Draco
Friday 21 May
The silence between them was filled with what should have been.
Comfortable chatter about the year that had passed. Enquiries of dinner and what was for dessert - though it was always his favourite on his first night home. Their plans for the summer. Where Father was taking them abroad - Monaco or Lake Como? Or was it to be a surprise this year?
But nothing about Draco's return home that night was normal. Happy smiles and chatter were replaced by heavy silence, punctuated only by his mother's awkward efforts to make conversation. But the the arrest of his father one week ago was too magnanimous to simply pretend everything was normal.
Like always his mother helped him unpack his trunk. Were it any other journey a House Elf would have done this chore. But when coming home from Hogwarts Draco had always unpacked his own trunk, tidying up and discarding things as he went, and his mother always helped him. It was their tradition every year, and they normally talked themselves hoarse, Draco's return to his family bringing out a rather loquacious side of himself that was usually repressed at school.
As they worked she kept trying to make conversation with him, but this time Draco remained silent. In the quick glances he stole he could see the hurt that lingered in her eyes. He'd never been like this to her. For as long as he could remember they had been close. He supposed that might be unusual, but it came with the territory of being an only child. A spoiled only child, he admitted. Even last year when it all started his mother had remained his closest ally, his trusted confidant amidst a whirlwind of strange and uncertain changes.
But that closeness was gone now, replaced by the cold spectre of what the future would bring, and the knowledge of the great blow their family had sustained.
There was little to be gained from resentment, but nevertheless it stewed deep inside of him, a toxic waste that would surely be the undoing of them both. She had ripped him from school with no warning, he'd not even been able to say goodbye to his friends. Instead he'd been summoned to Snape's office after dinner where he got the news, his trunk already packed and his mother waiting at the school gates.
'I'm sure we can both agree she is not well positioned to enter the school grounds,' Snape told him, his tone flecked with what might have been sympathy. 'I will accompany you.'
'And I don't get a say in any of this?' he questioned tersely, glaring at his packed trunk.
'You do not.'
His mother had let this happen to them. She was...what was the word?...complicit. Complicit in everything that had happened. Just this week she had admitted that to the Ministry. She knew what was happening to Potter and did nothing to stop it...claimed she was powerless, acting only under duress. Draco knew better than to believe her.
His mother was complicit, and his father was gone, the cornerstone of their family arrested like a common crook. And though Draco publicly raged and held on to the notion that it was all a big mistake and the Ministry would be sorry, he knew his father deserved it. He deserved to be arrested. He deserved to be in Azkaban.
And, in the kind of thought he would never speak out loud - Draco was glad.
The week that followed the Third Task was one of mass confusion, rumours circulating in abundance each more wild than the next. Potter's story of Voldemort murdering Diggory was met with skepticism and dubiousness. Not even Draco believed a word of it, wholly convinced that Potter or Diggory had made some fatal mistake in the final leg of the Third Task and that was the cause of all the fuss - until he returned home.
Last summer when he stepped over the threshold of Malfoy Manor he could feel it instantly, like a divine sixth sense. His family home was no longer theirs. Instead it was the scene of dark magic, the kind he could still feel in the air as if the malice had stained the walls. And within minutes he knew who had been there before him. Potter, and Him.
They did not refer to him as Lord Voldemort. He was the Dark Lord, or simply Him.
At this Draco shuddered, feeling sick to his stomach all over again. He knew the room Potter had been kept in. Father had shown him last summer, and it sickened him, the thought that the intention had been to keep Potter, that he would have shared his home with a literal prisoner of war. Merlin. Their rooms shared a common wall. They would have been right next door to one another.
The blood was still there. When he returned home that first summer it was yet to be cleaned up, the room kept exactly as it was left like a macabre memento. On the carpet, the walls, droplets on the bedding, back of the couch…how did it get everywhere? What had happened in this room to spill so much blood? He knew then Potter had been seen with a bandage on his arm. Was that what happened here?
On his first night home Father had told him everything, clarifying the rumours from the truth and answering any question Draco had dared to ask. But it was nearly a week before Father took out his great-grandfather's pensieve and showed him firsthand the memories. Quietly reluctant but outwardly eager Draco let the pensieve draw him and his father in, and together they watched as the memories formed themselves and played out before his very eyes.
They watched as Death Eaters in a graveyard taunted Potter, while ten feet away lay Diggory's corpse, his eyes open and staring - accusing. Then he watched as they practically dragged Potter down into the cellar and locked him in the pitch dark room alone. Glimpses of their return with the Dark Lord, flashes of the interrogation where Potter was backed up against the stone pillar, trying and failing to be defiant.
The memory changed to reveal Potter laying limp on the floor, moving only to flinch when a dark figure came towards him, and Draco had nearly been sick. Bile rose up from his stomach, inwardly horrified by what he was seeing.
'Get up,' said Lucius Malfoy in the memory.
The memory itself was fragmented, and perhaps that was a kindness for Draco didn't need nor want to see it in full. It came in glimpses and brief moments, Potter staggering to his feet, looking as good as an Inferi, his rough gasps for breath. His face was white and eyes bloodshot, hair sticking to his face and shirt damp with sweat. He could barely support his own weight.
It didn't seem real, and as the scene played out in glimpses and Draco's discomfort grew he told himself that it wasn't. Memories could be distorted and falsified, he knew that much...but what reason would his father have for showing him this if it wasn't real? But it seemed so extraordinary it couldn't have possibly happened. Not to someone he knew. Not to Potter, the one person at Hogwarts who was his natural enemy.
'I can't take any more,' Potter whispered, swaying on his feet. 'I'll do whatever you want. Please.'
The memory changed, and this time Potter was on his hands and knees, whole body shaking and clenching, making sharp gasps. The robed figure of Draco's father stood over him, wand pointed, ignoring his gasped pleas for relief, the bargaining and promises, the hoarse cries when the curse intensified.
Pacing in the background was another figure, twirling their wand around in their fingers as though waiting impatiently.
'Stop, please!' Potter cried hoarsely. He was writhing now, trying to get up, his body failing and sending him to the floor. He started screaming, stuttered and wretched, his face contorting and his muscles visibly seizing up.
This was real. It wasn't made up. It wasn't a fiction in a book. This had happened right here at Malfoy Manor.
Draco couldn't take it anymore. 'Father. I've seen enough,' he decided, his voice louder than he would have liked.
The only solid figure amongst the memories, his actual father, put his hand on his shoulder. 'I know it's difficult at first,' he said sympathetically. 'But this is an important process for a prisoner of war.'
'I understand well enough,' he said quickly, wanting it to be over.
'No, you do not. A prisoner must be broken for their own good. The longer he resists and defies, the longer the pain continues.'
Now Potter was clawing at himself, past the point of pleading and bargaining for relief. His screams were louder than ever. And Draco had to turn away, certain that if he didn't he would surely faint. His heart was racing harder than it ever has before, shaking so hard he might lose his footing, and he kept looking around as if expecting someone to save him from this, expecting his mother to wrench him out of the pensieve with a protest that he was far too young for such things.
And wasn't that twisted? Draco, desperate to be saved from witnessing this, while Potter had actually suffered it.
Potter's screams began to quieten, but it wasn't over. Taking him by the arm his father forced him to turn back. 'Observe, Draco,' he said firmly. 'This is important.'
Potter was still on the floor, eyes half open in a silent stare at at the ceiling, his body heaving though the curse was over. In the memory Lucius was looming over him, giving him a rough shake before pushing him over onto his side. With a raspy sound Potter drew a great breath and then finally stopped heaving. Behind him Carrow had drawn nearer, looking at him before impatiently resuming his pacing.
'This is when you cease the Cruciatus,' his father instructed, his tone as relaxed as the day he taught him to fly a broomstick. 'When they fall unconscious you must cease and provide aid. Fail to do this and the torture is entirely unproductive. And should you persist without allowing recovery you'll only damage the brain.'
It was at this moment Draco vomited.
The memories sped up now. Glimpses of Potter coming round and Carrow taking his turn, the entire cycle repeating himself - but blessedly it was over quickly, and soon Draco found himself standing back in his father's office, covered in his own sick and trembling like a scolded House Elf. He hid his face and cleaned himself up as he waited for the lecture, already sensing that the father who stood by his side was not the father he had once known.
To his relief the lecture didn't come, and instead his distress was met with the kind of comforting words that normally came from his mother. Reassurances that this kind of thing was not easy for anyone, let alone someone his age. That it didn't happen without reason. That there was always a purpose, and that on this occasion Potter had a part in it - he had a choice in the matter. He didn't have to be tortured. It was his choice to be defiant when he could have cooperated.
That Draco would never have to do something he didn't want to.
At first it all seemed like empty words, the entire thing leaving him ill and sleepless for days. But in time he had started to come round, for what was he to do about it? Mosey on down to the Ministry and tell the Auror Department that Potter wasn't mad as a hatter, that he had witnessed his torture and had evidence in the room right next to his own? That his father was the one who led the torture?
No. This was the path that Father was taking their family on, and Draco knew then that he needed to trust him, that he would prioritise the interests his wife and son. There was no way Draco would go against his family, not when he had no reason to mistrust or lack faith in them.
It was that summer he met with the Dark Lord for the first time. Dozens of Death Eaters came to their manor, including every single one that Potter had named. They congregated in the dining room, the Dark Lord taking his father's place at the head of the table while his father was relegated adjacent to him, still maintaining a high ranking place.
Draco had been invited - no, instructed to join them. And what could he do other than obey? Could he tell the Dark Lord that his mutilated face was so grotesque he could barely stand to look at him? That his inhuman red eyes were positively terrifying?
During the meeting he sat down the far end of the table alongside his mother, and at the time he remembered feeling so many things it was like taking a bludger every time his emotions changed. He was sick to his stomach at the sight of The Dark Lord. Scared and shocked at the meeting and events that began to play out. Relieved that his family were held in high enough regard that they had a say, they had influence...they were in control.
The Malfoy family remained true to what Draco had grown up knowing. They were trusted and respected by the Dark Lord. The other Death Eaters often looked to Lucius for guidance or approval. And that meant everything would be okay. There was nothing to worry about as long as they played their part, and that's what his father had told him, and it ran true the entire year that followed.
Play your part, and the people you love will be safe.
In doing so, Draco compartmentalised himself. Put away the part of him who knew the truth of what happened to Potter, the part that had been sick upon witnessing it, the part who knew it was wrong. He needed to forget this knowledge, abstain from these memories. In place of this came forward another part of himself, one who could ignore reality and ignore the truth. One who had a role to play and a family at stake.
Knowing these things made it easier to trust the process. He nodded enthusiastically when the Dark Lord addressed him personally and gave him a job to to. It was a simple enough task, one he couldn't screw up either - fuck with Potter's life as much as possible. Torment him. Turn people against him. Isolate him. Ruin him.
It would fulfil his duty and keep his family safe...it might even be fun.
So Draco played his part. The very first night back at Hogwarts he addressed dozens of his fellow housemates in the Common Room as though he was holding court, and within ten minutes Potter was public enemy number one to almost every Slytherin present. Following that it proved quite a straight forward task. With a few well placed comments to the right people rumours circulated - that Potter had spent the summer in a closed ward of St Mungos, that he and Dumbledore were in cahoots for power...that he had murdered Cedric himself in a jealous rage.
At the same time Draco stuck his nose up Umbridge's arse and rode on the coattails of her vendetta. Set fellow students onto Granger, chipped away at Weasley's insecurities until he too began to crumble, target otherwise reasonable people and turn their minds another way.
Breaking Potter wouldn't be achieved quickly - it would take months, and the Dark Lord was content for him to take his time. But everyone could see Potter unravelling before their very eyes. Numerous detentions with Umbridge seemed to prod him along, and his interview in the Quibbler had been a very short lived success. And he bore the consequences of Draco's efforts - kicked off the Quidditch team, detentions for brawling in corridors, Umbridge breathing down his neck and other students giving him a wary berth.
In the background something else was going on that Draco wasn't privy to. Potter and Snape were surely up to something during their numerous Remedial Potions lessons, but Draco didn't particularly care for the details of the Dark Lord's double agent. All that mattered was that everyone could see Potter falling apart, and Draco only needed to do was pull at the thread a little bit more.
The Inquisitorial Squad was tailing him almost constantly, though it still took longer than Draco liked to admit for them to figure out that the rumoured Dumbledore's Army was still in operation. But soon enough they narrowed it down, a coordinated effort from the Inquisitorial Squad putting pressure on multiple students until one, Marietta Edgecomb, finally cracked.
He had expected this to be it for Potter. That he be expelled or at least suspended, that he be sent back to live with the Muggles who he so publicly detested - and Draco's task would be complete. His family would remain in good standing, his father proud of him and the Dark Lord satisfied with his efforts. But of course he had forgotten to factor in Dumbledore, who naturally took the fall and let Potter get off scot free.
His father had written to him almost immediately, his short letter arriving with a care package of sweets and the promise of a new broomstick this summer for his efforts.
Do note that the Dark Lord has been kept abreast of your diligent efforts this year, in particular the unexpected success of dispelling Albus Dumbledore from the castle. Keep up your efforts with Potter in the knowledge that your contribution will be warmly acknowledged by the Dark Lord when you return home this summer.
So while Potter himself had escaped the full extent of consequences he didn't get away without punishment, for detentions with Umbridge and her blood quill were nothing to scoff at. Yet Draco knew it wouldn't be much longer. Cold stares and sneers across the classrooms continued, rumours of his instability accelerated, more people staring and whispering about him than ever before. An unprovoked attack in the bathroom two on one, undue attention from Umbridge...
Then without warning, Potter was gone.
McGonagall had made excuses. That Umbridge had suspended him for the duel with Draco and Theodore, but most people could put two and two together. In another letter (one that arrived with a magazine featuring the latest Nimbus and Firebolt models) Draco's father had confirmed it to him. Potter had finally cracked under the pressure, and McGonagall had sent him away to Grimmauld Place with the blood traitor Black.
The Dark Lord was pleased...that's all that mattered.
Though publicly he retained his smug attitude Draco ought to have truly relished watching Potter fall apart. He had after all humiliated him when he publicly rejected his handshake on their first night at Hogwarts, and he frequently spoke ill of his father and events Draco told himself were lies. But in truth that small, hidden part of him who knew the truth kept coming back up, surprising him when he least expected it, reminding him of what he had witnessed...reminding him that it was wrong.
He did not allow himself to think of that he had seen in his great-grandfather's penseive. There was no room for right and wrong. Not anymore.
Play your part, and the people you love will be safe.
When Potter returned to school for the final term Draco largely left him alone, quickly finding that he no longer rose to the baiting or antagonising the way he used to, and knowing he had fulfilled his obligation to the Dark Lord more than sufficiently he turned his attention to preparing for the OWL exams. But ringing in the back of his mind was Potter's warning, the snarled words at him in their duel in the bathroom -
'When I've put your father in Azkaban and Voldemort wants his pound of flesh, who do you think he'll take it from?'
Overnight it happened. Draco turned into bed after a long evening of study, and by the next morning everything was turned upside down. Theodore had torn open the curtains of his four poster bed with panicked shouts, Gregory and Vincent anxiously pacing the dormitory room behind him.
'My grandfather's been arrested!' Theodore shouted. 'Your dad too!'
Over the next few hours it all came out in the news, while Draco and his friend's frantic letters home went unanswered. They were all looking to Draco for answers, Draco who had stupidly bragged about what happened last summer, who naively believed it would never come back to bite him. Not him. Not his father.
Not the Malfoys.
But Potter had been right all along. His father had failed the side massively, arrested and under armed guard in St Mungos, carted off to Azkaban upon his discharge. And now the mantra he had repeated to himself all year was meaningless. It had all gone wrong. Playing their part was not enough anymore, not after a failure of such epic proportions that it saw dozens arrested and the Dark Lord's return exposed.
The authority and respect commanded by the Malfoy name was eroded, perhaps irrevocably - and it was a terrifying notion to confront. Without the respect of their name, what were they?
It took a few days, but eventually Draco and his mother were permitted to visit St Mungos, and for the first time all week he had felt a glimmer of hope. All they needed was to see Lucius and then everything would be alright, they would know what to do next.
While everyone else was watching the Quidditch final (Draco would have preferred to gouge out his own eyeballs) they made their way to St Mungos, going early Saturday morning before the corridors became busy. But their arrival and subsequent journey through the hospital corridors brought the first blows - first in the cold stares of the Aurors waiting for them, and secondly by his mother's request that they be permitted to disguise their appearance. For the first time being a Malfoy was an obvious disadvantage.
It was odd seeing his father in St Mungos. He looked as normal as he did on any other day, even clothed in his usual attire, and he seemed in such good health it was their good fortune he was still to be discharged to Azkaban. In fact, were it not for the armed guard of two Aurors in the room and three more in the corridor it would have been like any other day.
The three of them sat and enjoyed tea together, his parents talking leisurely as though nothing at all was amiss, while Draco found himself looking between them in astonishment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Dark Lord had been exposed and everyone knew. Lucius Malfoy had been arrested in the Ministry of Magic, running around with dozens of Death Eaters including those who he had broken out of Azkaban, the same ones who had been illegally harboured in their manor.
Draco and his mother needed answers. They needed information and a plan of what to do next - but there was nothing.
Not once during their visit did the subject arise, and any attempt on his part to raise it was quickly shot down. It took a little while for Draco to cotton on, to realise that it was part delusion around the true nature of their circumstances, and partly keeping his mother out of trouble with the Ministry. She too had been implicated in what happened to Potter, and so not a word could be said out of place, meaning their entire visit was a charade.
His father had only one piece of advice to impart, coming as they briefly embraced before he and his mother departed. 'Remember, you are Draco Malfoy. That name still means something.'
Draco just looked at his father in frustration, and he could not hold back the sting of accusation in his voice. 'Our name is nothing now.'
Before he could step away his father embraced him again, ignoring the impatient Auror who had already told them they could not. 'Your name will always mean something among our circles. And you know what will be expected of you.'
The Aurors literally pulled them apart, and the pat down Draco was given out in the corridor wasn't nearly worth the embrace, nor the pathetic advice his father had tried to impart. He didn't believe it anymore, not for one second - but that didn't mean he had forgotten how to carry himself. In many ways, the authority and respect of the Malfoy name came about not because it was earned, but because it was demanded.
'Get your filthy wand off me!' he had shouted, losing his patience with the Auror who was assessing him to make sure no illicit exchange had been made.
Shirking the Aurors away he had stormed off down the corridor, leaving his mother to catch up with him. It was mere hours later that he had exchanged similar words with Potter, and though he had remained equally defiant he knew already that he had lost. That his father was going to prison and he was wrenched away from Hogwarts was evidence of that.
Finally it seemed his mother had given up on trying to engage him in conversation. For perhaps the last twenty minutes she had sat quietly on the edge of his bed, a silent spectator watching him unpack, and then finally she could take it no more.
'If you don't want to eat downstairs I'll send Nimry up with dinner.'
Draco afforded her only a curt nod. She was right, he did not want to eat downstairs, though it was nothing against the dining room. Rather he did not want to spend another moment in her company.
In his peripheral vision he saw her get up from the bed, and she seemed smaller somehow. Her hand reached for him, but before she could make contact he had moved away. There was nothing he wanted from her, particularly not her pathetic efforts to make it up to him. Instead he was stacked his textbooks onto the bookshelf by his study desk, and having been thoroughly rejected she started for the door.
'You will be expected at breakfast tomorrow morning. It will be a family breakfast.'
Draco faltered. That was it...that was his only warning, for he knew what his mother meant. His Aunt Bella, the fanatical lunatic he'd yet to meet who has father had broken out of Azkaban. She'd be there.
He'd heard much about her, the majority things he wished he didn't need to know. That while she had murdered dozens of people she preferred torturing them to insanity instead. That while she enjoyed varied means the Cruciatus was her preferred method, that she would go on and on until her victim's brains were so addled they were no longer people. And he would meet her tomorrow morning.
Draco whirled around, another startling realisation hitting him. 'Will He be there?'
His mother held his gaze and nodded. 'Tomorrow evening,' she said softly. 'There is much to discuss before the Dark Lord gets here.'
Questions whirled about in his head, panicked thoughts of what was to happen next. What could the Dark Lord possibly want from them after Lucius had failed him so spectacularly?
The fact that he had been brought home early and was expected to meet with the Dark Lord told him much of what he needed to know. The Dark Lord would be back, taking his father's place at their family table. Except now someone else would occupy his right hand side while Draco and his mother would likely be relegated even further down the table, perhaps right to the very bottom. And what would be next, he feared? What would be required of Draco and his family now?
Whatever was happening it seemed his mother was not going to do anything to stop it.
'And I don't get a say in any of this? he questioned for the second time that night, a phrase he felt might well represent his future.
She started toward him, but upon feeling his rejection again she stopped short. Realising she finally had his captive attention she chose her words carefully. 'The people in our circles are loyal. They can be relied upon, I assure you.'
'And where did Father's loyalty get him?' he challenged. 'Am I to strive to follow in his footsteps?'
Finally she came forward, approaching him with reassurances. 'I understand your reluctance...that your faith has taken a blow. I promise you, in time when we have earned the Dark Lord's favour the respect for our family name will be restored. Draco,' she implored. 'Your father will rejoin us soon.'
'What do you mean, earn his favour?'
'The Dark Lord will see to your father's release from Azkaban,' she stated, looking him in the eye. 'But that won't happen until we have earned the respect our name demands.'
Draco merely looked at her in disbelief, and in that instant he knew Potter was right. His father's name was not his protector, but rather his undoing. The Dark Lord would come for his pound of flesh - and he would take it from him.
'Your Aunt Bella and I know what is required. Put your faith in your family, and we will take care of you.'
'Like you took care of Aunt Andromeda?' he blurted out, speaking a name that was forbidden in this house. 'And your cousin, Sirius?'
'They put their faith in the wrong side.' Her hand came to rest on his shoulder now, but unlike any other time it did not feel like the comforting touch of his mother. 'They put their faith in Albus Dumbledore and mudblood loving traitors. I know that you won't be so foolish as to repeat their mistakes.'
She knew what she was doing, that much he was now certain of. His mother was no naive fool, she was not innocently caught up in the whirlwind of the Dark Lord's return and the crimes that followed. Her husband was going to prison and their family name was in ruins, and yet she was carrying on, conspiring with her fugitive sister to serve the Dark Lord.
But what did that mean for Draco? If his mother no fool and in fact knew what she was doing, did that mean he could trust her? At the very least she wasn't blindly leading him down a path that would destroy them. Their path was clear. Despite whatever facade had protected them for the last fifteen years the Malfoys were loyal Death Eaters through and through...and that came with expectations.
The Dark Lord had been exposed and a war was coming. There would come a time when people had to pick sides, particularly those like Draco who were already on the precipice of this choice.
'What will I have to do?'
His mother lingered a moment, not answering his question. Instead she embraced him, and surely she could feel how he kept his body still, not willing to return the physical gesture. Nevertheless she held him a moment, pressing her lips to his cheek before stepping back.
'Tomorrow, my love. We will discuss it tomorrow with your Aunt Bella.'
Looking satisfied with what little progress she had made Narcissa departed now, closing the door behind herself and leaving Draco in the privacy of his bedroom. It felt like an hour he might have stood there in deep thought, but a short while later a gilded dinner try appeared in the sitting area, the aroma of his favourite dinner wafting over to him.
Disregarding the contents of his trunk which were strewn about everywhere Draco sank down onto the edge of his bed, trying to wrap his head around everything that was happening. A few hours ago he had been at Hogwarts, hiding out in the dormitory with his friends...friends who would no doubt be faced with the same question he was.
Where do your loyalties lie?
That was a question impossible to answer. Of course his loyalties lay with his family. Of course he could never turn away from them...but if that meant following them blindly? If that meant getting into something he could never get himself out of...what then?
There was a reason Andromeda's name was forbidden in this house, and a reason his parents had always enjoyed ridiculing the fate of Sirius Black. They had both gone the other way. Both turned against their family, breaking the bonds of loyalty and forever losing their family's love.
In contrast, a photograph of Regulus Black was proudly displayed in his mother's private sitting room. The cousin who had followed the rules, who had shown loyalty to his family and commitment to the Dark Lord. The cousin who was dead.
Neither path was a mistake Draco wanted to make. And yet Potter's warning lingered in the back of his mind, louder than anything else thus far.
Your father can't protect you and he knows it...You'll be cannon fodder.'
Cannon fodder. Abandoned to rot in Azkaban, just like his father was.
Whatever mess he found himself in now, Draco felt for certain his family would not be the ones getting him out of it.