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Chapter Text

Friday, August 1st, 1994

“Move a little to the left… perfect!”

Draco sighed, stretching his mouth tiredly as with a loud click! the photographer snapped yet another flawless picture of him and his parents. How many did he need for one article anyway?

It felt as if the three of them had been standing, posing and preening like his father’s pride and joy, a collection of albino peacocks, for hours, but Draco knew from his watch that it had only been one. The rest of the time spent at the Ministry he’d simply been standing around smiling his usual practiced propaganda smile and giving various Ministry folk firm handshakes while they threatened to break his bones with the firmness of their shakes in return.

Last week, his father had been oh so kind enough to offer the Minister a donation to St. Mungo’s, and that, along with many various charitable actions throughout the summer, meant he was firmly back up in the Ministry’s good graces after the Chamber of Secrets debacle, but it also meant quite a lot of publicity shoots.

It seemed every issue of the Daily Prophet this summer had had Draco and his parents’ faces plastered on it, grinning stiffly like porcelain dolls. It was awful, and Draco could only imagine how his friends were mocking him to no end for it, before he remembered his friends were all too nice for that sort of thing. He’d do it, of course, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione? Well, maybe Ron…

But, remarkably, none of those thoughts were what dominated Draco’s mind throughout July. They hadn’t even made up one tenth of his crowded mess of a mind. Instead, while his body had been growing stiff and store from staying in the same pose for hours on end, his thoughts had been back in his bedroom, and more specifically, the small glass ball and short parchment letter that sat locked tight in his wardrobe and hidden in the depths of his trunk under mountains of clothes.

Two items he hadn’t dared tell even his best friends about, for as mysterious as they were, he was just as certain this sort of thing should be kept to himself.

The letter had been brief as it had been foreboding, written in a messy scrawl clearly in mere moments, and spotted with blood.

Draco,
At the end of your fourth school year during 1995, Lord Voldemort will rise again.
YOU MUST PREVENT THIS.
At any cost!
If not, then on June 18th, 1996, disaster will strike at the Department of Mysteries. If you want any hope of saving yourself, keep this ball hidden - it is a prophecy - and run. Escape home, and don’t come back.
Make sure the Dark Lord does NOT COME BACK.

He knew his father had written this note, for it was in his handwriting and had been given to him by him personally, or at least his father from the future, as crazy as that sounded and was to believe. But both his future father and this letter were disheveled and dirty, and nothing like the father he knew. Nothing like the pureblooded noble standing proud, trimmed, and clean beside him as he puffed out his chest more and lifted his chin higher for the next and (thank Merlin) last picture.

So Draco didn’t know what to believe. He’d trudged through summer with his head low, lifting it only to smile for a camera, a politician, or his family. But it was hard, so hard.

He kept thinking about that line about leaving home. His own future father wanted him to leave his home… he kept wondering what this present nobleman beside him would say if he were to explain it all. Show him the letter and the ‘prophecy.’ Would he know what it was? A part of him told him he would. That he’d recognize it and take it away at the first opportunity.

But that piece of him conflicted with the piece that knew it was his own father telling him to run, to keep the prophecy secret, to stop the Dark Lord.

It was like the deranged man he’d met briefly in his Common Room last June and was now haunting his every nightmare was the shadow that followed his real father wherever he went. Everytime he looked at him all he saw were those exhausted eyes.

What happened on June 18th?

He had two full school years to prepare, but laying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, it felt more like a lifetime, spent tossing and turning, imagining the worst, holding the cold little glass ball tight in his hand, pleading it for answers.

When he wasn’t worrying himself away or posing for photographs, it was that prophecy that was the only place he even knew to begin with. He’d opened up his old Divination textbook, and scoured the Manor library for every book on prophecies he could find, laying them out across the library floor and reading and reading and reading until his head dropped and he ended up using one of the dusty tomes as a pillow, waking up hours later, sneezing and coughing.

In any other circumstance, his parents might notice, but this summer things seemed… different.

His mother was quiet, very quiet, speaking exclusively to him in small sentences, taking small bites at dinner, and generally moving like a ghost tiptoeing through the house. Meanwhile his father stayed locked in his office all day, so that Draco only saw him during photoshoots and at mealtimes, and when he did see him, he moved rigidly, almost, too stiff. More stony than usual. They both made Draco’s home feel smaller than it ever had been.

Last summer he’d been firmly grounded, confined to his room, thus he felt suffocated, longing for those wide, high ceilinged halls and his mother’s beautiful gardens again. But now? Now those halls were too empty, with every footstep seeming to echo endlessly, bouncing off the walls. He felt more alone than ever, and every letter he received from his friends only emphasized that fact.

It felt like they were across a deep chasm, into which laid only darkness, and Voldemort’s eyes, which he pictured as Riddle’s, peeking out through the endless dark. He was stuck on the other side of the chasm, with nothing to get him across, even if he wanted to.

And truly, he didn’t even know if he did.

With a final click, they were finished for the day, and his shoulders instantly slumped.

“Well,” Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic exclaimed, stepping away from his father’s side, “I do believe that’s enough photos for one day, don’t you think?”

His mother laughed politely, and Draco smiled in the practiced way, but as soon as the Minister turned to address his father alone, his smile fell, and he sighed as he turned to look up at the massive golden fountain the four of them had posed in front of.

It was the centerpiece of the Ministry of Magic, its crowning glory; a gold statue of all the magical races recognized by the Ministry; wizard and witch, goblins, House-elves, and centaurs. Draco frowned at the figure of the centaur, wondering, first, what they might think seeing this depiction, considering themselves far away from the bustling politics of the Ministry’s halls, and then remembering Firenze.

Firenze was a centaur in the Forbidden Forest outside of Hogwarts to him Draco had made his inquiries about Divination. Surely he’d know what to do with the glass ball.

“Draco!” Draco whipped around in surprise and nodded numbly as his father gestured him forwards toward one of the floo powder fireplaces. Straightening, he bid his farewells to the Minister, photographer, and various other Ministry representatives he didn’t care enough to know, with a smile that stretched out his already sore muscles on his face.

Then the Malfoy family stepped into the flames. They waved, for a moment a complete family of three again, but as soon as they stepped out onto the polished floors of their home his parents had split off in different directions, leaving Draco standing alone in the Drawing Room.

No matter what the Prophet, and probably his father, liked to portray, the Malfoy family could not be farther apart this summer.

-*-*-*-

That night, after another unproductive session of reading in the Manor (he was realizing the matter of prophecies was a very hush hush topic, which he probably should have deduced from the fact that all prophecies were kept under the scrutiny of Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries) Draco sat down for what he expected to be another drab evening of poking at his dinner and trying to make small talk with his parents.

He found, instead, that his father was in a good mood, or at least better than usual, and initiated the conversation himself this summer, for once, instead of eating as fast as he could while still being polite and dismissing himself just as fast.

“I have good news, Draco,” he said with a smile playing on his lips as he cut into his roast chicken daintily. Draco raised his eyebrows, looking over at his mother, who had also raised her eyes, looking confused.

“What is it?” He asked carefully, and waited, his foot tapping just slightly on the floor, as his father swallowed and patted his mouth before straightening to announce…

“The Minister informed me this morning that the Triwizard Tournament will be held for the first time in a century at Hogwarts this year.”

Draco dropped his fork with a clatter. “What?” He stammered, bewildered.

His father grinned. “You heard me.”

The Triwizard Tournament? Draco had heard stories, of course, of the greatest magic schools of Britain and their age long competition to prove who was superior, and he’d heard of how dangerous it was. How the death toll had gotten so high they’d canceled it a century ago. He’d read stories, and heard how past champions went on to be great witches and wizards. But for it to return… for him to actually be a part of the ancient, arcane spectacle this year…

For one, beautiful moment, there was no prophecy, no note from his future father, and no impending doom of Voldemort’s return. There were only visions of how thrilling this year would be, the students he’d get to meet. Images of regal Beauxbatons and strong, imposing Durmstrang, the school he almost went to filled his mind, and were shattered in mere seconds by his father’s smiling face as he spoke again.

“I hope I can expect you to put your name in the running for school Champion, Draco.”

He looked up and met his father’s eyes, wide eyed. “What?”

“It would be a great honor,” his father said smoothly, lifting his goblet of wine and swirling it. “A way of bringing pride to your family name. A little pocket money too.”

There was a clear message laced in his father’s words; that ring he’d offered last year might not have been brought up again, but the implication that Draco was walking farther and farther away from the path to being a pureblooded noble was clear. He’d ignored him all summer, only to come in with unsuspecting good news, hiding the truth that his opinion of his son hadn’t changed one bit under it.

Draco found himself burning on the inside with a strange, newfound hate, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his father had nearly killed Ginny Weasley. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, it was shattered, like his dreams for the Triwizard Tournament, because next thing his father stood from the table, reached into his pocket and placed down three tickets.

Tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, emblazoned with a gold border indicating they were passes into the Top Box.

“Here,” his father said, still persistently smiling, “A gift from the Minister. Do think it over, Draco,” he said lightly, patting his back before picking up his cane, which leant as always by his chair, and striding out of the dining room.

Draco turned to his mother, who was watching him go with a small frown, and allowed his emotions to seep through and frown himself. He no longer felt hatred, only a twisting mix of emotions, because those tickets reminded him of a birthday spent at a Muggle ballet.

Last year, that memory had been strong enough to conjure his corporeal Patronus; a pure white peacock. A representation, he figured, of his desire to be a part of his family. For them to love him unconditionally. Now he thought of that peacock bittersweetly, and that memory. On the one hand, those tickets sounded like the perfect way for his family to be happy like they once were, but on the other it was just a clear carrot leading a donkey back to prejudice, with a stick at the ready behind.

Draco was the donkey, the carrot, the tickets his father dangled before him, but the stick didn’t feel behind him but in front him, beyond the initial reward of a night spent with his family and Quidditch. The stick was Lord Voldemort, lying behind even his father, far behind, but getting ever closer, and Drsco didn't know how long he'd last resisting the carrot.

-*-*-*-

Monday, August 4th

Draco smiled at the postcard in his hand, a Muggle picture, on which a Hufflepuff boy in his grade, Justin Finch-Fletchley, was waving at him, his Muggle parents at his side. Behind them stood something called ‘skyscrapers,’ impossibly tall buildings that filled the city skylines of New York, where Justin had spent a week while his father was on a business trip.

See you soon! Was scrawled in the corner, in his tiny handwriting, and Draco couldn't help rubbing his thumb over the three words fondly. He liked Justin, quite a lot, and had even kissed him on the cheek, twice. He hadn’t invited him to the Manor, however, unlike how he’d implied he would at the end of last year. He hadn’t even invited his closest friends, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, knowing this environment was not something he wanted them to experience.

Even as Harry kept insisting in his letters anything was better than the Dursley’s, and it certainly sounded like that.

Harry had been having quite a drab summer indeed, dealing with a new diet his Aunt and Uncle were enforcing on his cousin Dudley, and having to see all the news reports of how Sirius’s trial had gone secondhand. Why Dumbledore was so insistent on him staying with those abusive, Muggle bastards Draco couldn’t even begin to comprehend, no one knew, but it was making him start to dislike the man he’d grown to respect more and more through his schooling. Harry had had a beautiful couple of hours of thinking he’d be able to live with his Godfather, his father’s best friend, only for it to be ripped from his hands. How could he not be upset?

Yes, part of Draco feeling this passionately most definitely had to do with the fact that he also very much liked Harry, but he’d been growing out of it. He still had a hopelessly romantic crush on his best friend, but he’d grown to accept that some crushes could never be reciprocated, and moved on to other things.

Like Justin Finch-Fletchley, who he now turned to write an excited and long letter filled with questions about New York City to. He’d only made it halfway down one sheet of parchment, however, when a knock sounded on his door, and he turned in his desk chair to see his mother peeking his head around his door.

He smiled in greeting and she let herself in, sitting at the edge of his bed and smoothing out the ruffles in the covers, smiling at the series of photos, Muggle and magical alike, mostly from Colin Creevey, that he’d strung on his wall with scarlet and gold ribbon.

“You have such wonderful friends,” she mused, which is what she always said when she came into his bedroom.

“I know,” he said, which is what he always said in response.

They exchanged a smile, then she got to business, reaching out to tuck his hair, which had only gotten longer since he’d left it to grow out through the chaos of work and time travel that was his third year, behind his ear.

“Your father would like an answer on the invitation soon,” she said softly.

Of course he would.

“I know,” he sighed, turning away from her and gazing out his window. It was getting to be sunset, which meant it would be dinner soon, and he’d have to give his answer to his father by then. “I just…” He looked back at her, trying to see in his mother, who’d always been so understanding and loving, where the love for Lucius Malfoy lay. “He tried to killGinny, Mom. How can I trust him again?”

And to his surprise, the sigh she released was one that meant she’d been expecting that, and had come to this conclusion many times before, as he had. Slowly, she looked down at her hands, slightly fidgeting in her lap, something he rarely saw his mother ever do.

“You know how our family was mostly Death Eaters, Draco, but your mother wasn’t?” he nodded. “Well, I hope you can imagine I wasn’t onboard with what my sister, cousins, and boyfriend, fiance, husband, and eventually future father of my child did most of the time. It is why I never joined. Sometimes I even wonder if…” she looked out of his window as he had just done, wistfully, and shook her head.

He wasn’t letting her slip away that easily, however. “What is it?” he implored, leaning forward, and she gave him a small smile.

“Sometimes I wonder if your Aunt Andromeda wasn’t traitorous at all.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. She never mentioned his disowned aunt. Ever.

“I have so many good memories with your aunt, Draco,” she shook her head, smiling, “I wish desperately that you could have met her. And it is those memories, and that wish, that makes me wonder how a family could ever cut someone out like that. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis, and for the first time Draco saw a truly sad emotion in his mother’s eyes; trauma. She was remembering the day she’d lost her older sister forever.

Just as she never talked about Aunt Andromeda, he never really wondered about her, or how it might feel to be cut from a sister forever. Being burned off the Black family tree… It was so normalized… He’d never even given it a thought. But now he saw her meaning, and imagined all the good memories with his father, and how it would feel to just… not have him anymore. For good.

“I’m not saying his views are right, or how our society works, I know perfectly well I wasn’t supposed to be with the man I love in this pureblooded world, but I simply ask that you think, Draco, before you speak to your father. I don’t want you to regret what might be your last ever words to him, as I do mine.”

She was looking deep into him now, and it was that first moment of connection he’d had with either of his parents all summer that really made him lean forward and ask, breathlessly, “What were they?”

She froze, and there was that traumatic glint, as if the memory was flashing before her eyes, then she lowered her head, and stood. Draco was sure she was going to leave without another word, but after she brushed off her skirt she turned back, and whispered, “Andy, please,” then turned and left his room silent as she’d been all summer.

-*-*-*-

Sunday, August 24th

In the end, he said yes. His mother’s words had hit hard in his heart, and he couldn’t fathom having to hear his Slytherin friends brag about seeing the game, seeing Viktor Krum, in person. He was very grateful to have said yes, then, when just days before his family departed for the campsite, he was written to be the whole trio, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, telling him they were going with the Weasley family to the game, and had also gotten seats in the Top Box.

How the Weasley’s had managed to win the lottery and get seats in the Top Box two summers in a row was luck Draco couldn’t begin to fathom, especially as he was standing in his room, suitcase in front of him, staring at the glass ball and letter, wondering whether it was safe to even travel anywhere without it.

He was too scared it would break during Apparition, but he also didn’t have a clue what was going to happen in the next few minutes, much less in two days when he came home. What if it was stolen by a Death Eater servant? Then again, how could they possibly know Draco had it -

“Draco!” His mother’s voice rang through the hall to his bedroom, and with a resigned sigh Draco snatched up the ball and stuffed it in a sock, wrapping the end of the sock into a knot he tied tight, and stuffing the sock-covered ball into his purse.

“Coming!” He called, latching his suitcase shut and clipping on his best traveling cloak before heading out.

He padded down the stairs and skidded to a halt before his parents, standing and waiting for him in regal robes of green velvet. Draco suddenly felt quite out of place in his clean black cloak, sure, but what about his ruffled tunic and Bulgarian scarf?

However, if his father looked unimpressed by this, he didn’t show it. Instead he turned from the doorway with a wide smile, unlike anything Draco had seen on his face in years. Once more, he felt pulled back to that beautiful memory of a birthday spent laughing like he never had before or since with his parents. But was this real, or a simple ploy to pull him towards the stick beyond the carrot?

Draco settled for giving a small smile back and letting his father place his hand on his shoulder as he led him out the door, glancing sideways at his mother. She was also watching her husband cautiously, though when she caught Draco’s gaze she gave him a tightlipped smile. More of a grimace than anything. Draco looked between his parents and found that brief moment of comfort shattered; it truly would never be as it had those many years ago…

They reached the gates and his father turned to place both his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Ready?” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically joyful.

“Yep,” Draco nodded, giving a stiff nod. He’d traveled by side-along apparition before, and ever since the first journey in which he’d vomited over his father’s shoes, made a point to be brave about it.

He tensed as his father closed his eyes, preparing to Apparate. He heard the crack, felt his feet leave the ground, then he was being thrust through space, a blur of colors pressing against his eyelids. He felt bile rise in his throat and swallowed it down then, just as soon as it had started… it stopped.

He was standing in front of the Malfoy traveling tent, their most extravagant, more of a palace of striped silk than a tent, and three House-elves, who had been sent ahead to sign in the family and pitch the tent, were already tending to three peacocks tethered to the grand canopy entrance.

“Hello there, Lucius!” Called a voice to their left, and they turned to see emerging from the bustle of groups of family and friends moving to their plots of land the Goyle family, Greg waving exuberantly at Draco, a stark contrast to his father’s relaxed smirk. “The boys are getting together for a round of cards while the kids walk around. Would you be game?”

Involuntarily, Draco looked up at his father sadly. Just days ago he would’ve shrugged and told him to go on, but for some reason he now wanted him to stay, he wanted his family to feel as it used to. For one horrible moment, he felt scared of it, like he was taking a big bite out of the carrot and now there was no going back…

But then his father waved his hand and, with an easy smile said, “Maybe a later date, Ezra. For now the Malfoy’s have some family time to get to, good day.” With that he turned and strolled through the canopy into the tent, and Draco couldn’t see how this was a lie or ploy. He found himself waving to the Goyle’s and striding right after his father into the tent, grinning at the prospect of two full days with his family, and then the Quidditch Cup!

-*-*-*-

They never seemed to run out of ways to pass the time. In a tent surrounding him with memories more than he already was, Draco slipped easily into the body of his child self (before Hogwarts, before Harry Potter, before the Chamber, before any of it) and felt as if he was physically back in time, vacationing at Loch Ness, or a tropical island, or isolated forest. Anywhere would do, as long as his parents were there.

Gone was the chasm that seemed to have separated them, replaced with easy smiles and laughter, and long forgotten games.

By the end of the night, the Malfoy family was all exhausted at the dinner table, for once not minding that it was half covered in clutter from the number of Wizard’s Chess matches and other board games they’d occupied themselves with, instead eating at the other half more relaxed than they had in years, Draco even being allowed to take swigs from a Butterbeer bottle instead of sipping from a refined glass.

“I forgot how much I enjoyed charades, Lucius,” Draco’s mother sighed, lowering her glass of white wine to smile at him, her eyes alight with joy and love. “Though I still believe I was the true winner.”

“And I remember telling you props weren’t allowed, Cissa,” his father responded, narrowing his eyes at her in a manner Draco could only describe as playful.

Surely it was his disgust at his parents flirting in front of him that made him lean forward to say, “Hey, what happened to the rule about not using magic then?”

“Adult privilege,” his parents agreed in unison, his mother patting his cheek. He scoffed then, crossing his arms with a huff, and they chuckled, which, of course he had to hide his smile at.

He just felt so… happy. He knew the butterbeer wasn’t intoxicating him, and had never been drunk before anyway to know what it felt like, but he still felt as if he was in a buzzed haze brought on by how quickly his summer had taken a turn. In under twenty-four hours he’d become a part of a family again. It was hard to believe that the touch he’d felt from his mother patting his cheek had been truly real; that he could reach out and hold his parents, because they really were there, and they really were smiling.

“Well,” his father sighed, reclining back in his chair and checking his watch while seemingly unconsciously rubbing some itch on his forearm. “It’s getting late. You should be off to bed soon if you want to see your friends in the morning.”

The crazy thing was, Draco would be perfectly happy staying in this tent of memories instead of running to join his trio, but they’d eaten dinner late and talked for an hour so that it was now nearing eleven, and he was feeling quite drowsy indeed. So, eyes drooping, he stood from his seat and kissed his mother on the cheek then gave her and his father a hug before departing for the bathroom.

It was while he was brushing his teeth that he heard it; the scream.

Spitting hurriedly and dropping his toothbrush, he ran out while wiping his mouth clean with a towel to find his father had seemingly tipped over out of his chair, his mother bent down beside him. He hadn’t heard yelling while getting changed into his pajamas, only idle chatter… What was going on?

“What’s the -”

“Your father’s fine, dearest,” his mother looked over her shoulder to give him a strained smile, nothing like the pure joy she’d exhibited only moments ago. “Hurry to bed, you need your rest. It’ll be a long night tomorrow.”

“But -”

“Draco,” now his father got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane with his right arm, his left hanging limp at his side. “Go.” He said, that stern voice Draco was so used to finally returning.

For a moment, he considered protesting, then his eyes slowly drifted down to his father’s arm, and he instead mumbled, “Yes, father,” turning back to the bathroom and closing the door.

Pressed against the wood, he sank down quietly and strained his ears to listen as best he could, hoping in their distressed state his parents would forget to magically muffle their voices.

“How often -?”

“It’s nothing, Cissa -”

“Lucius I’m not daft, I know the signs, I know what that means.” A pause, than his mother continued, gentler this time, “Do - Does it really mean what -”

“It can’t. Maybe… I don’t know, but that’s,” his father released a heavy sigh. “That’s what this was all for. Climbing back up in the Ministry; I have to look in control. Putting you on the front page of the Prophet. We have to look like the perfect Pure-blooded family. But today? This trip? It’s…”

In the silence that followed, Draco breathed in and out sharply, listening to his own rapidly thumping pulse.

“What is it, Lucius?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Draco didn’t look back to say goodnight to his parents when he tiptoed up the unnecessary grand staircase to his bedroom - it was still a tent after all, and suddenly the lavish beauty seemed as empty and soulless as the Manor - only slipping under his covers and turning off the light silently.

But he wouldn’t settle into the sweet release of sleep for a long while, left staring up at the ceiling, feeling a sting behind his eyes.

Because Voldemort was coming back by the end of this year, that letter had told him as much. His father had told him as much. And his same father, as difficult as it was to believe they were the same man, had been gripping his left forearm all summer long.

Once more, Draco recalled that day, long ago, when he’d had it explained to him what the Dark Mark was, what it meant, and how it would always be a part of Daddy. How it could never possibly go away.

“This isn’t a matter of nobility, it’s a life debt. You can never undo it, and out there… the consequences are life and death.”

And then Draco was reminded of his own words at the end of his second year, spoken in an angry rage to his father, for all the terrible things he did and seemed to have no problem continuing doing, instead of finding a way out of his own terrible debt he trapped himself into.

“You’re no more a slave to Riddle than he was to us, Dad!”

Draco shivered in the suddenly hostile stillness of his dark bedroom. No, his father hadn’t answered his mother’s question, no he hadn’t said what the point of this day of nostalgic joy was, but he knew, and he knew his mother knew as well. There was no reason for a member of the Malfoy family to say it out loud, they all knew that when that Mark burned, Lucius Malfoy, matriarch of the household he may be, was going to turn his back on all he’d built for fourteen years. They all knew Lord Voldemort’s blood ran far thicker than water when it all came down to it.

They all knew that today wasn’t a celebration of a return to the way things used to be - it was goodbye.

Chapter Text

Monday, August 25th, 1994

Draco pushed open the flap to his opulent tent, stepped into the morning sunlight, and let out a tired yawn as he stretched his arms over his head, smiling down at the nearest Peacock already stretching his neck out to him to pet.

He hadn’t slept well, but he was intent on pushing all the horrible thoughts that had kept him tossing and turning all night to the depths of his brain. He didn’t want to face his parents, he didn’t even want to hear their voices echoing off the barren tent. What he wanted was a day with his friends and a Quidditch match to end it with, where he could forget his father’s Dark Mark and the letter and prophecy. What he wanted was walking right towards him.

Beaming, Draco tucked his hands into his Muggle jeans (he’d dressed like a Muggle to avoid snide Ministry officials looking for trouble) and strode up to his friends, running towards him with the same wide smiles on their faces.

He had only a moment to brace himself before Hermione tackled him in a flurry of afro hair, and he was left whirling, trying fruitlessly to disentangle himself.

“You made it, you made it!” She cheered, mercifully letting him go after he started to fear for his ribcage.

“We weren’t sure you’d come,” said Ron, a good deal taller than when he’d last seen him, stubbornly, though Draco supposed he’d never get that gangly and didn't really want to.

“You know because of… your Dad…” He slowly turned to meet Harry’s gaze, forcing down the familiar fluttering in his stomach with a hard shove when he met those sparkling green eyes.

“Right,” he nodded, glancing back at his tent only once before throwing his hands up with a smile. “Well I’m here aren’t I? Pretty sure I’m officially un-grounded too, so how about we all celebrate,” he threw his arms around his friends necks so he could force them forwards, down the path leading away from his father’s tent. “No use standing around, is there? It’s the Quidditch World Cup!”

And, without further protest, they were off, passing wizarding families from all over the world, idly chatting about their holidays, speculating about the upcoming school year.

“I assume you’ll want to enter, Scarhead,” Draco drawled, leaning against a counter while the boy watched, bored, as Hermione was delighted by the process of the wizard shop-keeper spinning thin flosses of candy into sparkling candy floss. “Have to keep your streak of senseless heroics going, afterall.”

He was met with only confused blinking however from his friends. “What are you talking about?” asked Harry, and Draco looked around to see even Hermione looking confused, returning with her purse lighter and bright pink candy floss stuck to her cheeks.

“What’s Harry supposed to be entering?” she asked.

“You mean you don’t know?” He exclaimed, chuckling. Surely Ron’s father would be told, he worked at the Ministry! He said as much, and Ron scowled.

“He has been tight lipped about something. Remember how Percy acted at dinner last night?” he turned to ask the other two, who seemed to remember something.

“If they’re tight lipped it’s because they’re keeping something from you,” glancing around, Draco once more wrapped his arms around his friends shoulders so he could pull them into a huddle to the side of the candy floss booth and explain, “this year the Triwizard Tournament is coming to Hogwarts!”

Ron and Hermione both gasped while Harry, predictably, looked as out of the loop as always.

“You’re barking!” Ron exclaimed.

“Really?!” Hermione squealed.

“What is going on right now?” Harry asked bluntly, for they looked like two children on Muggle Christmas morning.

“The Triwizard Tournament, Harry!” Hermione turned to say, raising a finger and launching into one of her usual scholarly explanations. “It is an ancient tournament dating back centuries when the three most prominent magic schools in Britain - Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons - compete to determine who is really ‘the best’ by having a champion selected from each of their schools fight in three tasks over the course of a school year. It hasn’t happened for a century, though! Because the death toll got too high!”

Harry looked to be processing far too much information at once, but the first thought he could coherently put together was, “I’m sorry, death toll?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron shrugged, “‘s’posed to be dangerous stuff, these tasks. But blimey, it’s a thousand galleons prize money if you win, Harry! What do you think? Would you go for it?”

Harry seemed to be envisioning such a victory in his green eyes, but quickly they slid over to Draco, and he blanched, realizing he was looking for his input on the situation. Certainly, he’d considered it, outside of the fact that his father wanted him to, but not really. More for fun. When it came down to it he never imagined putting pen to paper and throwing his name in. Maybe early last year he would’ve lied and said yes, to impress Harry, but now he’d prefer to impress Justin Finch-Fletchley, so instead he merely shrugged, relaxed.

“Of course not, I do try to be the most sane out of the four of us from time to time, you know.”

Hermione cleared her throat harshly. “Er, I believe I far succeed you in that category, Draco.”

He slowly dropped his chin to eye her dryly. “Really? Hermione Granger you were at the end of your wits last year taking all those classes.”

“Yes… well…” she stuttered, glancing around for an out. “You weren’t doing so well yourself! Look at your hair!” With that she took a large chomp out of her candy floss.

“My… hair?” he unconsciously tugged at the ends of his mullet, frowning. “It’s not bad, is it?”

“No!” Harry blurted, then, when everyone looked around at him in confusion and surprised, stuttered, “Well… it’s a bit more Muggle. I like it.”

Draco smiled. “That’s what I was going for. Dad would just have to look at me long enough to notice…” The last part he mumbled under his breath, not intending to cause a stir from his friends, so at their worried faces he put on a wide smile and moved forwards down the path. “C’mon, let’s check out the enemy up ahead.”

Sure enough right before them was a world of green. It seemed the Irish had all congregated and, a while away, Draco could see a sea of red, avid Bulgaria supporters as well. Here they said their hellos to Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, friends of theirs in Gryffindor, tried to avoid the smiley Ernie Macmillan and ended up running into a freshly graduated Oliver Wood, who was thrilled to see Draco and dragged him away from his friends to meet his parents and regale him with tales of serving on Puddlemere United’s reserve team.

When Draco managed to find his friends again in the Bulgaria crowd, they were all sported face paint.

“I don’t even know how -” Harry sputtered.

“Sort of just grabbed us and -” Ron muttered.

“Does it look bad?” Hermione seemed to be looking for some reflective surface to check the red and black stripes across her cheeks.

“Not at all,” Draco lied, smirking, and, wondering if his father would at least notice this, managed to find an avid face painter who charmed some stripes for him too.

From here they moved back into the main camp and found some more familiar faces; Cho Chang, who Harry spilled his water over and to which Draco had to hide a gag; Pansy, Greg, and Theo, who had apparently lost Vincent along the way and were thrilled to see Draco so they could thank him for getting them out of stuffy pureblood games yesterday by spending the day with his father, before running off to find Vince before he got jumped by Bulgarian face painters; and finally they spotted a group of foreign students and locked eyes and smirked, eyes sparkling with ideas of the Triwizard Tournament and the knowledge that they were in on some big secret no one else they’d come across knew about.

At last, it was getting late and they were all getting hungry for lunch, and Draco had to contend with the fact that if he didn’t get back to his tent soon, his father wouldn’t be a happy sight.

“See you soon!” He called to his friends, waving them off to their own small camp, before turning to trudge up the path to the stretch of elaborate tents lining the edge of the campsite.

Warm light came from each tent, but unlike the other campers these proper nobles all stayed snug in their homes, instead of sitting warm by a campfire. When Draco reached his own elaborate, purple structure, he turned back and saw, down the hill, the glow that must’ve been the Weasley’s campfire. Or some other fire maybe, but he had a feeling…

Frowning down at the little set up of logs on rocks that came with the tent, Draco walked over and unclipped his traveling cloak - he’d be switching into a different one designed to look like the Bulgarian flag anyway - folded it up to lay on the grass and sat on it, bending forwards to pick up a log.

He’d never made a fire by hand before, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the general idea, and also had a good deal of conviction. Focused, he grabbed a thin twig poking out of the log and tore it off. Then he set the log flat down in front of him and placed the stick on it, working his hands back and forth against the wood. The idea was he was supposed to be driving pressure into the wood, right? Enough to create friction, then heat. Enough to create fire.

It wasn’t an easy process, but eventually, the wood lit up. Carefully, he threw the log back into the pile and watched, smiling proudly, as his handiwork spread, trapped in the safety of the rocks.

Rubbing his hands together he held them in front of the heat, letting it warm the soreness. Letting it warm the cold hate for the life behind him that had made him do this in the first place.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there, staring into the little fire, before he heard the rustling of fabric and knew his mother had come out to check on him. She sat down beside him on the patch of his cloak left, and held out a plate of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He took his dinner and quickly ate it in small bites; he’d suddenly felt quite sick to his stomach.

“Did you do this by yourself?”

He nodded.

“Impressive… I certainly wouldn’t know how to.”

“Well I am going to take Muggle Studies this year.”

His mother fell silent, and he turned to look at her. They haven’t spoken much about his change in classes, because, well, they haven’t spoken much at all this summer. He saw in her, for the first time, disappointment.

“Mom -”

“Darling, you know your father and I have tried our best to support you in all you’ve done these past few years,” she turned to say, smiling, and he recognized exhaustion in the tired creases in her eyes. “When you got into Gryffindor all I saw was my brave little boy being himself. When you befriended blood traitors and Muggle-borns I knew you were choosing to walk a different path. Forgive me, then, my dear dragon, if I’m a little scared that that path may be… too far.”

He recalled how she’d spoken of his Aunt Andromeda last week. She was clearly thinking of her once more. Two mentions after years of pretending she didn’t exist… the world may just be falling to pieces. At least, Draco’s perfect little kingdom he’d always imagined his family at Malfoy Manor being, was.

“Promise me,” his mother cupped a hand to his cheek, holding it tightly, hand and eyes full of love (and tears), “you will not go far.”

She was right, their views were wildly different. He was walking the path of a blood traitor while she remained glued to her husband’s side. Perfect Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black), who never spoke up. Not when her sister had been banished for following her heart, wherever it may lead, and not when her husband proved time and time again to care more for image and loyalty to Lord Voldemort, than his own family.

But despite it all, this woman before him was not Perfect Cissy, it was Mom.

“Of course, Mom,” he smiled, pulling her into a hug, “I won’t.”

-*-*-*-

Before Draco knew it, it was time for the game. The gong sounded, and the family of three was off, together physically, enough to present the perfect little picture they’d been showing off all summer, but apart in their hearts. No simple hug or loose promise could change that. Draco knew now he couldn’t be more wrong yesterday; the chasm between them had only grown farther apart.

Silent, movements stiff and methodic, the Malfoy family walked alongside wizards and witches from across the globe towards the Quidditch World Cup. Draco had been to every one, and so when the stadium loomed into view, it brought barely a turn to his insides. Instead, he felt quite hollow. His mother kept squeezing his hand, as if trapped in a little fantasy their discussion by the fire had created, convinced things would be different, but it was as if the squeezes he offered back were given by some phantom. Certainly not him, at least.

At last, the lantern-lit path came to stop at a ticket booth and the family proceeded up flights and flights of purple carpeted stairs until, just when Draco was sure his legs would give out and could only thank the many stairs at Hogwarts and secret tunnels he’d traversed throughout his years there that they hadn’t yet, they stepped inside the highest point of the stadium, into a box filled to the brim with noble witches and wizards alike.

And the Weasley’s.

All the redheads turned at the sound of his father’s name from the Minister’s lips, plus Hermione’s bushy head, Harry’s messy jetblack mop, and - was that Sirius? And Lupin?

Last Draco had seen Sirius Black in person; he'd been in rags, hair overgrown, features slim and gaunt, and eyes full of darkness. While he still looked quite hardened by his years in Azkaban there could be no doubt since his name was cleared he’d been living the good life; he looked as if he actually got sun now, for one, and his clothes were much more neat.

Lupin, however, looked shabbier than before. Surely the fact that he was a werewolf now being public knowledge - required, so that Sirius’ story would be clear - had taken its toll. Draco could only imagine, with great disdain, the prejudice he now faced trying to get a job.

Draco glanced up at his mother, briefly, wondering how she might feel being so close to her disowned cousin - thinking of his Aunt Andromeda - but she was clearly avoiding his gaze pointedly, instead fixing a smile at the Minister.

“Ah, Fudge,” Draco’s father greeted, and he managed to tear his eyes away from the pair of men to smile politely at the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” He shook hands with the Minister, and he bowed to his mother. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. - well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else - you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”

Draco bit his tongue, eyes flicking between his father and Ron’s tensely. The last time the two had been in the same room they’d gotten into quite the row at Flourish and Blotts’, ending in bruises and blood on both ends. Not to mention in between that Lucius had tried to get Arthur’s daughter killed and his entire family disgraced. Hardly a nice history.

Unsurprisingly, his father made the first move in insulting the Weasley family. “Good lord, Arthur,” he said, eyes sweeping the box. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Fudge clearly wasn’t listening, instead explaining, grinning obliviously, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.”

“How - how nice,” Draco did have to give Ron’s dad credit for his restraint, but when he noticed his dad’s eyes landing on Hermione, and his lip start to curl, he didn’t hold back.

“Let’s take a seat, Dad,” he said forcefully, trying to play the part of an excitable teen. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

His dad startled, blinking at him, then nodded, and the three of them took their seats behind Draco’s friends.

“What are Sirius and Lupin doing here?” Draco immediately asked in low tones, leaning forwards.

“Fudge gave him a free ticket plus a plus-one. He’s been handing him all sorts of gifts as a… you know… apology.” Harry explained, smirking slightly. Draco had no reason to wonder why; the idea of Fudge panicking over how to make up for twelve years in Azkaban was quite amusing.

He looked around the rest of the box, but there was nobody of note. They all looked like boring old geezers, save a little house-elf weeping off to the side, no doubt saving a seat for her master.

Draco suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and was forced to face forwards.

“Now don’t get any ideas, Draco,” his father drawled, a twinge of amusement in his voice, but not over a shared joke, “can’t have you freeing everyone’s house-eleves.”

Draco felt a surge of hate in his heart. Really? That was simply uncalled for -

Then he felt a soft hand on his, and turned to see his mother facing forwards, face impassive, and though it made him keep his mouth shut, reminding him they were in public, it only made his rage burn hotter.

The next moment Ludo Bagman, a Ministry man and old Quidditch player, and commentator for this game, apparently, bounded in, and without further ado, the Final had begun.

“Ladies and gentlemen...welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Draco tried to enjoy himself, he really did. He clapped when he was supposed to, cheered when it was necessary. He caught leprechaun gold when the mascots threw it along with his friends, tried to appear pleased by the veela even though their charms passed right over him, and when the teams flew out he booed the Irish and cheered for Krum.

But all the while he felt that same hollow feeling in his bones. He felt more focused on his father’s movements, his father’s face, than the monumental game playing out before him.

His left arm kept twitching, and was Draco imagining it, or could he feel the heat radiating from it? For minutes at a time Draco found himself staring, just staring, at the black sleeve of his father’s cloak, hating, more and more, the ugly symbol it hid, and all it meant.

A decision made before he was even born. Could he really blame his father for throwing his family's lives away before he even knew they existed? Yes, he could, because he was doing it now. Because it was still a decision, no matter what he may try to tell himself.

What had Dumbeldore said at the end of his second year? Something about choices… His father wasn’t making the choice to stay with Voldemort, he was making the choice to stay a blood purist.

“Draco did you see that?!” He startled. Harry was turned around in his seat, holding out his Omnioculars. Numbly, Draco took the pair and rewound to see what the crowd was losing their minds over.

Krum had pulled off a brilliant Wronski Feint, but Draco couldn’t find it in himself to feel excited. He gave Harry a convincing smile as he passed his Omnioculars forward, but once Harry had turned to face the field again he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms tight.

The rest of the game he couldn’t care less about what he was seeing. Bulgaria was stumbling, and Ireland’s score just kept climbing higher. Eventually he joined the crowd in rising to cheer on the pair of Seekers hurtling towards the Snitch, clapping numbly along as the others reacted in confusion to Krum catching the Snitch. He’d done a mercy play, Ireland wins, those Weasley twins get their bet. Could he go… back, now? The tent was hardly ‘home…’

Mercifully, the answer was yes. The Cup was brought into the Top Box along with Ireland, who rose it in victory, even their half-conscious Seeker, and then his father was summoning him.

“See you at school,” he said with a tight smile to his friends before turning without a second glance, shoulders hunched.

Somehow, the walk back was even lonelier than the walk to the field, but they kept going, and eventually the massive mansion of a tent loomed into view. Fondly, Draco allowed himself to bend down and scratch one of his father’s peacock’s behind the ear, before standing and stepping inside.

The elves had prepared dinner, but it was more of a feast, and there was no need to wonder why; all around the table men already sat, mugs full of frothing liquid that was most definitely not butterbeer.

“Lucius!” Ezra Goyle boomed, clearly already having had too much of what was in that cup. He tore off a piece of the turkey leg in his hand with his teeth and Draco sneered. These men… Drunk and greedy… What were they planning? “The boys are all ready. Are we doing this or not?”

Draco turned, looking up at his father, to see any trace of hesitation or uncomfortableness had been cleared from his face, and it had suddenly become masklike, smooth as stone.

“Of course. You all can go along, I’ll be ready in a moment.”

There was a great deal of clattering, scraping, and bellowing laughter of drunk men gone off to relive the glory days (because Draco had a good idea of what they were leaving to do). Some patted his dad on the shoulder as they passed, but all ignored Draco and his mother, like they weren’t there at all. Lucius’s similar numbness to his wife and son’s made it seem like the family were in a little bubble - a world of their own, entirely cut off from everyone else.

Or maybe the men were on the other side of that precipice, and Draco and Narcissa were the only things keeping Lucius from joining them any second.

“Dad?”

“Lucius?”

Both of them spoke at once, and so both of his father’s hands flinched as he lowered his head.

“What are you doing?” His mother pressed, clearly trying her hardest to keep her voice as gentle as possible.

“Draco, leave.” His fists had tightened, and that small movement was probably what made Draco step back involuntarily, and his next words be spoken in a raised voice.

“What?” He cried. “Dad, tell us what’s going on -”

“I said leave,” he repeated, more firmly this time, turning to look his son in the eye but still avoiding his wife’s. “Go to the forest. Hide. Your mother will come find you -”

“I’ll be doing no such thing!” His mother snapped, “Until you tell us what’s going on here -”

“Can’t you see?” He unexpectedly burst out, making both of them flinch at his anger. “He’s coming back! The Mark burning… It can only mean one thing. What do you think he’s going to see when he returns? A league of Death Eater’s who’ve moved on without him, built homes, built families -”

“Families they’re not even considering,” his mother cried. “Are you really condemning Draco to this life - this life of hell?”

“I’m not -”

“That’s what it is, Lucius, and that’s what you’re doing. Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand. I. Was. There. My sisters were a part of it. You were a part of it, and I saw what it did to you. You became an animal, enjoying the torture you dealt out. But when we had him,” she looked over at Draco, and he stumbled back, feeling like he was suddenly a part of an argument he didn’t belong in. But that didn’t mean he still didn’t feel warmed by the love in her gaze. “When we had our little dragon… That all melted away.”

“You say we’ve built a family,” she turned back to him, ice in her eyes, “and we have. But it’s not something to surrender to him. To hide. Lucius,” she stepped forwards, taking his hand, and his eyes went wide. Draco, for one fleeting, happy moment, believed he might even be listening. “Draco can run to the woods. I can run. But you can come with us. Please.”

But it was a fool’s hope. As soon as it was there, the life and love in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes was gone. His face was a mask again, and he dropped her hand, instead putting it into an inner robes pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he lied, and removed a smooth, porcelain, skull-like mask. His Death Eater mask, Draco realized, feeling his blood run cold at the sight of it.

“Lucius, don’t -”

He pushed her aside, placing the mask on his face like some possessed puppet, and stepping out into the darkness.

“Lucius! LUCIUS!”

His mother raced after him, and with an explosion of orange light just visible as a glow against the tent flap, Draco was left alone, stunned, scared, and - he was quite embarrassed to admit - sad.

He thought he’d be ready, prepared. He thought he understood where his father’s loyalties were in the end, but he could never have prepared himself for the different person he seemed to become. There was the father of his memories - the one who loved, the father obsessed with his self-image, the father from the future, and now this new one, and a new least favorite; his father the Death Eater.

He was terrifying. Nothing in his eyes, except for that brief moment, had shown the slightest hint of humanity all the while his mother had pleaded her heart out to him. There was only tunnel vision of a faithful servant to Lord Voldemort.

As he so often did, Draco recalled the memory of having the Dark Mark explained to him. Who his Daddy was during the First Wizarding War explained to him. Back then he’d called it an Unbreakable Vow to flex his newly learned words. Now it felt all too accurate. The way his father acted… He wanted to say you’d think he felt like he was going to be killed on sight when Voldemort returned, but that felt too close to reality. He’d met him before, afterall, as Tom Riddle. He didn’t seem the lenient type.

But enough worrying on the past; his father was gone, Draco had known that for quite some time - maybe even since that fateful summer when he’d overheard his plans to kill Ginny Weasley and maybe some Muggle-borns that got in the way. There was nothing left now but to run. That’s what his future father had said in the letter, hadn’t he?

His future father…

Did he, perhaps, feel remorse in 1996? Was that what this was all for? Giving him the letter, the prophecy, telling him to stop whatever was coming…

Did the father that had just run out into the frying pan know what was coming? Was he aware of the fire?

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, Draco decided for now, he better pull himself together. He ran for his bedroom, and in a flash had torn apart his trunk until he reached the letter and prophecy, tucked in his socks.

Escape home, and never come back.

That was written as if he only needed to run if he failed at the end of this year, but what if something had gone wrong - what if his father’s time traveling back had interfered with the future, and now June 1995 had become August 1994?

Thoughts of time travel were starting to make Draco’s head pound, but he reread the letter three more times either way. But no matter how many times, it was just as it had been all year; it offered him no hints, nor clues, simply told him to do something and expected him to. In the event of failure, he was meant to run.

What if he ran now?

Though he knew no window would allow him to see the outside world, Draco turned and looked to the walls of the tent anyway, beyond which he could just make out flashes of fire - hear the sounds of laughter and screams. He imagined that being his life; waking in a home filled with the sounds of madmen’s laughter. His father’s friends. That was no world he wanted to be a part of.

It was with this conviction that he stuffed the letter and prophecy back into the socks, threw them into the trunk, locked it shut, and ran - out of the room, out of the tent, into an explosion of green light.

Spells were flying everywhere, lighting up the night, and the laughter was booming all around him now. Draco didn’t dare give the cloaked figures at the source of the chaos more than a mere glance, scared of what he might see (what if his father was the one who’d just spun a little Muggle boy floating in the air around like a top?) and instead turned tail and ran, as fast and as hard as he could, for the woods.

Slamming into the trees Draco grabbed the nearest tree around the trunk and swung himself behind it, panting to catch his breath, and making the horrible mistake of looking.

There it was - terror incarnate. His father and his friends, the Death Eaters, were reliving their glory days, sure and true, by torturing innocent Muggles. It must’ve been the family that owned the campsite, Draco reasoned, as the man’s figure he faintly recognized, but otherwise they were just faceless victims. Far less so to their torturers.

There are moments when a sight is so horrid, so disgusting, that it is simply human nature to not look away. Draco couldn’t do it, his curiosity compelled him to keep looking, straight ahead, at the helpless family. Bile turned in his stomach and his blood ran cold yet still he stared, wanting more than ever to run, run, run, as far from here as he could, but finding all his muscles suddenly frozen.

He had to thank Merlin and the stars above for the voice that at last broke him out of his daze; a cry of pain, and a thud right next to him. Turning and retreating farther behind the tree he’d grabbed to hide, Draco carefully looked into the gloom for the source of the yelp and thud, and couldn’t say he was that shocked to see bright red ginger hair in the dark.

“What happened?” Hermione’s voice, “Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid - lumos!”

The path next to Draco’s tree lit up, on which Ron’s body clearly lay, sprawled across the ground.

“Tripped over a tree root,” he grumbled.

“Well, with feet that size, hard not to.” The three of them jumped out of their skins as Draco slowly stepped into the light, hands raised so the tensing Hermione didn’t zap him into next Christmas. “Relax… it’s just me.”

“Draco!” Harry breathed with relief, Hermione sighing and dropping her wand, “What’re you doing here?”

“I…” He looked over into the trees, where his trunk lay, tipped over, from where he dropped it. Realization came to each of them, awkwardly shifting and glancing back at the scene behind them, but they didn’t say anything. Draco was very grateful for that.

“We should move,” he said, nodding down the path and hurriedly picking up his trunk, “before they see her.”

A flash of green light erupted from the campsite with an enormous booming sound. “What do you mean?” Hermione asked, her voice wavering.

“They’re after Muggles, aren’t they? Trust me, they don’t care about the difference.”

Silent with that solemn statement on their minds, the friends made their way down the path. Draco wouldn’t admit it aloud, trying to keep a brave face in the presence of leaving his family behind, but having company in the darkness of the woods certainly helped. Otherwise he expected he’d feel like that scared eleven year old in the Forbidden Forest again, frightened by snapping twigs.

This was evidenced by the fact that his heart leapt into his throat at just the sounds of voices, before he calmed when they saw it was simply a group of teenagers in pajamas.

One of the group, a curly haired witch, turned and asked the four as they passed, “Ou est Madame Maxime?” speaking very quickly. “Nous l’avons perdue -”

“Er - what?” Ron sputtered, and Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“We are from Hogwarts,” he said to them in French, ignoring the way his friends turned to balk at his surprising new ability. “We have not seen this… Madame Maxime.”

“Oh…” She turned then, telling her friends, “’Ogwarts,” and leaving Draco to continue on, his friends now lagging behind.

“Where’d you learn to -”

“Lessons,” he said shortly, “When I was little. I have quite a few French relatives. Now can we keep moving, please?” He cast an anxious glance behind him, and was very pleased to see the glow of the campsite flames was nearly out of sight this far deep.

Seeing his anxiety to get as far away from his parents as possible, his friends didn’t pry, and so they trekked along in silence.

“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” Ron broke the silence to say, and Draco paused so that he could step ahead, holding out his wand to light up the path.

“Ah, no, I don’t believe it…” Draco, Ron, and Hermione turned to look at Harry standing with his jeans pockets inside out, curiously. “I’ve lost my wand!”

“You’re joking…” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes. There were times when it was cute for him to be daft, but this was really not one of those times.

“You’re kidding!” Thankfully Ron agreed with him.

They looked around a little, using their wand beams to light up the grass, but there was no stick of holly wood to be found.

“Maybe it’s back in the tent,” said Ron.

“Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?” said Hermione.

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Well it’ll do Harry no good standing around,” Draco said, gesturing with his trunk back down the path, “You three can go on and get his wand, I’ll continue on.”

“No, no,” Harry shook his head, “it’s fine. It’s too dangerous back there.”

As if to emphasize his point, a sudden great scream rang through the trees.

“Let’s get moving, then,” Draco muttered darkly, and so they continued.

He turned, and stopped in his tracks. A very bizarre sight stood before him; The house-elf from the top box whom his father had made fun of him over seemed to be physically fighting with something in the clump of bushes directly in front of the four of them, except whatever the something was was either a figment of her imagination or invisible. It looked as though she was being grabbed and dragged, certainly, but not by anything they could see.

“There is bad wizards about!” She squeaked, and it was clear she seemed to be speaking to something, or someone else; she didn’t even seem to notice the kids. “People high - high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!”

With that she hobbled into the trees, still looking to be pulled and dragged all of the way.

“What’s up with her? Why can’t she run properly?” asked Ron.

“Probably didn’t get permission from her master. Why does it matter?” He turned and gave Ron something of an accusatory stare, then realized how his anger was misplaced and waved a hand. “Sorry I’m just… Can we pick up the pace a little?” He demonstrated a more hurried stride and the others followed. “Thank you,” he sighed.

“You know,” Hermione said as they walked, as if to make side-conversation, though her tone was very passionate. “house-elves get a very raw deal! It’s slavery, that’s what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her bewitched so she can’t even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something about it?”

“Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron pointed out. “You heard old Winky back at the match… ‘House-elves is not supposed to have fun’... that’s what she likes, being bossed around....”

“Not necessarily,” Draco shook his head, casting Ron a warning look to try and mutely tell him he was only digging a bigger grave for himself. “It’s brainwashing, when you think about it; centuries of wizards have convinced elves this is all they’re good for. Did you know that their power is probably double that of wizards? We harp on Muggles fearing us, but we really fear -”

“Please,” said Ron, throwing his head back to show his boredom, “don’t go all ‘know-it-all-Draco,’ on us, Hermione’s enough.”

A bang echoed through the trees.

“I mean,” Ron choked, coughing in his hand, and hurrying up beside Hermione. Draco didn’t miss the almost protective way he kept looking around into the trees, “It’s great when you do it Hermione, but on you Draco it just looks sad.”

He’d take the clear insult if it meant he got to bear witness to the disaster that was Ron’s painfully obvious crush on Miss Granger Danger. It at least brought a small smile to his face on a night that had been bringing anything but.

They walked, and walked, and found no signs of Ron’s siblings. It got to a point, after they’d passed Stan Shunpike, the conductor for the Knight Bus, that Draco wondered where he was even planning to go, debating striding right up to Stan and asking for a ticket onto the bus then and there. But after that… where? He supposed wherever Sirius was staying was probably open if he only asked, otherwise he might be able to go to Gringotts, take some money from his private vault, and rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron.

But as Draco started to think more and more on his gameplan, he found more and more that his grip on his trunk was slackening, as was his resolve. The idea of leaving the Manor, his family, his home, his history… It was starting to feel more like an impulsive decision than a reality he was prepared for.

These thoughts carried Draco all the way into the darkest part of the woods yet. The campsite was a mere memory, the world here quiet, dark, and still.

“I reckon we can just wait here, you know. We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off,” Harry suggested, but Draco was already dropping his trunk against a rock and sitting down on said rock, exhausted from all the walking and hauling his luggage with him. He had only just leaned back to stretch when he was startled up right by the sound of shuffling bushes. Ludo Bagman, who Draco only recognized from parties and that he’d commentated on the match, had just emerged into the clearing.

“Who’s that?” He squinted at their faces in the dark. “What are you doing in here, all alone?”

The four of them exchanged looks, Draco rolling his eyes, exasperated.

“Well - there’s a sort of riot going on,” said Ron.

Bagman stared at him, and Draco was actually surprised to see he looked confused.

“What?”

“At the campsite...some people have got hold of a family of Muggles....”

“Fuck,” he swore, running a hand through his hair, and now the kids exchanged confused looks again. They’d expected he was just being daft, which suited him, but this… certainly didn’t. “Damn them!”

More shocking, he Disapparated with a pop! leaving the kids to stare at the spot he’d last been, stunned.

“Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?” Hermione frowned.

“That’s one word for it,” Draco drawled, nudging them forwards so they could continue down the path.

But the riot was dead silent now. Maybe it was even over, and Draco’s legs were sore from the walking and his arm was exhausted from carrying his trunk, so when they emerged into a clearing he didn’t object to sitting down on a circle of rocks to rest.

“I hope the others are okay,” Hermione whispered after a time, fiddling with her skirt.

“They’ll be fine,” said Ron, giving her a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Draco tried to roll his, but they landed on Harry, who was staring at him already, and his heart skipped a beat.

“What is it?”

Harry blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t realized he’d even been staring, which confused Draco, briefly, but he shrugged it off.

“I was just thinking… is your dad out there?”

Oh, of course.

Draco scowled, staring down at his hands, and noticing for the first time he’d been bouncing his foot throughout the few minutes they’d sat there. Now he steadied it with a deep sigh.

“I… I’m sorry but…” he looked up, giving his friends a crooked smile. “I’m not likely going to tell you, am I?”

“S’pose not,” Ron shrugged, leaning back on his hands.

“But - Ron, what would your dad do if he caught him?” Hermione asked, looked concerned.

“Probably Flourish & Blotts round two,” said Ron.

“Sirius is out there too. I bet he’d give him a run for his -”

“Could you three shut it about my dad?” Draco barked, and they immediately did, turning to look at him, scared, but it was that fear that really got him going.

“So that’s what this is about?” He leapt to his feet, glaring, “you think I’m gonna snap and lift Hermione upside down too!”

“Well - no -” Ron said unconvincingly, shifting away from Hermione, whom he’d moved closer to protectively. “Not exactly…”

Draco scoffed, shaking his head. “I thought you guys - you guys are supposed to be different! You’re my friends. If you can’t see that I’m not him, that I’m different -”

He cut himself off, because he couldn’t admit the fear no one would see him as anyone but his father. And the definition of who his father is has been changing so much lately, from past to present, to future… Draco didn’t even know anymore.

“Well, you were acting really weird at the match!” Ron exclaimed. “The Quidditch Final! And you looked like you couldn’t care less!”

“Well, maybe I couldn't,” he said, but his lie was feeble at best.

“And the way you practically ran from your tent to go with us -” Hermione started, but Draco cut her off with a yell.

“Maybe that’s because I’ve been avoiding him! Because I’M NOT LIKE HIM!”

He was quite sure a couple birds had fled the trees and squirrels had skittered through the grass past his feet at these words, but his friends didn’t flinch, instead staring up at him in the rapt attention that came with being scared. Of him.

He couldn’t take it. Scoffing, he stomped through the trees out of the clearing but not back onto the path, instead pushing through branches and bushes, driven by his anger. At his father. At the stupid hair he now saw everywhere he looked in his peripherals, and now found far too long. At his friends, betraying him. At Harry, and how he couldn’t bear the look in his eyes.

“Draco!”

And yet he stopped at the sound of his voice, almost against his will, because at the end of the day it still made his heart leap to his throat.

“You don’t understand.” The crunching leaves following Harry’s footsteps stopped, and Draco turned around, looking into his eyes, frozen under the moonlight, and trying to convey in him through his eyes that he was just tired, nothing else, because there was no world where he could understand everything that was really happening to him. The prophecy, whatever it was, the letter, his future father…

“Then help me to,” but Harry would always try, wouldn’t he? And he did, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

Draco hesitated. For a moment, he thought of the twin stags, galloping through the trees. It was a recurring dream he’d had all summer, it seemed, always the same; he was a peacock, chasing a stag, then he became its partner, and they circled each other.

Now they stood still, shadowed in the trees from everything but dim spots of moonlight, and Harry was holding his hand out towards him, and Draco wanted to take it, he wanted to the pain in his heart was almost overpowering but -

“Harry -”

“MORSMORDRE!”

Then they were suddenly, without warning outside of that voice shouting a spell from the shadows, engulfed in green, glittering light. For a moment, Draco thought there were Dementors, because his mind was still full of patronuses and he knew all too well that when they got too close, Dementors made him see his worst nightmare; the Chamber of Secrets.

But there was nothing gloomy about the green light shining above them, as if a part of the stars. It was bright, glittering, like a spotlight. And at first glance, it was even beautiful.

But only for a moment.

As soon as that moment the world was lit with a green to match Harry’s eyes was over Draco raised his head, and let out a howl of horror - a raw, animalistic thing that seemed to claw out his mouth to roar. He fell backwards onto the grass, onto his back, staring in fixed terror at the Dark Mark.

He’d seen it before, but only in fleeting moments when his father’s sleeve shifted, or he had just taken a shower or bath, wrapped in a bath towel or loose robe. They were few and far between, and always glimpses, except for the time, when he was still quite a small boy, when he’d had what the Mark meant explained to him.

But a tattoo of deepest black ink was nothing in comparison to the horrible thing above him. Emerald little lights glittered like stars, forming a green skull from which a greener snake slithering out its mouth. Death has arrived, come to eat its prey.

The world around him was screaming too. From dead silence to chaos the forest was suddenly filled with a symphony of terror, and Harry stood over Draco, looking up at the symbol of Voldemort, his scar shimmering green under its light, oblivious to what it all meant.

“Draco…?”

He gasped but couldn’t form words as he rolled over, one hand over his eyes, the other grasping for his trunk, and stumbled back to his feet. He only shook, mouth forming orders for Harry to flee, to run, to hide, but no sound coming out but the occasional strangled scream.

“Draco!” He caught him by his arm, lowering it from his eyes, so that Draco only saw him, perfect Harry, worried and not even a little scared. “What is it?”

But he should be scared. The Mark was there, reflected in his eyes, because he was returning, and there was nothing Draco could do about it.

With one last scream he turned tail and ran, pushing Harry off of him, and broke through thickets of trees back onto the path. He found a crowd here, of people who’d foolishly thought they’d be safe, now screaming and sobbing, running for their lives even though they all knew it was fruitless.

It was right there, above them whoever they ran, like the moon, or stars, or a constellation. Like the Lord himself was gazing upon them, choosing his next victim.

Draco realized, once they’d broken out of the forest into the campsite, and everything turned an ugly mix of green and orange lights, that the crowd was made of families. Witches and wizards carrying witch and wizard children to Portkey’s at the edge of the campsite, while cracks and pops filled the air as adults apparated at will.

Draco thought for a moment about his parents. Would they leave without him?

No, he told himself firmly, you’re leaving.

With that he kept running towards the edge of the campsite, riding along with the wave, but he was a Seeker. He was thin and fourteen, where these were fully grown adults - parents, who only had the lives of their children on their minds. As a result, he was too quickly jostled by the crowd, pulled under. Suddenly, the crowd surge was pushing in on him and he couldn’t even breath, not aided at all by the fact that his breaths were already thin from the amount of running he’d done.

Then he felt his hands slip on his trunk handle.

“No!”

He didn’t think, except of the prophecy, falling to his knees to grab it and instantly getting every part of him trampled by the crowd. He howled, but it was no use, no one would be able to hear him over the identical sounds of anguish surrounding him. And if they did, they wouldn’t care. Instead they all trampled over him, and for a fleeting moment, after he could feel his trunk’s handle securely held in his hand, he thought of his parents, and his promise to not go far.

I’m sorry, he thought to his mother, but couldn’t bring himself to feel for his father at all, only picturing the porcelain white skull mask of another faceless Voldemort slave.

Then everything went dark.

-*-*-*-

“...could have gotten hurt…”

“...don’t understand…”

“Lucius, he’s our son!”

“It could be his life if I don’t do this.”

“What kind of a life would it be, then? Lucius, you don’t know how it felt the first time, you can’t. It was terrifying. I didn’t know if you were dead, if you were caught - and Lucius by Merlin I didn’t know if when you were hurt it was from an Auror or - or from him.”

Draco blinked, though it was a slow, groggy movement as his eyelids felt heavy as rocks. The sounds around him were coming to him as if from underwater, and so he groaned and rolled his head back to make sense of it all. His mother and father… Those were the voices. And that patterned canopy bed, the soft covers, this was his bedroom. They were far from the campsite, from the Dark Mark, from all of it. They were safe -

So why did it feel wrong, then?

That’s when he remembered; he’d been running. As far from his family as he could get. But he clearly hadn’t gotten very far. Instead he’d been a little child, trapped in a world wider than he could ever have imagined, and he’d gotten hurt almost immediately.

If he was so helpless then, how was he possibly going to prevent Voldemort’s return?

With another groan he sat up this time, rubbing his eyes, and his parents ceased their arguing at once, so that when he lowered his hands and got his first good look around him at his familiar bedroom, they were both turned towards him at the doorway.

“Draco!” His mother sighed, face breaking into a relieved smile as she rushed forward to hold him gently, though even that caused him to wince from the pressure on his throat.

“Ma -” He tried to speak but all that came out was a raspy sort of gasp that caused him great pain as he instantly pushed his mother off to lie back down, placing a hand on his throat, wincing. His father now stepped forward too, and even without the mask he still looked like the faceless man Draco had seen swarming through his dreams and nightmares.

“Don’t try to speak, Draco, it’ll only make it worse. You were in a crowd surge, and you fell. The nurse said you have asphyxia, but you should be healed in a matter of days.”

Draco frowned. He wanted to scream, punch, and kick, but instead he’d awoken more trapped than he could imagine in this house, being bedridden and helpless. Oh what would his friends say if they saw him now…

“Don’t worry, darling,” his mother cooed, having sat down on the side of his bed and begun running a hand through his hair, “your father has it all sorted with the Minister. We’ll be getting tickets to the next World Cup to make up for this catastrophe.”

Draco blinked. But… hadn’t his father been the one to cause such a catastrophe? He knew that, why were they pretending - Oh.

It clicked, and with it so did a sour, acidic taste falling onto his tongue. They had lied to Fudge, and they were even lying to him, because they’d settled back into the perfect little Malfoy family bubble as easy as breathing, like nothing had happened. Like his father hadn’t openly told them he cared more for loyalty to Voldemort than his family. Like it hadn’t been clear by the trunk in Draco hand - which he now saw was safely set beside his bed, still locked - that he’d been running. From them.

But something within him, some instinct, or voice, told him to play along. He was trapped within the Manor now, against the wishes of his letter, so why not use the proximity to Death Eater ranks to his advantage?

“He better have compensated us,” He wheezed out instead, coughing harshly in his fist before finishing, with a sick smirk, “look at what lax security causes? Could’ve had Muggle blood on his hands.”

While his father seemed pleased, his mother’s smile quavered, and she shot a glance at her husband. Her worry that her little son was falling back into the dark place his father desired of him was almost enough for Draco to snap out of it, to hug her, and reassure her he’d never go far. But he didn’t. Instead he nodded along when she hurriedly told him to rest and not use his voice anymore, and waved a hand to beckon a house-elf who’d been busying herself cleaning the floors forwards to request a cup of tea with honey. With that, and a final glare at her husband, his mother left, leaving the men alone.

“Rest well, Draco,” his father nodded to him, and started to leave.

“Dad?”

He paused at the doorway and turned again, hands poised on his cane. It occurred to Draco they were still in their clothes from yesterday, though it was well into the morning. His father looked exhausted, and for the first time it occurred to Draco that he must have rushed, and risked his own discovery by the Ministry, to get his son to safety. And the way he looked at him… It almost looked as if he cared.

“You told me -” He coughed again - by Merlin it hurt to talk - and he swore he saw his father’s hand flinch at his side before dropping again, as if he had been about to comfort him. “You told me once that becoming a Death Eater is a choice, but after you do, you’ll never get a choice again. You work for Him. So I’m asking you,” he straightened up in his bed so he could look his father straight in the eye, eyes they shared to a tee, “if you could go back, would you do it again?”

Perhaps he was looking for some justification, some defense, some something that could point to his dad being one and the same with the one from the future. And for a moment, he saw it, in the flash of pure humanity in his father’s eyes.

Then the mask slid over his face once more, and he smiled tightly.

“Get some rest, son.”

The door shut silently, and Draco lay back down, frowning up at the canopy of his bed. He hadn’t answered, and Draco really hadn’t expected he would, but he needed to know. Would he become a Death Eater again, if given the choice? Was it truly the acts of a foolish kid fresh out of Hogwarts? That’s what he’d told himself for years, really, even during second year, when all evidence pointed to his father being pure evil.

But in the end that flash of humanity had been there, and it hadn’t been the first time he’d seen it. Just as Perfect Cissy was his Mom, Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater was still Dad.

He has to be, Draco thought as he closed his eyes, picturing the shell of his father who’d spoken to him two months ago, giving him nothing but vague hints and clues as to what he was to do to stop some uncertain doom, or else what is this all for?

Chapter Text

Thursday, September 1st, 1994

Draco frowned at the bustling atmosphere of King’s Cross Station moving all around him, shivering in his robes, which had been soaked in the mere moments he and his parents had spent under the rain after apparating into the Leaky Cauldron and walking here. Of course his return to Hogwarts had to be met with a downpour, because he couldn’t be greeted with a good omen for a change, now, could he?

He coughed as they hurried towards the barrier, his father driving a path through Muggles as usual, and his mother turned to hand him a handkerchief. He really didn’t need it, his throat was sore but crowd surges didn’t give you colds, nor did a few minutes in the rain, but he accepted it anyway with a tight smile. He’d learned in the last couple of weeks of summer at the Manor that it was best to smile and nod sometimes.

They slipped behind a crowd and stepped through the barrier together, into the much more comfortable world of wizards and witches running around with their luggage and pets. Draco ducked a barn owl flying over his head, turning and smiling fondly at the little firstie chasing after it. How did they get so much smaller every year?

“Draco!”

He turned and beamed at the sound of Hermione’s voice, waving wildly from the train. She was standing with the Weasley family and Harry, who were all waving to Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, and Lupin.

She turned and tapped Ron and Harry’s shoulders, and Ron nodded with a smile while Harry positively lit up, swinging himself off the train and bounding forwards.

“Harry!” The others called after him and Draco chuckled as he skidded to a halt.

“What are you doing, Scarhead?” he drawled, folding his arms.

“Saying ‘hi’,” Harry shrugged, and for a moment, he stared at Draco, then when the moment got maybe a bit too long he turned and nodded to his parents. “Hi,” he said. Draco snorted.

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” his father said dryly, nodding to him, then turning to his son. “Draco, may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Draco and Harry chorused, and the two of them glanced at each other, and Harry awkwardly smiled, backing away. “So that’s er -” he pointed between Draco’s mom and Sirius. “That’s your cousin.”

As the two fell into stilted small talk Draco and his father stepped aside, Lucius clasping a tight hand around his son. With a quick glance at the crowd around him he bent slightly, so that he could regard him seriously.

“Remember what I said about the Triwizard Tournament,” he said lowly, “it would bring great -”

“Honor to the family name, I know, Dad…” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes, then remembering his act and instead holding his father’s gaze, smirking. “If nothing else I can get a leg up on Harry, right?”

But his father didn’t seem amused. “This will be a big year for you, I trust you not to let the family name down. No matter what classes…” he looked to the side, his upper lip curling for a moment, “you choose.”

Draco frowned, and with a great deal of effort forced out an admittedly weak, “I won’t, Father,” despising every second of it. So what if he liked Divination, and Muggle Studies… So what if he was never going to enter the Triwizard… That just meant he wasn’t going to die like an idiot for honor, or his family’s name. Could his father really say the same?

“Goodbye, Draco,” his father squeezed his shoulder lightly, then nudged him forwards. Draco quickly hurried back to give his mother a hug and kiss on the cheek, then stepped up to Harry.

“Thank God,” he sighed, “I was about to ask your mom where she bought her robes!”

Draco laughed goodnaturedly, though felt a part of him still lay behind. He quickly said ‘hello’ to Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, and Lupin, and climbed onto the train beside Ron and Hermione and the other Weasley’s, but as soon as he’d pulled his trunk and owl cage with him he looked back out at the crowd.

Almost instantly he found the blonde heads of his parents, raising hands to wave goodbye to him. For the first time all summer, they didn’t look like the perfect couple from the magazines. They looked as exhausted as they had the morning after the riot, maybe even worse, and stood at least a foot from each other. As Draco waved back, he didn’t smile. He couldn’t make this fake. This was real and raw.

“Goodbye,” he mouthed, and felt the chasm between them shatter into a distance that felt like the distance between Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor itself.

With that he turned away from them, and stepped inside the train.

“Whoo,” Ron shook his head like a dog, tiny water droplets flying at his friends, who all flinched. “Thought she’d never say goodbye. Let’s find a compartment.”

The four of them broke away from his siblings to the nearest empty compartment, and they slipped inside. Immediately Ron opened his trunk and pulled out a set of - dress… robes?

“Ron…” Draco said slowly, lowering his trunk onto the luggage rack and sitting down carefully across from the monstrosity of clothing now draped over Ron’s new owl’s cage. “What are those?”

“Huh?” Ron looked from the dress robes to Draco and rolled his eyes, flopping down beside Harry. “Oh, those… Mum says they’re ‘dress robes.’ ’Spect they’re for the Triwizard. Thanks for the tip for that by the way, Malfoy, Gin doesn’t know a thing!”

Draco winced a smile, though he was still focused on the travesty that was Ron’s clothes. He felt a sudden sink of pity, considering his was very poor, but suddenly felt eyes on him and turned to meet a familiar pair of emeralds.

“What?”

“I just asked what you know about the other two schools.”

“Oh! Right…” Draco straightened, turning to face his friends and assuming his I-Am-Draco-And-I-Know-The-Most-In-This-Group demeanor. “Well it’s called the Triwizard for a reason. There are three schools, the biggest in Britain; Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. Now I don’t know much about Beauxbatons, but we all met a couple in the woods. Their Headmistress must be that ‘Maxime’ they talked about. I think I’ve heard about her… She’s well… She’s suspected to be a half-giant. Big gossip point at parties when she became Headmistress.

“Now Durmstrang I do know. I was almost sent there, actually. My father wanted me to go to a school more accepting of the Dark Arts, if that tells you what they’re like, but my mother didn’t want me far away. It’s far North, Durmstrang. In the end I got to choose.”

“Why?”

“What?” He turned to frown at Hermione, who was watching him curiously.

“Why did you choose Hogwarts? No offense Draco but, well, before we were friends you were a bit of a…”

“Prat.” Ron finished with a good natured smile.

“You can say it,” Draco said, just as casually, “I know. I suppose I just liked it here. Whenever I came here for business trips with my dad, I always felt at peace. At home. I remember once I even got to go up to the Astronomy Tower. I fell in love with it on sight. It’s very peaceful really…”

He trailed off, glancing out the window listlessly, thinking of simpler times when he was just a young boy, making a decision he didn’t realize then would define his future.

“Regardless,” he said after a time, turning back to his friends, “Durmstrang’s got a bad reputation, but they can’t all be bad. I think this’ll all be fun.”

“Are you considering entering?” Harry asked, leaning forwards curiously, and Draco immediately shook his head, scoffing.

“Merlin, no. I may be a Gryffindor but I do try not to be senselessly courageous at times. I mean really, there’s nothing courageous about signing your own death warrant.”

Ron looked deflated, mumbling about how ‘it would feel good though’ and Harry frowned. “‘Death warrant?’”

“Why do you think it got discontinued?” he said.

“People have died, Harry,” said Hermione in the usual over-dramatic voice of hers. “It’s not exactly like, well… what you’re used to.”

He looked taken aback. “What do you mean what I’m used to?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco began tacking off on his fingers, “trapdoor leading straight to You-Know-Who, Chamber of Secrets leading straight to You-Know-Who, how about all those Dementors last year?”

“Yeah well, all those times you were all with me,” Harry said, cheeks turning pink. “I was just sort of making it up as I went along…”

“Exactly,” said Hermione smartly. “But the Triwizard’s not like that. It’s supposed to really test your skills, not just luck.”

Draco personally thought Harry was very skillful and not reliant on luck in all of those occasions, but felt that was treading too close to ‘crush’ territory to say. Instead he removed from his trunk a copy of Unfogging the Future and stared at the pages on prophecies he’d already read a hundred times over, not really reading, instead picturing Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face.

Within ten minutes, there was a knock on the glass and he looked up to still be seeing that face. He blinked, realizing that yes, in fact, this one was real.

“Hullo,” Justin said, waving with a smile and awkwardly stepping in. Draco beamed, snapping his book shut and trying to recline in his best-looking position.

“Hello, Justin,” he said smoothly, then cursed in his mind at how corny that sounded and how he looked, hoping no one noticed (They did. Ron, Hermione, Macmillan, and Abbott were all beside themselves with laughter, though Harry only had a thin smile on. Weird).

“Hi,” Justin repeated, and for a moment the two of them simply stared at each other. Draco didn’t know how long the moment lasted before Ron coughed and Draco weakly asked, “So… good summer?”

Justin shrugged. “S’alright. But the World Cup sounded fun!”

“‘Sounded?’” Harry asked behind him.

“Justin and I’ve been penning over the summer,” Draco said, not looking away from him. Had he gotten more freckles in the summer sun? They made him look oh so cute…

“So, you know what’s happening at Hogwarts this year?” He asked, sitting up and wiggling his eyebrows, taunting him with his forbidden knowledge.

“No…” Justin said cautiously, though there was a bit of a mischievous smile to his frown. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you’re scared of a little danger,” Draco drawled, standing up slowly and relishing in how he’d grown to be a good foot taller than the Hufflepuff over the summer. “Are you?”

“Of course not,” Justin scoffed, a blush to his cheeks now with Draco standing; he’d clearly noticed the height difference as well.

“Pity I’m allowed back in Hogsmeade, though,” He said, sighing as he tucked his hands into his pocket and turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Would’ve been nice to sneak in for our first date.”

“Right -” Justin chuckled then stopped abruptly, face bright red. Ron snorted, Hermione hummed, Macmillan pumped a fist in the air and Abbott sighed, already digging in her pockets for payment for a bet, clearly. Harry said nothing.

“First Hogsmeade weekend, Three Broomsticks,” Draco said, winking at him as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leading him to the door. “See you there.”

“It’s a date,” Justin beamed, and stood on tiptoe to peck Draco’s cheek. Draco felt a thrill of embarrassment of his own at the initiation by him, but when he blinked the trio of Hufflepuff’s were gone.

Instantly Ron applauded.

“Congrats, mate!” He said, holding up his hand for a high five, “you’re the first of us with a date!”

“Not so hard,” Draco shrugged, flopping back down in his seat. “Like I said, we were penning all summer. About time someone got it over with.”

He, maybe just to prove something to himself, pointedly avoided looking at Harry for the rest of the train ride, instead burying himself in his book, and the journal he’d started in second year and forgotten about last year, but had been filling with theories on the prophecy the past summer. His writing was quite disjointed, but then again so were his thoughts on the matter. The most he could put together was how prophecies were made, and were supposedly stored in the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Mysteries. However, this was only a guess, as no other department made sense. Unfortunately by nature the Department was mystery; the people who worked there were even called Unspeakables, and therefore had taken oaths to never reveal their work in the Ministry’s depths.

It could be a prime hive for Death Eater’s, where this prophecy had been stolen from his future father, for all Draco knew. It was a theory he found worth writing down, though.

As the rain pounded on, their compartment was busy with visitors. First Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom, who settled in to discuss the Cup with Ron and Harry, then the trolley witch, from which Harry bought a stack of Cauldron Cakes to share. By this point Hermione had broken in their new Standard Book of Spells and was attempting Summoning Charms on the cakes.

But for the most part the journey was silent, and eventually the train rolled to a stop as the teens finished clasping their robe collars. Heads bent against the downpour of rain, the group trudged through the crowd.

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry called out to their gargantuan friend, who as usual towered over the first years he called towards him.

“All righ,’ Harry?” Hagrid turned and called back, face only visible by the light of the lantern swinging in his hand. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”

Draco frowned out at the lake, shivering at the prospect of having to be a firstie, fearing for your life in the rain and a little rickety boat. Great first experience of Hogwarts, huh?

“Oooh,” Hermione shivering beside him, seemingly on the same wavelength. “I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather.”

Slowly, they inched forwards along the dark platform until they came to the horseless carriages that always stood waiting to take second years and up to the castle. Draco, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Longbottom climbed into one as Finnigan and Thomas broke off for Patil and Brown, and Draco paused for a moment to look out into the rain for signs of his other Slytherin friends.

“C’mon, Draco, you’re letting all the rain in,” Ron grumbled, and, frowning, Draco shut the door.

“I’m sure they just found their own carriage,” Hermione reassured him, and he shrugged.

“Yeah, I’m not worried, I just…” He trailed off, looking out into the window at the dark expanse of rainy night. What was he, exactly? A part of him didn’t want to see his friends, really, he supposed he’d just been hoping to catch a glance to reassure himself that a part of that life on the other side of the chasm, the life of purebloods and parties and friends he made from toddler age, still existed.

He leaned against the glass moodily as the carriages rolled up the cobblestone path to the castle, feeling he wanted the night to be over so he could get a good night’s rest and have a clear head to focus on nothing but school in the morning.

A bright flash of lightning startled him out of his revere, lighting up the front oak doors to the castle; they were here.

Hurriedly, the group of five dashed up the steps into the safety of the warm, torch-lit Entrance Hall, and they all instantly wrang out their cloaks and shook water from their hair, Draco bending down to remove his boots and empty them of water.

“Blimey,” Ron panted, “if that keeps up, the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak - ARGH!”

Draco jumped to the side instinctively, ramming into Longbottom, as Ron staggered sideways into Harry. A large water balloon had just fallen from the ceiling straight unto his red head, and exploded, freshly showering him in water.

Soon, the whole entrance hall was full of people staggering around and slipping as they were plummeted with water balloons. Draco, ducking behind Longbottom for cover, looked up and narrowed his eyes upon Peeves the Poltergeist, cackling madly down at them.

“PEEVES!” Draco looked around, seeing Professor McGongall, his Head of House, in a rare state of anger, dashing out of the Great Hall. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!”

She slid across the wet floor, arms flailing wildly, one wrapping around Hermione’s neck to steady herself.

“Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -”

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped.

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” McGonagall straightened and called up to Peeves, glaring with a force that would make most firsties fear for their lives.

“Not doing nothing!” Peeves cackled, still lobbing water bombs at the crowd. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!”

“I shall call the Headmaster! I’m warning you, Peeves-”

Peeves turned and glared down at her, stuck out his tongue, and threw up his last balloon. Draco stepped backwards and let it shatter over Longbottom’s head, who instantly looked depressed.

“Always me…” he grumbled, as McGonagall ushered them all forwards into the Great Hall.

They waved off Harry, who crossed to the Slytherin table and sat with the other fourth years, before turning to sit with the Gryffindors, specifically beside the House ghost, Nearly Headless Nick.

“Good evening,” he said, and Ron grumbled a grumpy response, Longbottom crossing his arms over the table and dropping his head on them.

Draco and Hermione, for their part, tried their best to look away from them and focus on the Sorting, so as not to have their mood also bogged down (more than Draco’s already was, that is).

They were turned back around, however, by a familiar whisper.

“Psst!” Looking around, they spotted, completely passable with how small he was, the third year Colin Creevey, waving at them excitedly.

“Hello, Colin,” Draco said, his voice a dry mumble, though the little boy did bring a smile to his face. He’d grown to like Colin over the years.

“Guess what, guys? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!”

Draco blinked. Yes, he liked Colin, but the image of having a second, even smaller Creevey running around was a bit much.

“That’s… great, Colin. Really great,” he gave him a thumbs up as Hermione beamed encouragingly beside him.

“He’s really excited!” Colin exclaimed, looking as if he was the one about to be Sorted. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Though it would be cool if he was in Slytherin, like Harry! Right, Draco?”

“Sure…” Draco drawled, turning away with an eye roll. Colin had always had an excessive obsession with Harry. Draco obviously could not relate.

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Hermione suddenly, and Draco turned to look up at the staff table, frowning at the empty chair beside the otherwise unbothered looking Professor Dumbledore, who was staring up at the enchanted ceiling, now depicting the stormy gray of the rain outside, thoughtfully. They were all used to seeing a new face each year there by now, but unless their DADA teacher this year was invisible, Dumbledore seemed to have failed to get one.

Hermione said as much, and Draco, for a moment, considered suggesting it was at last given to Severus but no, there was no new face to replace him as Potions Master either.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron grumbled, “I could eat a Hippogriff.”

Immediately following those words the doors to the Great Hall swung open and Professor McGonagall strode in, leading a pack of sopping wet first years. All looked scared and cold, save for a boy who was distinctly Colin’s brother, with the same mousey hair and jubilant smile, or stood out absurdly from the rest in Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat.

Draco blinked. Why on earth -

Then he turned to his brother and, all the while grinning, mouthed, “I fell in the lake!”

Draco now joined Ron and Neville in dropping his head to the table. Such was his exhaustion he paid the Sorting Hat no mind when it sang its usual tale of the Founders’ friendship and different views and how they formed the Houses and blah… blah… blah… You know, Ron was right, where was the food?

He was startled alert only when the Great Hall applauded around him, and joined in belatedly, tiredly turned his attention to Dumbledore, now standing before him all with his arms splayed.

“I have only two words to say to you,” he declared. “Tuck in.”

“Hear, hear!” Draco and Ron chorused, immediately diving to fill their plates with their favorites. As Draco had his fill of turkey and baked potatoes, Ron and Hermione delved into a discussion on Peeves’ abhorrent behavior with Nick. Draco felt it hadn’t been any worse than the usual, but apparently it had at least been provoked in the eyes of the Poltergeist; a protest to not being allowed into the Sorting Ceremony.

Draco still didn’t find much of it worth note, which is why he startled at Hermione’s sudden rise in temper, pausing in taking a swig of pumpkin juice. She’d just knocked over her own goblet, eyes wide on Nick, manically.

“There are house-elves here?” she exclaimed, “Here at Hogwarts?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Yes, Dobby had thoroughly convinced and shown him how unjust house-elf treatment was, but for her to not notice… how did she expect all this food was made? How did Muggles do it? Themselves?

“Certainly,” Nearly Headless Nick said, looking rightly surprised. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”

“I’ve never seen one!”

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they? They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning... see to the fires and so on... I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?”

Draco winced. That was most certainly not the right thing to say to Hermione Granger. Pale and horrified, she gawped at the even paler ghost.

“But they get paid?” she squeaked. “They get holidays, don’t they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?”

Draco now pushed aside his plate, feeling quite uncomfortable, as Nick laughed hard enough to knock his head off his shoulders, Hermione turning very pink. Even Ron was looking up cautiously now, clearly bothered by Nick’s reaction.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he chortled, “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!”

Draco winced, leaning back and trying to look anywhere but at Hermione, appetite entirely gone now.

“Oh, c’mon, ‘Er-my-knee,” said Ron through a mouthful of food as Hermione too pushed away her food. He swallowed, yelling, “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!”

“Slave labor,” Hermione breathed, “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.”

The table was quiet save for the sound of the downpour outside, the occasional clap of thunder or crackle of lightning, and attempts from Ron to get his friends to indulge in dessert.

It was useless, though, Draco had turned his attention to Dumbledore, watching him patiently for the moment he’d stand to give the opening speech. Only once the plates had been cleared to crumbs did he stand however, calling the Great Hall to immediate silence by his mere presence.

“So!” He declared, “Now that we are all fed and watered,” Hermione gave a loud harumph. “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it. As ever, I would like to remind you all that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-house Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

All at once, those not privy to the fact that the Triwizard Tournament would be happening started to shout their disbelief. Draco was sure if Oliver Wood, his old Quidditch Captain, was still here he’d probably faint.

“Damn,” Ron cursed, “Didn’t think about that.”

Draco shrugged, but didn’t fail to notice the way his shoulders slumped more than they should’ve. He wasn’t on the team, after all, unless he’d been planning, in Wood’s absence…

In any case his hopes for Quidditch would have to wait until fifth year.

Dumbledore called the hall back to order and continued.

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -”

With a rumble of thunder that boomed above Dumbledore’s voice, drowning him out, the doors to the Great Hall banged inward, and everyone turned in their seats towards the commotion.

A man was standing there, leaning against a staff, dripping from his black traveling cloak. As a fork of flighting struck down from the heavens outside the windows, he was lit up, to reveal a chiseled, aged face, like one carved from wood, and graying hair. The light faded, and he began to walk up to the teachers’ dais.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

It was rude, probably, but every eye in the hall couldn’t help following the man’s right leg, which moved unnaturally, stiff, and there was a dull clunk every time it hit the floor. A wooden leg, and maybe that is what made it click in Draco’s brain why the imposing figure seemed faintly familiar the way one does from only stories. He'd never met The man, but he knew, somehow, that this was -

“Mad-Eye Moody,” Draco whispered, his friends turning to him, looking confused.

“What?”

“That’s Mad-Eye Moody,” Draco repeated, and when he reached Dumbledore, stretching an arm out from under his cloak to shake his hand, this became more apparent. Another flash of lightning struck across the sky, and his face was illuminated for all to see; scarred and aged from years of work as the Ministry’s best Auror, and a false eye, electric blue, flitting around in his head, seeing everything, even out of the back of his skull.

Draco had heard all the stories, and, wild or not they appeared, they all seemed to be true.

Dumbledore gestured to the empty seat at his right hand side, and Draco watched, gobsmacked, as the famous Mad-Eye Moody took his seat as their new DADA professor.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Dumbledore announced, to total stunned silence, “Professor Moody.”

New staff always got applause (swooning, too, if you were Lockhart), but the room remained in still silence, only Dumbledore clapping politely and Hagrid over-enthusiastically before glancing around and stopping, embarrassed.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered in Draco’s ear, “What happened to his face?”

“Dunno…” Ron whispered, and Draco shook his head, pressing his lips together. The sort of horror stories his father’s friends told at parties were not to be shared after mealtimes.

As Moody took a long swig from a private hip-flask, instead of simply drinking the pumpkin juice right in front of him, proving another rumor, Dumbledore turned back to the students, casually resuming his speech. “As I was saying, we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event which has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

And just like that the silence was shattered by a shout of, “You’re JOKING!” from Fred Weasley.

The hall instead erupted with laughter, Ron possibly the hardest, looking beyond delighted to have known something his brother didn’t for so long. It brought an easy smile to Draco’s face, knowing he made that happen.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore said with a light chuckle, “though, now you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag and a leprechaun who all go into a bar -”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat over his shoulder and he stopped himself.

“Er - but maybe this is not the time… no… Where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this Tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely…”

Draco did, only coming to after his drawl about unity between witches and wizards of varying nationalities led to the ‘death toll’ part, to which Hermione balked.

“Death toll?” she whispered, but Draco could only shrug, because the excitement surrounding them, not caring of the death toll, was palpable. Soon the small smile Ron’s laughter had brought to his face spread, and Draco felt, perhaps the lightest he had in months, as he listened, faintly, to Dumbledore describing the details of the Tournament. Mostly he was imagining a year of watching it, the Tasks, the Yule Ball… Having fun.

And when Dumbledore said that due to the high death toll there had been an age limit introduced? Well, he was hardly one of the people crying out in outrage, was he? No, he was positively thrilled! Now he’d just have to write a simple letter to Father in the morning explaining this change in rules and how there was nothing for him to do about it. So sorry, so sad.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October, and remaining with us for the greater part of this year.” Dumbledore continued, as the hall stewed in their anger at not being able to go get themselves killed at fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen (Draco hoped the first to third years were at least a little sensible). “I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

All at once, people stood, heading in a mob rush for the doors, talking madly to each other.

“They can’t do that!” George Weasley was saying angrily, glaring up at Dumbledore, “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred, also glaring. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Yeah…” Ron muttered, “Yeah, a thousand Galleons…”

Draco gave him a skeptical look. “Weasley, I know you’re… unusually tight for money and all that -” Hermione stepped on his foot with her heel, hard. “Ow. But c’mon, you wouldn’t kill yourself for it, would you?”

“What makes you think I’m not up for it?” He turned and demanded, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“The Tournament’s meant for really skilled witches and wizards, not kids who haven’t even taken their O.W.L’s. I’m not saying I’m better than you. Not even Hermione is at the level of a Triwizard Champion, right Hermione?”

Hermione shook her head, hugging herself. “I don’t know much about it, but from what I’ve read it’s supposed to be really dangerous…”

“OK, OK, I get it,” Ron said, waving a hand and walking ahead of them slightly. “No need to crush my dreams and all…”

They continued walking, and in the awkward silence Draco found a way to bring a smile to his friends’ faces again when the twins walked past, discussing ways to trick Dumbledore’s methods, whatever they may be.

“We should’ve taken bets on how long it would take ‘em to resort to cheating,” he muttered lowly, so only they could hear, and they did both smile. Point Draco.

They reached the portrait hole, where the Fat Lady asked them, “Password?” pompously.

“Balderdash,” said George, “a Prefect downstairs told me.”

They stepped inside, sighing in the comforting warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room. Draco swore he heard Hermione mutter ‘slave labour’ before turning for the girls’ dormitories staircase, but shrugged it off, pointedly avoiding looking at all the well kept furniture so he could go to bed on an easy mind.

Up to the boys’ dormitories Draco, Ron, and Longbottom climbed, Draco taking his usual bed at the back of the room by the window, passing Thomas tracking up a poster of Viktor Krum beside one of a strange Muggle sports team. Draco squinted at this one for only a moment, before shrugging and unlatching his trunk, set on changing and going straight to bed.

He paused for a moment at the sight of his wadded up socks in the corner of the trunk, however, and slowly, with a glance over his shoulder, removed them, slipping a hand in and sighing as he felt the cool surface of the prophecy, safe and secure. He then hid it away again and changed quickly into his silk pajamas, hopping into bed.

The boys were whispering quietly about the Tournament, but Draco’s eyes were drooping. He thought he heard, distantly, someone calling his name, but they soon gave up and the room was silent again, just in time for him to fully slip into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of forests and patronuses. Two Stags chasing each other through the trees.