3
Charlie’s eyes lingered on Draco a moment longer than was comfortable. His face remained expressionless, yet something shadowy seemed to flicker behind his gaze—pity, perhaps? Or worse, forgiveness.
Draco shifted uneasily in his chair, his hands instinctively clenching into fists. His heart still pounded, and despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, he felt cold. The weight of Charlie's words—"It wasn’t his fault"—echoed in his mind, heavy and suffocating. Wasn't it? Draco thought bitterly. It may not have been my plan, but I still played my part.
"Come inside," Charlie finally said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. His voice was rough, not unfriendly but distant. "We can talk in there."
Draco hesitated. His feet seemed glued to the ground, as if the earth itself conspired to keep him outside, far from the possibility of judgment. But Julia's encouraging smile pushed him forward, and without another word, he stepped into the small, modest home.
The inside was simple but warm. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the scent of something earthy and herbal hung in the air. For a fleeting moment, Draco was reminded of his own childhood home—before the war, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. But the memory quickly faded, replaced by the heavy silence that settled between the three of them as they stood in the room.
Charlie motioned to a small wooden table in the corner, cluttered with papers and what looked like dragon scales. "Sit," he said, his tone more commanding now, slipping into the authority he wielded when dealing with dragons.
Draco sat, the chair squeaking under his weight, though it felt more like the air between them was tightening. Julia busied herself near the fireplace, seeming to give the two men space. Draco couldn’t tell if her presence was comforting or stifling.
Charlie sat across from him, his arms crossed on the table. His piercing gaze was fixed on Draco, and for a moment, the silence stretched unbearably between them.
"You understand this won’t be easy," Charlie began. "There are people here who won’t… be so understanding." His voice was carefully measured, each word chosen with precision. "But we need help. And whatever Julia told me, you're willing to work."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I don’t expect anyone to forgive me," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I just… I need to do something." He glanced down at his hands, at the scars on his knuckles. They were faint but never fully faded, just like the memories.
For the first time since he arrived, Charlie’s expression softened slightly. He leaned back in his chair, studying Draco with a mix of caution and something else—perhaps understanding.
"I lost a brother," Charlie said suddenly, his voice quiet but the weight of his words hit Draco like a blow. "In that war. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking about it."
Draco’s breath caught. He had expected Fred Weasley to be mentioned, but hearing it so plainly and directly cut deeper than he anticipated. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but no words came. What could he say? Apologies felt hollow, and explanations wouldn’t undo the damage.
"But," Charlie continued, and Draco's eyes returned to him. "I don’t blame you, Malfoy. We all had roles to play, and I’ve learned that holding onto hate doesn’t help. It doesn’t change the past. It just eats at you." He paused, his gaze steady. "You’re here now, trying to move forward, and that’s more than I can say for some."
A lump formed in Draco’s throat. He had lived for so long expecting to be hated, assuming that was all people saw when they looked at him. He didn’t know how to respond to this strange, unfamiliar mercy.
"Thank you," he muttered, his voice strained and quiet. He wasn’t sure if it was enough, but it was all he could offer.
Charlie stood up, breaking the tension. "You’ll start tomorrow, early. There’s a lot to do, and the dragons don’t care about our pasts. They just want to see if you can keep up."
Draco nodded, standing as well. His legs felt shaky, as if the conversation had drained the last of his strength. But as Charlie led him to the door, Draco felt something stir inside him—something that felt like relief. It wasn’t hope, not yet, but it was the possibility of it, faint and flickering in the darkness.
Charlie opened the door and turned to Draco one last time. "One more thing," he said, his eyes locking onto Draco’s with a seriousness that left no room for ambiguity. "Whatever happened, whatever you did, that’s behind us now. If you’re going to stay here and work with us, you’re one of us. But don’t mistake that for leniency. You’ve got to earn that trust. Understood?"
Draco nodded again, this time more firmly. "I understand."
Charlie gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return before stepping back inside. The door closed softly behind him, and Draco stood alone on the porch, the cool evening breeze brushing against his face.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Draco took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh, clear air of the reserve. He still wasn’t sure if he belonged here—or anywhere—but for now, he had a chance.
And that was more than he had expected when he first walked through that door.
Draco looked around as Julia stepped out beside him, watching him with a kind expression. "See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?" she said with a broad grin. Draco responded with only a weak nod. He felt exhausted. Despite everything, his thoughts still swirled wildly in his mind. Could Charlie really hold nothing against him? Time would tell. The future was uncertain, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
"I’ll show you to your place," Julia announced, breaking his reverie. Draco paused. He would be living here? Of course, he thought. Apparently, no houses were available, so he would have to sleep on her couch. She looked at him as though the thought of him sleeping on her couch was an amusing anecdote.
Worse than a couch? Draco thought. He had slept in far worse places, but still, the thought felt strange. Julia grinned, as if sensing his inner conflict. "Don’t worry, I won’t bite. I’m not mad," she added.
Despite her words, he remained unsure. "Isn’t there any other option?" he asked cautiously, and Julia rolled her eyes.
"All the houses are taken. Unless you find someone else willing to let you crash on their couch. But you only know one other person here—besides me." Her gaze shifted toward Charlie’s cabin.
No, Draco thought, horrified. Does she seriously expect me to ask Charlie if I can sleep on his couch? Was that really his only option? Either Julia or Charlie. He groaned in frustration, but somehow, the thought intrigued him. He had spent his life in a manor, surrounded by servants catering to his every need.
In the past few years, he had learned a lot. He had learned what it meant to be hated and what it meant to wish for death. And now he was here, in a small village full of dragons and witches, and maybe, just maybe, he would learn to believe in life again.
"Tomorrow, your day begins," Julia said, her face beaming with excitement. "Tomorrow, you’ll meet the dragons." Excitement flashed in Draco’s eyes. A thrill shot through him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
"Alright, I’ll stay with you," Draco muttered, following Julia as the thoughts in his head grew quieter.
As they walked toward her small house, a wave of uncertainty washed over him. What if he failed? What if the dragons didn’t accept him, or worse, if the people here still despised him? But he had no choice. He had to try. It was the only way to prove that he was more than his name and the shadows of his past.