THE FURIES ▸ Draco Malfoy

Chapter One: CHAOS

Then, something changed—or, rather, a lot actually, because the righteous Harry Potter had decided to target their families. Suddenly, all of the presumptions about the Malfoy and Erebus line were being backed up by statements from a boy who knew nothing about what the truth could do to a Slytherin's reputation. Suddenly, the acknowledging nods they gave one another turned into narrowed eyes of understanding; conversations lengthened, and the courteous relationship that they had became one of allegiance.

If someone asked Andromeda who she hated most, who she wished she had the opportunity to curse with every Unforgivable, a moment's hesitation would not come between her lips and Harry Potter's name. Up until her fifth year at Hogwarts, she had stayed away from all of the drama that surrounded the Chosen one. Yes, she participated in the sneers and joined along in rolling her eyes at his idiocy disguised by what people called 'heroism' but she never openly made it her mission in life to destroy his. She didn't have time for that, nor the patience like Draco did.

Her mission changed when Potter began spitting words about how her father was a Death Eater to The Quibbler, blabbering names of those present during Voldemort's return like they were chocolate frogs on his tongue. Her reaction to it had not been as volatile as the ones administered from Draco and Theodore Nott, who both looked like someone gave them the courage to kill without care the moment that they got their hands on the paper. The Slytherin common room had been in uproar that day, with Malfoy using words that would have him condemned to Azkaban in a matter of seconds and Theodore dissolving his quiet persona quicker than Rita Skeeter's quill could write. 

The younger years knew to scatter in any direction, while those older than them calmly moved to their rooms and left them to deal with their anger in private. It was one of the few moments where the fifth years began to truly see how close they had become—as Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass kept a close eye on an unnervingly calm Andromeda, Blaise was left to handle Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle while they all radiated off the other's rage. It was no surprise that Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode had not been in attendance.

Life became increasingly difficult after that. People began to stare at the five of them like they murdered all of those people themselves—like they were their fathers. Even though they kept themselves composed enough not to actually inflict any violence upon Potter or his little friends, it couldn't erase the damage that was done.  They were still the children of Death Eaters. Still supporters of the Dark Lord by blood, and that wasn't something people forgot. Their identities began to morph around their fathers' crimes, and what little good they thought they possessed seemed to disintegrate the longer that they coped with the pointed looks and tense postures. It was enough to drive anyone mad, no less five fifteen-year-old children that had always been protected from such situations. Their end was much heavier than Harry Potter's. Their lives were also easier to forget.

Andromeda didn't find herself justifying the actions of her father as much as she found herself questioning her own. She wasn't sure when her life snapped in half, bent and jagged and uneven in every area as she gave up efforts to repair it. Her first assumption would be the moment she was born. The next, the moment the Dark Lord returned and took her father with him. The third would be when the school found out the affiliations her family had with the Death Eaters—or maybe all of those assumptions were just paving the path to the final moment where the flexibility of her existence broke. She was unyielding, just as her wand, just as her heart.

"Your mother sent me up here to see if you were ready." 

Andromeda flinched at the sound of the voice, her shoulders curling unnaturally towards her chest. She had lived off days of silence for so long that her ears rang slightly at the sentence. No words needed to be spoken between her and her mother as they developed a routine of sleeping through the day, eating every so often that they never once saw one another. It would be the first time since last week that she even met eyes with the woman.