Forgiveness Comes With A Price

It was a quiet night, all things considered. The moon’s slightest sliver cast a thimble of light across London town. In its heart, artificial lights flickered, false day spreading throughout. Far out along the edges of the city, farmland sprawled as far as the eye could see - at least, until it landed on one small village or another.

Somewhere between the city and the countryside lay a row of austere wizarding houses. Atop the darkest hill among them stood the dark, imposing shadow of Malfoy Manor. Screams had echoed through its cavernous halls for centuries, tonight being no exception.

The building quivered gleefully at the dirty blood spilt on its marble floors, brimming with glorious delight - if tinged with mild disappointment at the mess. The halls were bloodthirsty. The windows and doors shuddered with each death witnessed through the ages, wistful for its sweet release. Draco Malfoy stood in the midst of it all, face white as a sheet. 

He watched the goblin, Griphook, at his feet writhe in pain while his aunt Bellatrix cackled, wild and deranged. Her hair stood on end, paranoid, pointing every which way. Bellatrix’s eyes were quite unlike her sister’s. Where Narcissa’s eyes were calm, cool, and collected, Bellatrix’s eyes were wide, furious, and manic. Yet both held a certain calculated coldness, dark as the blackest ice on a moonless night, laying in wait to throw some poor unsuspecting muggle off of a cliff.

Draco used to admire the cunning look in their eyes. Now, he could only look on in revulsion. There was something grotesque about eyes; he hated them. Especially his family’s eyes. Each night, his dreams were full of eyes. Always watching, always surveilling. That steely gunmetal grey haunted him. He shivered.

“Oh, is it a little chilly?” Bella’s tinny, unsettling voice mocked him. “Does Drakey-poo need a blankey?” She cackled. Draco could hardly stand to look at her. A slim yet painfully firm hand caught his chin. Bellatrix’s uneven nails dug into Draco’s skin, leaving little half-moon marks. Her eyes glimmered darkly. “I know what’ll warm you up.” Her mouth drew upward into a misshapen grin. 

She directed his face toward the goblin, now limp on the floor, having been freed from the cruciatus curse upon Bella’s distraction. 

“Go on!” Bella goaded Draco forward. “You know the words, don’t you?” She hung off of his shoulders, claws digging into his arm. He nodded tightly, lips pressed into a thin line. “So tense,” Bella commented, digging her nails into Draco’s shoulders. “It’s just a teensy-weensy unforgivable curse, Draco, darling,” she whispered in his ear, foul voice rotting against his eardrums. 

Almost against his will, Draco’s wand arm reared up like a cobra about to strike. The tip of the hawthorn bough was aimed directly for the goblin on the floor. Bellatrix giggled in his ear, her hot breath on his neck. It smelled of decay.

“Do it,” she hissed. “Now.” Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He felt her nails dig into the skin of his shoulder, drawing beads of blood. He could picture her face, if it could be called a face, contorted into a gruesome smile directly next to his, grim and silent. He had no choice. It was him or the goblin.

“ Crucio .” His lips wrapped around the word far too easily. As the magic flowed through him and struck the goblin on the floor, he felt as though a piece of his soul was being ripped from his chest. The pain was stabbing, it throbbed, pounding its way through his skull. He could feel the goblin writhing on the floor beneath him, could hear its screams echo through the foyer. Most of all, over the din, he could hear Bellatrix. Giggling. 

Her nails unlatched themselves from his shoulders, leaving angry red half-moons in their place. She meandered toward the goblin on the floor, poking at him gleefully. He howled in pain. She howled with laughter. Draco knew on a conscious level that his face had gone a sickly shade of green. His hands were shaking. He muttered, ‘ Finite Incantatem ,’ before turning tail and trying not to run as he escaped to his room. Bellatrix’s cackling echoed in his ears, hollow and cold. 

Draco threw the door shut behind him, placing a wordless silencing charm on the handle at the last second before it made purchase. These were the kinds of skills one learned, growing up in a family such as his. He slid to the floor, head in hands. The goblin’s screams wouldn’t stop echoing in his mind. He pressed his hands to his thighs to stop their shaking. The rest of him shook instead.

Rapidly, his room began to feel stuffy. Painfully stuffy. He shot up from the floor, practically sprinting to the window to throw it open. The cool breeze was a welcome feeling on his sweat-sheened face. He pressed his hands to the mahogany dresser in front of him, willing them to stop shaking. Again, they didn’t.

“Fuck!” He cried, slamming his hands down. They landed with a quiet “ Thunk .” The sound was thoroughly unsatisfying. Rage built in his chest like a flame fed fresh gasoline. Spying a nearby breakable object, he threw it against the wall. 

There went his potions project. He could make another.  What mattered now was how satisfying the crash was. Next came the family portrait. Then the crystal ball. Then a glass he’d brought up a week ago to drink from and promptly forgotten about. Just as it went sailing into his bedroom wall, the door to his room flung open.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you’re going to throw a temper tantrum, please do so quietly.” His mother’s voice rang in his ears. It should have been angry. In any other circumstance it would have been, but no… his mother sounded terrified. There were very few things that could terrify Narcissa Malfoy. What it could have been, he dreaded to learn.

“Sorry,” he apologised, voice hoarse, wiping away tears he hadn’t been fully aware of. “Got carried away.” 

Narcissa’s eyes softened as she sighed, “oh, darling...” She glanced over her shoulder before fully entering Draco’s bedroom and closing the door. She didn’t need a silencing charm to be undetectably quiet. Draco’s vision became blurry once more as his mother knelt down before him. He suddenly felt quite small. Smaller than he’d ever felt. She took his cheek in her hand. He sniffed. “I understand.”

With those two words Draco knew that she was doing all she could to help. That she did not and could not possibly understand, but she was doing her best to protect him. That she felt just as helpless and small as he did. Like a child, he burrowed his way into her arms and let a sob wrack his body. Her arms wrapped around him and very suddenly, he was home.

Just as the muscles in his shoulders began to unravel themselves from each other, Bellatrix’s shrill voice called out from the foyer.

“Draco!” He was needed. The dark lord needed him. He exchanged a look with his mother as she wiped his tears and held his face.

“Go,” she ordered, softly. He went. 

The moment his feet hit the steps, he felt himself being pulled toward his aunt by the wrist. That vile, dark serpent writhed beneath his skin. It wasn’t painful, so much as unpleasant. A violation of his very being. The discomfort was suddenly replaced with a sharp pain. 

“Come!” Bellatrix’s needle-like fingers snatched Draco by the ear and dragged him toward a boy kneeling on the floor. Behind Draco, his father and a bounty hunter of some kind held a brunette girl and a boy with fiery red hair.

The first thing that caught Draco’s eye was how horrifically ugly the boy on the floor was. His jet black hair stuck out in tufts, and his left eye was swollen over. It looked as though he had been stung by about a hundred thousand bees. A curse, no doubt.

“Eyes up!” Bellatrix lifted the boy’s head up by his hair. Draco saw him wince in pain. “Well?” Her eyes were wild now, desperate.

Draco met the black haired boy’s eyes. Immediately, he knew exactly who he was looking at. One cursory glance at the two people behind him confirmed Draco’s suspicions. Bile rose in his throat.

“Well what?” He resolved to put on a brave face.

“Well,” she hissed, “is he the boy? Harry Potter .” She spat the name as if it had personally offended her. Recalling who Potter’s godfather was, it most likely had.

“I can’t tell.” His mouth was stretched into a tight line as he stared into her hollow eyes. A shiver ran down his spine. He took a cursory glance toward the boy who would no longer live if Draco gave him away. Through the engorged blubber of his face, Draco could just barely make out two emerald eyes. A desperate shock of green. Pleading. He looked back up to meet Bellatrix’s gaze. “I don’t think so.”

Without warning, Bellatrix’s wand came up to his throat, digging into his jugular.

“Are you sure?” She hissed, her voice like broken glass. “Are you positive? if you aren’t positive - if we aren’t absolutely sure , he’ll kill us all. So look closely, dear.” Bellatrix pressed her wand down, forcing him to kneel before the black haired boy. His father made an anxious noise behind him.

Draco gulped. He squared his shoulders, though he knew he couldn’t have appeared all that confident.

“Yes. I’m positive.” He met her gaze defiantly, daring her to question him. She held it for a few seconds too long.

“Good.” She dropped her wand arm. “Wouldn’t want to deliver our dark lord the wrong boy, now would we?” There was an odd edge to her tone. Dangerous.

“No, we wouldn’t.” Draco kept his face diplomatically neutral. 

“No… we wouldn’t.” Bellatrix grinned. Draco’s heart beat furiously out of his chest. He was terrified that she could hear it. 

Suddenly, Bellatrix whirled around to face Lucius Malfoy. 

“Give me the bitch,” Bellatrix spat. “She got her filthy little mudblood hands on my sword.” she hissed gleefully, “so we’re going to have some fun!” Draco’s stomach lurched. He glanced down at Harry. He looked like a wild animal, cornered and afraid. 

Before he could say a word, Potter and Weasley were dragged down to the dungeons. Draco almost sighed in relief. They would be in good hands there, with Luna Lovegood. Mad as she was, she was smart as a whip. 

And Griphook. And Ollivander. He felt sick to his stomach at the reminder of his transgressions. A hand landed on his shoulder.

“Draco,” his father’s hoarse voice crackled, weary with anxiety. “Did you tell the truth?” Draco did not look at him.

“Yes,” he answered, simply. He could picture his father nodding quickly, nervously as he removed his hand. He listened to his father’s once slow and confident, now hastened and shuffling footsteps as he retreated. 

Barely a moment later, the stagnant air was pierced. Draco’s stomach, roiling, threatened to betray him. Granger’s screaming was horrific. Draco could do nothing. He would do nothing.

He paced the restrained himself, sitting demurely in an ornate wooden chair, twitching at each and every noise, unable to tear himself away from listening to the horrible screams coming from the sitting room. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He could hear the low hum of the portraits sharing their various opinions, all of them staunchly anti-muggleborn, some of them annoyed at the mess of blood. Completely unhelpful. 

He had no idea how much time had passed, sitting alone in the foyer, before he heard something other than the sound of screaming and mumbling. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs. 

Draco shot up straight. He expected to see was a troupe of death eaters, arrived to deliver the trio of prisoners to the dark lord. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Luna Lovegood’s face peeking out from the stairwell.

“Lovegood?” He hissed across the hall. She waved cheerfully. She was quickly pulled down and whispered to aggressively by, Draco could only assume, Potter and Weasley. He quickly scanned his surroundings before hastily making his way to the stairwell. He was greeted by two wands pointed at his heart.

“Move a muscle and I’ll…” Weasley attempted to come up with a terrifying threat. It did not work.

“You’ll..?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Kill me?”

“Yes.” Weasley’s eyes were hard and sharp. Draco did not have a hard time believing him. He made eye contact with Griphook, who glared at him. He barely contained a shudder. 

“Look, you want this to end just as much as I do.” Weasley shot him a look of surprise. “This is not the way to go about it. Do you want to summon the Dark Lord ?” He spat the name as if it were poison on his lips. 

“We have to save her.” Harry’s eyes met Draco’s with a level of intensity to rival Bellatrix. Yet, there was no trace of mania in Potter’s eyes. Only defiance. They bored their way into Draco’s soul and latched hooks into its frayed edges. He sighed.

“Don’t be stupid.” It was no use. Potter was always stupid. Draco made way for the troupe of idiots plus Lovegood, Ollivander, and Griphook. So really only two idiots. The point still stood. Potter shot him a grateful look.

“Thanks.” And they were off. Draco rubbed his face with his hands, contemplating. They were almost certainly going to die. Or, alternatively, they were going to be captured. Neither was preferable, Draco decided. 

The split second upon which he turned to call out, several things happened. 

Firstly, Harry Potter began to turn the doorknob to enter the sitting room. 

Secondly, Walburga Black’s portrait opened her mouth and unleashed a scream to rival all the banshees in England. 

And thirdly, his parents, exhausted but austere, entered the room. 

Within a millisecond, the group were thrown to the ground, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy’s wands raised in unison. 

“Lestrange!” Lucius called out, looking crazed and dishevelled. Abruptly, Granger’s screaming ceased. Not that it was audible, contending with Walburga.

The door, ajar at first, whipped open. Out stepped a grinning, wild-eyed Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione Granger clutched to her chest. She held a short, ornate dagger to Granger’s throat. Draco cringed, remembering the feeling. 

“Draco,” Narcissa hissed, motioning him over. His legs carried him to her of their own volition. Her hand made its way to his shoulder, clutching him tighter than was necessary. He was numb to it, eyes glued to the knife pressed against Granger’s jugular. His ears were filled with the sound of Bellatrix’s cackling laugh, juxtaposed with Walburga’s howling. 

Bellatrix’s guffaws turned sharp. “ Shut up ,” she hissed, silencing Walburga. She grinned. Her teeth were sharp as a hellhound’s. “Harry Potter!” Her eyes glistened with mirth. “So nice to see you again.” She swished her wand at Lucius. “Lucy, be a dear and call the Dark Lord?” She shot him what Draco supposed was meant to be a simpering smile. She looked like a hyena in labour.

His senses heightened with anxiety, he heard it. A scratching from above. A back and forth, over and over, almost like a saw. He glanced up. 

Immediately, the foyer was sent into chaos. The massive chandelier in the centre of the room came crashing down, separating Bellatrix from Granger. A small, fleshy creature dove at her, lifting her up and running her toward Potter and Weasley. 

Lights flashed and shouting filled the hall as his parents threw curses, Walburga’s portrait frozen in a silent scream. Potter’s group ducked and hid behind protego after protego . 

All of a sudden, time stopped. Bellatrix shouted. ‘ Avada Kedavra !’ A bast of sickly green light flew from her wand, on course to hit Potter square in the chest. Without thought, Draco whipped out his wand. 

“ Expulso !” Potter flew back, out of the path of the spell.

“Traitor!” Bellatrix bellowed. Before he could react, her wand was raised. “ Crucio !” 

“No!” He heard his mother cry out. 

The spell hit him square in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from his lungs. He barely felt himself hit the floor. The pain made its way across his body like blue flame, spreading as if he were mere kindling. He writhed on the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks, hands clutched to his stomach. He could hear screaming again. He barely registered that it was coming from him. 

Without warning, an unknown hand grabbed his shoulder. His wand was ripped from his barely clenched fist, and soon the world began to spin. He felt his stomach lurch, threatening to finally heave out his meagre breakfast. It spun more and more violently, faster and faster, until suddenly, his head hit sand.

The pain, seeping into his bones, retreated. He gasped for breath. His mouth was full of tiny rocks. He was outdoors now, why was he outdoors? Before he could gather answers, he was vomiting out the contents of his stomach onto the fine white sand. Very quickly, there was no food left to expunge, and he was left dry heaving. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, miraculously, mouth empty of pesky stones. 

Finally, he lifted his head to scan his surroundings. He was on a beach. The sand stretched as far as the eye could see, and the blue ocean looked unrealistically clean. A few metres away stood a woman with messy brown hair, a man with fiery red hair, a woman with hair light enough to reflect the sun, an old wizened man with barely a wisp of hair on his head, a goblin with dark, wiry hair, and a man with a bird’s nest on his head. They were gathered around something nestled into a small dune. 

Draco stumbled to his feet, wincing. As he approached the group, the lump on the ground took shape. It became more recognisable as the fleshy thing that had saved Granger’s life. Closer still, its face became clear. 

Dobby. It was Dobby. His eyes were glassy. Protruding from his chest was the short, ornate dagger belonging to the one and only Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Draco inhaled sharply, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The noise alerted the group to his presence. Their eyes – how he loathed eyes – were brimming with suspicion. All but Lovegood’s. Hers were most unsettling of all. Harry spoke first.

“Why?” His voice was broken, cracking and unravelling at the seams. “Why did he save you?” Furious tears rolled down his cheeks. Draco was struck dumb. 

“I don’t know,” he managed. Draco took a breath, gathering himself. “Is there somewhere we can shelter nearby?” Weasley’s head snapped up immediately.

“ We ? We aren’t going anywhere, mate, not with you.” Griphook looked as though he agreed. Weasley’s eyes were furious. Draco wondered how many things he had done to deserve that look. They were likely innumerable. 

“Shut up, Ron,” Potter chastised, surprising him. “Shell Cottage, up that hill, it’s warded.” Weasley’s face would have been priceless in any other situation. His expression was one of shock horror. Griphook’s eyes darkened.

“Very well,” Draco nodded stiffly. He watched Weasley attempt to not sulk as Potter excavated Dobby’s body from the sand, closing his eyes and holding the house elf to his chest. Granger, on the other hand, was examining Draco. Griphook, too, was staring at him.

He felt as though he had been placed under a microscope. The level of scrutiny was one he had not experienced since earlier that afternoon. Draco supposed this was a regular pace for this group of his peers. Rapidly grieving and rapidly recovering. He supposed none of them had truly experienced childhood. He felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest for them.

As soon as Potter was ready to move, the group fell in step after him. He felt like a meerkat, following the leader. Oddly enough, it made him feel safe. Potter knew what he was doing – and if he didn’t, he was excellent at waffling. Draco could see why Granger and Weasley flanked him at all times. He nearly shuddered at the thought of becoming like them. 

Upon reaching the cabin atop the hill, Potter whispered something to the handle. With a click, it turned, opening into a much wider house than seemed possible from the exterior. Draco was familiar with this kind of magic – he’d used it on his trunk many times. A tall man with fiery red hair exited the kitchen, arms wide. His voice boomed, filling the entryway.

“What did I get you for your tenth birthday?” He seemed to be addressing their red haired companion.

“Beadle the bard, first edition, signed!” The shorter Weasley boomed in equal measure. God, those Weasleys could make a lot of noise. 

“Ron!” He beamed. 

“Bill!” The shorter Weasley tackled the taller in a walloping embrace that looked, to Draco, simultaneously deeply uncomfortable and desperately comforting. He almost envied them. Almost. “And who’s this?” The older Weasley, now known as ‘Bill’ scanned Draco from head to toe, calculating. Ron Weasley’s face fell into a grimace. 

‘Well, fuck you, too,’ Draco thought.

“His name is Draco Malfoy! He saved Harry’s life,” chirped an eager Lovegood. Bill’s eyes darkened, meeting Draco’s. He set his brother down and approached.

“Malfoy..” Bill shook his head contemplatively. “How’s that?” He did not drop eye contact. 

“Could’ve told ‘em it was me.” Potter’s voice surprised him. “Didn’t though.” Draco was curious at how quickly he could switch from suspicious to all-in, depending on how it suited him. Perhaps Potter should have been sorted into Slytherin. Draco stared Bill down defiantly. If he could do it with Bella, he could do it with Bill.  

Draco opened his mouth and found he had no explanation. He had no clue as to why he would ever throw himself in the line of fire the way he had barely ten minutes previous. Bill’s eyes narrowed.

“Well?” He cocked his head. “Care to explain?” 

“I just…” Draco was not often struck dumb. And yet, here he stood, in a cottage by the sea, apparently having joined the side of the enemy. “I couldn’t let… I couldn’t let them die.” He choked the words out as if they were physically painful. Bill scoffed. Evidently he did not believe him. 

“A little veritaserum never hurt, did it?” Bill turned to the group. Draco’s eyes widened. His breath caught in his chest. Bill thought he was a spy. All things considered, he should be. 

“Well, actually-” Luna began.

“No, I don’t think it ever did,” Ron Weasley finished. The bastard. “Where’s Fleur?”

“Out,” Bill answered. “Get Ollivander up to a room, he looks exhausted. The goblin too, he looks injured, Fleur will look him over when she’s back. Harry, owl Mad-Eye.” As soon as the words were spoken, the troupe of teenagers began to carry out orders. “As for you, come with me.” Bill gestured for Draco to follow. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but at this point, there was nothing to lose but his life. 

Bill led him down a narrow hallway toward a basement of sorts. Casting a quick lumos , Draco was pleasantly surprised by how oddly pleasant it appeared. Cosy, almost. Before he could react, a splitting pain tore through his skull. Was he dying? Was this how he was to die? Fitting, honestly, but no. He had felt this before. When the Dark Lord had marked his wrist. He heard Bill shout something unintelligible as Draco crumpled in pain.

He ripped his left sleeve up, and sure enough, below his skin lay the familiar dark serpent circling the familiar skull. Unfamiliarly, it was writhing violently, sending out a new stab of pain each time it moved. Draco’s eyes rolled up into the back of his skull. His head throbbed with it; he wondered if this was how Potter felt.

A hissing voice pressed its way into his bones, cracking them and mending them all at once. He was being pressed against a wall, likely by Bill Weasley. 

‘......Malllllfffffoyyyyyy Cccchhhhillllddddd……Yyyouuuu wwwilllll bbe ffffouuunnddddd……”

He felt the words pass through his lips. He had no control. Like a dagger, it pierced through his weakened defences, filling his mind with the sound of hissing snakes. He must have cried out. A hand found its way to his shoulder. His eyes met those of a particularly beautiful woman. A woman he recognized.

“Are you alright?” The thick french accent sent waves of familiarity through his pained shoulders. He nodded, gasping for air. 

“Stay still,” Bill’s gruff voice growled from above. The french woman waved her hand at him, shooing him away. She pulled out her wand and muttered an incantation, and suddenly, the pain receded. 

“Better?” Draco blinked a couple of times.

“Yes,” He sighed, responding in French. “Yes, much better. Thank you.” He did not know what compelled him toward this woman. She reminded him of his mother, in some ways. Her eyes lit up at the sound of her language.

“You speak French!” She exclaimed. Draco winced, still recovering. “I’m sorry,” She apologised, sheepishly. 

“What the fuck is he saying?” Draco registered Bill’s wand aimed for his face. Tactful.

“Bill, put it down,” she snapped. “He is harmless.”

“You don’t know that, Fleur!” Of course. Fleur Delacour, the Beuxbatons challenger in that fateful triwizard tournament. Despite his verbal misgivings, Bill lowered his wand, gesturing instead with his free hand.

“It’s alright,” Draco shook his head gently. “I understand it.” He managed a small smile. He recognised his cowardice. Speaking French allowed him sole communication with the kind woman before him. 

“What happened?” Fleur asked, in French. Draco looked up at her.

“I don’t know.” He answered. “I heard a voice… The dark lord.” Fleur shook her head, brows furrowed. Draco’s voice shook. “They’re looking for me.” Fleur translated over her shoulder to Bill. He was visibly alarmed.

“What the fuck-?” Bill was quickly cut off. Fleur spoke in English this time, as to appease him.

“Moody arrives soon. We will find a way to protect you,” Fleur decided. Draco nodded, swallowing. He had no clue as to why she was being so kind to him. Bill’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as he sucked in a sharp breath of frustration.

“I’m afraid that might involve cutting a chunk out of my arm.” With that, he showed her the writhing dark mark. Fleur’s eyes darkened. She swore. Bill shook his head, turning a light shade of green. 

“I suppose that might be the only route to take… I am sorry, little one.” Draco was hit with a wave of comfort. He refused to cry.

“It’s alright. I’ll survive.” He faced her defiantly. “If you need to do it, do it.” Fleur’s eyes softened. She shook her head. 

“He will arrive soon. For now, rest.” She took off her sweater, draping it across Draco’s shoulders. He managed a shaky smile.

“Thank you,” he muttered. 

“He’s staying down here,” Bill insisted. “I’m not having him upstairs.” Hesitantly, Fleur nodded. 

“I understand,” Draco conceded. “I would do the same.” 

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, Malfoy.” Bill considered for a moment. “Give me your wand.” Draco was taken aback. Of course, he should have expected this, but in that very moment he could only register his lack of one.

“I don’t have it,” he sighed. “Someone took it, in the battle.” He gestured vaguely upward. Bill’s eyes narrowed. 

“Times like these, I wish I actually had veritaserum,” he heard the older man mutter. Fleur shot him a look. “Fine. We’ll ask the others,” Bill sighed. With that, the two made their way upstairs. He heard the distinct click of a lock, sighing. Draco took in the room around him. It was surprisingly spacious, yes, but well furnished, too. It was warmer than he was used to, and far more comforting. This place was not built for the war.

He slumped against the wall, suddenly registering his exhaustion. Draco’s jaw unhinged into a wide yawn as he scrubbed his face, ears popping from the recent apparition. He propped himself up, making his way to a nearby couch. All things considered, he should have been wide awake with adrenaline. But in truth, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Laying himself out on the comfortable sofa, he felt himself sink into the too-soft cushions. Not his preferred environment for sleep, even without the gaggle of potential enemies going about their days above him. Even without the death of Dobby hanging like a shadow over his head. Had he been the reason for the house elf’s untimely demise? He found himself wishing for more time with the little thing, time enough to apologise for his horrendous behaviour as a child. He supposed there was no use in wishing.

With time, he felt his eyelids grow heavy as the night. Draco’s last thoughts as he drifted to sleep were of his parents, who had sacrificed so much for him. He hoped they were safe. He hoped they were alive.