Chapter 1
It started the moment he had taken the dark mark. Standing in his family’s manor, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder, almost more in an effort to keep him in place instead of trying to reassure him. His mother was watching him, her face pale in the sea of black. She was trying to hide the tears swimming in her eyes as she watched the procedure unfold. Tears of pride, she would say if any of the Death Eaters were to question her. But there was no pride, only grief and fear.
Draco had felt none of it. No pride, no grief, no fear, no joy. He had been numb and empty. Like a shell as he watched the procedure unfold.
The Dark Lord stepping closer, a cruel leer on his face. Sickly grey fingers grasping his arm, long nails cutting into his flesh. The tip of Voldemort’s wand pressed into his skin, allowing the magic to form the mark.
Black ink swirled under his skin, slowly taking shape. A skull, a writhing snake.
He was familiar with it, had seen it on his father’s arm throughout his childhood.
His eyes were fixed on the symbol that stood out against his pale skin. It felt less like a mark of honour than it did like the branding of cattle. Of a food soldier. A slave. He belonged to the Dark Lord now.
No longer a Slytherin, no longer a Hogwarts student. No longer the heir of the Malfoy family. No longer just another wizard, pure blooded or not.
Then he felt it. A slight scratch in his throat, an itch in his lungs. Almost as if he had taken one of the ancient tomes out of his family’s library and opened it, just to be greeted by a thick layer of dust that awakened the urge to cough.
It was gone before he could think about it.
The itch returned. He raised his free hand to his chest without meaning to, putting the flat palm of his hand right above his lungs. Above where he had felt the strange sensation once again.
Across the tower, Dumbledore crocked his head ever so slightly. The old wizard’s keen eyes were flickering to his chest with a knowing look and a sad smile pulled on his lips.
“A poetic tragedy, isn’t it?” The headmaster said, his voice so gentle that Draco could barely stomach it. He was holding the other man at wandpoint, he was about to mutter the most unforgivable curse. And yet Dumbledore looked at him without judgement. Instead there was something akin to compassion and sympathy in his gaze.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Draco hissed back, shifting slightly as he tried to calm his rapid breathing and his racing heartbeat.
“Your ailment. A rare disease, barely studied in the Western hemisphere. I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always a sensible child and your capability for love will surprise many. It will certainly surprise yourself.” The wizard ran a hand over his beard. “I wonder who she might be. Certainly a bright young lady. And someone who you think will never forgive the choices you made. Or were forced to make.”
Draco clenched his fingers around his wand.
“But I know she will, Draco. Because deep down you regret the path that led us here. You regret the role you were forced to play. And I know you would change it all, if you had the chance. And for that reason, she will forgive you one day.” The old man smiled. He smiled. As if he was fond of the prospect of Draco’s future. As if he was content with how everything would turn out. As if he wasn’t looking death in the face.
“I’m here to kill you.” He said through clenched teeth. His voice was cracking and he could feel his lips quiver. His grip around his wand was trembling.
“But you will not, Draco. Because you are made to love, not to kill.” Dumbledore soothed and for a moment - a brief moment - Draco considered asking what he was talking about. But before he could decide whether his next words would be an unforgivable curse or a question, the shrill, hissing laugh of his aunt disturbed the silence as the Death Eaters had reached the top of the Astronomy Tower.
He was numb to their words, numb to their demands. And when Snape finally raised his wand and spoke the words that had failed to slip from his lips, Dumbledore’s eyes locked with Draco’s and for a moment the older wizard smiled. As if he was contempt that he had been right. As if he was contempt by the knowledge that Draco had been unable to take a life, even if it meant risking that of his mother and his own.
Then the headmaster disappeared, falling right in front of their eyes. Draco stared at the empty air where he had stood just moments before. The numbness that had lingered in his heart spread through his body. First through his chest, then his limbs and finally through his mind. He stared and stared and stared, unhearing to the taunting victory cries of his aunt. Stared and stared until someone took his arm to drag him somewhere. As he stumbled down the steps of the winding ladder, he felt an itch replace some of the numbness. A cough bubbled up in his throat and he held his sleeve before his mouth as it escaped him.
A hint of copper filled his tongue and when he touched his lips, there was a smear of red on his fingers. Blood.
Quickly, he wiped it off, thankful for his black suit and the darkness of night.
And yet when he looked up, he met Snape’s gaze. And in his dark eyes, he saw the same flicker of understanding that he had found in Dumbledore’s.
He didn’t cough up blood again. Not for a long while.
Every now and then he would feel that itch. That weird scratch in his lungs and throat. Every now and then there would be a sudden heaviness to his breathing.
They sometimes reminded him of the panic attacks he used to have while he had still attended Hogwarts, on a mission to kill Dumbledore. One life for the lives of his family. He had told himself whenever the world seemed to come crushing down on him, but it had rarely worked.
But he didn’t get panic attacks anymore. Whenever he felt as if he was trapped in his own skin, busting at the seams but with no hope of freedom, he was quick to wipe his mind. Occlumency had long since become more than just a mechanism to protect his thoughts from unwanted intruders. It had become a drug. A dangerous drug and which’s lure he had never even tried to resist.
It was easy to shut his mind. To his behind a stony facade and allow himself to drift off. Shutting off compassion and anything else he could feel, which wasn’t much these days. Horror, disgust, despair. Hatred.
It allowed him to retreat, to drift far away. To visit the endless nothingness that allowed him to forget his surroundings.
He functioned like a charmed doll. Walking around without a thought, nodding at the right moments and shaking his head at others. He spoke of loyalties he didn’t mean. Made assurances that rang hollow. Whispered promises to his mother he didn’t want to keep.
‘Stay safe’
I will.
‘Promise me to flee when you have the chance’
Of course.
‘Don’t sacrifice yourself for your father and I.’
Yes, mother.
‘I love you’
That, he never gave an answer to. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his mother’s frail form, hugging her gently while he pretended he didn’t notice her trembling with stifled sobs.
He wasn’t capable of love anymore. And he didn’t want to be capable of any other emotions.
And yet… and yet he resisted the allure of wiping his mind and drifting away. Instead his gaze was fixed on Granger as her pained cries and tortured screams rang in his ears. She was writhing on the floor of the drawing room, pinned into place by his aunt. Bellatrix was kneeling on top of her, using a cursed knife to carve into her pale skin. Blood was running over her arm and even if he hadn’t been staring, he still would’ve known what his aunt was carving into Granger’s flesh.
Mudblood.
The slur almost made him fall to his knees.
His legs wobbled, but he was kept in place. Because all throughout her torture, through tears and pain and anguish, Granger’s warm eyes never strayed from his.
She was staring into his soul.
For a moment he allowed himself to think that maybe, maybe she was holding onto his presence. Maybe imploring him to save her because she still thought that there might be something good inside of him. Something that hadn’t touched by the Dark Lord and his poisonous ideals and tainted magic.
She was wrong, of course. Whatever little good he had ever been had been burnt away the moment he had been branded a Death Eater.
No, she was staring at him with hatred. Burning hatred and disgust.
He deserved it. He deserved so much worse.
But he didn’t deserve the escape that came with occlumeny. He could have tuned out her screams. He could’ve allowed his eyes to lose all focus. He could’ve looked away.
But he didn’t. He stood, unmoving. Allowing her tortured cries to tear whatever shrivelled, blackened heart of his remained. Allowed her screams to shatter his soul because that was the least he could do.
No, the least he dared to do.
And yet, for a brief moment, his fingers clenched around his wand.
His arm twitched and the words he had been unable to speak were resting on the tip of his tongue.
He raised his wand.
Pointed it at his aunt.
Whispered the first syllable.
The words he hadn’t been able to speak on that blasted tower.
And was interrupted by the doors barging open.
That night, long after Potter and his friends had escaped, long after punishments had been handed out, he had curled up in the corner of his bedroom. His back pressed against the wall, legs pulled against his chest and face hidden behind his knees. Hands buried and tugging on his hair he bit into the fabric of his trousers to stifle his sobs.
They made it impossible or him to breathe, closing up his throat and sealing his airway.
He grasped at his throat as his sobs turned into desperate gasps, clawing at his neck like he had back in sixth year. Only now, it wasn’t panic that stole his breath.
The itch was back. Stronger than before and his lungs were constricting desperately.
He began to cough. Coughed and coughed and coughed, heaving as something lodged itself in his throat. For a moment he thought he would suffocate and the whispers of death were far more soothing than he had expected.
A last, violent cough dislodged the foreign body and he spat it out, falling onto his back as he was breathing heavily. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, his head was spinning and his body trembling. Tears were rolling down his taunt cheeks and blood tickled from his lips.
When he turned his head, he spotted a singular flower petal.
More particular, a rose petal.
One single, white rose petal. Stained with blood.
The itching got worse, but he paid it no mind. There was so much death and suffering, how could he think about a slight tightness of breath ever now and then? Not when there was so much more at stake.
The lives of his family. The lives thousands of innocents. The lives of those at Hogwarts.
Hogwarts.
The castle that still stood proud and tall throughout the battle. The castle that, despite being reduced in part to nothing but crumbling ruins, persevered. It stood and remained standing, as he followed his mother, her cold hands wrapped tightly around his.
He was numb as he stumbled behind her, feet tripping over rubble and debris. Sometimes limbs of those who had given their lives to protect the school or died trying to destroy it. He dared to glance back, gaze flickering past his harried looking father to sea of Death Eaters all standing behind their leader.
A leader they had left behind. Who would undoubtedly hunt them down and kill them as slowly as he possibly could for daring to turn their backs on him. He would win, how could he not?
Something stirred inside of him.
He should have stayed. Stayed side by side with those who had once sat next to him in class. Raised his wand in their defence. Stand up to the ideals and prejudices of Voldemort and the poison that slipped from his thin, scarred mouth.
Better to die standing for something good, than waiting for death while hiding from evil like a coward.
Craven.
Potter had saved him. Again.
And he hadn’t even had the decency to offer his life in return. As little as it was worth these days.
Potter. The Weasel. Granger.
The itch was back. His chest seemed to constrict and he cleared his throat to no avail. The more he tried to fight the urge to cough, the stronger the sensation became. He hid his mouth behind the sleeve of his shirt, wiping the blood from his lips before his parents could notice.
In their haste to flee, neither Lucius nor Narcissa noticed the three rose petals fluttering through the air. Splattered in red.
Against all odds, Potter persevered. Draco didn’t know what exactly had happened. Potter was dead and then he wasn’t. The last horcrux had been destroyed and Voldemort defeated once and for all. The Second Wizarding war had been won and now Aurora were trying to track down the last of Voldemort’s loyal followers to drag them to Azkaban or let the Dementors feast on their essence.
They came to the Malfoy Manor within days. They had expected them.
It didn’t stop his mother from crying and pleading with the officials in Draco’s name and to start hysterically sobbing when he outright told them what his orders had been and that he had followed them.
To him, didn’t matter that he had never killed anybody with his own hands. He had still caused death, pain and destruction.
He would accept his punishment and spend the rest of his days in a dark cell like he deserved. Or maybe he would be thrown to the dementors. He didn’t care much.
Behind the carefully crafted walls of occlumency, he didn’t notice much. Time had no meaning anymore and he wasn’t entirely sure where they kept him during the time before his trial. It could have been his room in the manor, but it could also have been a cell. His consciousness rarely stirred these days.
He slept when his body couldn’t withstand the exhaustion anymore, woke up screaming until his voice was hoarse, coughed blood into the sleeve of whatever he was wearing and chewed the food offered to him without tasting anything.
When his mind finally stirred, it was due to a flash. And then another.
Slowly, he blinked and looked around.
Another flash.
Cameras.
Suddenly, the muted, muffled sounds broke through his mental barrier and he was assaulted by the shrill voices of curious journalists throwing question after question at him.
‘Are you sorry?’
‘Mr. Malfoy, are yous still loyal to the Dark Lord?’
‘Do you regret your actions?’
‘Mr. Malfoy, how many have you killed?’
‘Will you plead guilty?’
‘Is it true that you conspired to kill Albus Dumbledore?’
‘When did you take the mark?’
“Come along, dear.” His mother whispered quietly and squeezed his hand. He hadn’t even noticed her.
“Yes, mother.” His own voice broke as he tried to speak. It sounded scratchy, rough from disuse. When was the last time he had spoken?
Her grip on his hand tightened and although wobbly, the smile she gifted him was real.
He belatedly realised that they were in the ministry. Walking across green tiles, entering an elevator. A man leading them who he recognised as their family lawyer.
“Remember, Mr. Malfoy. You will remain silent throughout the trial. We have very promising witnesses who want to speak on your behalf and support you in this. Let them do the convincing.” Their lawyer said, as if they had this conversation before.
And maybe they had, during the endless stream of time where he had let his consciousness slip away.
“Yes.” He said again.
More green tiles, long hallways, a large chamber. He had been in one of these before. But never had he been the one to await judgement.
His mother gave him a quick kiss to his cheek, whispering words of affection. Then she took her seat on one of the many benches meant for relatives, victims… or spectators.
The glassy calm settled over his mind again. He paid little attention to the court proceedings. The list of his crimes were long and those he was being accused of even longer. The parchment didn’t seem to end as they listen one after another. Each darker than the former.
He only flinched once. When they accused him of playing part in the torturing of the Granger girl.
They were right. He had been there. He hadn’t stopped his aunt. He was guilty. Of all of it.
“…Harry Potter.”
The name made him look up. His eyes snapped to the lanky figure entering the room. Potter looked better than he had during the war. Most people probably did.
A low murmur went through the ranks of journalists and other spectators.
“Is it correct that you are here to testify on Mr. Malfoy’s behalf, Mr. Potter?” The judge asked, doubt and awe in his voice at once.
“Yes.” There was a stubborn tilt to Potter’s chin.
Draco almost laughed.
Perhaps he had finally gone mad. Because there was no way that Potter, noble, noble Potter, hero of the Wizarding world and darling of the media, would speak out on his behalf and what… plead for mercy in his name?
But he did.
With a strong, determined voice, Potter countered the accusations made against Draco. He refuted all of them, painting the entire sordid ordeal as if Draco had been a victim trying to survive and be good while under the thumb of pure evil. Painted him as a scared young man wanting to do everything to keep his family safe.
He finished his grand speech by offering his memories in case anybody doubted his credibility, but who would dare to doubt Harry Potter?
“Thank you, Mr. Potter. For your… vivid and elaborate statement. You’ve certainly presented things in a new light and we need to consider the events that have transpired carefully. This case isn’t as black and white as we had previously thought.” The judge inclined his head and Potter stepped out of the room, but not without smiling - fucking smiling - at Draco.
And it wasn’t even a sneer.
It was a tight but encouraging smile.
He almost dissolved into hysterical laughter.
Only to stop breathing entirely when another person entered the chamber, ready to make her statement.
Hermione Granger. Standing tall despite her small frame, her spine straight and a fierce determination in her eyes that made Draco almost smile as he remembered their first years at school, when life had been so much simpler. He wished he could go back and change things. Even if it only meant saving a single life, he would gladly go back and risk his own.
“Miss Granger, you also intend on speaking on Mr. Malfoy’s behalf.” The judge began and Granger nodded, straightening her spine even more.
Draco briefly wondered how he hadn’t been able to hear her vertebra crack yet.
“I am.” She took a deep breath. “Draco Malfoy has repeatedly shown his loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix and Harry Potter throughout the war. He refused to identify us to Voldemort, he risked his own life to protect us while we were on our quest to destroy the horcruxes and he tried to protect me from Bellatrix Lestrange as she was torturing me in the Malfoy estate.” Her voice quivered slightly. “He raised his wand in an effort to protect me, but before he could do so we were interrupted and I was rescued by Harry and Ron instead. Again and again he proved that his loyalty to Voldemort was nothing but a means to protect his family, as misguided as it was. He has…”
Her voice faded into the background as she continued to list all the supposedly noble deeds he had done. How she managed to continue talking, he didn’t know. He had done very few things that could be called noble.
If any at all.
Lying about not recognising Potter was perhaps the only decent thing he had ever done. But it still hadn’t been noble.
But as he watched Granger argue in his favour, convincing those present one by one of her opinion, elaborating the tale established by Potter how Draco was a tragic victim of unfortunate circumstances with deliberate hand gestures and meaningful looks, he almost believed that he was that person.
That poor, brave, scared young man who would do everything to protect the ones he loved. But who was also willing to sacrifice himself if it meant protecting the Wizarding world from evil.
By the time her speech ended, half of those who were present were either dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs or throwing pitying looks in Draco’s direction. One woman even gave him a motherly look and he heard a journalist whisper under his breath how it would be a shame if the ministry punished Draco after all he had done to protect Potter.
It was over quickly after that. They would decide on a verdict the next day after taking the statements of Potter and Granger into consideration and until then, he would return home. His mother was at his side again, their lawyer leading the way.
Lights flashed, questions were shouted, someone patted him on the shoulder.
They passed Granger and Potter on the way out. Both were talking quietly, their faces were serious and worried. When Granger looked up and met his eyes….
She smiled. Sincerely.
And Draco promptly couldn’t breathe. He made it to the Floo, falling to his knees as soon as they reappeared in their home. He was coughing, clawing at his throat while his mother was calling his name. Her hands fluttered uselessly over his curled form and as her pleas for help rose in urgency.
He missed the day of the verdict.
Instead of sitting in the ministry, he was laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
An owl had come earlier, carrying a sealed letter.
Not guilty. All charges against him had been dropped. No repercussions. No Azkaban, no probation, he didn’t even have to give up his wand.
The papers had spun their own narrative. Instead of following the Dark Lord’s orders like a desperate puppy, they turned him into a despairing hero. Torn between the want to protect his family and the urge to stand up for what is right. The fact that he hadn’t been able to identify Potter in the manor was spun into an act of heroic defiance against evil.
Redemption had never tasted more disgustingly sweet.
He simply considered himself lucky that he had been able to avoid the cameras. Even if it was due to less than fortunate circumstances.
His mother was on the other side of the room, having a hushed conversation with the healer.
“I don’t understand, I’ve never heard of such an illness.”
“It’s very rare in Great Britain, Lady Malfoy.” The healer nodded. “But since the Wizarding world has become more and more connected, new ailments and illnesses have begun to spread throughout the world. There have only been ten recorded cases of Hanahaki disease in all of Britain. Your son is the first in three years.”
“How long until he will recover?”
The healer hesitated and his mother inhaled sharply.
“I’m very sorry, Lady Malfoy. This disease is very rare but always deadly if not treated early enough. Our options are limited as it is an ailment of his magic core rather than his body. He loves someone, deeply. And those feelings are not returned.”
“And the flower petals?”
“As the disease progresses, more and more flowers will grow in his lungs. He’s still coughing petals, but soon they will be full blossoms and in a matter of weeks there will be leaves. Then stems and finally…”
“Finally what?”
“He will suffocate on the garden growing in his lungs. Killed by the flowers meant for someone else.”
A moment of silence.
“There has to be an antidote.”
“There is, but he refuses to take it. For now, all I can give him is a potion that lessens the symptoms and slowly the illness. With luck, he has another year. And maybe, with time, he will take the antidote. Even at the cost that comes with it.”