Chapter 2
Very early on, Draco Malfoy accepted physical punishment as a normal part of his life.
Accidental magic? Hit . He broke a random family heirloom? Hit . His hair grew too long and curled around his ears? Hit . His father was in a bad mood after returning home from the ministry? Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit .
It was always his father who dealt out the abuse, his mother staring at the scene with her eyes glassy but nary a complaint to be heard. He used to cry, until the age of 6 when his father shoved him into a wall with so much brute force he broke his arm. His mother wouldn’t look him in the eye as she healed it (a trip to St. Mungo’s entirely out of the question), a bruise mimicking the shape of a pair of circling hands blossoming just atop the collar of her pale blue sun dress. The realization that his father did not love him and that his mother was helpless to put a stop to his anger, was simultaneously a catastrophic discovery and something he actively pushed to the back of his mind.
So, he took his punishment like he took his morning potions – swiftly and without complaint. The older he got, the more severe the abuse became. His father took to burning him for the entire year after he turned 9, a sick, twisted sort of mirth darkening his gray eyes as he cast a fiendfyre at his child over, and over again before leaving him to stew in the blistering pain it left behind. 10 brought with it a new cane with a snake head topper made out of genuine goblin silver – he had been unable to sit properly for weeks from those particular welts which only brought about more lashings. Starting at Hogwarts, despite his unspoken hope of attending Beauxbatons, had been his only reprieve. The physical abuse had come to a standstill in the month before he began, his father muttering under his breath about visible marks and meddling protective services, though that simply meant he had made up for the loss with stinging words instead of stinging hands. Lucius had sent him to school with strict instructions: do not, under any circumstances, interact with the Potter boy.
Harry Potter, despite being a child, was a consistent character in his father’s dinnertime ramblings. If he was not complaining about the boy being a disgusting affront to nature (he was born of a magical surrogacy), he was insulting the boy's fathers, both for being homosexuals and for participating in the horcrux hunt that had led to the end of Voldemort’s reign of terror. Lucius blamed them (yes, including the unborn child) for the “downfall of pure blood society” and for nearly losing his job when it came out that certain ministry officials had had an active hand in trying to undermine the government. In Draco’s mind, he couldn't see how the consequences of his father’s shady dealings were in any way the fault of the Potter-Black’s. Fortunately, his father never did ask for his opinion on that matter.
He had done his best to heed his father’s words, all too aware of what would happen if word got back to him that he had disobeyed a direct order. However, standing on those steps, Draco had been overcome with a need to get to know the boy with shaggy hair and wire-framed glasses. Stepping closer to where he stood talking to a girl with more hair than she clearly knew how to deal with and a red-haired boy who he knew enough about without the two ever speaking, Draco opened his mouth to introduce himself. The redhead, however, had different plans.
“Watch it, deatheater ,” the boy called out, his words echoing through the blonde’s thoughts.
Draco sneered, not one to be outdone, his plan to speak to Potter instantly forgotten. “What’s this? Red hair and a hand-me-down robe? Must be a weasel .”
It is at that point, luck would have it, that Harry turned to them, as did the rest of the first years. Draco smirked, putting on an air of confidence.
“Harry Potter, I’m Draco Malfoy. You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't wanna go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
Potter, to his utter surprise, glared at him. “As if I would be friends with someone like you.”
Draco had been… mortified if he is being entirely honest. Swearing from that day forward that he would never be nice to Potter again, he’d taken to either entirely ignoring him or actively antagonizing him. He would never admit it out loud, but he thoroughly enjoyed their dynamic, and, in a weird and twisted way, the beating he got when he returned home for the holidays had been entirely worth it.
A few months ago, however, before the start of his third year, there had been a change in his father’s beatings. Regular hits turned into agonizing torture, hexes, curses, and unforgivables for hours at a time. The first time Lucius cast the Cruciatus curse on him, he had soiled his pants as his body twitched against the freshly polished marble floor in their sitting room. He wasn’t certain as to why the change occurred, though he did hear whispers from the house elves that the Malfoy family vaults were running dry, his father having increasingly become obsessed with gambling their fortunes away. Regardless, it had become so bad that he spent the first half of the year in a near-catatonic state, unable to maintain the mask of distinct aloofness. He had even noticed Potter giving him odd looks every time he passed by the golden trio and didn’t say a word, whether because he didn't want to or because he physically couldn't, he had no idea.
The event he is now choosing to call “doomsday” (for no reason other than childish dramatics) happened on only the second night after he returned home for the summer. It was late, dinner having wrapped up over an hour earlier, and Draco was lying under the covers of his bed whilst blankly staring out the window and into the vast darkness behind their home. The only source of light – a single candle burning on his bedside table. He didn’t know what it even smelled like, just that it helped mask the scent of the dried blood he hadn’t managed to scrub out of his hair.
His mind blessedly empty, nothing could distract him from the way his door slammed open. His father appeared in the entryway, swaying slightly on his feet, a certain feeling of anger rolling off him in waves. He’d been drinking, that much was clearly obvious, and the light streaming in from the hall illuminated his figure, sparking fear in Draco despite the state of his appearance. This was going to be bad, the boy thought, and he silently prayed to whatever deity above – Merlin, God, anyone – that his father would just kill him quickly.
An hour or two later – he was unsure of how much time passed, the ringing in his ears and the thrumming in his muscles preventing that level of awareness – and his father was still at it. Draco, for the first time in ages, could hear his mother screaming at Lucius to stop, to please spare the boy, he’s done nothing wrong.
Either numb to a mother’s screams or simply uncaring, his father continued aiming spells his way. At some point, his father spoke an unfamiliar phrase, though Draco didn’t dwell on it too much, too preoccupied with the way his chest felt as though it had been ripped apart like a chocolate frog package (he had always liked those, even if he made others believe he thought them too childish). His hope for a swift death had been in vain, though, blessedly, his father left him after that.
After what felt like ages, a pair of soft, familiar hands reached for him and he reflexively flinched back, a pained whimper attempting to leave his throat but stopping just as it reached his tongue. Draco opened his eyes to see his mother crying over his body, attempting to pull him into an upright position. He tried to protest, pushing her arms away weakly, but she appeared determined, whispering frantically to herself as she helped him lean his back against the wall.
“Draco,” Narcissa spoke, eyes darting to the now-shut door. “Draco, darling, I need you to listen to me. You must leave. Now, while he's incapacitated.”
He watched her pull out her wand, muttering a few spells under her breath, the tip of it turning a bright green only to fade quickly.
“My cousin, Regulus, will take you in. He’s always had a soft heart and he would never turn away a child.” At Draco’s pained expression, she reached a hand to caress his cheeks. “I know, darling, but we have no other choice. Your father…your father has lost it and if you remain, I cannot guarantee that you will survive another night of this cruelty. Now, we must be quick. The wards will only remain down for so long without your father realizing it, even in such an inebriated state. Up you get.”
Together, (even if his mother did most of the work) Draco was able to stand up, though there seemed to be a permanent hunch in his stature. One moment they were quietly waiting for him to gather what little remaining strength he possessed, and the next they were apparating out of the manor, arriving on the doorstep of an unfamiliar home as the evening rain pelted their bodies. Draco ignored the rain as it made his blood run down his front in favor of looking into his mother’s eyes.
“I must return. No, no, listen to me,” she wrapped her palms gently around his face. “I will try to find a way to get out of that house but my priority is you. I have been far too weak for far too long and I will never be able to forgive myself for what I have allowed that man to do to you.”
Draco tried to respond, to assure his mother that she did her best even if he didn’t believe that himself, but no words left his mouth. That was surely something to think about later . His heart was in tatters and he was helpless to fix it.
“Please do not write, I do not want him to have an inkling of where you are. I will try to contact you as soon as it is safe,” she placed a parting kiss on the palm of his hand before disappearing.
Draco felt tears rush down his face as the uncertainty of the situation dawned on him. He steeled his shoulders, turning to the door and knocking once, the image of an unruly-haired boy flashing across his mind as the door opened.
———
The early dawn sun shining in through the windows at the front of the house woke him up, a beam of light hitting him directly in the eyes where he lay on the configured bed Mr. Potter had made for him out of an armchair. He gleaned at the large clock on the opposite wall, silently groaning as he noted that it was just barely before 6 in the morning. Resigning himself to not getting any more sleep, he sat up and reached for the carafe he’d placed on the table before he'd fallen asleep. Drinking one glass, and then another, Draco’s mind once again wandered to thoughts of how odd his life had become.
He’d been staying at the Potter-Black home for a little over a month and, all things considered, it had been a fairly enjoyable stay. No – that was an understatement. The Potter-Black’s were everything he didn't know a family could be. Bright, loud, and above all else, loving. They spoke the words as though they were second nature, a given rather than something to be earned. It wasn’t only the actual statement either, no he could see it in their actions as well. He saw it in the way Mr. Potter ( James, the man always insisted he write to no avail) would give Regulus (the man was far scarier than his husband when he wanted to be) back rubs as they chatted quietly after they'd had their tea. It was apparent in the way Harry offered to bring home the groceries on his way from whichever friend's house he had visited that day. In the way they all went out of their way to sit together while they did their separate things: Mr. Potter working on the stock for his shop, Harry watching moving pictures on the “telly”
(he’d been informed they were called movies by an amused Regulus), while Regulus tucked himself under a blanket with a good book.
Draco, despite their best efforts, continued to feel like an outsider, a voyeur looking in on a happy family while his own home life, or lack thereof, left something more to be desired. It wasn’t hard to see why he felt that way, he couldn't remember a single time he could describe the manor as a home. It was a house where people lived, but never a home.
Shaking his head, he decided that was enough self-pity for the day and got up, padding off the couch and out the back door, being extra careful to not make too much noise. He stepped out into the garden, meticulously kept by one James Potter. Unlike the Malloy estate, the house was built on a more humble stretch of land, less than an acre if he had to guess. Surprisingly, though, it felt anything but small. A large, vibrant willow tree took up the space just left of the door, its tendrils drooping beautifully. There were bushes upon bushes of varying flowers: calla lilies, daisies, begonias, asters. He even spotted a bushel of asphodel on his first venture further out towards the edge of the garden. The section of the area towards the center where a mature lemon tree sat had become his favorite spot to lounge when being inside the house became too much. He would settle his back against it while bird-watching or lying on his back, watching the clouds pass by and trying to make out shapes. It was lonely but nothing he wasn’t used to.
As he settled down into the grass, the shade of the tree shielding his eyes from the worst of the sun’s glare, Draco heard a branch snap back towards the house. He instantly sat up, cursing himself for forgetting his wand. He calmed down almost instantly upon realizing it was just Harry (he didn’t know when he had stopped being “Potter”).
Their relationship had certainly shifted since that first morning when he had been rudely awakened by Harry’s shouts. They weren't friends, though perhaps not that far off. A tentative truce had been established after Harry realized that Draco was unlikely to be leaving anytime soon. It was easier to spend time in one another's presence now, the urge to argue satiated by half-written half-spoken spats, as harmless as they had become.
“What are you doing awake at this hour?” Harry asked, plopping down a few paces away from him.
Draco, realizing he had forgotten his notebook as well, shrugged. He sat down in a cross-legged position and did his best to ignore the erratic beating in his chest. A poke to his stomach startled him and he turned to find brunette shoving a pen and paper into his face, a clear flush along his cheeks. He took the offered materials, propping them against his knee as he wrote in wobbly lettering.
Woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep.
“I see,” Harry responded. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke up once more. “That happen often?”
Draco hesitated to answer, unsure how much information he should divulge. Eventually, he decided there was no harm in opening up a little. Harry, after all, seemed to be making an effort to bridge the gap.
More than you can imagine.
He watched as the other boy's expression shifted, not into one of pity but one of tentative understanding.
“Has papa made any progress finding the cause of your muteness?”
He thinks it may be dark magic, though he’s frustrated he can't figure out the exact type. It’s not like he can ask-
He stopped, on the verge of divulging too much. Harry looked at him curiously, head tilted in a manner that made him look like a puppy. Thankfully he didn't push, though Draco could tell he wanted to. They stopped conversing from that point on. This time, the silence didn't threaten to consume him.
———
A few days later, the house empty save for him, a familiar owl flew in from the kitchen window, sitting primly at the perch. Draco nearly tripped in his haste to get to the animal, Romeo’s beady eyes judging him. He quickly pulled the attached letter, absentmindedly offering up a treat, before he settled at the dining table. Carefully opening the letter with an opener left nearby, he pulled out two sheets of parchment, unmarked and without an official seal.
My dearest dragon,
I am sure you have long since been anticipating any correspondence from me since we last parted. I must apologize for the time it took me to write to you, though I’m positive you willunderstand my hesitance to get in touch. Before you panic, you must know that I am well and in good health.
I have had much time to ponder the inaction I have partaken in since you were a wee babe. If I have learned anything in the time since you have left, it is that I have failed you as a mother. Oh, I can already hear your arguing against that fact but it remains true, nonetheless – I have been an awful mother. Perhaps I shall start from the beginning so you can see why I know this to be unequivocally true.
Your father and I met at Hogwarts, and I was, as many other pureblood witches were, enamored from the very moment I laid eyes on him. He was the kind of man who, when he stepped into a room, commanded all attention. To my delight, he took an interest in me – though how much this had to do with me being a daughter of the House of Black, I cannot say. He asked my father for my hand when we were 16 and we courted all through our final two years in school. It was everything I would've imagined and more. He showered me with gifts; the finest jewelry, clothing, and sweets from around the world. Above all else, he was kind. Not to others, no, only to me. Looking back, that should’ve been my first sign.
We were only married a year when his obsession with the world of dark magic made itself known. He would spend hours at a time in his study, ancient spell books and magic history tomes scattered across his desk. He remained the same Lucius I had fallen for, even if I knew in my heart of hearts that he had begun changing. His behavior became erratic and violent but I had unknowingly been spared the brunt of his anger. Rumor had it he almost attacked a muggle-born witch at the ministry, a secretary who had come by his office to deliver a message from her superior. Still, I was blinded by my love for him.
When I became with child a few years later, I naively expected him to revert to the Lucius I had met all those years ago. Rather, it was like another flip had been switched and he began to treat me as though I were diseased. He had been ranting about producing an heir long before we were married, and yet the moment that became a reality, he could not handle it. The night I told him was the first time he hit me.
My estranged elder sister, Andromeda, urged me to leave him on the rare occasion that I would contact her. My mother, who had been his biggest fan up until this point, begged me to see reason after she glimpsed a yellowing bruise on my jaw I had not properly covered. Had I listened, you wouldn’t have had to endure such cruelty.
I am a bad mother because I watched, day after day, year after year, as the man I married abused my child for no fault of his own. I healed your wounds without complaint because I was a coward, scared of the retaliation we would both receive if I voiced my concerns. I almost left, once, when you were away at school but he caught me before I could even finish packing my bag. He threatened to kill me, not for the first time, and I listened.
I wish it could've been different, that I could've been different, but it is no use dwelling on fantasy. I will never be able to justify what I allowed him to do to you but I can only hope that you now understand my actions a little bit better.
I hope that you are safe now that you are not within reach. I do not know when the next time I will be able to speak to you is but I beg of you to not write back. I am in the process of filing for a divorce, and hopefully, the next time I see you, I am a free woman.
Be kind, be gentle, be free.
Love,
your atoning mother.
The parchment was wet where Draco’s tears had soaked through. A loud sniffle left him, his hand coming up to wipe his eyes. His heart was in his throat, nearly making him choke on his breath. He wished he could speak just so he could scream his lungs out, overcome by the unfairness of the situation.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Draco hastily turned around, coming face to face with Mr. Potter. He must've looked insane, with drying tear tracks and a face that was undoubtedly red. Mr. Potter’s face scrunched up in
concern and he quickly glanced at the still open letter behind him.
“You received a letter?” The man asked curiously.
Draco nodded, looking down in embarrassment.
“May I ask from whom?” Mr. Potter approached, sitting down a safe distance away at the dining table.
He paused, nodding and grabbing his notebook.
My mother.
The man’s face shifted into one of understanding. “I see. Is she well?”
Draco tried not to look surprised. He knew his mother did not have an incredible relationship with Regulus, and the man was her cousin. He also knew that his father was one to burn bridges. The clear concern in the elder Potter’s voice confused him. He nodded once, nonetheless.
“That’s good, that’s good.” A pause. “Listen, perhaps it is not my place to discuss this with you. But, from the little I’ve been told from Reggie, I want you to know that what your father did had nothing to do with you.” Mr. Potter laughed at his incredulous expression. “Men like your father, who run their homes with an iron fist, are unable to discern between fear and respect. They cannot imagine a world in which they treat people kindly simply because that is the right thing to do. He did not hurt you because you did something wrong. No, he hurt you because it made him feel big, if even for a moment.”
I suppose.
Mr. Potter smiled; a small, minuscule thing filled with an emotion he did not understand. “Think about what I’ve said. Just know that as long as you are under this roof, you will never have to endure that sort of treatment.”
The older man left with a single squeeze to his shoulder. Draco sniffled once more, steeling his shoulders as he turned to put the letter away, setting it gingerly in between the pages of his notebook. He didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching him from under a cloak. Though, that was probably for the best.