his chair, his jaw tightening as he stared at the package. Granger’s owl would reach her soon enough, and when it did, she would have questions. Questions he couldn’t answer. Not yet.
But soon, he thought grimly. Because whoever—or whatever—was behind this wasn’t going to stop.