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Chapter Text

London, August 1981

Helen,

If you are reading this, then our fears have come to pass, and our sweet girl has been placed upon your doorstep. Forgive the cruelty of such a delivery, but we had no other choice. Danger draws nearer with every passing hour, and there are whispers of the Dark Lord seeking us out. We could not risk her life falling at the hand of his wand.

Our girl, Hermione Alouette Aeron, is all that remains of our family’s legacy. She is innocent of the darkness that surrounds us, yet marked by it through no fault of her own. I beg of you, take her in as though she were your blood. Raise her with love, shield her with the strength only you can offer, and let her grow in naivety rather than the darkness of our world.

We ask of you not to reveal her true identity, even to her, as her life depends on it. Helen, you and Richard are the only living people we trust to raise her, as no one else alive knows of her existence. We insist that it be this way. She will understand when the time is right why these decisions were made, as the truth will reveal itself when it is most imperative. 

We have warded her with every protective charm we know, but such spells fade with time. It is your heart that will guard her truly, for there is nothing more protective than a mother’s love and embrace. We leave her warm in her favourite swaddle, a fragment of us to keep her warm. Know that with every stitch and every whispered charm, we have poured our love into it, and into her. A part of us will always be with her this way.

If fate is cruel, then she is now yours, my dearest friend. And how lucky is she to have you, Helen. Even if it means we have to part ways. Love her, protect her, let her be a child. Should trouble find you, call for Dulcie and she’ll know what to do. 

One last thing, though I know we needn’t ask: she must grow up beneath your surname. Let her be Hermione Alouette Granger, though she shall forever be known to us as an Aeron. A final gift to our sweet girl, and a reminder of the life and love we leave behind. 

Her birthday is September 19, 1979.

With all our love and more,

Daisy and Aurélien

Chapter Text

The Longbottom Estate, February 1999

The Battle of Hogwarts was meant to be an ending. The final fight, if you will. With the horcruxes destroyed and the link between Riddle and Harry severed, it should have marked the end of a war. No one could have foreseen what came next. 

The prophecy had spoken of the Dark Lord’s fall at the hands of the Chosen One. But prophecy, it seemed, could be broken.

At their last confrontation, when it became clear that the Elder Wand would not obey him, Riddle faltered. Instead of falling, as so many believed he would, he fled wounded. Retreating with his followers in the chaos of Harry’s ambiguous defeat. When the dust settled and the Order gathered in the Great Hall, uncertainty clouded every face. How was he still alive? Riddle should have died the moment his curse rebounded.

With the dark side rallying its followers once more, the Order, and all who stood with them, were driven into hiding. Safe houses appeared across the country, families fleeing and abandoning their homes in desperation of surviving. Death Eater raids grew more frequent, each more devastating than the last, the death toll rising with each passing day.

And so began the Dark Days.

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Snow had been falling in white sheets for weeks, and the stoney facade of the egregious manor now seemed to blend seamlessly into the wintry backdrop. The ivy that had long crept along its walls lay frozen mid-climb, as if caught in time, yet still determined in its resolve to move forward. Every surface shimmered with stillness, a testament to the world locked within.

Inside, the manor felt like a preserved time capsule that was buried back in the late seventies. There was an unsettling sense that nothing had changed. Almost as though that everything remained precisely as it had been the day that Frank and Alice Longbottom lost themselves to madness. 

The estate had stood abandoned for seventeen years ever since the attack. Apart from the house elves that tended to its upkeep, no one had crossed its hallowed halls. Grief had sealed the doors, as if those who remained could not bear to face the walls that had once promised protection but failed to keep it.

The Longbottom Estate opened its doors to the Order in early September, becoming a central hub for planning, recalibration, training, and protection. Its permanent residents were few, mainly the Weasley family since the loss of the Burrow. Harry, Hermione, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Emmeline Vance also remained permanently within its walls. 

It was Neville who had offered the manor as a refuge, insisting that it was what his parents would have wanted. A safe place for the Order to rebuild its strength and act as headquarters. Yet even then, he could not bring himself to live inside the home. Hermione recalled he had mentioned something along the lines of not ever living there until the day his parents returned home. He stayed at the Patil Priory where the infirmary was set up and he could assist with gardening for the multitude of healing potion ingredients needed.

Today had begun ordinarily, about as ordinarily you could get in these times. Hermione woke while the stars were still awake, her hair matted from tossing and turning in the midst of sleep, twisted in her night shirt and craving a warm mug of chamomile tea. The patterned wool socks Mrs. Weasley had knitted for her two winters ago slipped from her feet as she walked, stretched thin from the frequency in which she sought their comfort.

Ginny was sound asleep in the bed beside her, sprawled out like a starfish, her ginger hair one careless turn away from becoming breakfast. Hermione couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her friend before quietly slipping from the room and padding down the hallway toward the kitchen. It was moment’s like these that she valued the most.

The Longbottom’s were an eccentric family who had unsubscribed from the Pureblood idealism long before the term ‘blood traitor’ was coined. Their ancestral home, though old, pulsed with the same warmth and vibrancy that the Weasleys seemed to breathe into everything that they touched. The air carried the sweetness of Molly’s freshly baked muffins, while the low-burning fireplaces bathed the rooms in a soft, golden glow. Trinkets, artwork, and furniture that had been curated and cherished over generations seemed to hum with life again. Hermione had never felt so close to and yet so far from home at the same time.

Rising before the sun broke across the horizon had become routine for Hermione. An instinctual need to ensure that everything was okay before the others stirred. Harry wasn’t far behind, often already awake from the nightmares that refused to let him rest. This morning was no different. Without a word, they slipped into a familiar rhythm inside the kitchen. Harry reached for their favourite mugs and set out the tea bags, while Hermione heated the kettle and placed a plate with muffins on the breakfast table. It was these small unspoken moments between them that Hermione enjoyed. She often had the thought that it was one of the many reasons she loved Harry: he never needed to ask, to explain, or to understand. He was simply there.

As the first rays of sunlight crept through the window, Harry finally broke the silence. “You prepared for the mission?” He asked. 

Hermione hesitated, humming thoughtfully before giving a quiet nod. She sipped her tea, then asked softly, “Do you think we’ll ever have a normal life Harry?”

He chuckled, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Staring into the swirling remnants of his tea, he answered, “Nothing about our lives will be normal, I’m afraid.”

The conversation ended there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It wasn’t long before the house began to stir, footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen in search of tea and breakfast. As Monday morning set in, the familiar routine of the briefing loomed, and both Aurors and Order members slowly gathered in the old drawing room, now a meeting hall, to await Kingsley’s arrival. The space filled quickly with the low murmur of conversation, the buzz of voices catching up with friends and colleagues they maybe hadn’t seen in weeks.

Hermione sat near the front of the room beside Ron and Harry. Ron was grumbling, loud enough for half the room to hear, about Ginny nicking his muffin and trying to pin the blame on Mundungus. “She honestly thinks I’m that thick? As if I’d forget Fletcher’s a traitor who ran off to the dark side because he’s got no backbone.” He scoffed, shooting a glare at the youngest Weasley. Ginny, utterly unbothered, only smirked back at her brother and took another exaggerated, slow bite of the muffin in question, closing her eyes and humming dramatically as though it were the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. Which to be fair, could be true. 

Harry bit back a laugh, and Hermione gave him a knowing look. Ron’s temper, Ginny’s cheek, and their endless sparring was something that would never change, it seemed.

Ron groaned, throwing his hands up. “Merlin’s beard, you’re insufferable. That was the last decent thing left in the kitchen, and now I’m stuck with rations.”

Ginny licked a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth with deliberate slowness. “Funny, I don’t hear anyone else complaining. Maybe if you ate faster—“ “That’s rich coming from you,” Ron snapped, though the corners of his mouth twitched with barely concealed amusement. “Children,” Hermione cut in with a roll of her eyes, though she grinned at their bickering. “Honestly, it’s too early to challenge each other to a duel about muffins.”

Harry chuckled. “This is what counts as normal, isn’t it? Dark wizards and traitors plotting in the shadows, and Ron’s biggest battle is a stolen muffin.” Ron shot him a look. “Easy for you to say, mate. You weren’t the one planning to eat it.”

Ginny leaned back in her chair, victorious. “Constant vigilance, Ronald, constant vigilance.” She mimicked Moody’s rough voice, earning a chorus of amused laughs from those close enough to overhear the squabble. Ron flicked her the finger much to Molly’s chagrin.

For a moment, the room felt lighter, the weight of the coming briefing temporarily forgotten.

As Harry, Ron, and Ginny fell into comfortable chatter about Quidditch nonsense, Hermione let their voices fade into the background as she studied the hall around her. It had a certain distinct Victorian elegance. Beneath the corniced ceilings and polished wood, she could sense the weight of centuries hidden. The room seemed to speak to her the longer she tuned into it, as though the air itself carried a faint vibration of all that had passed within these walls.

It wasn’t just history she felt, but something closer. Something that tugged at her like an echo she almost recognised. Her fingertips brushed the back of the nearest chair, and for the briefest moment a warmth lingered there, a whisper of connection that made her skin prickle.

She drew in a breath, slightly unsettled. Old wizarding homes often held traces of magic, but this felt… different. Not foreign, not threatening. Simply familiar. Though she couldn’t have said why. 

It was as if her magic knew this place. 

Hermione shook herself back into focus, forcing a small smile as her friends laughter filled the hall. Still, a part of her remained attuned to that quiet resonance beneath it all, the answers she could feel but not name.

The seat next to her was suddenly occupied, and she lit up as she recognised Neville. “Nev! How are you?” She asked, perking up in her seat. “Hey Mi.” He smiled lopsidedly at her. “Boys, Gin.” He acknowledged before turning back to Hermione. “Not to shabby now I’m out of the infirmary,” He joked. Unknowingly, Hermione’s eyes flicked to trace the long scar that stretched from his left eyebrow, across his eye, to the middle of his cheek. 

Neville smiled more softly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” He assured, waving a hand toward the freshly healed wound. Hermione’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Neville, I didn’t mean-“ He chuckled, cutting off her flustered apology. “It’s ‘kay Mi. Just something I’ll get used to. Besides, Daph says it makes me look rugged, whatever that means.” He grinned, though Hermione’s expression softened, her smile carrying a trace of sadness at the mention of the Greengrass girl. 

“How is she doing?” Hermione asked gently.

Neville’s face brightened instantly at the chance to speak about Daphne. “She’s doing well, considering. Pomfrey reckons she’ll be out of the ward within the week.” His voice carried with relief. “That’s wonderful news, Nev.” Hermione returned his smile, quietly noting his growing affection for Daphne Greengrass. Their closeness since the attack had surprised no one.

That day still lingered heavily in her thoughts. A few weeks earlier, the Greengrass family had sent a distressed message requesting protection when Riddle’s followers had been hunting them down. Though they had publicly maintained their neutrality for years, the family had leaned toward supporting the light side. The slight had not gone unnoticed by the darker corners of wizarding society. Of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, the Nott, Malfoy, and Parkinson households in particular saw this as a betrayal by those they had once counted as allies and considered close friends.

It was a procedural task for Order members to escort families in distress to safehouses, and Neville and Dean had been assigned to the Greengrass mission. That day had begun like any other: an early morning meeting, tea and Mrs. Weasley’s egg muffins, then setting out on assigned tasks like usual. But shortly after eleven, just as their portkey was meant to arrive at the Longbottom Estate, disaster struck. Moments later, Neville’s patronus burst into the infirmary at Patil Priory, summoning help and alerting everyone that there were multiple casualties.

They later learned that Death Eaters had lain in wait and ambushed the family as they prepared to leave. All six were struck down in the assault, Yaxley himself apparently later boasting of their presumed deaths before the attackers finally dispersed. Neville had barely clung to consciousness, his body wracked with pain from repeated uses of the Cruciatus Curse and other hexes. Even so, he managed to hold on long enough to send a Patronus message for help. Kingsley and a team of Aurors arrived with enough time to extract Neville and Daphne from the carnage, rushing them to Pomfrey for immediate medical attention. Dean, along with Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass and Daphne’s younger sister, Astoria, had all died at the scene.

It had been touch and go for a time, but in the end Daphne pulled through, overcoming the brutal toll of the assault. The grief for her family remained. A dull, unrelenting ache that time might soften but never truly erase. Through it all, Neville stayed at her side, his quiet presence a steady source of comfort. They leaned on one another, bound by shared loss and unspoken understanding. 

In the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, loss had become something they were desensitised to. The Weasleys still grieved the hole left by Fred’s death, while Harry carried the weight of losing Lupin and Tonks - his last tie to his parents. Even among their school mates tragedy struck. Hermione learned that Michael Corner and his family had been ambushed by Death Eaters in early August, and Lisa Turpin’s family soon after met the same fate. Rumours spread that Slughorn had been collected for Riddle’s personal use, only to be disposed of when he refused to obey. Everyday more names went missing. The Order was overwhelmed with the need to help every one, but had to come to the harsh realisation that not everybody can be saved. That was a bitter pill Hermione had had to swallow. 

“Are you settling in well?” Neville asked, snapping Hermione out of her thoughts. She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s a bit strange, living somewhere with no personal connection. But it’s been wonderful nonetheless.”

“I get it,” Neville said with an understanding smile. “I’m still not used to living with the Patil family.” 

Hermione tilted her head. “Is it just you, Pomfrey, and them?”

“Yeah. Apart from whoever is in the infirmary. Everyone else from school is at McClaggen Manor.”

At the mention of Cormac’s family name, Hermione grimaced. “Merlin help anyone forced to share a room with Goldilocks.” She joked. 

Neville chuckled. “Seamus told me that he apparently walks around shirtless to try and impress Katie.” 

Hermione snorted before covering her mouth. The image was far too easy to picture. “Does he not realise that Katie bats for the other team?”

Neville grinned. “Funny isn’t it? He struts like a peacock but thinks like a flobberworm.”

They both laughed quietly, their amusement lingering in the comfortable silence that followed.

Hermione shook her head, still smiling faintly. The laughter ebbed into a softer quiet, the kind that only came when two people were at complete ease with each other. She glanced around the room, at the carved beams overhead and the way the firelight played against the stone walls. “It’s strange,” She whispered softly. “Staying here feels familiar sometimes. Almost like I’m at home.”

Neville tilted his head, surprised at her confession. “Really? That’s strange.”

“I know.” Hermione agreed, her brow furrowing as though she puzzled herself with it. “It just, well, it feels lived in. If that makes sense. Safe. Like I’ve walked these corridors before.” She paused, then quickly waved it off. “It must be because everyone’s here. Being surrounded by the people I love.” 

Neville studied her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “Funny you say that. I’ve felt the same sometimes, whenever I visit recently. Like the place remembers me even though it shouldn’t. I hadn’t been here since I was a baby.” He gave a small shrug, as if brushing off the thought. “Odd, isn’t it?”

Their eyes met, and for the briefest second something unspoken passed between them. A peculiar recognition that neither could name. Hermione forced a little laugh, shaking it away. “Maybe we’re just odd people, Neville.” 

He chuckled. “You’re not wrong. But maybe that’s why we get on so well.”

She smiled at him, warmth spreading throughout her chest. There was no judgement in his tone, no expectation. “Like long-lost siblings.” She teased, her eyes dancing. Neville grinned at that, the corners of his mouth lifting in the shared joke. “Exactly. Only difference is, you’re the clever one.” 

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Says the brave one.” 

He scoffed, embarrassed by the praise as his cheeks warmed with a pink flush. Her voice softened. “You’ve always been braver than you give yourself credit for.”

For a moment, Neville looked at her as though he wanted to disagree, but the words stayed unspoken. Instead, he gave her an understanding smile and the silence between them settled. The deep, steady voice of Kingsley rolled out across the hall, drawing every head in the room to focus on him. 

“Alright everyone,” he announced, his tone carrying authority. “Let’s begin.” 

Hermione and Neville exchanged one last glance, a silent acknowledgment of the understanding that had passed between them, before turning to focus on the Order meeting as it commenced. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The meeting had been in session for at least forty-five minutes. Hermione sat upright, quill scratching dutifully across her notes as Kingsley’s deep voice spoke. He reiterated points from meetings past about vigilance, about being alert to strange activity and reporting even the smallest discrepancies. It was important, Hermione knew, yet she couldn’t help but notice the glazed look in Ron’s eyes two chairs over. 

He was slouched back in his seat, arms folded, a faint scowl tugging at his mouth. Every so often he muttered something under his breath, clearly impatient. His fingers drummed against the table in a bored desperation to entertain himself. Every meeting started out the same, talk of watchfulness and coded messages, updates from the previous week and highlighting small victories the Order had achieved.

Hermione bit back a sigh. Ron never had patience for repetition, but she knew that Kingsley’s meeting points were meant to remind them which successful measures had kept them all alive.

When Kingsley finally shifted his notes and set down the parchment he had been reading from, even Hermione leaned forward. His eyes swept the room, and the low hum of private murmurs stilled.

“Now,” He began, his voice taking on an edge that commanded everyone’s attention. “We move to tomorrow’s mission.”

The atmosphere changed instantly. Chairs scraped as people sat straighter, and wands were unconsciously shifted closer at hand. Even Ron blinked, focus snapping back to the front of the room. 

Kingsley’s gaze moved slowly across the table, purposely meeting each pair of eyes. “We have received intelligence from a trusted source that a large group of Death Eaters will be gathering in the Lake District tomorrow evening. Their target is a small wizarding village, one with no defences strong enough to protect themselves from an organised attack.”

A ripple of unease move around the room.

“Our task begins at dawn. We mean to intervene and stop them from succeeding in their mission.” He continued. “Our goal is to engage and eliminate as many threats as possible.”

Murmurs broke out, sharp and urgent, filling the hall with static. Even Harry had gone rigid, his face laced with grim attention. Hermione felt her pulse quicken.

This wasn’t patrol, or a simple watch duty. This was war. The kind of mission that meant stepping back out in an open battlefield.

Kingsley raised a hand, and the room hushed once more. “I will be assigning teams. Preparation begins tonight, as we start to extract any remaining families from the village early tomorrow morning.” He commanded. 

“Please move into these groups as I call your names.” Kingsley ordered.

Hermione lowered her quill, the parchment laid before her filled with tidy, meticulous notes. The words swam in her vision, their meaning blurring under the weight of the meeting. Kingsley’s voice still echoed in her mind. 

Eliminate as many threats as possible.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. It was necessary, she knew that. They couldn’t allow innocent lives to be torn apart, not again, not when they had the means to prevent it. And yet the thought of marching into battle, of facing curses and hexes again in the open, made her chest tighten. This wasn’t strategy from a book or classroom theory. This was war. Messy, unpredictable, life-altering, war.

Her gaze drifted briefly to Harry, who sat with his jaw set, his green eyes shadowed with frustration. Then to Ron, fidgeting restlessly, though even he looked sober now. And finally to Neville, whose hands were folded tightly on the table, knuckles white but his expression blank.

She felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. Fear, absolutely. But also a stubborn resolve that whatever tomorrow brought, they’d all face it together.

Looking around the hall, she had an epiphany. Home she had called it earlier. Perhaps it wasn’t the place at all, but the people within it. The ones she would fight beside, and for. The ones who made the danger worth it. The Weasleys. Harry. Neville. Her school friends.

She collected her parchment stack, forcing her hands to stop trembling. If she gave in to the fear now, it would swallow her whole. She will be prepared, she will fight, and she will do what needed to be done.

Still, as Kingsley shouted out names and people moved about the room, one thought lingered in her mind.

Not everybody can be saved.

She swallowed hard against the truth of it, one she hated with every fibre of her being. 

Tomorrow they would march into the Lake District. And tomorrow, she would learn again just how high the cost of war truly was. 

Chapter Text

The Nott Abbey, February 1999

On a late winter’s evening, Nott Abbey stood veiled in the brooding darkness of a storm. As Draco made his way up the stony drive toward its grand entrance, he lowered the hood of his cloak and let the silver mask slip away from his face. The cold rain clung to his hair, dripping down over his eyes as he crossed the threshold and into the entrance hall. A house elf as tall as his knees bowed and collected his cloak as he walked by. 

He had only just returned from Rosier Hall in Wales, where the Dark Lord was currently residing. The thought amused Draco in a quiet, bitter way. That the most feared wizard in Britain was not out plotting in the shadows or spilling blood himself, but instead lounging in a gaudy country estate. Feet propped up, indulging in Rosier’s best wine as though the war were a minor inconvenience. Draco sometimes wondered if it was arrogance or laziness that made the Dark Lord so sure of himself. Perhaps it was both.

Surrounded by luxuries his followers tripped over themselves to provide, the Dark Lord sat back and enjoyed it, smirking at how easily they handed him everything. Pureblood families, so blinded by their own creed, were breaking themselves to pieces in his name. Bending knee and bleeding for a master who had no intention of putting the work in himself. And for what? He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. They fought, they killed, they died. All while he stayed behind in comfort, laughing at their pathetic devotion.

And the cruelest joke of it all, is that they fought and died for a man who was not even pureblood himself.

The meeting had been brief, little more than a retelling of the plans for the raid in the Lake District the following evening. Swift. Precise. Ruthless. Draco had sat through it all for hours, listening silent and impassive behind his mask. The longer it went on, the more the sound of their voices unsettled him. There was an undercurrent of sadistic delight in their tone as they spoke of pain, blood, and destruction. Around him, they revelled in cruelty. Draco grounded himself with the comfort that the Order knew of the planned attack. At the very least, Kingsley would ensure they were prepared. 

The others, too drunk on their own sense of self-importance, were blind to his deceit. They laughed, celebrated, already tasting victory. But even as they did, the Order was moving into place, waiting for the right moment to take them down.

As he entered the dimly lit hall of the Abbey, the sound of raised voices echoed down the corridor. Not angry, but petulant. Pansy’s sharp tones intertwined with Theo’s indignant outrage and Blaise’s low chuckle. The argument from within bounced off the stone walls of the corridor.

Draco paused, closing his eyes for a moment just outside the doors. 

He stepped into the dining room and found Theo standing at the head of the table, his cheeks flushed with outrage, as Pansy sat back smirking in triumph, while Blaise sat lazily between them, sipping his wine with all the enthusiasm of someone watching a particularly amusing play.

“You conniving pilferer!” Theo roared, pointing at Pansy with the grand flourish of a man condemning a villain. “That éclair was my final joy. Not some trifling, common treat! And you, Parkinson, swooped in with all the grace of a Hippogriff trampling my heart and ate it before my very eyes!” 

Pansy smirked, crossing her arms. “Honestly Theodore, you sound like a child.”

“Child?” He pressed a hand to his chest, scandalised. “This is not childish, it is righteous outrage! You, Pansy Parkinson, are nothing less than the stub of a quill that scratches but never writes!” 

Blaise snorted into his goblet. “Merlin, Theo, what does that even mean?”

Theo’s voice only grew louder, echoing off the high ceilings as he flung his arms wide. “You are a calamity in human form!”

Pansy laughed, tossing her hair and reached for her goblet of wine. “Better that than being an over-dramatic prat crying over custard and pastry.”

Theo wasn’t finished. He clawed at his chest and turned his face toward the ceiling, as though appealing to some higher power. “Oh cruel fate, that I should be betrayed not by foe, but by thy friend!”

By now, Draco had quietly taken his seat, eyed the half-eaten dishes and pulled a platter toward himself. “Merlin’s sake, Theo,” Draco cut him off, his tone light. “It was an éclair. Not your bloody inheritance.”

For a moment, the dining room went silent. Blaise burst out laughing, nearly spilling his wine. Pansy smirked victoriously. Theo’s mouth opened, then closed, his fork clattering back onto his plate as he sat down at last. He huffed, cheeks colouring, muttering something about “crimes against decency”.

Coming home to the Nott Abbey was always a guessing game as to what you were going to walk into. Tonight had been another one of Theo’s tantrums (unfortunately common), but there had been stranger things that Draco sometimes liked to turn a blind eye to. 

Like the time he found Theo kneeling on the ground, enthusiastically giving his mother a pedicure while she read Witch Weekly. Or when Theo tried to baptise a ferret in the garden fountain while chanting in a language that absolutely did not exist. 

And then, of course, the library incident. The atrocity that everyone refused to mention, and Draco still hadn’t forgiven him for. He had walked in on Theo lying flat on the floor, covered head to toe in orange marmalade, insisting that it was “for the greater good” and refusing to elaborate while he read Gilderoy Lockhart’s Magical Me.

Despite the absurdity of living with somebody so… unpredictable, Draco wouldn’t have it any other way. For all of Theo’s eccentricities, he was glad to be stuck with him. Theo grounded him when he most needed it, and he had stood by him through thick and thin. Yes, Pansy and Blaise each held a special place in his heart, but Theo was his brother in all things but name and blood. 

It was for that reason, and Malfoy Manor becoming a security risk, that Draco and his parents had moved into the Abbey. The other deciding factor was that the Dark Lord now conveniently used the manor as his base of operations. Stupid prick.

Sighing, Draco cut into his veal and quickly downed a few bites. 

“Woah, slow down there. You might choke,” Pansy teased. He shot her a side-eye before rolling them and swallowed a mouthful of green beans. 

“Where are my mother and father?” He asked between bites.

Theo waved him off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Eh, they left ages ago. Something about walking the gardens and staring at the stars. Lucius only got back maybe an hour before you.” 

Draco wasn’t surprised. His own delay had been thanks to Rabastan cornering him, prattling on about which spells and curses he was planning to use at tomorrow nights raid. It had been mind-numbingly dull. So much so that Draco had considered avada-ing himself just to escape. He had almost slipped away, stealthily, until Rabastan insisted on showing him a book riddled with Dark Magic. Apparently Draco was meant to “gain some inspiration”. 

Which looking back, perhaps he had gained some to use on Rabastan himself tomorrow night. He recalled reading about a spell that froze the blood running through somebodies veins.

“How’d the meeting go?” Blaise probed. Done with dinner, Draco pushed his plate aside and reached for his goblet, reclining back into his seat.

“Same as last week,” Draco muttered. “Just the old sod repeating himself. More threats about what will happen if things go tits-up tomorrow night.” He scoffed and took a drink.

“Nothing new to tell Kingsley then?”

Draco shook his head. “Nothing I didn’t already tell him last week.”

He had been put into contact with Kingsley shortly after the death of their late headmaster. For as long as Draco could remember, the Malfoy’s had played the part of dutiful servants to the Dark Lord. Their ancestors had been bigoted and brainwashed, and his parents had once been no different. Draco was not privy to what had changed their minds, but whatever it was, he knew that it had been significant enough to convince them not to raise him with the same trite they had been spoon fed in their own childhoods.

Still, being a family of spies for the light side came with its shortcomings.

Draco hadn’t even been aware of the full extent of his family’s deceit until the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts. On the surface, he knew exactly what he was meant to be perceived as: a perfidious, bigoted prat who spat venom and bullied his classmates. But the people who truly knew him understood that wasn’t the case at all. It was a role, a disguise. Draco realised, with a trace of sadness, that he had been undercover for nearly his entire life. Idiots like Goyle and Crabbe fell for it. The ones who saw through it, his real friends, kept the truth for behind closed doors. For their safety, and his.

When Lucius had been arrested and sent to Azkaban, it nearly destroyed both him and his mother. And then the Dark Lord, in his twisted sense of ‘honour’ toward the Malfoy’s (though it was more punishment than reward), decided that Draco would bear the mark of a Death Eater, or else risk his family being killed.

There hadn’t been a single doubt in Draco’s mind. He immediately took the mark. 

Narcissa had wept for days, sobbing through tears “it was never meant to get to this” and “we were meant to protect you”. 

He had vowed to do everything in his power to protect the ones he loved, no matter the cost. That was when he finally learned the truth of his family’s deceit. That since the first wizarding war, his mother and father, alongside his godfather, had been playing double agents. For over fifteen years, they had been feeding information to the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore quietly relaying and acting on what mattered most.

It was how his parents, especially his father, had managed to escape Azkaban the first time. It was how so many Death Eaters, Bellatrix among them, had ended up imprisoned.

It had been his parents all along. 

Part of him wanted to be angry. How could they have lied to him? But it also put so much into perspective. Why it had been so important to portray that particular persona at school. Loud, arrogant, bigoted. Why he had sung the words, even when he didn’t believe any of it, pretending to be the Draco Malfoy everyone expected. His parents had been protecting him and their truth for the better part of twenty years. And soon, Draco prayed, the rest of the world would come to know it.

Draco had been a member of the Order of the Phoenix since he was sixteen years old.

And after the Battle of Hogwarts, his real friends, Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, had confronted him and his family the moment they arrived at Nott Abbey. Their views and moral compass had long since drifted away from what their parents had taught them. Now, they were privy to the inner workings of the Malfoy family since his parents practically adopted them as their own. 

Pansy had been disowned the moment she stormed out of the Parkinson Estate, after a row with her father, where she told him to “go fuck himself”. Blaise’s mother, meanwhile, could hardly have cared less. She was too busy traipsing up and down the Italian coast with her latest conquest to notice there even was a war. To her, “mudbloods dying” was just gossip and “none of her business”. And Theo, well, his parents were dead, and he was unapologetically queer as fuck. Which, in his mind, pretty much summed up his stance on things. 

Pansy was the only one of the lot who was presumed to have sought refuge with the light side. Which she had in a way, unbeknownst to everyone around Draco. They didn’t know she was in hiding at Nott Abbey. 

“Do you think the Order is prepared?” Pansy asked, her brow furrowing with quiet worry.

Draco thought for a moment before giving a slight nod. “Yes. But it will be tricky. Whatever we’re walking into tomorrow will be the same as last year’s battle, if not worse.” He spoke, while absentmindedly spinning the silver signet ring on his little finger. 

Pansy hummed under her breath, staring into her goblet before glancing back up. “Things are going to change again, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Draco admitted, “but we’re close now. After tomorrow, it won’t be long before they figure us out. Twenty years of lying is impressive, but our luck is running out. Kingsley’s ready. The moment we need it, we’ll be escorted to a safe house.”

Pansy managed a nervous smile, comforted slightly by his reassurance. Theo and Blaise both gave him the smallest of nods, silent in their agreement.

Throughout the last few years, Draco had been relaying information to the Order of the Phoenix as he learned it. Planned attacks, Death Eater rotations, movements, and more. When he uncovered the Lake District plan, he immediately sent a request to meet with Kingsley, citing it as an emergency. By the next day, the two allies were sitting in a shadowed muggle pub on the outskirts of London, exchanging information with hushed voices. That had been last Thursday.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Outskirts of London, Early February 1999

The pub was nearly empty, save for a few drunkards, its air thick with the stench of stale beer and sweat. Draco arrived first, hood drawn low. The lone muggle barkeep wiped glasses behind the counter, eyelids drooping with exhaustion from the late hour, barely sparing Draco a glance as he slid into a shadowed booth in the far corner of the room. 

Moments later, Kingsley entered, his towering frame wrapped in a black trench coat that blended seamlessly with the muggle patrons. It was a stark contrast to his usual purple robes. 

“You’re late.” Draco muttered, though relief flickered in his eyes.

“Security,” Kingsley replied simply, his deep voice calm as ever. “You said it was urgent.”

Draco leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was barely audible over the clink of glasses. “The Lake District. Riddle’s planning a strike on one of the smaller wizarding villages. Barely on the map. No defences. Just families. He wants it wiped clean.”

Kingsley’s expression didn’t shift, but his jaw tightened. “When?”

“Next Saturday. Just after dusk.”

“But why-“ 

“They’re testing loyalty,” Draco cut him off. His fingers tapped anxiously against the wooden table. “Every new recruit will be expected to join in. Mass destruction, fire, murder. Riddle’s calling it a demonstration. He wants the news to spread. He wants fear back in the air.”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed even. “How many are they sending?”

“Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Rabastan’s been tasked with leading it. He thinks it’s a promotion.” Draco scoffed bitterly. “In reality, it’s just murder.”

Kingsley’s gaze stayed locked on him. “How certain are you of this information?”

“As certain as I’ve ever been,” Draco shot back, though his voice cracked faintly. “I heard it straight  from Rabastan. And the preparations, there’s no mistaking them. They’re not planning an attack. They’re planning a massacre.”

Kingsley studied him for a long moment. “You realise what you’re risking, passing this on.”

Draco met his eyes. “I’m not doing this for recognition, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m doing it because I’m tired of watching him destroy everything while the rest of us sit on our hands.”

Kingsley gave the faintest nod. “We’ll move fast. The Order will intercept before they strike. The village will be evacuated before dusk. You’ve done well, Draco.”

The words should have been reassuring, but Draco only felt the weight of them press down on his shoulders. He knew how quickly things could go wrong.

“You understand what this means,” Kingsley added quietly. “You’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. If Riddle suspects-“

“He already suspects everyone,” Draco cut in. “That’s his way. But if I say nothing and watch them burn children alive, when what am I? Just another coward in his ranks.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Kingsley inclined his head, firm and resolute.

“Then be ready.”

Draco stood, drawing his cloak tighter around himself. “I always am.” 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Draco blinked, the memory of the meeting with Kingsley dissolving as the present crept back in around him. The long dining table of Nott Abbey stretched before him, its worn surface covered with half-finished goblets of wine and crumbs from dinner. The fire snapped in the hearth, shadows dancing across the panelled walls, pulling his thoughts back to the promise of fire and massacre in the small village tomorrow evening. Draco’s stomach turned. He forced the image away, tightening his grip on the stem of his glass until it bit into his palm.

It had been a week since that meeting with Kingsley. A week of silence, waiting, pretending. Of waking each morning with the taste of dread in his mouth, wondering if this would be the day it all went to shit. He had grown accustomed to pretending. He was a Malfoy, after all. But lately, even his well-practiced sneer felt unconvincing. His performance was beginning to lack. He could still wield sarcasm and disdain like a weapon, but underneath it all he was exhausted.

Across the table, Pansy’s laughter rang out, sharp and teasing, though Draco knew her well enough to hear the strain beneath it. She was needling Theo about something, probably his outfit tonight. It truly was horrid. Theo was sprawled in his chair, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, feigning ignorance to Pansy’s ribbing. Blaise was at the far end, wine goblet in hand, his dark eyes half-lidded as he watched another infamous Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson throw down. To any outsider, they looked like the picture of perfect pureblood aristocrats: spoiled and naive to the true colours of the world beyond the walls they sat within.

Draco knew better. Beneath it all, tension hummed like a curse waiting to explode. Each of them lived with the same truth. That they were caught in a war that demanded masks and betrayals, and that survival required both.

“Thinking too hard again?” Theo’s voice cut through his thoughts. He tilted his head, smirking as if amused, though his gaze lingered on Draco with knowing.

Draco glanced up, lips twitching into something close to a smile. “Better that than not thinking at all.”

Theo stretched, unbothered, the smirk never leaving his face. “Careful. You’ll give yourself wrinkles. Terrible fate for a Malfoy.”

“Oh please,” Pansy cut in, rolling her eyes. “If anyone’s destined for wrinkles, it’s you Theo. I’ve seen the way you frown at your books like you’re trying to hex them into explaining themselves.”

“That’s called thinking, Pans,” Theo replied smoothly, propping his chin in his hand. “Something you’d know nothing about.”

Pansy gasped theatrically, as if she’d been slapped. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I’m the brains of this entire group.”

“Terrifying thought,” Blaise muttered, swirling his wine with wide eyes. He hadn’t spoken for nearly half an hour, but his timing, as always, was perfect. “If Pansy’s in charge, we’re doomed.”

Pansy turned on him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You don’t even do anything, Blaise. You sit there looking mysterious and hope it makes you look useful.”

“It usually does,” Blaise said without missing a beat, leaning back in his chair with a saccharine smile.

Theo chuckled. “He’s not wrong. Half the time I can’t tell if he is plotting murder or composing poetry in his head.”

Draco couldn’t help it, he laughed. Not loudly, but it slipped out before he could stop it. All three pairs of eyes turned onto him.

“Oh, look at that,” Pansy said, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. “The ice prince does have emotions.”

“Careful,” Draco drawled, slipping easily back into his usual mask. “If you keep talking, people might think I actually enjoy your company.”

The table dissolved into laughter and more bickering. Draco sat back, letting their voices wash over him. The exasperated groans and sharp tongues. His gaze drifted over to the fire, its glow catching on the silver of his ring.

Kingsley’s words echoed in his mind, as clear as they had been spoken a week ago.

You’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

Draco exhaled slowly, eyes returning to his friends. Pansy was gesturing wildly as she tried to out-argue Theo, Blaise smirking at both of them as he settled back into his own seat. The line had been crossed. The choice had been made.

And looking at them now, Draco realised he didn’t regret it for a second.