Chapter 1
At first, it wasn’t a deliberate choice. Malfoy Manor was completely empty, abandoned except for a few ghosts. Lucius was serving the beginning of his life sentence in Azkaban. Narcissa, half out of her mind after the trial, fled to France to see a mind healer and escape the aftermath of the war. So that left Draco, wandering around the empty halls, trying to remember a time lost long ago. There was hardly any decent company–the ancestral paintings would sneer at Draco on the occasion that he left his quarters.
Blood traitor.
Draco hardly noticed. The entire summer he had spent wasting away, flesh turning to skin and bone. A dreary June had blended into an oppressive July, time passing slowly like honey. The cold of the manor had seeped beneath his skin, giving him a light blue pallor. Hardly lucid during the day, he spent the majority of his time in the library, reading books like One Thousand Magical Herbsand Fungi or Arsenius Jigger's potion ingredient editorial. He couldn’t do any magic (his wand was still in the possession of the Ministry), so in preparation for the next term, he spent hours poring over dusty old tomes.
It was Mother that convinced him to go back to Hogwarts. Well, convinced isn’t quite the right word. Blackmailed, in the Malfoy tradition. The morning of father’s trial, she had knocked at his door, timid and unsure. Narcissa had always been beautiful–all elegance and grace. Now, her cheeks were sunken in. Bags featured prominently under her eyes. She was dressed for the occasion–a black frilly blouse, floor length skirt, and a vintage feather hat. A small veil covered her eyes.
“Cherie,” she started. Her words hung in the air. “It’s almost time.”
They ate breakfast in the parlor. Since the war, neither Draco nor Narcissa had dared to enter the dining room. The entire house reeked of dark magic, but the dining room, where they had watched Nagini swallow muggles whole, had a particular scent. Draco often awoke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, hearing their screams reverberate in his skull. The silverware scraped against the porcelain. Draco clutched his cup of chamomile, as if trying to will its warmth into the rest of his body.
“Won’t you have something to eat, Draco?” Narcissa’s feathery voice penetrated the silence. She looked at Draco, lips pursed. In the days following the war, Draco found that he couldn’t hold any food down. Not for lack of trying. This quickly resulted in a gaunt look, as his body protested the self imposed starvation. His bones featured more prominently than ever over his thin skin. Draco slowly raised his head to meet his Mother’s gaze. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her drop the subject. Draco let his eyes unfocus.
“Draco,” she tried again. “I want you to attend school next term. I received your letter this morning. You’re welcome back at Hogwarts.” She gave him a small smile, relieved. She looked weary. Narcissa was much more concerned with the outcome of Lucius’ trial than Draco. He’d heard her cries in her room at night, sobbing into the early hours of the morning. Draco didn’t want to worry her any longer. He gave a small nod.
After the trial, whatever was holding Narcissa together fell apart entirely. She didn’t cause a fuss–she wasn’t the type of woman to leave a courtroom kicking and screaming. But when the verdict was announced, she sat motionless, tears streaming down her face. Draco reached for her, but she jerked out of his grasp, eyes empty. A week later, she was on the train to the French riviera. She was to see a mind healer, a very prominent one in French wizarding society. The day that she left, she held Draco’s hand in hers.
“Mummy is sick, Draco.” Her voice came out broken and watery. “When I come back, I’ll be all better, and we can be together again.” Draco didn’t mind her leaving. He might be able to sleep easier without her sobs echoing across the manor. He was exhausted. “Like before.” She added, barely a whisper.
Nothing would return to how it was before, but Draco hardly had the heart to tell her that. A month later, he found himself at King's Cross Station, on the platform, waiting for the train. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin, his clothes sticking uncomfortably. The station was crowded, families bustling through, saying their goodbyes and dropping off their children for another school year. Draco stumbled forwards, avoiding the hateful stares he was sure to find on the Wizarding World’s faces. It hardly mattered anyway. He kept his eyes trained on the floor. In his periphery, a bouncing head of chocolate curls pointed his way.
“Mother,” the child started, fist tightly balled in her mother’s fur coat, “Mother, look. He has the mark!” In an absent minded gesture, Draco had lifted his arm to wipe the sweat off of his brow. The woman followed her daughter’s line of sight, eyes landing on Draco. His eyes flickered upwards. The woman grimaced and pulled her daughter closer. At that moment, Draco was filled with rage. And if the Dark Lord had held her lovely brat hostage? If she had seen Nagini swallow her compatriots whole? What would she have done then? But the feeling left as quickly as it came. He couldn’t be angry with the child. He had judged others for lesser things. He had the scar on his nose to prove it. The train announced its presence, screeching into the station. Draco picked up his leather case with some effort. He had never been particularly muscular, but it appeared that his diet of tea and the occasional biscuit wasn’t doing him any favors. He scaled the steps into the train carriage and looked for an empty compartment. He needn’t worry about the other Slytherins, Mother had said. Their sense of self preservation was too strong to return to Hogwarts. In other words, Draco was going to have to face this alone. He hardly minded. He didn’t think he would be able to face Pansy or Blaise after everything–to have anyone actually recognize that he was a shell of his former self. To be forced to confront what he’s gone through such lengths to hide. So far, the only person brave enough to comment on the change was Mother. But Mother was ill, somewhere in the French countryside. And so there Draco was, the last Malfoy standing.
Draco heaved his briefcase upwards towards the overhead compartment. He struggled to fit his luggage. Inside the compartment, someone had hastily stuffed a wheeled backpack (wheels facing out), a large winter coat, and a shopping bag. Draco managed to fit his luggage inside, but the compartment wouldn’t close, filled as it was. Some years ago, if he was in a rotten mood, Draco would’ve thrown all of the offending items to the floor, neatly placed his suitcase inside the compartment, and dared anyone to say anything about it. Today, he supposed he could hold his suitcase on his lap for the journey. To his right, he heard the cabin doors open.
“Mione, classes haven’t even started yet.” Draco froze. He would recognize that nasally voice anywhere. It was the weasel. And did he hear him right? Granger too? Draco began to pull hastily at his briefcase, which was now stuck in the compartment. If the Weasel and Granger were in the cabin, it was only a matter of time before he showed up. Draco had known that he was coming back to Hogwarts, all the papers said so. The Prophet recounted all of his steps faithfully–The Golden Boy leads the war reconstruction effort! The Savior visits Sick Orphans at St Mungo's! Who is the Chosen One’s Chosen One? That last one Draco had thrown in the bin and incinerated. Really, he read the articles over the summer because he was hopelessly bored. He hardly read them. He glanced over them.
“I just brought them for a bit of light reading!” Granger responded, their voices getting closer. Draco started to panic. He knew that the Golden trio was returning to Hogwarts. He knew that he would have to face them at some point. He just didn’t think it would be so soon. He tugged on the handle of his luggage with renewed strength. He needed to get into the compartment. Now. His struggle was already starting to attract attention. “Harry, tell Ron that if he spent more time reading and less time listening to reruns of the Cannon’s games on the wireless, he wouldn’t be retaking his NEWTs.” Draco felt the color drain from his face. Fuck the luggage. In an act of desperation, he pulled with all of his remaining strength, lurching the case free. Simultaneously, the other passengers luggage, backpack, coat, bags and all went flying out of the compartment and crashed onto the floor. Maybe no one noticed, he thought. Small mercies.
“Is that Malfoy?” The Weasel exclaimed. Draco cringed. He lowered himself to the floor and began picking up the carnage. He felt the presence of a body behind him.
“Whaddya think you’re doing with my stuff, Malfoy?” Zacharias Smith. “Being a death eater not enough for you? You had to go and become a thief too?” He spat.
Draco Malfoy being bullied by a Hufflepuff. If only his younger self could see him now. Draco turned his head to face Smith. He had always been a selfish coward. He would’ve never spoken to Draco like this before. Really, they were more alike than anything else, preying on those who were weak and unable to defend themselves. All Draco had to do was send a harmless Bat-Bogey Hex towards another student and he would be carted off to Azkaban to spend the rest of his days with the dementors, and even worse, his father. By the look on Smith’s face, he knew that.
“What now? Cat got your tongue?” Smith sneered. Before Malfoy could respond, someone stepped in front of him, blocking his view. Red converse covered in mud came into his line of vision. The air crackled with magic, sending electric sparks down Draco’s spine. The hair on his arms stood up.
“Is there a problem here?” Harry. Draco’s breath sped up, despite himself. Harry’s magic was so alive, it enveloped him entirely, fraying his nerves. His power was pure and unadulterated. Being in this close proximity to it addled Draco’s mind.
“Why yes, and he’s right here. I have half a mind to report this to the headmaster. Wait until she finds out that Malfoy’s ruined his one chance at redemption.” Smith replied, glaring at Draco. “Those are my bags he’s stealing.”
“Malfoy was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He certainly doesn’t need to steal from the likes of you.” Harry growled. With a wave of his hand, he slammed Smith’s luggage into his chest. Wandless magic. Malfoy thought. Show off. “And I wouldn’t bother with the headmaster if I was you. After all, it’s our word against yours.”
Our word? Was he counting Draco in that? Draco’s word was hardly worth anything. Still, with Harry on his side–wait, what was he thinking? Sure, he had defended him at the trial, but it was his savior complex. It had nothing to do with Draco. Zacharias Smith huffed and puffed all the way down the train cabin. Harry turned to face Draco, crouching down to be on the same level. The summer had treated him well. His skin had a tanned glow, freckles splattered all over his toned arms. His glasses sat askew on his face. His emerald green eyes shined with amusement. He scanned Draco’s face. Draco felt suddenly self conscious, all skin and bones. His eyes dropped to the floor.
“And this is yours, I assume?” Harry asked, holding out Draco’s briefcase. On another occasion, Draco would’ve chuckled at the scene they made: Harry crouched over, handing Draco his things, not too much unlike the position one would be in to lure a stray cat out of hiding. Draco realized he hadn’t answered. He nodded sharply, grabbing the case and standing up. Harry mirrored him. “Well,” Harry said, unsure. “See you around.” He walked down the cabin to rejoin his friends, who were whispering furiously.
“Ungrateful git.” He heard Ron say upon Harry’s return.
Finally in the safety of the compartment, he exhaled.