The Half Black
Here’s the thing –
Harry Potter, the stupid git, is bloody immortal. And Draco has always rather liked the concept of staying alive, see. So the fact that Harry Potter never seems to die is – attractive.
There. He admits it.
Even when he had walked towards Death, capital D (and there’s a joke in there somewhere), the man gets spit out of the fucking Limbo, capital L, where he met their dead Headmaster. Draco almost wanted to tell him, See, Harry? That’s how death works. You die and stay dead.
Perhaps, Draco should not be all that surprised. Harry Potter has defied all laws of logic known to competent humans, after all.
Raised by ugly, fat, disgusting Mud –
“Don’t call her that.”
– disgusting Muggles, one would think he harbours great hatred towards those pathetic souls. But nooooo, of course, not. Because that would be logical. That would mean Harry Potter has brains he can make use of, which he doesn’t. So the stupid git decides to become the shining beacon of hope or whatever-the-fuck, instead. Instead, he decides to hunt down the Dark Lord so that his precious Muggles can be safe.
Draco can’t even – he throws up his hands, knocking over his goblet of chilled strawberry juice. Immediately, Minnie appears at his elbow, cleaning up the mess, replacing the goblet with another smoothly. See, Harry? This is how purebloods live. This is how Potters, one of the longest wizarding generations, should be living.
And then, and then he has the audacity to be all lost and scared when he first steps in the magical world. Draco grew up listening to Harry Potter stories, son of Lily and James Potter, the one-year-old baby who survived the Killing Curse, the first one to do in all of history. Of course, Draco was excited. Everyone was excited to meet him, to see him, to know where he is, how he did it. Surely, Harry Potter would have powers the likes of which they had not encountered before. Of course, he would defeat the Dark Lord with a snap of his fingers, once he’s grown up enough to know how to snap fingers.
But noooo, Harry Potter entered Hogwarts like a dewy-eyed child wearing glasses, stumbling over his own brand new school robes, hanging out with a fucking Weasley – Draco’s fist slams down on the table, his fork clutched between his fingers.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
“Master Draco?” Minnie asks tentatively.
Draco opens his eyes – when did he close them? – and stares down at his lavish French breakfast spread. “Nothing.”
Minnie doesn’t perceive the dismissal from it. Or maybe she does, just ignores it, because why wouldn’t she? Lucius is no longer here to punish her, punish the house-elves; Draco isn’t stupid, that’s Harry Potter, thank you very much. No, Draco is not stupid. He knows his elves have a new spring in their steps these days and the reason is obvious. Narcissa was always indifferent towards them. Part of the furniture, really. On the other hand, Draco – yes, he knew he was supposed to hate them, so he did, but –
But?
Well, they were just. House-elves. Nothing of import. They kept his quarters clean, had food ready for the meals, his clothes were always fresh and laundered, the gardens vivid and full of blooms – he just. He never really had any reason to hate them. So he – appeased Lucius.
Whatever. Who cares? It’s not as though anyone is going to sit here, listen to his thoughts, his feelings on the matter. People judge you by your actions. Draco was mean and rude to elves, so Draco hated elves. Simple math. Just logic.
Which brings him back to the blundering disaster of a human being.
Here’s another thing –
Harry Potter was here, months ago. At the Manor, in the Drawing Room. Stung by a bloody bee, of all things – Merlin, he was going to be the death of Draco – this man was going to murder Draco’s worst nightmare? Fat chance.
Except that he was Draco’s last bloody hope. Draco was getting rather sick of sneaking around his own house like an imposter, always hiding, hiding, hiding, until Aunt Bella or Lucius or – worse – Severus got a hold of him.
Aunt Bella and Lucius were easier to deal with, see. Because their demands were always straightforward.
Draco, torture this Snatcher. He gives me the chills.
Draco, let’s practice the spell for boiling blood. Feel free to pick a Muggle.
Draco, don’t enter the Dining without knocking. Master does not like it if we disturb Nagini’s dinnertime.
Draco, leave the peacocks alone.
Draco, don’t fly. What if the Dark Lord believes you’re escaping and –
Draco, the Dark Lord has requested your presence.
Draco … Bella thinks highly of your Cruciatus … how would you like displaying it on Rowle? I might even reward you …
Severus, on the other hand, would stare into his fucking soul. At least, that’s how it felt like until one day Draco found himself in the Headmaster’s Office and Severus said he’s going to teach him Legilimency. And then everything made sense. Severus wasn’t staring into his soul, Severus was cruising through his fucking mind like he belonged there.
Draco thought it couldn’t get worse and then it did. Because, of course.
Because once Severus caught wind of memories – memories in which Draco would wink at house-elves before hiding in the kitchens because he wasn’t supposed to fly tonight, but he did, he did and it was wonderful, drifting through the sky, breathing in the clean air, with nothing but the stars to touch; where there was no Aunt Bella taunting him and his failures, no Lucius breathing down his neck, no Granger beating him in exams for which he studied like a bloody slave and it still wasn’t enough; where there were no politics he was meant to understand, no rules, no chains, nothing holding him down.
He could fly, and keep flying, and it would be enough.
It would be fucking enough.
Because, Merlin, Draco was sick of never being enough for anyone. Not for his Aunt Bella, who expected Draco to channel wrath worthy of a Black; who expected Draco to find delight in torment – not that Draco didn’t, but tormenting meant mocking Weasley’s lack of wealth, or Granger’s dirty blood, or Harry Potter’s life. No, Aunt Bella’s idea of torment was a tad bit different from that. It involved frying brains, for starters. If she were in a merciful mood, she would settle for splintering bones.
Draco has failed Lucius in ways he has lost count. Forgot when it began, knew it never ended. Draco loved his father, of course he did. He was his father. Did Draco like the man? Not so much.
On the other hand, Narcissa’s disappointment stung the most. Draco had an inkling that she expected him to stand up to his father, have the nerve to choose a different path, grow up to be a fine man, a better man.
Toeing the line between pleasing both his parents – there were days Draco himself forgot whose son he was meant to be on that given day. Sometimes, he wanted to ask why they were married, why they loved each other, why Narcissa chose this spineless man to be her husband. But Draco never had the courage, the way Lucius didn’t, either, and isn’t it commemorative? Draco was more Lucius than Lucius ever realised, and the man probably died still disappointed in his only son.
Vince, Greg, Pansy … they wanted Draco to lead, to show them the ropes, to become the role model that they could be proud of. They wanted Draco to embrace their family’s Darkness, follow their footsteps, become the youngest Death Eater. And then Draco did and it still wasn’t enough because Draco was failing so horrifically at his very first task that he sought out a bloody ghost. No matter how much Mrytle wanted to comfort him, she couldn’t; her hands would fall right through him as if he weren’t even real. Wasn’t that a great metaphor for his whole fucking life?
His life had never been his own; it was always about Aunt Bella, about Lucius, about Narcissa, about Severus, about every role he was meant to play and could never quite manage it.
And then, Draco wasn’t enough the way he never was, not even for Harry bloody Potter. Harry Potter, who wanted fearless, reckless friends. Harry Potter, who wanted a happy family. Harry Potter, who wanted the smartest person to save his arse. Harry Potter, who wanted to kill the Dark Lord.
Draco was none of it. Had none of it. Couldn’t do any of it.
Severus rummaged through Draco’s experiences, one by one and Draco shut his eyes, could not shut down his mind, because he wasn’t even good enough to do that. He sat through it, a whole different type of torture than he’s known before, his fucking soul laid bare to be judged, to be mocked, to be picked at and thrown back in his face.
After it was over, Draco wiped his cheeks, and even that wasn’t enough. So he stopped doing it and let it be, let his tears flow, soak his shirt, tremble under the weight of being exposed like the teenager he is. Or supposed to be. Whatever.
“Draco,” Severus handed him a cloth. Draco didn’t take it. “Draco.”
Draco took it. Rubbed it over his blotchy, hot face, looking at his shoes. Dragon leather. Rather durable, and sturdy, and beautiful. Like dragons. Draco liked dragons. He wished he were a dragon. Then he could fly, and keep flying, and put everyone on fire, and watch them burn, burn, burn.
Draco wanted to burn the whole world down and dance on its ashes.
He was so done.
“Rest,” Severus ordered. “Return tomorrow evening. We will begin Occlumency.”
“I know how to do it,” Draco tried to sound snappish, ended up sounding all clogged up. “I was just tired today.”
Severus’ palm struck down on his shoulder. “You cannot afford being tired. If the Dark Lord – you’re having doubts.”
“So?”
Severus’ hand tightens painfully. “You will die.”
And that did it. Draco enjoyed being alive, so he showed up for Occlumency, stopped showing how tired he was, kept his head down instead, only went when called upon.
One day, he was called upon urgently. Draco stepped inside the room and there he was –
Harry Potter, stung by a bee. Startled, panicked, desperate green eyes staring back at him. Draco wanted to choke him with his bare hands. How dare he–?
How dare he get caught when Draco was doing everything just to stay alive, when Draco was counting down the days he would be free from the Dark Lord, when Draco’s traitorous mind had whispered to him, in the darkness of his bedroom, that Harry Potter was still out there, had run away from his house, never showed up at school, and it was the only thing holding Draco together, because all Harry Potter needed to do was snap his fingers and Draco’s whole problem would be solved.
Why? Draco wanted to ask him, not caring if he sounded weak and pathetic and pleading. Why would you come here? You shouldn’t be here.
Harry Potter stared back. For an absurd moment, Draco wondered if he was stuck in another nightmare. Because Harry Potter’s bright green eyes starkly reminded him of the Avada Kedavara the Dark Lord would certainly use on Draco soon, and Draco would die because Draco was not Harry Potter.
“Is it him?” Lucius kept asking him; the hopeful tone wasn’t lost on Draco. It made him sick to the stomach. His Father had allowed Draco’s worst nightmare to live in their house, in Draco’s home, and Draco wanted to shout at him, PICK ME, PICK ME, PICK ME OVER YOURSELF, I’M YOUR SON.
“I’m not sure,” Draco breathed out.
Harry Potter – well, he was looking at Draco as if he had never seen Draco in his life, as if he hadn’t spent the last six years in the same school, as if he hadn’t spent the whole of Sixth Year bloody stalking his arse.
Draco held his old elf’s gaze meaningfully, turned to Harry Potter, and winked. I’m not supposed to be doing this, he thought, but I’m going to and you’re going to keep your mouth shut and go along with it.
Turned out, Draco’s life could get even worse.
Because Harry Potter defied all logic known to humans, he was clutching onto, not one, but two souls. Which – sure, Draco could roll with it. If it meant he would stay alive, Draco would roll with anything under the sun. But noooo, of course, of course, the other soul was of the man Draco had given everything up to escape from. His parents, his family, his home. His sanity. His ability to breathe.
Except that Draco couldn’t leave, then. If he did, he would have died.
Sometimes, he would study his reflection in the mirror. Asked himself why he would want to stay alive. Sure, staying alive had many perks; delicious meals, shopping districts, flying, flying, flying, bone-crushing orgasms, inebriated laughter, scent of gardens, of wet soil after the first rains, and there was so much to see. Draco still hadn’t been to many countries, hadn’t unlocked magic as deeply as he would like, had too many questions that still needed answering such as what would happen if I take the essence of Sleeping Draught and combine it with Noxious Poison?
How much is staying alive truly worth?
How far was he willing to go to test it?
Draco would spend hours watching his reflection watch him. His hair slicked back like Lucius. His features more like his mother’s, both feminine and infamously handsome Black blood. Body lean and lightly muscled, nothing much, nothing like what Chasers require. Enough to suit a Seeker. Because he liked being a Seeker.
Draco would wonder about after-life. Everyone does, at some point. Especially the ones who feel their deaths looming closer and closer, tucked just around the corner, a serpent at his feet and red slits keeping him locked in a deadly stare. First one to look away would lose. Draco lost every time before the game even began.
He was going to die, just like his parents. They were all scuttling on bought time and there was no telling when the other shoe would drop.
Ironically, Draco took matters into his own hands. Ensured when his parents would finally bite the dust; ensured his own, too, by gripping Harry Potter’s hand tight.
Except that he didn’t die.
Except that Harry Potter saved him.
From his own fate, from his own choices, from his worst nightmare. If that isn’t enough to like the stupid git, Draco doesn’t know what is.
So what if he likes him? So what if Harry Potter’s bizarre ability to stay alive, against all odds, is attractive? So what if Harry Potter faced the Avada Kedavara green of his own eyes and bounced right back up?
So who cares? It’s not as though anyone is going to sit here and listen to his thoughts, his feelings on the matter. He just needs to stay away from Severus, perhaps, although that’s a bloody joke now. Severus – Merlin, Draco doesn’t even know where to begin.
Anyway, Draco isn’t stupid. He is not the first person to like Harry Potter, because everyone likes Harry Potter for the same exact reasons. Harry Potter saved them all from their worst fate, the way he did with She-Weasel back in Second Year and then dated her in Sixth Year. If Harry Potter begins to date everyone he’s ever saved, well, Draco would probably be last on the list, if ever.
Not that he wants to date the blind moron, mind you. Just that – he likes him. It’s – nice. It’s nice having someone to like. Besides, if Draco ever did date him, he might just murder him from sheer annoyance.
And then Harry Potter would spring right back up, just like that, because he never fucking dies, and they can go back to dating.
Draco snorts through his juice. Till death do us part, isn’t that what couples promise each other at their nuptials? Draco can almost imagine the poor sack who would one day stand opposite the stupid git, awkwardly scratching their nose, muttering Minister, actually …
That’s how Harry Potter finds him ten minutes later, doubled over in laughter at the dining table where Nagini had swallowed their Muggle Studies Professor, juice spilled down the front of his shirt, one hand carding through his hair.
“What?” Harry eyes him suspiciously, taking a seat beside him even though the whole table is empty.
Draco doesn’t point it out. “Tea?” he asks instead. “Where are your sidekicks?”
Harry rolls his eyes and then nods. Minnie pops out for five seconds, reappearing with the flavour Draco has chosen today: Sencha Fuji Green Tea.
“Gin kept Hermione back for some girl talk. Ron is still having breakfast.” Harry takes a happy sip. “What’s in it?”
Draco tells him about Japan.
Draco remembers the first time he rounded the corner – and there she was.
Chained down, bloody and beaten, long scars running all along the length of her body. Her wings were tucked inside, head lowered to watch the stone floor emptily.
It didn’t matter that she filled up the whole cavern. It didn’t matter that she could turn humans to crispy bacon if she so wishes. It didn’t matter that she was categorized as Beast XXXXX by Newt Scamander, one of the most dangerous species in the world. One that is known to kill wizards.
See, Draco had wished he were a dragon, once upon a time. Wished that he could live up to his namesake, but nothing he did was enough for it. He tried to roar and it came out stuttering and Harry Potter hated every bit of it, said Draco was a cruel, whining child. Draco tried to breathe fire and what came out were pathetic sobs in the abandoned girls’ lavatory, a ghost’s hands sinking through his flesh and bones. Draco tried to be durable, and sturdy, and gulped down terror as men after men thrashed on the floor of the room he had once flown his toy broomstick in, screaming at him to stop, begged to be killed instead.
Draco tried to become the dragon, his mother’s dragon, his aunt’s dragon, his father’s dragon.
And what do you know? He nailed it.
If dragons were meant to be this – this empty shell wrapped inside a broken body, Draco nailed it.
He just couldn’t – the clankers – Aunt Bella’s taunts cutting through his mind-numbing horror – forcing him to move, to wave his wand, to –
“We don’t need them.” Draco told them from experience.
The dragon would thrash and sneer and claw, but the chains would hold her down. Her own fear of death, the finality of it, would hold her down. Draco was sure of it. All he had to do was survive long enough, to meet her on the other side, show her that he’s not giving up yet.
If she wants to, she can roar, can breathe fire, can fly, and keep flying, and that would be enough. She was a dragon, it would be fucking enough; she just needs a slight nudge, a small reminder.
Draco stepped in her line of vision, her droopy yellow eyes sharpening in focus at him instantly.
Draco knew the look. It’s the same one watching him from inside his mirror.
She returned to him on the next day. She was peeved out by Granger’s Gryffindor-stupidity of trying to Stun her but Draco windmills his arms in the air for all its worth, wand hidden in the back, knew that she understood wizards cannot hurt her without the stick up their arses.
Nuri, he named her. Light.
Because she was. She was as white as snow blanketing the world in the heart of winter, during the early hours of the morning; the blinding sunlight warming his skin when Draco would shoot straight at the sun; white as the milk he sneaked in his coffee when he was certain Lucius wouldn’t find out; white as the smell of death, of stars dotting the sky, of the white pebbles lining the infinite oceans.
In quiet, subdued nights, Draco spoke.
Lucius always tapped his cane in the silence of the Manor, Draco said. The tap, tap, tapping alerting him to hide, hide, hide, shove The Biology of Belief hastily under the Journey of Jabba The Jew and then shoving that under Herbs That Will Heal You, and then helplessly throwing the whole pile under a Disillusionment Charm.
Narcissa held his knee under the table during meals, keeping him firmly in place. Draco would chew, swallow, chew, swallow, each bite tasting like the mud under his expensive shoes, throat tight because he’d realised he’s losing his love for food. How long until he lost the ability to taste altogether? And then the Dark Lord would ask for coffee with sugar and cream and the whole diabetes of it, and Draco sat through, resolutely swallowing the words down like his every bite, sugared coffee is for sissies.
One fateful night years ago, Draco told Nuri, he had to accompany Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest. They were searching for the creature, the monster that was hunting down unicorns to drink their blood. It keeps you alive, Draco admitted, gives you a cursed life. He hadn’t known it at that time. The silver, shimmering quality had piqued his interest and he’d borrowed a book from the library the very next day to read up on its properties. He had only ever read of unicorn’s hair before, seeing as it was used as his wand core. He confessed to feeling special, that some unicorn out there resonated with him, wondered if the foals they’d studied during Fourth Year under Grubbly-Plank was the child of the one who had shed Draco’s core, because the wand chooses the wizard, Ollivander had smiled down at him.
In the darkness of the dungeons, Draco kneeled down in front of Ollivander, the man old and withering and so frail that Draco didn’t know what to do. You made me feel special, Draco said to him, shoulders shaking. When no one ever had.
Draco brought him food; not enough to raise alarms, but enough to keep him alive. A cup of tea sometimes, whenever it became too cold. Ollivander would accept it for what it is, telling him in hushed whispers how he created his hawthorn wand. How the recipe of each wand simply exists in his mind, and he goes about his day, churning them out one by one, sometimes traveling to far away places for ingredients because phoenix feathers are as rare as they come. Ollivander talked about wood like wood had its own life, the wand had its own mind, and he told Draco, Yours is resistant.
To what? Draco asked.
Ollivander smiled. To Darkness.
Draco did not return for straight four days. He attended school, would Floo to Hogwarts every morning for classes, would not always show up for them. No one cared, is the thing. Or perhaps Severus knew, the way he always knows things, but did not bother himself with it. Let Draco have this sliver of freedom, of walking around the lake under a Disillusionment Charm. Sometimes, Draco would hear snippets of She-Weasel wrecking havoc, of Neville Longbottom standing up to the Carrows, of Luna Lovegood being punished because she sneaked out of school after hours to feed the Thestrals in the Forest.
Blaise found him one day when Draco’s Charm was just fading, and he went to renew it but turned around at his name being called. Blaise was standing at the top of the stairs leading to the Owlery, a letter limp between his fingers.
“Where have you been?” Blaise asked, crossing over the threshold, holding out owl treats for the nearest barn owl. He gave Draco a side-glance, a carefully neutral one. “The others … they said you were on important missions …”
Draco stayed quiet. His mind was swirling with the lies he had used to keep them away – Theo, Pansy, Vince, Greg – each one blurring with the other until his brain was numb, indifferent.
Blaise sent the owl away, but they both knew it was flying to the station at Hogsmeade. It would be screened, would undergo a variety of revealing charms, before the ruffled feathers were allowed to be out of sight.
He joined Draco, watched the silent grounds with him. Draco had the distinct feeling that he was standing vigil. They didn’t speak at all, not that day, not the second day, and neither on the third day.
On the fourth day, Blaise brought Honeydukes chocolates. He offered Draco the packet, and Draco picked out a few, ones he liked, ones he knew Ollivander liked.
“They say he’s dead,” Blaise said that evening.
Draco raked his eyes across the shadowy lawns, at the gamekeeper’s pathetic hut, at the empty Quidditch pitch, the top lining of the silent Forest, the deathly-still lake.
“He’s not.”
He better not fucking be.
The next day, Draco returned to the dungeons, holding out the pieces of candies. Ollivander gave him the brightest grins yet, smiling through dribbling chocolate, and Draco asked him more about his life, listened because he couldn’t speak, didn’t have any words to say.
Luna Lovegood, the Mother of Thestrals, of creatures known only to those who knew death intimately, was brought to the Manor, gagged and dirty blonde hair flying. She was still in her school uniform, and Draco stared at her passing by, because what the fuck had she done? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing except to save a few creatures from starving to death, meeting their ironic fate.
Luna thanked him when Draco brought down, not one, but two cups of teas. She thanked him for every single slice of bread, for every handful of nuts. She listened to Ollivander the same way Draco did, but Luna spoke, too. She spoke about the strangest shit Draco had ever heard in his life. Her mind was a colourful little thing; she painted the dark, stale dungeons with electric blues and pastel greens and humming fuchsias. She told tales about Bee Wars and about a Witch who didn’t die from a Nundu’s fatal breaths, about the domestic life of Quintapeds. Ollivander adored her.
Sometimes, Luna would ask him questions. She didn’t ask the obvious ones, Why are you helping us? Why do you bring us food? Are you really a Death Eater? Was it you who brought Albus Dumbledore’s death? Where is the Dark Lord? Have you seen him? Why am I here?
No, Luna’s big silver eyes bored into Draco’s skull, and she asked him, Have you ever seen a Bowtruckle’s mating dance? Did you know that dinosaurs enjoyed music? Draco, I once heard that Magpies could defeat crows; do you think so?
Draco sneaked in a few instruments from around the Manor that she might find interesting. He told her, This goblet was once touched by Merlin; Salazar himself crafted this diamond, it attracts wyverns; this pebble will glow when someone wants to hurt you.
Luna plucked the red round pockmarked stone from his palm, curling her fingers around the edges. She studied the item curiously, smiled up at him. It’s not glowing.
Draco left. He’d already stopped going to school by then. There was nothing left at Hogwarts for him, in the graveyard of his dead Headmaster, and Severus got a hold of him whenever it fucking pleased his fancy. The only regret he had was abandoning Blaise, not that Blaise would feel abandoned, but Draco had enjoyed his company, the neutrality of it.
So Draco left, not to go to school, but back to the privacy of his room, stared in the mirror, watched his reflection watch him. Did not recognize it any more.
When Draco was five, Lucius took him to the Cornish coastline.
Draco drank in the vast, unending, pristine white water with huge eyes, hoping to soak in every pretty detail of the long blades of grass, the sharp line where the sky met the ocean, the glistening spray hitting the large rocks.
Narcissa warned him not to peek over the edge. She said, it’s dangerous, Draco.
Why? What’s there? I wanna see, Mother.
The end, Narcissa told him bluntly.
Draco stepped back dutifully. He liked beginnings, and things that never seem to end. Like the ocean, and the sky, and his brand new broom’s magic, always asked for second and third helpings of new soups and new snacks and new toys and new books and new clothes. He never wanted any of it to end.
Until he did.
Until he watched his reflection watching him, asked himself, How far will you go? Everything ends. Trees rot, oceans dry up, stars explode, people die.
Draco couldn’t keep running away from it forever. If not today, he would die at some point in his life.
The traitorous voice inside his mind whispered, so will the Dark Lord.
“Horcruxes,” Weasley told him.
“Part of his soul lives inside them,” Harry Potter explained as if it’s just another Tuesday.
Draco was – the bastard – what the fuck? This whole time, this whole goddamn time, the fucking bald dick was – was hiding in his home, in Draco’s home, when in reality, he couldn’t even be killed? Harry Potter and his sidekicks made it sound so – so normal. Merlin, what the fuck was wrong with Gryffindors?
Hunting Horcruxes, they said like it’s their war banner.
Harry Potter tried to convince him that murder was for the greater good. And no matter how he phrased it, that he should die, he must die, it’s the only way, if Draco’s leg wasn’t on fire, Harry Potter would have been.
What’s the point, Harry? Draco said to him outside the Forest, when the stupid git strolled right up to the edge and poked his head out of the Cloak. Really, what was the fucking point if he was going to die, after Draco had clutched onto his existence like a beggar starved for thirst.
Nuri, Draco thought, eyes shut tightly, clasping his hands in a desperate prayer, PleasePleasePlease.
Draco could not let Harry Potter die. He just couldn’t. He tried telling himself it was because of the Vow, because he was trying not to die, running away from that fate still, but the truth of the matter was that Harry Potter had saved him where it counted the most.
Draco no longer feared death. He feared staying alive in a world where this entire carnival of shitfuck never ends.
Nuri razed the ground to ashes.
And then one day, Dean bloody Thomas was captured, alongside a fucking goblin.
Draco wanted to brain himself on the walls. He was losing control, bit by bit, piece by piece, of his home, his freedom, his solitude, his sanity. He was spiralling, unravelling at his very nerves, splitting apart inside his own body.
Growing up, Lucius had promised Draco grandeur, of having the world at his feet. All Draco had to do was follow him, do as he says, listen carefully to every word sailing out of his mouth. Lucius said, Mudbloods are scum. Draco said, Mudbloods are scum. Lucius said, Blood traitors are worse than scum. Draco said, Blood traitors are worse than scum. Lucius said, the Dark Lord is going to win. Draco said, the Dark Lord is going to win. Lucius said and Draco said. On and on it went.
It began in First Year. Harry Potter, tripping around Hogwarts, so fucking happy just to witness magic as if he wasn’t The Conqueror of Dark Lord. Befriended the Blood Traitor and the Mudblood Scum, saved the day year after year. First when Professor Quirrell went bonkers, then Salazar’s pet Basilisk went rogue, and Draco was proud, so proud that his Father held such powers. Draco was also proud of Sirius Black when he escaped, but Lucius wasn’t for some reason, and Draco didn’t understand. Wasn’t Black on their side? Wasn’t Black looking to resurrect the Dark Lord, the one who will rule and bring glory?
And then the Dark Lord was resurrected, not by Sirius, but by a tiny devoted man who cut off his own hand, stole Harry Potter’s blood, and Draco’s world was spiralling, unravelling, bit by bit, piece by piece, and Lucius’ words sounded empty and Draco just wanted everyone to stop.
Stop and give him a bloody moment to think, but there was no time. Harry Potter was shouting to whoever would listen that the Dark Lord was back and the Ministry made him a laughing stock, but Draco knew. Of course, he knew. Lucius and Narcissa were fighting, in-between their silence, like loud reverberations inside Draco’s skull.
Hogwarts was safe. Hogwarts was where he could have fun, prank Harry Potter, boast to his friends, fly, fly, fly, and Draco could hurt people, vicious and hot, join Umbridge to stomp on everything Harry Potter stood for. If he were lucky, he might just catch him in his vigilante act. It would be fun, Draco dreams, the kind of fun he no longer has at home. Just like there was no time to think, the clock kept ticking, and Draco’s letters from home piled up, up, up.
You’re a coward.
Just like your Father.
There was no time and Lucius was thrown into Azkaban and someone was dragging Draco by his collar, flinging him at the Dark Lord’s feet.
Whenever Severus wasn’t being an interfering dick, he taught Draco spells. A variety of them, little complicated for strictly educational purposes. He took Draco to empty rooms in the Manor, in disused classrooms at Hogwarts, gave him homework. And whenever Draco felt like he was drowning in his own anxiety, he would murmur silky incantations behind his curtains, propped up in his bed, fingering his wand, feeling like it was all he had left in the world.
“Draco, you disarmed Dumbledore before anyone even got there.”
Master of the Elder Wand, Draco thought numbly. This whole time, this whole goddamn time, while Aunt Bella taunted him, while Lucius breathed down his neck, while Narcissa kept him in place, while the Dark Lord had sugared coffee meant for sissies, Draco could have – could have –
As if, Draco’s mind sniggered. You’re a shell of a man inside a broken body, nerves undone and left to rot, by your own Father’s betrayal, by your own Mother’s silence, by your Aunt’s echoing cackles. You will face the Dark Lord?
Dean Thomas looked like someone sucker punched him when Draco placed a warm meal near his feet. The goblin requested for raw meat.
“This is not a bloody restaurant,” Draco hissed.
“Draco is risking too much already,” Luna told the goblin rather sternly. “You should be grateful.”
The goblin starved himself for the four days that he stayed there, until Harry Potter, stung by a bee, showed up at the Manor.
It’s strange, he thinks, walking down the empty corridors of his home, fingers trailing the cold stone walls buzzing with ancient wisdom.
The Manor had kept him hidden throughout his life. As a child, he would run through the hallways and Narcissa would chase him down, pretending to be slower than his short, stubby legs, laughing and warning, here I come, Draco!
Sooner or later, she would catch up, picking him up easily, tickling his sides, and Draco’s stomach would hurt from giggling so much. He would become breathless and wide-eyed and flushed, sweaty and sticky, and Narcissa would take him for a much-needed bath.
“One day,” Draco told his mother, staring up at the enchanted toys circling around his head, “I’m going to fly. And I will fly around our house and above it and go meet Father flying.”
Narcissa smiled indulgently. “Of course, you will.”
“I bet Harry flies, too,” Draco said sagely. “That’s how he defeated the evil wizard.”
Her eyes tightened, smile fixating on her lips. “You bet he did.”
“I’m going to be friends with him,” Draco declared, throwing his hands in a wide grand gesture he’d seen Lucius do at times. “He will come to Hogwarts, won’t he, Mother? You said he was little than me.”
“I suppose so, darling.”
Draco nodded, feeling validated, puffing out his tiny chest. “He will respect me, then. I’m older by – by –”
“One month and a few days,” Narcissa reminded him, her smile turning natural once more.
The hiding spots, once innocent, later abetted his traitorous thoughts.
He strode down hallways after hallways, bare feet to mask the noise, tucking himself in nooks and corners and behind tapestries and portraits that swung open. Draco held his breath, listening in as quietly as possible, hands trembling as the Death Eaters passed stories between themselves of torturing Mudbloods, humiliating them, forcing them to bludgeon each other under the Imperius.
They talked about Fiendfyre-ing entire villages, laughed as they described the pleas renting the nights, of Please kill me, leave my son alone, kill me, I’ll do anything.
“Anything,” one of them repeated with a drunken snort. “So I made him kill his son.”
Raucous hooting and compliments, and Draco froze.
Another Death Eater quips up, explaining his encounter with a beautiful, unsuspecting Muggle woman, how he used the Imperius on her –
Just spike them with a love potion, Draco thinks wildly, drowning out the rest of the story, mostly because there was a loud ringing in his ears.
Of course, of course, he learned later that Riddle’s mother used a love potion and gave birth to a piece of shit like him, unloved and abandoned, avenging against a world that wronged him as a child. Did not make him feel special enough, the way he believed he was meant to be.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Harry Potter’s lips brushed against his earlobes as Draco’s skin warmed under Nuri’s blinding white. “You fear him. What he is, what he’s become.”
When Harry Potter had returned from the maze with Cedric Diggory’s dead body, Draco returned home a few days later to find Lucius and Narcissa in constant strife.
And thus began his worst yet Toeing The Line parade. The Manor helped him along, opening up stone bricks that fleshed with the walls neatly, showing him tiny trenches he could crawl into, or spots where he could flatten himself against the walls and none would be the wiser as long as he didn’t move a muscle.
Draco did not always use them for spying. Sometimes, he would climb inside a portrait, pull his knees up to his chest, blink down at his forearm, the ink black and fresh, promising of days filled with snake pits. He wondered if Harry Potter felt the same hopelessness whenever he caught sight of his own forehead.
Pressing the heels of his palm against his eyes, Draco trembled and shook and tried to tell himself that he was capable of murder. He’d have to become capable of it if he intended to stay alive, to not let his own life end, because that would mean ending of things and Draco hated it.
When Harry Potter found him, crying at the Hogwarts sink, his Mark on display on his pale forearm, Draco channelled wrath worthy of a Black, remembered men thrashing on the floor of his home, and his lips stumbled out an enraged CRU –
“SECTEMSEMPRA!”
Slicing, hot pain raced across his torso. Draco dropped down, feeling faint as he choked on his own blood. This is it, he thought. This is it and Harry Potter is the last face I’m going to see before I fucking die, and it’s just my bloody luck.
He looked scared, Draco decided. Like the time when the school was swarming with Dementors, when Sirius Black (and what was up with Blacks escaping Azkaban, for fuck’s sake) was being hunted.
But then Severus is there, singing a fucking song of all things – Merlin, Draco wanted to – wanted to –
The pain faded away, his throat cleared up, and he lost consciousness, eyes blinking heavily as Harry Potter’s ghostly pale face swam over his body, fretting and nervous and scared.
What an absurd git, Draco’s eyes were rolling inside his skull of their own accord. This should be the best day of his goddamn life.
The same face was staring back, green eyes startled and terrified and desperate, and Draco inhaled deeply.
“I’m not sure,” he lied.
And then, Draco winked.