Phase Zero
Before any of his actual work against the Dark Lord, Draco had to make sure his family wouldn't suffer for his decision. He had come across this solution before he even knew there was a problem, during his research on warding for the cabinets. The irony was not lost on Draco that his research to regain his family's favour with The Dark Lord, would be the first step in Draco defying him.
But this was old magic, built on blood and pain, and it might not work. Draco had faith, because he liked the think The Manor liked him, but it was a major risk.
Kneeling in the grass, in the forests around The Manor, Draco spoke to his friend for the first time in a long while.
"Hello, I've missed you." The magic here wasn't anything like the magic in the Forbidden Forest, it was older, but more playful, and much more familiar. A branch of a large hawthorn tree bent down and twined itself into his hair, leaves waving over his face in hello. Draco let himself smile, giving the tree leave to do whatever it pleased.
"I'm sorry for not visiting sooner, I was rather busy." A leaf smacked him in the face, as old and familiar magic began to settle in his chest. It was unlike anything Draco had ever experienced, like coming home and plunging himself into the ocean all at once. He felt soothed and electrified, like he was at the end of a lightning curse. It was almost painful, the way the magic of Malfoy Manor made itself a home in Draco's chest, but he wouldn't have given it up for anything at all. There was a sense of ownership, like he belonged to The Manor just as it belonged to him.
Running his own magic over the forest, he could feel the difference the war had wrought on his home. He didn't dare prod closer to the house, for fear of his father or The Dark Lord noticing, but it stood out in his senses like a blinding light.
But light wasn't the right word for it, it was more like a violent black hole, drawing in the magic of the grounds ravenously. A shudder wracked through his frame, he felt The Manor's wounds like his own, his magic aching in sympathy for what the forest was enduring.
He pursed his lips, closing his eyes and letting his magic fully connect to the forest, "Would you like me to help?"
Immediately he was almost bowled over with the force of the magic's enthusiasm.
"Oi oi, I get it, but you won't like it." He pulled his bag to his side, letting it fall open, and took out his simple, silver potions knife.
There was an immediate shove from the magic, nearly knocking the knife out of his hand, “It’s the only way, you know that.” He placated, laying the knife in the grass and setting up the rest of the materials.
He got up, pouring a mixture of salt and raven eggshells in a perfect circle before resettling in the dead centre of it. He waited for the magic to stop inspecting him, before picking the knife up in his left hand. He held it poised over his right elbow, the knowledge of what he was about to do more than enough to give him pause.
But he was a Malfoy. He could do a bit of blood magic.
Pressing the knife into his arm, the sharp edge easily cut through his shirt sleeve, revealing pale flesh, which it sunk into just as easily.
“In my ring, in my home.” He started in the old tongue, the strange syllables pouring out of his mouth easily.
“I declare a threat.” The knife was halfway down his arm now, and grey was already starting to encroach on his vision. Blood welled, more than it should, like it was being syphoned into the air.
“Blood of your son-” Wind began to whip around him, lifting his hair and stinging his eyes, “Spilt in war.”
“I invoke protection,” He finally reached his wrist, hardly pausing before switching hands and starting on his left arm, “May my blood be unharmed.”
The final stretch now, blood was everywhere, swirling in the wind, soaking into the ground, in his nose, and in his eyes, “Though I may not live to see it.”
Draco dropped the knife, letting himself bleed dry. For the spell to work, you needed an entire person’s worth. He grabbed blindly for the blood replenishing potions he had brought, taking two of them at once, his hands slippery and wet. The blood came with more force, and he could feel every bit of his magic throwing itself into the spell, everything he had pointing towards his family's only hope. He could feel himself unspooling, like a thread rolled down a hill, unveiling the innermost parts of him.
He felt it as his faux-humanity was stripped away, his eyes and teeth and hands all breaking free of the bonds he had them under, as his energy dedicated itself to The Manor and altering its wards. Father and The Dark Lord would certainly feel it, though only father would know what it meant. Father would know it was Draco that did it, and if he decided to tell, it would all be in the open.
No matter, Draco didn't plan to stay long.
He was well and truly feeling it now, so he took another two doses of the potion, but the grey around his eyes and the fizzing in his head didn't stop. He was nearly tipping over now, only his will and The Forest keeping him on his knees, and just as Draco thinks ‘This is it, I’m going to die.’ The blood stopped flowing and the magic abated, howling wind dying down to a gentle breeze.
He needed to go, to find someplace with a proper potion setup to heal. Thankfully, Draco had been Lord Black since he was 13, in accordance with The Old Ways, from back when muggles were hunting them down and inheritance was no guaranteed thing. Draco had every rule memorised, and his mother was tired of her family homes and bank accounts going unused, so Lord Draco Black was born. His name was still only Malfoy on Ministry paperwork, but anyone who mattered knew that wasn’t what counted. The ministry was a joke at worst, and a means to an end at best. As if he would ever put his true name down so easily.
So Draco stood, picking up his discarded wand, and ignoring the protests of the forest, he apparated to the house most likely to be empty.
It was a near thing, and he had never come so close to splinching himself, but Draco stood in the foyer of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He let himself slump against a wall, before a familiar, if shrill, voice spoke, “Draco, darling?”
He looked up, “Great Aunt Walburga, how nice to see you.” He gasped, nausea coming over him in waves.
“Oh, darling you're hurt!” She gasped, before leaning forward with urgency, “Listen, you must-”
“Who, are you?” A new voice spoke, and Draco froze. This house was supposed to be empty merlin-damnit.
He turned slowly, coming face to face with his cousin, “Hello, Sirius.” He said, making sure to keep his voice non-hostile.
“What are you doing in my house?” Sirius said, making no such effort.
Draco blinked, surely he wasn't serious. “What do you mean, your house?”
Wrong question. His cousin's face twisted in rage, and he raised his wand, "Stupify!"
Draco threw himself out of the way, throwing out a quick depulso, aiming to toss his cousin back and buy time, but he was so weak from the blood loss it barely connected, and only sent Sirius stumbling. He scrambled to find a way out, but his head wouldn't stop spinning.
His breath was coming in sharp pants, a piercing pain shooting through his chest. He attempted to run, but he tripped over a-
He didn't even want to know what that was, some kind of leg? An umbrella stand?
He fell back, hitting his side hard on the floor. Sirius advanced, but when they locked eyes, he seemed to pause, his wand dipping slightly. Draco, not one to waste an opening, mustered all of his magical energy, drawing on the very magic of the house itself, and apperated away. He didn't care where he went, just that he got away.
He landed hard again on his side, and this time he heard something crack. But looking up at the familiar trees of The Malfoy Forest, he couldn't even mind. He pushed himself up, expecting to have to walk all the way to town, though he wasn't sure he could in this state, when he saw a small cottage.
He'd never seen it before, which is strange because Draco has spent years exploring the forest. It was small, obviously meant to be inconspicuous, with its red brick walls and tall bushes hiding it from view.
It must have been hidden, Draco thought. Now that he had officially declared war the grounds would offer sanctuary to any blood Malfoy running from harm. He stumbled into the cottage, its door swinging open as soon as he came within range. Smearing blood onto the door frame, he practically fell into the small kitchen, where the herbs he could use for healing potions would most likely be, gratified when a cabinet swung open to reveal more blood replenishers and pain killers.
Collapsing into the nearest chair, he allowed himself to feel the pride of his victory. By spilling enough Malfoy blood to kill, and invoking the grounds, he made sure his mother and father couldn't be harmed. From now on, any who sought to harm the Lord and Lady of the house would be marked an enemy, and the magic would turn against them. If The Dark Lord so much as gave his parents a paper cut, he would be thrown out.
Draco suspected The Dark Lord needed The Manor, more than anyone could suspect.
But for now, he simply spat the hair that had flown into his mouth out, and got to work brewing. The familiar scents of rosemary, ginseng, and licorice mixed in his nose, and Draco lost himself to the familiar motions.
Now the real work can begin.