The snake hissed in irritation, its sinuous body sliding silently over the wooden floor. Seventeen-year-old Draco Malfoy desperately wanted to move away from the beast - he'd seen its fangs sink into too many necks to count and had no desire to be its next victim. But a slit-eyed wizard stood nearby, and Draco could show no fear in front of him. The boy's knees shook slightly, but his face remained inscrutable.
Before him, a Mudblood cowered.
Her pale, freckled face was cast towards the floor, stringy black hair hiding her eyes. A year ago, Draco would have jeered and spat at anyone with her tainted blood. But now, pity overshadowed the revulsion. He could no longer believe that Mudbloods were less than human. How could he, when the fear in their faces was the same in his heart? Not for the first time, Draco felt grateful towards Snape, who, despite being a slippery, indifferent man, had taught his protégé enough Occlumency to shield his mind from even the most accomplished Legilimens.
"Please..." The girl whimpered. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. "Please..." She begged for her life, her freedom, and her family, in one breath. But Draco knew she couldn't have any of those things. It was far too late for her. For anybody.
Draco raised his wand. "Crucio." The Mudblood's body spasmed, and she let loose a chilling scream. Draco closed his eyes but showed no other outer reaction. The curse did not last long, and only a few moments later, the girl stopped screaming. Her breath came in ragged pants as she curled upon the floor.
"Losing your nerve, are you?" The Dark Lord's high voice echoed through the large living room.
"No, my Lord."
"I should hope not. Then perhaps," And it was then the wizard stepped from the flickering shadows into the firelight, "You are eager to kill?"
Draco hesitated. "Yes, my Lord."
A sharp agony suddenly bloomed across Draco's ribs, and he gasped, bending over slightly. But he tried to regain his composure, molding his face back into an emotionless mask. The cut was not deep. He had suffered worse.
"Do not lie to me, Draco," The Dark Lord hissed. The boy's name sounded vicious on his tongue. "But it is no matter. The Killing Curse is not a spell to be performed by the weak...you understand this, yes?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"You were not eager to kill Dumbledore, after all. But let us assume you harbored too much affection for your old school and its headmaster, to be able to strike him then."
Draco closed his eyes again, knowing the Dark Lord was wrong on one count. He cared nothing for Dumbledore. But Hogwarts, the halls filled with sunshine, the bright Quidditch pitch, the smell of potions, the scratching of quills...Crabbe and Goyle, those useless but entertaining oafs he'd grown to genuinely like...Even Harry Potter, the ever-insufferable golden boy, the dependable and worthy rival, who surely continued his heroics even when all hope was lost...
"But I am right in saying that you no longer harbor affection for Hogwarts."
It wasn't a question, but Draco answered anyway, lying through his teeth and making his mind blank. "I do not, my Lord."
"It does not matter this time," The Dark Lord continued, "For the wench that lies before you is a nobody. Do not hesitate, Draco."
Two simple words and it would all be over. Draco pointed his wand at the Mudblood, who let out a strangled cry and began muttering a sort of prayer under her breath. Foolish girl. No one could help her now. Draco's right hand trembled slightly; he forced himself to keep it steady. He knew the Dark Lord would punish him and his family dearly if he failed.
Draco decided. He opened his mouth and took a breath.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. But it was warm and insistent.
"Potter?" Draco muttered and thought he saw his face, green-eyed and smiling.
No. The Dark Lord's hand was cold and unyielding.
"Draco Malfoy?" The Healer shook him awake a bit harder, and the young man pulled himself from the dream, blinking in the bright, unnatural light.
The eyes that bored into his own were not Potter's but were such a similar shade of green that Draco felt his heart skip. He wondered briefly if the Healer was perhaps a distant relation, but her honeyed curls and bronzed skin did not coincide. The tag pinned to her chest read Veritas Johansson.
"That's me," Draco said quickly, embarrassed that he had fallen asleep. A crick in his neck had developed from slumping in the rickety wooden chair. The waiting room at St. Mungo's Hospital was crowded as usual, but the patients and visitors had kept a considerable distance between themselves and the former Death Eater. Draco hadn't realized how many people knew his face until he left Hogwarts - or perhaps they recognized Lucius in his features, which was worse.
"Your parents are ready," Johansson said in an even tone, but her smile had faded. "Come."
The Healer turned abruptly and headed down the corridor, lime green robes swishing in her wake. Draco stood and followed her; as they reached the rickety stairwell, he retrieved a silver pocket watch from inside his robes. He frowned as he realized it was six in the morning - he'd been waiting for nearly twelve hours. Kept waiting, more likely. The instant he'd walked in, the Welcoming Witch had grimaced so horribly he knew the staff wouldn't make his visit easy.
Johansson emerged onto the landing for the fourth floor. "Rebecca Lee Crumpler ward, third door on the right. Good day, sir," She added, in a pained tone, and disappeared down the stairs to help the next visitor.
Draco found it both amusing and disappointing that the Healer felt he was dangerous enough to escort, but not important enough to be led the whole way. Slipping his timepiece into his robes, Draco strode towards the Rebecca Lee Crumpler ward.
When he arrived at the polished wooden door, Draco's hand paused to open it. He hadn't seen his parents together in over six months, and the last time he'd seen his father...it wasn't an encounter he liked to dwell on. But before Draco could address his second thoughts, the door swung open. A tall Healer with a brutish face and hooded blue eyes regarded the black-clad wizard coldly.
Draco straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I'm here to see-"
"You're the Malfoy boy," Interrupted the Healer, whose nametag read Théo Hyacinthe. He spat Draco's name like a curse. "Come in and be quick about it. You have thirty minutes."
Draco, who was not used to being addressed thus, flushed red. He opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and pushed past Hyacinthe to enter.
The ward was small, stark white, and freezing, reminding Draco of a marble tomb. The room lacked any kind of decoration - even the bedsheets were a faded gray. The only feature to differentiate the ward from a prison cell was a single window, wide but short, that let in the pale light of dawn. A curtain the same shade as the bedsheets was drawn across the far side of the room. But in the bed closest to the door sat a pale, thin figure, her dim blue eyes rising from a slim novel...
"Mother." Draco thought his throat might close up when he saw her, or perhaps he'd cry. But all he felt was a rush of muted relief, that she was safe, and not yet imprisoned.
"Draco." Narcissa placed her book pages-down on the worn blanket and clasped her hands.
Draco approached slowly, as if trying not to startle her, and sat down on a chair next to the bed. Narcissa reached out and touched his cheek, the faintest hint of affection in her gaze. Her blonde hair turned whitish-grey at the roots - it was the oldest she'd ever looked. Draco was alarmed to see that her wrist was bony, her limbs and face almost emaciated.
"Have they been starving you?" Draco hissed under his breath, sparing a cautious glance at the Healer standing guard nearby.
Narcissa gave him a stern look. "I don't have much of an appetite these days," She told him. Though she spoke hoarsely, the clipped cadence and austere pronunciation were the same as before. In the back of his mind, Draco noticed that he'd been talking more like her recently, subconsciously avoiding the chilling drawl of his father in an effort to be less like him. "This is a hospital. They wouldn't starve me, young one."
"It's not impossible," Draco said grimly. "And I'm not so young anymore."
Narcissa tilted her chin. "Perhaps not." She lowered her voice so Hyacinthe would not hear. "You've done well with my letter. I did not expect the Ministry to help you. How did you persuade them?"
"Well...I had some help with that." Draco took a deep breath. He might as well tell her now; at this point, Lucius had surely shown his wife the diary entry revealing his son's same-sex attraction. "Harry Potter wrote the letter for me. He was the other witness."
Narcissa nodded sagely and pursed her lips. "Are you and he...?"
Draco's face burned, but he wasn't stunned she'd guessed so quickly. "Yes. Mother, please don't be angry."
"I'm not angry. Do I look like I'm in a position to get angry?" Narcissa asked, thin lips spreading into a faint smile. "I'm not surprised, either. You wear your heart on your sleeve, Draco. Much like your father." Her eyes darted to the curtain.
"Am I really that transparent?" Draco groaned, rubbing his temple with one hand.
Narcissa grinned wickedly. "Oh, yes," She promised. "First, second, and third year, you simply wouldn't stop talking about him. Potter this, Potter that, Potter with his fancy broomstick, Potter and his idiotic scar."
Draco's jaw dropped. "What? But...I didn't like him then!"
"Perhaps not," Narcissa amended. "Nevertheless, it was quite an unhealthy obsession. Your father agreed. But it didn't take me long to realize what that hatred had turned into, the day he came to the Manor."
Draco remembered. He'd been so hesitant to identify Potter, even though he could have recognized those green eyes from a mile away. "But I...I didn't love him then," He mumbled.
"Oh?" Narcissa arched an eyebrow. "You love him?"
"Um..." Draco thought his complexion may be ruined forever if he didn't stop blushing. "Well, that's...I...that's a conversation for another day," He finished, flustered.
Narcissa's blue eyes twinkled for a moment. Then her face fell. "Yes. I suppose we ought to discuss something else." She frowned. "You recall my letter. Your father and I will likely go to Azkaban."
Draco's jaw clenched, then his expression morphed to confusion. "Likely?" He echoed. "Have you been given a sentence?"
"Not officially. The Ministry summoned us for a trial right before the attack. I believe Lucius was planning to escape before they could take us away," She lowered her voice at this, but Hyacinthe was staring out the window, looking bored, "But then we were...incapacitated," She said delicately.
"I don't suppose you'll tell me exactly what happened?"
Narcissa inclined her head. "That's a conversation for another day, as well. For now, you'd better say hello to your father."
A shard of ice seemed to imbed itself in Draco's chest. "Are you sure he'd want to see me?"
"You shall be the judge of that."
And before Draco could stop her, Narcissa slid out of bed, white-stockinged feet landing on the wooden floor. Her arms shook with the effort of lifting her body. Hyacinthe rushed forward, his duty as a Healer overriding his suspicion of the Malfoy family.
"Do you need help, ma'am?"
"I'm fine," Narcissa said airily, and with a muffled grunt, she stood up, swayed slightly on the spot, and walked over to the curtain. Draco followed hurriedly, ready to catch his weakened mother if she stumbled.
With shaking hands, Narcissa drew back the curtain. Draco caught his breath at the sight of his father. Lucius Malfoy's long hair had turned snow-white and spread on the pillow like a false halo. His eyes, precisely the same shade as Draco's, seemed shattered as if several people in a hurry had broken through them. But worst of all was the muttering, a steady stream of incomprehensible gibberish that contrasted heavily to the articulate diplomat Draco once knew.
Lucius did not indicate that he knew his wife and son stood nearby. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling until Narcissa waved a hand in front of his face. Abruptly, Lucius stopped muttering and grinned broadly. It was then Draco noticed the white ropes tied over his father's body, keeping him restrained.
"Gemma, glad you could be here!" Lucius greeted Narcissa warmly. "I thought perhaps these first years needed showing around, of course, you remember when we were that young. So naïve, so naïve..." He chattered on.
Narcissa smiled sadly and pressed a gentle hand to his forehead. "I'm not Gemma, sweetheart," She said over the prattling, "I'm Narcissa Black. Narcissa, in Slytherin house, you helped me with Charms homework once, do you remember?"
"Gemma, do I look all right?" Lucius continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I don't want to be too intimidating, you understand, but they must be able to take pride in Slytherin! Ah, there they are!" And his shattered eyes suddenly locked on Draco, who became stiff, fearful, and unsure. "Severus Snape, is it? Yes, I've heard from Professor Slughorn you have shown quite the aptitude in Potions. You know, of course, that Salazar Slytherin himself..." He jabbered on, completely unaware that the young man standing before him was eighteen and blond, with silver eyes filling with tears.
"How long has he been like this?" Draco said thickly.
Narcissa gave her son a sharp look. "Don't cry," She commanded, and immediately Draco blinked away his tears. It had been so long since he'd been with his family that he'd forgotten how condemning they were of weakness. "Your father will get better," She said, though she didn't sound confident. "When he got here, he didn't know his name. But he's remembering his past, slowly but surely."
Draco's brow furrowed, and he looked away from the broken shell of a father. He can't possibly go to Azkaban like this, He thought. He'll die instantly.
Though he didn't voice the concern out loud, Narcissa guessed what her son was thinking. "Lucius is stronger than you think," She said, and this time her voice was hard as steel.
The sun rose in earnest now, its rays filtering through the grayish curtains. Draco felt his eyelids grow heavy - the last time he'd gotten a full night's rest had been back at the castle, an eternity ago. Potter had kissed him beneath the Invisibility Cloak before he'd left, green eyes sparkling with eternal optimism. "I'll get Ron and Hermione calmed down by the time you get back," He promised, brushing an affectionate hand through Draco's hair. "Good luck, Draco. When we see each other again, everything will be better, yeah?"
Potter had smiled with so much hope that it was stupid. Draco's heart dropped like a stone once he realized that once - if - Lucius gained back all his memories, he'd recall his son's homosexuality. Draco would be disowned all over again. He thought of the tearstained letter, gathering dust in his trunk, inscribed with razor-sharp words that cut him to his core.
"Mother, he's going to remember I'm gay," Draco said, his voice shaking.
"That's likely. And?"
"Mother, please. He'll..." Draco hesitated, wondering if his next words were an exaggeration, but it scared him that he couldn't be sure. "He'll kill me."
Narcissa scoffed. "Lucius loves you, Draco."
Draco couldn't help but give her a deadpan look. "Could have fooled me."
"He'd be proud of you, you know." She looked at her husband, whose chatter had died down to a mutter once more. "About standing up to the Dark Lord when he never could." Narcissa regarded her left forearm, where the faint brand of the Dark Mark lay beneath her clothes.
"I never stood up to him," Draco said bitterly. "I'm not that brave."
"Resistance comes in the small acts," Narcissa murmured, still looking at Lucius. "You are no hero, Draco." The words were accurate, but they stung. "But you can still choose to be."
"It's too late for me."
Narcissa snorted, and Draco blinked in shock at the uncharacteristic action. "Please. You're an eighteen-year-old boy with your whole life ahead of you. No need to be so melodramatic." Before Draco could argue, Hyacinthe the Healer announced that there were ten minutes left. Narcissa sighed and began to hobble back towards her bed. Draco slid the curtain across the rod, obscuring his father. "Let us discuss your future, Draco," Narcissa said as she climbed back into bed, "And whether or not you will have one."
• • •
Draco left with more questions than he had started with. Hyacinthe opened the door for the young man, and Draco slipped into the hallway. His head whirled with confusion, wondering...Would his parents really go to Azkaban? If so, when? And what about Draco himself?
Narcissa had whispered an idea to him when there were two minutes left; it seemed preposterous, far-fetched. But she was desperate - and so was Draco.
"Who can I speak to about where they'll go after discharge?" Draco asked the brutish-faced Healer.
Hyacinthe tried to chivvy Draco along the hallway without answering, but he stood firm. Drawing himself up to his full one hundred and seventy-seven centimeters, Draco gave the Healer the best superior, intimidating Malfoy look he could muster. "I see how a lowly staff member such as yourself could be woefully uninformed," He drawled, "But surely you cannot be that dense. Let me make myself clear," Draco narrowed his eyes, and a look of uncertainty flitted across Hyacinthe's face, "I require information. Withhold such information from me, and you will have made an enemy of Draco Malfoy. Is that what you want?"
It was the first time Draco relied on his own reputation rather than his father's, but it worked. Hyacinthe paled under the Malfoy's stare and shook his head. "No, sir. I...um, I know who you can speak to. Please, follow me."
Draco smirked triumphantly, but then he envisioned Potter's frown at his sharp behavior. "Thank you," He added politely, and the Healer threw him a curious look over his shoulder.
Passed from Hyacinthe to another, senior Healer, and a Ministry official affiliated with St. Mungo's, Draco finally ended up in the Ministry itself, in front of the Head of Aurors office.
Funny how far a few confident words will get you, Draco thought to himself. Next to him, a mousy-haired secretary knocked timidly on the door.
"Draco M-Malfoy here to see you," The secretary stammered, so softly that he must have been using a charm to speak through the door.
"Enter," Called a low, female voice, and the secretary hurriedly opened the door for Draco, letting him through.
The warmth of the office was a stark contrast to the chilliness of St. Mungo's and the rest of the Ministry. An orange fire flickered weakly in the fireplace, but the enchanted window on one side made up for its lack of illumination. Bright sunlight, partially filtered through lush greenery, spilled into the room. The landscape shown in the window did not reflect any area of the United Kingdom, with craggy mountains, emerald trees, and a small hut in the distance with smoke trickling from a hole in its roof.
Draco pulled his eyes away from the oddly beautiful scene and set his gaze upon the Head of the Auror Office, whose name was Caroline Danjuma, according to the gold nameplate set upon the desk. Danjuma herself was already standing, and though she was at least a foot shorter than Draco, she radiated leadership. The charcoal gray Auror robes seemed even more imposing draped around her clearly muscular figure, and her dark brown eyes followed Draco sternly as he edged into the room.
"Please have a seat, Draco Malfoy," She said courteously, and Draco did so, perching upon one of the leather-cushioned chairs before her. Danjuma herself did not sit. "I understand you have questions for me?" Her voice was prim, but Draco detected a foreign accent beneath it, something he couldn't place.
"Yes," Draco sat forward, "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Madame Danjuma. I simply came to ask-"
"Commander Danjuma," She corrected, slipping a wand from her sleeve. Draco flinched, but the witch only used it to open a drawer in the desk. "You like some tea?"
"I...no, thank you."
"You won't find tea like this anywhere else," Danjuma said insistently, already floating a stout ceramic thermos and two teacups onto the desk.
"Fine," Draco relented and continued as the Auror poured caramel-colored liquid into the cups. "Firstly, I'd like to know when and if my parents are going to Azkaban."
"About that, I do not know much," Danjuma admitted, sliding a teacup towards him. "Have some." Only then did she sit, the fabric of her robes draping elegantly around the tall, cushioned chair.
Impatient, Draco took a quick sip. "Well, if you don't know, who - oh," He interrupted himself as he tasted the "tea," which seemed more like a slightly syrupy concoction, sugary, cinnamony, and chocolatey all at once. "This is very good, what is it?" He asked, his sweet tooth making him lose his train of thought for a moment.
Danjuma beamed, running a deep brown, stubby hand over her tight, salt-and-pepper curls almost bashfully. "Tea from home. Milo, hot water, cocoa powder, and evaporated milk. Add spices if you wish."
Draco took another sip, then shook his head, focusing on the matter at hand. "Anyway, who would know, then?"
The Auror shrugged. "I do not know that, either."
"Well, that's helpful," Draco muttered. The older woman raised an eyebrow, and he pressed on, "And me? Do you know if I'll go to Azkaban?"
"Hmm. That depends." Danjuma leaned over and opened another drawer, manually this time. Draco waited restlessly while she retrieved an old, yellowed file. "How willing are you to repay your debt?" She slid the file over to him, and Draco opened it.
His eyes scanned the information, which pertained to two pureblood families: the Blacks and the Malfoys. His heritage. Draco saw newspaper clippings of his grandfather Abraxas Malfoy's controversial Ministry interferences, a young Bellatrix Black's first crimes, Lucius Malfoy's unmasking as a Death Eater, Narcissa's subsequent unmasking that caught everyone, including her own son, by surprise...And there, in the latest parts of the file...Draco's stomach did a slow, agonizing roll. His own pale, pointed face stared listlessly into the camera, next to a headline. Death Eater, Heir to the Malfoy Fortune, Suspect in the...
Draco couldn't bear to finish reading. He knew what the rest of that headline said, even though it'd never been published in the Daily Prophet. "How did you find out?" He whispered hoarsely.
Commander Danjuma's soft expression suddenly grew as hard as obsidian. "Is that a confession?"
"No. No, I didn't..." Didn't you? A voice hissed, like a snake, in his mind.
Danjuma continued to frown, but when she spoke again, her tone was diplomatic. "That article, never published, for a reason. You were not immediately sentenced to Azkaban, nor given a trial, for a reason. Can you guess what that reason is, Draco Malfoy?"
His throat seemed sticky, and he shook his head silently.
"Because you were a child." Her dark eyes shone with pity, an all-too-familiar expression. Draco looked down at the desk to avoid it. "Still are, some argue. Some also argue because you were of age when the crime occurred," She hesitated, and Draco knew she meant to say something other than "crime," "That you should be held accountable. But many have decided to pardon you if you repay your debt. Did your mother discuss something like that to you today? Of a repayment nature?"
Draco looked up in surprise. "Yes. Did you tell her...?"
"There is a sort of, say, probation system that the Ministry has not used, not for a long time."
In the brilliant light of the enchanted scenery beside them, Auror Commander Danjuma explained. Draco's eyes grew wide at first, and his instincts rebelled. For too long, he'd been a servant to a higher force. He didn't want to go back to that. But this is different, he told himself, This is the kind of thing that Potter would do.
As Danjuma finished, Draco knew he stood at a crossroads. Staring at the dregs at the bottom of his tea, the young wizard chose a path. He thanked the Auror and left, mind positively humming with apprehension for the future that lay before him. He couldn't help but smile as he imagined Potter's reaction to the news. Perhaps that idiotic and adorable hero had been right after all - life was, tentatively, looking up.