Chapter 4
Draco has never been one for wine. He could appreciate it to a certain level, but never the same way as his father. Not that Lucius ever allowed himself to sway too deeply into the temptation of alcohol, at least, not until very later in life when everything seemed so much bleaker than it could ever be. No, Draco could watch in awe as his father explained to him patiently about the process of the wine itself. It was one of the few things that Lucius never pressured him in. Wine was more than a pass-time for his father. It was a part of his life.
Lucius would recall fondly of how he’d always been fond of the art of wine. He wasn’t as fond of Hogwarts not only because of Dumbledore, but the fact was that it was so isolated. He almost always hurried home to a vineyard, to quickly check in and see the state of his beloved craft. Despite his regality, he wasn’t afraid of his clothes becoming stained or his hair that he treasured so much to be splashed with crushed grapes. He could’ve been more focused on that itself if not for Narcissa becoming more proactive one day and courting him. Despite the traditions that Lucius would hold dear, he was touched nonetheless when the paramour of his heart gifted him an entire winery to propose to him.
There were many things about the Malfoy family that the family of three held secret from all prying eyes that looked onto them expecting for a fault to be found, always waiting for a time to behest their traitorous past to their advantage. Weakness was placed in kindness, and pride was the core of their defences.
Lucius led Narcissa through the vineyard, gratefully placing a hand on the small of her back as she smiled hearing him speak. Draco followed not far behind, feeling no sense of alienation from his parents in the moment, still able to hear his father’s rambling. They hadn’t visited any places like this as a family in his time, after he’d left for Hogwarts, it seemed the awkward rift between him and his father had completely soured to veiled distaste. His mother constantly kept the peace, but he and his father were both stubborn and unable to reflect many truths to their emotions.
It was nice. Yes, it was nice to experience how it used to be. Perhaps ignorance was truly bliss, pushing away the knowledge of how everything was simply bubbling underneath them to ruin them completely. Draco felt that he should be more anxious of it, more panicked. But the entirety of his days in this time were spent thinking. And all of it tired him. And as foolish of decision as it was, his mother’s outstretched hand for him to follow them washed away any rational thought, only the temptation of this time keeping him sane.
His father seemed to continue on endlessly about the state of the vineyard, talking about things Draco couldn’t quite catch up to understanding anymore. In his younger years, his father had been freeing about discussing his passion, even somewhat hoping that he’d take it as his own. But the look in his father’s eye when he encouraged him to look over the vineyards they’d owned wasn’t of pressured expectation, but rather the softest mirth that Draco could have ever seen in his father’s eyes.
His mother always said he had his father’s eyes. And each time he looked into the mirror after his father’s descent into blind worship, he felt that they no longer belonged to him. Like the eyes he’d seen when his father had been proud of him were no longer existing. As if his very own existence in a reflection was a mirage—a complete fake.
He still felt that way, his mouth tight into a neutral smile as he realized he could no longer understand his father’s words as he spoke. The weight of time was the monster of its becoming, the tick of the clock becoming a personified Cronos coming down for the judgement of the never-ending twist of the darkened unknown. But he wanted to run. He wanted to keep running even if the tendrils of grass underneath him seemed to awaken with a hunger to consume him, as if every shadow behind every corner was now a monster wrought of his mistakes. He was paranoid in every sense, touch of ghosts layering over his shoulders just tempting him, scaring him into looking back to the cliff he’d inevitably be thrown back to.
But he ran. He outstretched his hand, touching the warmth of his mother’s manicured fingers, holding onto her like he’d be lost once again to the demons, to the reality of what he really was. It was warm; to see his mother smile back to him as she placed his hand to be closer to hers. He hung his head, enjoying the incomparable silence that loomed over them. If this was warmth, comparing it to the drab cell, comparing it to his life, he felt that even if he were to burn himself to feel it, he’d be satisfied.
It was a long path, but the vines were a sight to see. They would be harvested soon when the grapes have hanged long enough for the flavours to ripen. His eyes surveyed over the colour of the grapes, feeling the heat of the sun. It was enjoyable to feel the heat of the sun against his skin, despite his mother’s insistence on a cap to keep the rays from his eyes. He smiled wryly, thinking of how the possible taste of the wine could be.
He followed them through the path, oddly finding no other tourists around. His mother smiled, leading him back to the main building as she moved him over to sit at an outdoor restaurant of sorts. He looked confused, taking his seat as his father disappeared somewhere. No one else stood around, but he waited patiently as his father came back with a cake in hand.
He blinked, almost unable to discern his surroundings when Lucius placed the cake in front of him. His expression remained unfeeling, but Draco could see the way his lips quirked up at his mother’s insistence for him to blow out the candles lit up on the cake. He opened his mouth, entirely surprised as he looked between his parents and the cake. He licked his lips, unable to help the way his eyes started to tear up.
“Happy birthday, dragon.” Narcissa’s voice was soft, almost like a trickle of water down to the crevices of his broken walls. It was a comfort, one that he wished to rain upon him for the rest of time.
Lucius nodded, motioning to the cake. “It’s your 10th.”
Draco moved to hug his mother, smiling through the skirt of her dress. He wished this were real. Regardless of how terrified he was of the possibility that he would find himself back in that cell, despite how he mourned the thought of leaving his mother behind in his time, he wished this was real. He wished his mother had gone back to him as well, that she would feel this incomparable warmth that he felt when he tightened his arms around her.
It was a smaller celebration than he used to have in his youth, but he could never have felt it to be more special. Especially when it hardly had become a celebration in his own time.
He truly, truly wished to believe that this was his reality now. That he held the chance to believe he could be different in this time.
Time in Surrey passed much too quickly for Draco’s liking. His birthday was a quiet trip, and he couldn’t have wished for more. His parents seemed to have only grown closer in the environment, both needing little reason to act within the bounds of their roles in their society. The fact that the local winery wasn’t too far away did well on Lucius’ mood, their outings there supplying their family of three smiles as Draco would wander off into the forest in the best of days, his parents more than happy with the time to themselves.
Narcissa would still have him follow her to outings, which more often than not just had him going along with whatever she wanted him to wear. He followed through it with little to no complaints regardless, adapting to the place quicker than he could realize.
Each time he wandered back to the forest, his eyes traced back to around him. It was a bad idea, entirely so, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of that smaller Potter expectantly asking him if he’d come back had him running back to the forest whenever the time ran too slowly, and his eyes followed the trail to the trees for longer than he could stand.
It was odd, even odder when he waited patiently, his eyes shooting up when he would hear something rustling around. A sigh passed through his lips, collapsing back on the heap of grass underneath him as most of the sun was covered by the shrub of greenery from the large trees. He felt ridiculous when he came back, but he felt worse when he’d simply stare off to the forest.
The thought of that small Potter stumbling back into the forest, running back and waiting patiently like an abandoned dog stubbornly believing its caretaker would return had him feeling too guilty not to return. It was entirely ridiculous. Really, Potter being sad that his presence didn’t appear? He’s thought of many things in his incarceration, but none could be ridiculous as that thought.
But the sight of that Potter, licking his lips awkwardly as he struggled to speak almost mirrored the way the younger Potter shifted, just looking at him as if he were magic itself. He didn’t have many days left to spend in Surrey, and a part of him couldn’t bear to leave that youth expectantly waiting for him to return. He would find him in Hogwarts, by all odds regardless, but by then…
By then… Draco didn’t even know. Perhaps Potter would look to him with that same disgust once again. Perhaps he’d see to him as an evil incarnate and they’d be at odds again.
He dropped his head back down, willing all thought to leave him. Thinking was draining. Entirely draining. He sighed, closing his eyes, and accepting the mushy, soft comfort of the grass as it tickled his ear. The sun dribbled its rays sparingly through the leaves, resting gently on his eyes.
“Hello?”
It was muffled, but Draco was entirely awake at one word. His eyes shot up, blinking lazily as green—unbearably green—eyes stared back right at him. He saw Potter smile, glasses askew as he still wore the sweater he’d given him. Draco sat up quickly, nearly hitting the boy.
He blinked, almost unable to believe his eyes. He knew what was to come if he came to the forest, but the shot of surprise to his chest was still difficult to get rid of. Potter’s smile weakened at the lack of a response, his form kneeled closely to where Draco had been resting his eyes moments ago. His hands played with the fabric of his sleeves, still smiling wryly.
“Hello.”
Potter’s eyes lit up, his form still far too skinny for a boy his age even as it was hidden under his baggy clothes and Draco’s sweater. It hung off loosely his shoulders, his hair curling softly over the collar when he’d shuffled closer, almost chasing after the response.
“I didn’t think… you’d…” Draco started, shutting up quickly. This wasn’t his Potter. Merlin, it was so odd to refer to Potter that way in any sense even if it were to simply differentiate him to… himself. He couldn’t think of Potter ever wanting to see him, voluntarily. Or him, wanting to see Potter, for that matter.
“I had a bit of trouble going out.” Potter said awkwardly. He turned to Draco, presenting the sweater he donned. “I, I made sure your sweater was fine.”
Draco blinked. He laughed, “It’s yours.”
Potter shook his head, looking forlorn at the sweater hanging off him. “No, it’s… it’s still yours.”
“I gave it to you.” Draco smiled, his hair softly tussled as he leaned his head down to fix the sweater to fit better on the younger. It was akin to caring for one of his juniors when he needed to. He was never especially caring even as the younger Slytherins looked onto him with a doubtless curiosity, but neither was he especially cruel to children. He found that he couldn’t quite help himself from the thought that treating Potter that way when he was like this wasn’t so bad.
“It’s nice.” Potter said. He smiled, treating it like it was the finest silk. “Thank you.”
Draco turned his head, looking over Potter. It wasn’t as obvious to how skinny the boy was with how his clothes were sized. It really was only until he’d been able to touch the boy that he’d actually realized how small he was. “Your clothes are too big.”
Potter looked abashed at the observation, curling into himself as he attempted to fold the hem of his pants to fit better on his small form. “They’re my cousin’s… Dudley.” he said, abashed. “I’m not his size.”
Draco found that name familiar, but he ignored the thought, looking over Potter more closely. He frowned imperceptibly, keeping his space. He avoided pushing through another question to it, watching as the light in the boy’s eyes seemed to flicker past just speaking of it. “How have you been?”
Potter smiled, fidgeting. “I didn’t have another outburst. But I, I tried to do magic.” He rubbed at his palms, pulling at his fingers. “I didn’t have a wand, though. And it didn’t really work. I just messed up my pillow, it was disastrous.”
“Magic is a difficult endeavour.” Draco supplied, “You’ll learn. When you get to a school for it.”
“There’s a school for magic?” Potter’s interest was clearly piqued, his rubbing stopped as his palms set upon the grass, curiously looking to Draco. “Are there dragons as well?”
“In the northern area, I believe. But you would have to request for the assistance of someone who cares for them to even touch one.” Draco laughed, “There’s a school for magic. Hogwarts. You’ll be sorted into a house when you get there.”
“What is a house for?”
Draco paused. Previously, he would’ve described it to be a status in itself. But he could hardly call himself honourable now even if he were back in this time before all the stain on his name and his house. He sighed, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t quite know, myself.”
“What kind of house would there be?” Potter still continued on to ask, much too curious now, as if he’d opened an entirely new world. And perhaps, in a sense, he had.
“There’s four.” Draco’s voice drawled, hesitating. “You’re sorted into it, so you can’t choose. It’s based upon who you are as a person. They judge the very characteristics that hold you together.”
Potter seemed to be more downcast than Draco at those words. He shifted in place, tucking his hair behind his ear. “That’s scary. It will just… know?”
Draco tilted his head, smiling at that. Yes, perhaps a talking hat sitting atop your head deciding how the entirety of the Wizarding academia sees you at the ripe age of ten was a rather terrifying thought in itself. Thinking of it that way, he couldn’t bring himself to bring much positivity to the concept. Being a Slytherin was a status to him—it defined him. He was of pureblood, of betterment to his peers. One of greatness, and one that was tried and shamed to the bottomless depths of what he had stood for.
“It won’t be scary.” Draco smiled, leaning back on his palm as he moved his hair away from his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be placed in a good house. One where you’ll be adored; praised, even.” He avoided placing any of the snide venom he’d have for the Potter in his time into that description.
Potter looked surprised, carefully smiling into the comfort of the collar of his sweater. “I would like that. But being placed in a good house if it’s based on who I am... I don’t know.”
Draco blinked, “Why so?”
Potter uncomfortably shifted, the smile falling as he struggled with his words once more. “I don’t know.” he said, “What house would you be in?”
“One within my family’s honour, I’d guess.” He knew. “But I don’t know. I can only really hope. It’s difficult to find my place in… all of it.” That, he really didn’t know. His place in the world was skewed. He didn’t even know if he fit in the gears of this time at all, or he’d simply come as a broken hinge that would only serve to bring a shoddy job of keeping together the people living beside him.
The boy next to him remained silent, almost as if he were contemplating his words. He sighed, stupidly staring at the grass beneath him. He’d return to his family’s estate and his father would be back to his job and his beliefs. And he’d have to find himself sorted into the house that held certain expectations for him that never ended well for him. The society around him expected him to be an heir worthy of the conniving nature of the Malfoys and the set bias would see him to be a manipulative bastard that followed the dark lord.
“It’s scary.” Potter said, “It’s cramping.”
He moved to sit closer to Draco, “I don’t know my place either. I, I want to be more. I want my… I want my family too,” Potter stumbled, “Y’know, like… like that. I want to honour them, but I don’t know what my place is. Maybe they knew about how being a wizard could be too.”
Draco saw the way a blank way Potter’s eyes started to darken with, but he found that his throat couldn’t muster any words of comfort.
“But you told me I was a wizard.” Potter fiddled with his sleeves, “I, I think I want that. I want that place. I don’t really know what it is, but I want it.”
“People want a lot of things.” Draco said, no thinking placed in his words. His tone was level, almost far off.
Potter smiled, shuffling, and coming back to Draco’s side closely with a stick in hand. “And wizards can do a lot of what they want, right? Magic, it’s… magic.” Potter laughed, pointing the lifeless stick as if it were a real wand. “I want to make what I want come true. I want a chance.”
Draco watched as Potter attempted to move the plants with the crooked stick in hand. “Me too.” His eyes carefully observed, “I want that too.”
Potter smiled, “I want to study magic. I, can you tell me about it?”
“Hogwarts?”
“Yes, that place. And... magic. I want to know about it.” Potter eagerly turned his full attention to Draco, as if he knew everything. He placed the stick down, bringing his knees to his chest.
Draco pursed his lips, hiding away his eyes from Potter. It was unnerving to be stared at that way. It was almost undeserving. Especially with how Potter knew nothing about the reality of what would happen. Draco wasn’t a fool to the treatment he’d given Potter and his friends from the moment they’d crossed.
“It’s a castle.” Draco gently started, grimacing. “You’ll get a letter of admittance—every young wizard at an eligible age is given one. And the school term starts around… September. But you’ll have to get your essentials before you get there, it’s a boarding school.”
“Eligible age? Could I get one? How do they possibly get all those letters out? Do Wizards use mail?”
Draco traced over the boy’s features, unable to discern any way to see the youth to be any older than eight at most. Still, he knew that Potter was only a month younger than him. “You’ll get one. They send it through owls. Once you turn eleven, they send them out.”
Potter was buzzing with wonder, “You’ll be there as well?”
Draco tilted his head. “Perhaps.” he said, “But don’t expect me. You’ll find some good friends there.”
“Can’t we be friends?”
Draco blinked. The death eater Malfoy and the Boy Who Lived? Friends? The mere thought had Draco laughing, his features relaxed into his laugh as he leaned down to his bent knee. His eyes studied the way Potter’s face turned indignant at his response, a sense of what he could finally recognize in Potter’s eyes flitting through those greens. And oh, when had petty anger become such enveloping flames?
It made Draco’s smile turn to the smug grin he’d don in Potter’s presence, the tug of his lips almost second nature. “I’m afraid I can’t decide that, lest you tire of my presence earlier than you’d expect to find.”
Potter turned away, curling into himself. There was a sense of shame to the way Potter carried himself, but the way he tightened his fists showed the repentant irritation he held. His fingers tampered with the blades of grass under his fingertips, frowning. Draco’s eyes followed even if Potter refused to look at him, mentally debating to himself as to how he’d ever found Potter so… indefinitely irritable when the first time he’d ever met him, he’d looked no different to how he looked now. He looked so… young. So undeniably small.
“Why?”
“Why, what?” Draco repeated.
“Why can’t… we be friends?”
“Time is fickle.” Draco said, “And I cannot decide the fates that bind together what comes.”
“You’re a really odd bloke.” Potter muttered, nose scrunching. “You’re not any older than me, but you sound so old.”
Draco laughs at that, genuine. “Maybe. If you find me in Hogwarts, maybe.” But we will never be friends, Potter.
Draco could admit that he’d grown a softer tone to this younger Potter. His reasons for his dislike to Potter were always petty, and he couldn’t apply those childish reasons anymore when he’d seen Potter run to him, out of breath after setting his mother free of what could’ve been an eternal incarceration in a pitiless cell. He felt disgusted when Potter had spoken for them, it was shameful. He could barely look at him. Even now, he could say that if he were to accompany Potter once again, he knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to look at him.
But this Potter was different. It was… a contradiction. He could no longer bring upon petty reasons such as jealousy and animosity. He was too tired; wizened. He couldn’t feel something so close to malice to a Potter this young—a child so small and thin his clothes all dwarfed him. Not even Draco’s thinner form in this time helped to make Potter any more filled out in his sweater. All the same, he couldn’t bring upon hatred and shame that belonged to Potter onto the youth before him.
“What? Hide and seek?”
“I don’t play childish games.” Potter laughed at that, more willing to meet Draco’s eyes. Draco stood, “I need to get going. I’m going back home soon.”
“You’re leaving?” Potter asked, voice blank.
“I’m going home.”
Potter blinked, returning to a solemn silence much too incomprehensible for his age. “Okay.” his voice dried, “I’ll find you. We’ll be friends, right?”
“Maybe.” Never.
Draco hesitantly leans back down, holding Potter’s gaunt cheek, attempting to imitate his mother’s ministrations to comforting him when he was younger. It came out stiff, completely unnatural under Draco’s blood-soaked fingertips, but he lowered his guards, his weight. He allowed all of it to leave his shoulders for a moment, ruffling Potter’s hair.
“Don’t look for too long.” Draco’s hands felt the soft curls, longer than he could remember it to be. “Get your hair cut before you go to Hogwarts, you won’t have many chances to go outside throughout the year.”
Potter nodded, almost melting in surprise as he leaned towards the simple gesture. It was heart-breaking to see a child like this, but the knowledge of the future had Draco too wary of coming close. Potter was akin to a spark of cinder, one to be cared for in the hearth of a home, but one Draco knew he’d inevitably have die out and burn him with it if he got too close. Seeing his eyes made him remember the blankness of how they looked closed, how they looked dead.
Draco left blankly, exchanging no other words even as Potter looked more reluctant to let him leave again.
Soon after returning home, Lucius returned to work. The tension between father and son had become alleviated somewhat, but Draco couldn’t get past years of his rocky relationship with his father. Fear still weighed under his fingers whenever his father watched him, his focus rekindled to avoid the mistakes that would define him.
In comparison, Draco found himself more anxious without his mother’s presence. The thoughts and shadows returned more frequently without her. It only grew worse with the impending admission to Hogwarts. He supported his mother’s endeavour for more travels, accompanying her to other counties in Muggle Britain. She was eager to show him everything, never giving away too much of what she knew.
It expanded his closet exponentially, but he relented regardless. His closet from before always remained to be rather monotonous, and Blaise and Pansy’s enthusiastic need to use him a bag carrier on any occasion they could drag him out to accompany them had him despise having to expand it any more than he needed to. His mother never accompanied him to buy clothes this way, giving in to only being able to make sure his clothes were of quality.
Now, his mother was happier than he could remember her to be. And to Draco, it mattered more than anything. He enjoyed travelling, but he knew his mother avoided leaving selective with an almost anxious view of the thought of going too far away. Lucius would accompany them at times with their discovered wanderlust, allowing a slow change to their home. He would not come along to every trip, but he made sure to send letters on the ones that lingered on for longer than the usual.
The year passed. And Draco had never known of time to be so bittersweet, but the mellow passage of time with his family made every day go by so fast. Memories still haunted him, but once he was able to convince his mother it would still be safe to travel outside of the country, it opened a different world for him. One where the unknown no longer contained eyes shaping themselves to the looming shade, where the unknown turned simply into… something he didn’t need to fear.
His mother didn’t expect anything out of him, and her nature turned much more freeing with all their trips. He particularly enjoyed France, albeit feeling a distant pain in his head each time he became more used to speaking the language. His mother seemed to be surprised by his fluency, but she never dared to praise him any further than a few smiles.
She understood the effect that her sister had on her son, regardless of how the insanity in her eyes had increased to a point that she couldn’t recognize her smile anymore, Bella was an influence in Draco’s childhood that followed him to her incarceration. Draco was distraught without Bella’s visits, tantrums had become more frequent without her presence and Narcissa could see how much Bella truly impacted her son with years following of his far-off look in the holidays that Bella had visited him often for before.
Draco didn’t hold the same pedestal for his aunt after the war and everything that had transpired. There was a pang of grief that came when he’d known of her death. It was inevitable, but it didn’t prolong for long. A part of him still felt affection for his aunt. Even when she’d been at her highest point of insanity, the aunt he’d loved and remembered seemed to gleam through the dense fog of her hysterical mind. Her quips, her smirk, her patience remained despite the blind worship and crazed idolization she held for the Dark Lord. When she’d taught him occlumency, he’d began a point where he couldn’t tell reality from memory, unable to stomach his situation and what actually led to him having to learn occlumency. He couldn’t appreciate it, but it was like the youth within him preened under Bellatrix’s subtle praise.
Regardless, he was able to relax in the time coming for what could be the start of the end. Each time he was reminded, he sought to hold his mother’s hand tighter, busying himself with their travels.
Every time he looked into the mirror, he still couldn’t stand the sight of himself. It was uncanny to how he could remember it, but the dead look in his eyes compared to the gentle youth prominent on his features made him punch his mirror once. It was as if he were looking at his younger self as a separate entity, an innocence that he’d failed. Like a child he’d made a promise to, only he couldn’t escape with flowery words or appeasements, stuck within his body like a shackle of guilt.
He vowed to himself to change his appearance as soon as he could. He changed his eating habits, and although his taste buds weren’t as used to the taste of the food, he’d become more accustomed to as he grew older, he placed mind over body, and put himself through more active activities. He’d quit quidditch long enough, and he didn’t plan to return to it when the cause of his worries was still out there. So, to place an alternative, he asked his mother about muggle sports. It took some trial and error, but after finding that his mind seemed to blank if he was focused enough, it became almost addictive. And Draco was nothing if not ambitious and reluctant of giving up.
His hair grew longer over the year. His body still held onto the baby fat and the cherubic qualities befitting a boy his age, but it was a small jump from what he looked like in his time. He was obviously more active, and although he remained pale, it was a healthier hue. He was taller than he was when he was the same age. His hair fringed over his eyes because of how long he’d avoided cutting it. Admittedly, he really just didn’t want to see his eyes. They still looked dead to him, so blank and lifeless he scared himself when he saw his reflection at times.
Although all his activities in the past year had gotten him closer to his parents, he’d practically disengaged himself from upper society. He wasn’t as good of friends with the friends he had before in this time, and neither Blaise nor Pansy would particularly be aware of his lack of a presence in their lives for the time being. He didn’t prance around with the same arrogance, even becoming slightly apathetic in a way that one could find mature, but he still couldn’t show up to Hogwarts with his hair the way it was.
Decidedly, he cut it off, but he avoided touching the gel he’d once used overbearingly. It made him look young. Though he didn’t know if that could really stand for anything as simply looking at himself made him recount to himself just how young he really was.
His mother postponed any prior trips they may have planned, insisting to pause their travels for the time being. Narcissa had suggested that he’d be closer to the children his age, but he’d shut it down enough times in the past year that his mother didn’t insist beyond her suggestion. Each day that passed made him anxious, unable to stomach the memories that would haunt him with every day ticked off his calendar. The nightmares and the paranoia returned in a worse state, and he spent most of his time swimming or reading to keep his mind off of everything. Often, he’d return to his room in the night exhausted enough that sleep would be somewhat dreamless at the very least. The fateful day came one morning, his yawn apparent as his mother smothered him in a hug as soon as he came down for breakfast.
His father’s rules in the dining room were still rigid, but he allowed some things to be overlooked, even smiling to Draco when he’d laughed at his mother’s excitement, handing him his letter. It was familiar, uniform to how he remembered his letter to be all those years ago. But as he looked up from the parchment to meet his parents’ eyes, his hand tightened over the paper. When he’d opened it years ago, it was alone. His father who’d gone for work earlier in the day now seated in the dining room with a curve to his lips, his mother who’d been calmer now lovingly congratulated him.
With the letter came the reminder of how he’d meet Potter once again. He allowed that alarm to be swallowed down with his breakfast. His voice was gentle, asking to purchase his essentials earlier than his mother had planned to. He knew that if he didn’t hasten it, he would have to meet Potter again.
His wand was the same, and everything else was the same as much as he could remember it to be. It was déjà vu in the very literal sense of it, with his mother following him through the streets of Diagon Alley. He was more familiar to every turn, managing to finish quicker than expected. His mother didn’t question his eagerness, happy enough that he wouldn’t be too far away when the term would start.
Even with that interaction avoided, Draco felt antsy beyond belief, unable to comfort himself despite the assurance that he won’t need to think about anything related to Potter or everything that led him astray until a month more later. He observed his mother’s calm bearings, keen on the stack of books situated on the table as she busied herself.
Somehow, he managed to convince Narcissa to lift their pause on their trips. Surprisingly enough, she had little to oppose to it, only giving the exception that they won’t travel too far away. France was a start, Draco had become quite fond of the country, and for the first time since the anticipation for his admittance letter, Draco felt indomitably unshackled from the shadows crawling at the depths of his conscience. He hadn’t seen anything since his days in incarceration, but the fear of what lurked in every corner remained like an impalpable spectre.
Draco dreaded the inevitability. But the throes of his life had become nothing but a pushing atonement towards a pit of fear that he knew existed like shackles beneath his feet, one that he could never be allowed to avoid. It was akin to walking a straight path to a destination his feet could only reluctantly carry him too. A guillotine worn down by all the sins that came before him and had come to rest on his neck.
And the very sound of the executioner’s call was the sound of the train’s gears as he stepped into the platform, the clothes Narcissa had chosen for him that had previously become a better source of comfort suddenly felt awkward and cramped draped over his small body. Everything came back to this moment, the busying chatter of students and their guardians accompanying them before sending them to a year of wizardry.
Bidding his parents goodbye, he held his luggage and nearly felt himself jump out of his skin at the sight of Potter passing through the platform, clearly disoriented, and confused with his situation. Draco remained calm outwardly, but if his parents noticed the way he’d quickened his steps, at most they’ll just assume of his excitement. He looked back surreptitiously at the small Potter, once again adorned in the sweater he’d given him. He avoided his eyes from straying for too long, rushing inside the train to put away his luggage and settling in an empty compartment.
He breathed out a sigh of relief, sagging unceremoniously against the plush seating of the train, head starting to burn with a headache. He pressed down on the bridge of his nose, finding his breath. Having to swim for the last year to keep up an active schedule had him find it faster, an ache in his shoulder that he’d gotten through a bad throw of a ball a week ago burned through him as he breathed.
His eyes glanced to the door, pursing his lips. No one else was in his compartment and he’d avoided Crabbe and Goyle just fast enough that he wouldn’t need to accompany them through the entire train ride. His hand moved down to the wand he kept hidden, fiddling with it under his robes. He’d still received the same wand as before—hawthorn wood with the core of unicorn hair. He scoffed inwardly, knowing the fate of it would be a stolen wand for Potter’s use.
It was ridiculous enough that he allowed Potter to get away with it. But…
Draco closed his eyes, fighting against the swirl of his nightmares. Potter, dead, in Hagrid’s arms. The boy who lived, his Potter that stood up to him and snarked at him just as stupidly, fearlessly as a Gryffindor would, with the tongue of a Slytherin—dead. Draco could feel his heart thrum against his chest, his every fear blanching in his throat as his mother’s scraped hand held him close by his arm, his father’s firm grip on his shoulder almost bruising. His glare was no longer as detached nor as intimidating as Draco could recall. He simply looked between his father’s pursed lips before his eyes zoned back on Potter—Potter…
“Dragon,” He could hear his mother’s voice firmly say, tightening her grip on his arm as he panicked more. Hagrid’s expression showed complete, utter grief and his heart dropped. He pulled on his mother’s hold, but she refused to back down, holding him close as if to comfort him. He reached for his wand—his mother’s wand, as the sight of Voldemort’s victory laid out before him sickened him.
“Potter!” Draco yelled, he didn’t know if he was deluding himself, but he needed to get to him. He left his mother’s comfort, left his father’s acceptance, he ran through a battlefield of certain death, his heart beating at the sight of Potter’s body stumbling—alive! He threw his wand, hoping Potter’s had enough of quidditch to catch a wand for himself.
“Excuse me?” Draco blinked, his chest hurt. He looked up, needing to blink a few times to remember where he was as a round-faced boy shifted in place in the doorway of his compartment. “Have… have you seen a... a toad here…?”
Draco winced, recognizing Longbottom. He breathed, keeping to himself as he put away his wand in its holster, standing up. He stood taller than Longbottom, his hand running through his hair seemed to catch the meek boy’s attention, his back immediately ramrod straight with a sudden course of fear through his eyes that could be seen from a mile away. Draco sighed, taking a step that made the other take a step back in return. Draco ignored the offense, peeking out the compartment when Longbottom had given him enough space to do so, though the boy looked like he was about ready to bolt, really.
“You’ve lost a toad?” Draco asked.
“Ye... Yes—” Longbottom seemed to even tremble, backing up.
Draco hummed, “You can ask whichever staff is available later to help you if you are unable to find it. Either way, they will be doing a sweep to take everyone’s belongings to their common rooms, so they’ll find it eventually if you report it as lost.”
He returned back to his compartment, raising a brow at Longbottom’s slack-shock expression, clearly not expecting any help from him. He allowed himself to look annoyed and haughty, snapping the boy back to his thoughts as he lowered his head and thanked him softly before closing the door and running off.
Draco sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. He wished he could go for a swim, but there weren’t many facilities in the school for that activity. He’d have to huddle himself in some books to break his brain enough to stop thinking. He groaned, laying down disgracefully on his seat, looking over the passing environment as the train continued on its destination.
He didn’t particularly like the snivelling Longbottom boy, but he knew the bare details of what his aunt had done to his parents. He wasn’t in line with his aunt’s views or objectives, but he could provide sliver of kindness. Even if he didn’t quite adore doing it.
The train came to a stop indicating their arrival and Draco was thankful for it. Being alone with his thoughts was a recipe for a disaster and although he was terrified of what was to come, it was better than overthinking all of it to insanity. He sighed, fixing his school robes, and making sure he looked acceptable before leaving. It followed the same, at least as much as he could remember it to be without Crabbe and Goyle. He managed to step into a boat that had Blaise with him, Pansy in another boat separate. Blaise was careful with his questioning of Draco’s whereabouts in the last year, gently neutral as they talked.
Hagrid gathered all of them, having found Longbottom’s toad before he knocked on the large doors to the entrance of Hogwarts. And here it was. McGonagall’s stern expression, but Draco felt sick to his stomach seeing her. He kept it in, mastered within himself to look as apathetic as possible as McGonagall greeted all of them. Draco avoided Potter like the plague, sneering inwardly.
Potter had foregone the sweater he’d given him, changed snugly into his school robes. Oddly enough, it still seemed to be bigger on him, almost purposely made so. Draco frowned at the thought, focusing himself on remaining out of sight as Blaise stood beside him, not minding his silence as the boy’s curiosity had him engrossed with McGonagall’s words. McGonagall left them with a few parting words, telling them to stay still for the time being.
Draco could hear the children around him crowd over themselves to mutter about what houses they would end up in, excited murmurs turning over a new headache for Draco. Blaise nudged at his side, “McGonagall’s rather scary.”
Draco glanced at Blaise, feeling conflicted. He could tell the youth knew of how the sorting would go, but the pressure to be in the ‘correct’ house always was a smudge on one’s psyche when it came down to it. God forbid any of the Slytherin-aspiring purebloods end up being sorted into Gryffindor, or worse, Hufflepuff.
Draco huffed, “She’s stern. Not within any bounds of terrible.”
Blaise wasn’t quite paying attention to his words. Draco sighed, “You’ll do fine.” he placed a hand on Blaise’s back, close to his neck. It was a natural gesture for him, one that he and Blaise had once made use of in his time when they could tell the other was in distress. It was near enough to their pulse point that they would appreciate the vulnerability of it, a friendship bred under hardship.
Blaise visibly stiffened, but he breathed. “You sound ridiculous, Draco.”
Draco rolled his eyes, “It would be more ridiculously funny if I had to see you wearing a yellow tie every day.”
“You’re hexing me.” Blaise punched his arm, only gently with the worries tense in his nerves dissipating somewhat. Draco followed him inside, apathetic to the sight of the halls that had all the others in a sense of wonder. He raised a brow, his steps faltering before becoming steady again when he saw Pansy talking eagerly to Granger. Now, that was a sight of wonder.
He sat down, waiting for his sorting the same as everyone else. Silence shushed over when the hat was brought out, singing that damned song. After the applause came the sorting, students were called one by one, and Malfoy felt his own anxiety grow. Would his house change? He could barely understand his own mind anymore, would the hat even be able to comprehend him? Perhaps he’d be found out.
Draco could admit he didn’t like Hogwarts after everything, but the unknown was far more terrifying. Any change given could possibly just throw him back into incarceration and humiliation. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. But to be put away somewhere that was almost a second home to him—it was akin to a painful rejection.
His name was called. He breathed, acting poised as he followed down to sit and allow the hat to touch his head. By all account, it would be able to decide as soon as it touched a hair on him but—
“Hmmmm.” The old hat hummed in his brain, “How perplexing! Very perplexing indeed!”
Draco felt terror, his hand clutching at his robe. He’d perfected the art of a stoic disposition for years, even with the drumming of his chest, he remained outwardly unaffected, merely a few seconds passing with no real suspicion towards his sorting to the others.
“Oh? Time had gobbled you up quite far, hasn’t it? Let’s see, let’s see…” The old hat seemed to dance in his head, amused at the workings of his head. “You’ve been sorted before, but is it truly the truth to you?”
Draco allowed a scrunch of his nose in response, “I believe so. You’d done it yourself.”
The old hat cackled like an old man that had far too many cigarettes in his life, “That is true. But wouldn’t you think of the other options? You’re not very brave… you’ve got a lot of fears swirling around here in your head, boy. You’re fiercely loyal to people in your life… but you’re far too cunning for Hufflepuff… tsk, tsk…”
Murmurs started to come up after the first two minutes of contemplation from the Sorting Hat, and Draco felt himself grow antsy. “You’re full of wit, and the strive you have for knowledge is almost bloodthirsty. How would you favour being in Ravenclaw?”
Draco almost slipped into a shock, “What.”
“Tsss... you don’t like it? Ah... contemplating with a teenager is really too difficult. So tense…”
“Why the bloody hell would you think I’d fit in Ravenclaw? You placed me in Slytherin.”
“…”
“What.” Draco could feel a hot-headed urge to throw the hat off his head and spell a Fiendfyre against it. Hell, he’ll even find some spell to make it speak louder so he can hear it crumble into ashes underneath him.
“Such bad language... this is why we don’t allow re-sorts with kids your age… always so mean to a poor, lonely old hat!”
“I’m going to feed you to a bloody chicken.”
“…” The old hat frowned visibly, looking pitiful as it sagged. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you know how hard it is to maintain this perfect leather!? Chickens—merlin! Beaks are so cruel!”
“Sort me already, you twat. I’ll pour gasoline over your bloody leather if I so please.”
“I just thought you’d have more fun.” The hat really was too dramatic for Draco’s taste. He was thankful it barely required any time to sort him the last time, else he’d have actually gotten annoyed at that age. “You do have the wit for Ravenclaw… but your ambition is flawed. Your mind is really too muddled…”
Draco could tell the hat had more to say, and he nearly sighed in annoyance, ready to wait it out and ignore the cacophony of the children around him as the minutes passed. If he became a hat stall, he hoped his father wouldn’t press for him to ask of what house he was being deliberated on. Merlin, Draco hated all of this.
“SLYTHERIN.”
Draco felt himself grow rigid in surprise, the hall remained silent just long enough for Draco to curse at the hat for being so obtuse before McGonagall took the hat off of him and smiled his way. He moved to the Slytherin’s table, being greeted by the older years. He ignored any sidelong glances and anyone who wanted to ask about the hat. The sorting ceremony went on normally, Blaise followed to sit beside him, asking of the hat without any real malice behind his words. Draco cared little for it not even bothering to pay much attention to the rest of it.
Pansy looked somewhat solemn when she found her spot beside him. She remained uncharacteristically silent, her eyes straying to the Gryffindor table with a glare, her arms across her chest. Draco raised a brow at that, following her gaze to Granger conversing with Longbottom.
Draco didn’t have the energy to delve into the reason, waiting until the time for the feast came. He portioned his food, perfectly used to everything whereas the others grabbed at the sweets. Not having any parents around allowed them to gorge on whatever they pleased, and the older Slytherins only smiled reminiscing at the sight with no plans to stop them. Draco took a few sweets himself, but he still mourned being unable to eat his mother’s baking.
The food allowed for them all to be looser with one another, talking between their food. Draco had his fill, not wishing to overeat. Though he’d been able to rid himself of the instinct to vomit, his first response to overeating still remained. He paced himself, not too worried since he’d done his best to help his eating, especially when Narcissa had noticed his suffering. The stomach of his younger self couldn’t hold the same portion that he used to require, despite how little it was.
Eventually Dumbledore had them all sing the school song before making them follow the prefects to their common rooms. Draco was far too used to the layout of the castle, finding no wonder to the halls. He could even say he probably knew even more than the prefect this year. He followed with no words to add, listening to Blaise talk about his summer. Eventually they arrived at the dungeons, and Draco couldn’t have been more relieved to fall into his own bed. He didn’t feel as overly stuffed as his roommates, shuffling to the desk as they all groaned into their beds, practically passing out into a food coma.
Draco wrote to his mother, informing her of his first day. His eyes glanced to his owl, allowing Niklaus to land over his elbow before handing the letter. He cooed softly, bidding him well before it flew off into the night. He leaned back against the chair, running a hand through his silver-blond locks and sagging tiredly. He looked into the night sky, thoughts crawling back into his head.
He sighed, closing the window. He really wished there was somewhere he could swim to get it all out of his head, but he had no plans of getting himself in trouble so quickly. He laid on his bed, groaning. He hoped for a dreamless sleep for the night.