(no subject)

[floorcoaster]

0 + 11.4

You’re sitting at your father’s desk, staring at a stack of papers sitting neatly in front of you. Nobody has touched the desk since Lucius died, and now that you’re in charge of everything, the task has fallen to you. But you’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, and all you’ve done is open all the drawers.

You have no idea what exactly you’re supposed to do. And part of you keeps waiting for your father to burst in and scold you for snooping.

He doesn’t, no matter how hard you stare at the door.

Just when you decide to start doing … something, no idea what, someone knocks. The sound is brisk, important, impatient, heavy.

Heaving a great sigh, for no one’s benefit but your own, you push yourself out of the enormous chair and answer the door.

It takes a moment of blatant staring to register that Harry Potter and another Auror stand before you, clad in the dull, drab dark green uniforms of their position, grim expressions on their faces.

“Malfoy,” says Potter, nodding by way of greeting. “May I come in?”

“I suppose it’s necessary?” They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t need to be, but you don’t want to make things too easy for Potter. But you were caught off guard by the arrival of the Aurors, so you’re not quite up to snuff with your retorts.

Harry gives you a patient, annoyed look, then turns to his companion. “Wait out here.”

The man hesitates, glances at you, then back to Harry. “But Sir, protocol states-”

“I know all that,” Harry interrupts, “but I’ve got this. Understood?”

The other man looks ready to protest, but then he probably thought about who was ordering him to stay in the hallway and thought better about arguing. “Understood.”

“Good. I won’t be long.”

Amused, you admit your ex’s best friend into your father’s office.

“I’m here about your father,” Harry says.

You aren’t terribly surprised. With an affected huff, you return to sit behind the desk, doing your best to look as though you’d been interrupted in the middle of a very important task. You motion for him to sit, then cross your arms.

Harry hesitates for a fraction of a second, then takes out an envelope and empties its contents onto the desk. It is a collection of pictures-or rather, mugshots. He arranges them so that they are all facing you correctly. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

You look closer, examining the images even though you don’t need to. There’s something to be said for not giving away anything you don’t have to. After looking carefully, you respond. “All but this one.” You point to the picture of what looks like a teenager. “Four of them carried the casket my father was buried in. What’s this about?”

“Can you think of any reason any of them might want your father dead?”

The question startles you more than you’d like to admit, but you play it off with a wave of your hand. “They’re all Death Eaters; I’m assuming the little one sympathized. They aren’t exactly the most reliable, loyal bunch.”

“So nothing stands out?” Harry asks.

You frown, everything screeching to a roaring halt. “Are … you suggesting that my father was targeted?”

His expression remains blank. “We believe so. The evidence we’ve uncovered is pointing that direction.”

It’s a good thing you’re already sitting.

“Malfoy,” he says, almost kindly. “Take another look at the pictures. If there’s anything you can tell me that might help us solve this mystery, we need to know.”

At that moment, you could stare at the pictures for an hour and nothing would get through the haze of what you’ve just learned. “What do you have so far?”

“Witness accounts of the event are puzzling.” Harry settles in his chair. “As you may know, we’ve been keeping an eye on all former Death Eaters since the end of the war. There’s been a flurry of contact between these five-” He points to all but the kid “-in the last few months. There was one communication between him and the others.”

Harry pauses, glances up. You are stoically staring at where his finger touches the image of the young man. Waiting.

He continues. “There were only four men at the bank robbery, but witnesses report that as soon as bank security showed up, three of them vanished, leaving him to be captured.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. “And what does he have to say?”

“Unfortunately, nothing.” Harry sighs. “He was contacted anonymously and offered a large sum of money to take part in the bank robbery. When he met the men that afternoon, they were wearing masks and disguising their voices. He followed the instructions given to him. Tests reveal that it was not his wand that cast the Killing Curse.”

Now your head is swimming. It was one thing to learn your father was dead, to believe it an accident. To learn that someone may have wanted him dead ….

Without thinking about what you’re doing, you open the bottom drawer in your father’s desk and pull out the first bottle your hand touches. You fish out two glasses and pour a drink in each. After downing the first, you can look at the man sitting opposite you.

“What else? What makes you think my father was the target?”

“Multiple witnesses said they saw your father enter the bank with a briefcase. Nothing was found on his body.”

You nod slowly, digesting the information word by word. Then you drink the second glass and immediately set to refilling them both. It’s going to be another long, blank night.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Can you speculate on what might have been in the briefcase?”

You scoff and consume the third glass. “My father goes to the bank the way my mother goes shopping. It could have been anything.”

He scribbles a few notes on a notepad. “I figured as much. One last thing-and I have to ask this. Where were you Friday afternoon around five?”

“Working,” you reply listlessly. “I was in the office until six. You can check with … other people who work where I work.”

”We will. And after work?”

“I met someone for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron.” Merlin, that was a million years ago, wasn’t it?

“I need a name,” Harry prods.

You stare at the last drink on the desk, not wanting to divulge the identity of your date because of course it will get back to Hermione no matter how secret this investigation is, no matter how much it isn’t any of her business.

“Malfoy.”

“Pansy’s sister, Poppy.” Your words have a dangerous edge to them. “I met her at six-thirty and was with her until the MLE showed up. I’ve no idea what happened after six or eight drinks later.”

Harry chuckles as he adds something to his notes. “Yeah, I know.”

Of course. She’d told him. Sometimes you just wish you could hit him in the face without her hating you for the rest of your life. He’s always so smug, so confident, so effing unflappable. You try to maintain a smooth façade, but you’ve never been too good at hiding your emotions. And Potter brings out the worst of them.

“Okay.” He stands up, holds out his hand. “We’ll be in touch. If you think of anything that might be helpful, anything at all, even if it seems unrelated, let me know. I’m handling your father’s case personally.”

“Well, then everything will turn out just grand, won’t it?” Sarcasm drips from your words.

Harry chuckles and heads for the door. “See you around.”

You stare at the door long after it closes behind him. There is something so much more … numbing … knowing that someone may have set out to intentionally take Lucius’ life. Granted, in a lot of ways, he had it coming. But that certainly didn’t make it any easier to digest.

Down went the fourth drink, and then before you knew it, the room was dark and you were waking up, a puddle of drool on your father’s blotter. The only problem was that you could still remember why Harry Potter had come, and you needed a break from that.

Though, if you kept drinking like this, you might start to worry about yourself. And your mother! She needed to be told!

Later.

You needed a fifth drink. Before you tossed it back, however, you warded the Manor against your leaving it until your blood alcohol content was manageable. It wouldn’t do to wake up on her sofa again.



“What if I get lost? What if I forget the password? What if the food is bad?” I paused dramatically. “What if no one likes me?”

Mother put an arm around my shoulder, and I let her. I’d been sitting on my bed, trying to read Hogwarts: A History, but my mind kept wandering. She’d found me and sat beside me, asked me what was wrong.

“There’s absolutely no need to worry, Draco,” she said with a calming, reassuring voice. “We’ve been to the school, walked to all of your classes, and password is anguis, which is just the Latin word for snake. And I’ve told you that I’ll send food from home as often as I can.”

I frowned, not wanting to admit that those were really the least of my concerns. “But-”

“You already have friends at Hogwarts, Draco.” She smiled patiently. “You know Greg, Vincent, Pansy, and Theo already. That’s probably more then anyone else knows.”

“Yeah, but they don’t count. What if … what if I don’t make any new friends? They know me, but we’re friends because our parents are friends.”

I heard my father’s footsteps clip-clop on the floor as he joined us in my bedroom. He put a firm hand on my shoulder.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Son,” he said confidently. “You’ll make friends with the right sort in time.” Then he knelt down in front of me. “There is … someone who’ll be attending with you, in your year, whom it might be wise to befriend.”

I was instantly curious and sat straighter, shrugging Mother’s arm away. “Who, Father?”

He hesitated half a second. “His name is Harry Potter.”

My eyes went wide. “The Harry Potter?” I scowled. “Why would you want me to be friends with him?” The idea was repulsive. Everybody knew that he had something to do with the Dark Lord’s death as a baby, and my parents had always spoken highly of the dead wizard’s ideals.

Father shrugged too stiffly, as though trying to be nonchalant. “The Potter boy may be the most powerful wizard of our time, Draco. Such a friend should be gained at all cost.”

“I see.” Then I narrowed my eyes. “What if he isn’t in Slytherin?” My sorting had never been in question.

“You should do your best to meet him before the opening feast,” Father replied. “Perhaps you can help to influence that path.”

That surprised me. I’d always thought the decision was already made, that there was some message in your blood that said where you belonged.

“His parents were both … Gryffindor.” He said it as though the word itself caused him physical pain. “But that doesn’t guarantee him placement in that house. If he had a friend in Slytherin, he might hope he’s put in Slytherin, and therefore he might be. If not, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a friend in a different house.” He didn’t look as though he believed what he was saying.

I nodded, still skeptical. “What if I don’t like him?”

They both laughed. “You don’t always have to like your friends, Draco,” said my father. “If you find out that he isn’t exceptional in any way, that he won’t be swayed to your way of thinking, then there’s no need to continue the association.”

“All right,” I conceded after giving the idea some thought. “I’ll … make friends with Potter.”

“Very good.” Father clapped my shoulder as he stood. “That’s all I ask.”



0 + 20.2

You’re staring at a letter your mother sent, lost in thought. You don’t remember a single word you just read. It’s all about your father, about his will, where things go, who gets what, like who cares.

He’s dead. You’ll never be able to reconcile over the biggest disagreement of your life. He’ll never see your children or hold your mother’s hand when he thinks you aren’t looking.

It’s only September, but when you look up, the fire has died and a chill passes through you. You stand up to make a cup of tea-if you never drink again in your life it will be too soon-but halfway to the kitchen, a knock on the door stops you.

You frown at the door. The last thing you want right now is company, someone saying the wrong thing because how could anyone possibly know the right thing? You don’t even know.

But your visitor is persistent, your manners take over, and you drift to the door in a half-daze.

When you open the door, you find that you’re surprised you aren’t surprised.

She purses her lips, like she just realized that she wasn’t sure how you’d react to her impromptu drop-in, and part of her wishes she’d not listened to the voice in her head telling her that you wouldn’t mind.

“Hey.” She tilts her head, a nervous habit of hers when she doesn’t want you to look too closely because you’ve always been so good at reading her.

In all the hypotheses you entertained as you walked to the door, that it might be her on the other side had never flitted through your mind. You’re completely caught off guard. After … well, after that, you didn’t expect to see her for months, and even then, it would be bumping into her in Diagon Alley or the bank or the Ministry. Not a knock on your door bringing her to you on purpose.

So naturally, you say something completely inane. “Can I help you?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not selling cookies, Draco. May I come in?”

You wait for her to brush past you, as usual, but it appears she is actually waiting for you to admit her.

Huh.

Up is down.

“Er, sure.” You open the door, grant her entrance.

She steps lightly, as though she doesn’t want the floor to remember her.

You shuffle behind her, knots forming in your stomach.

“So how are you?” she asks, glancing disinterestedly around the room.

“I’m …” Hurting. Grieving. Miserable. Lonely. Terrified. “okay.”

“Your mother said to tell you she hopes you’ll come around for supper soon.”

Your ire takes off like a shot. “Since when are you so friendly with my mother. It’s not okay for you to carry on like nothing happened, like everything is the same as it used to be.”

She spins around, a glare fixed in her features. “Your mother cares about you, Draco. Merlin help me, so do I. Though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why.”

This confession does nothing to improve your mood. She sounds more like she cares out of pity than anything else, and that’s the last thing you want from her.

“Here.” She holds out a piece of paper. When you don’t take it right away, she shakes it in your face. “Take it, Draco,” she says tiredly.

You comply lethargically, unfolding the parchment with an odd sense of foreboding. It is a list of names.

“Your mum said you’ve been taking this really hard. I thought you might want to talk to someone.”

For a moment, you’re confused. You thought she knew you better than this. “Talk to someone. Like, a therapist?”

She flinches at the scorn in your voice, but she isn’t deterred. “The third one specializes in Death Eaters and their families.”

“Do you really think I’m going to talk to someone about this?” The urge to crumple the paper is incredibly strong, but you respect her too much to do it. In front of her, at least.

She puts her hands on her hips and gets that Vibe, the one where she knows it all. You could only brace yourself.

“The notion isn’t entirely ridiculous, Draco. Therapists exist for a reason, and a very good one. They work. There’s benefit to talking through your emotions during difficult times. You were always very supportive when I went to one, and why shouldn’t you talk to someone?”

“Because I don’t talk about my emotions.” You stomp like a petulant child into the kitchen for a beer. Screw tea when you have to deal with Hermione Granger trying to solve all your problems in fifteen minutes or less. “Haven’t we had this conversation, or some permutation of it, a hundred times?”

She follows you, arms crossed. “Yes. And what do I always insist?”

You roll your eyes where she can’t see you, then speak in a falsetto, mocking tone. “That it will help me, that talking about things is good for me. Cleansing. Satisfying. But that’s just not going to happen.”

“Because you won’t let it happen!” she practically shouts.

For a moment, you think she’s going to keep going, but you can see her trying to throw up walls in her mind to keep her from stepping down that road. Again. She takes a few deep breaths and glances around the kitchen. You watch her eyes travel to your sink, where there are two plates waiting to be washed. Then they alight on two mugs sitting beside the sink, a teabag string hanging outside of both.

Watching the wheels in her brain has always fascinated you. It’s like her thought process is being broadcast through her eyes. Sure, she’s brilliant, but there are some things she comes to slowly, as though she enjoys the process of making all the connections in her mind and savors each one.

“Someone else was here,” she says, wonderment in her tone. She looks at you, as though she’s just woken from a long sleep and doesn’t recognize you.

You open your mouth to explain but then close it without speaking. You are under no obligation to her, and besides, you’re insanely curious to see where this goes on its own.

While you haven’t really dated anyone seriously since breaking up with Hermione, you haven’t been a total recluse. There was a woman who worked at Flourish and Blotts who always flirted with you whenever you and Hermione went to the shop. Which was pretty often. Hermione never noticed, always too engrossed in whatever book she was looking at. So occasionally, you’d flirt back. Harmless stuff, but it was still something of a rush.

A few months after the relationship ended, you asked the woman out to see if there was anything there. She’d practically dragged you to bed, not that you were complaining. You asked her out again, but all interest had evaporated. She was nothing like Hermione, nothing like what you wanted, and you dropped her at her door with a polite good night.

And, no, there hasn’t been anyone since, but you haven’t met anyone you care to speak with for more than five minutes at a time.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t know why I’m here. Why am I here? I shouldn’t have come.” Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and takes two steps. Then she stops, comes back to stand way too close. “Oh yeah. There was one more thing I wanted to say. Believe me when I say this has nothing to do with your … guest.”

And she slaps you. Hard enough to sting.

“Ow! What the-Hey!” But she isn’t in the room anymore. You can hear her quick steps down the hall, nearing the door.

Then something like fear? grips you, and you can’t let her leave like this.

“My father was murdered.”

She stops in her tracks; the door remains closed. It’s a few long seconds before she reappears, hands clenched at her sides and concern etched in her features. “What?”

You lean against the counter and shove your hands in your pockets. “Murdered. It was supposed to look like an accident, like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but they’ve uncovered some information about a group of former Death Eaters who planned the robbery and the death of my father.”

Later, you’ll quietly and briefly celebrate the fact that you’ve rendered her speechless. For now, you can only stare at her, your heart suddenly heavy.

All pretense falls from her face. “Oh, Draco! I’m so sorry!”

“Harry is working the case, actually.” You look at the floor. “He was here about an hour before you to give me the latest information.” It takes all your effort not to look at her, but you want to give her the space to deal with that information. She’d thought you’d have a woman over, had reacted to that, and you think she deserves some privacy for processing the fact that she was wrong.

“Merlin, Draco,” she says eventually. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

You shrug and look at her again. “There’s nothing to say. I’m surprised he lasted this long without someone trying to do him in. That it turned out to be his own mates is … odd. I mean, why now? They’ve been in our home, spent time with my father for years.”

Now the wheels are really spinning. But then she surprises you. She halts them, right in the middle of cranking out ideas and theories.

“You really should talk to someone about all this.”

You weren’t prepared for that response. You weren’t sure what you expected when you told her about the investigation, but she enjoys a mystery, loves figuring out puzzles. If the thought that the two of you might sit down, open a bottle of wine while tossing ideas around, had crossed your mind, who could really blame you?

And it had to be killing a teeny tiny part of her. She wouldn’t be Hermione Granger if she didn’t want to know the answer.

“I am talking to someone.” All of a sudden it seems very important for her to stay.

“Someone who can help you.” She smiles sadly. “Goodbye, Draco.”

Frozen in place, you don’t call her back, tell her that you do want to talk, very much, but you can’t just talk to a stranger who would probably be thinking in the back of his mind that Lucius Malfoy deserved what he got. Sure, Hermione might think that as well, but at least you know that from the start, understand it, accept it. She has good reason, and anyway, she’d forgiven your father as best she could.

You hear the door shut and, more than the night of your father’s funeral, when you left her flat, it feels final.

The list feels like dead skin in your hand. It is but a flick of your wrist and it turns to ash.



BEAUTY
& FREEDOM

When I was five, beauty was my mother. My world was my mother. She spent almost all of her time with me. We played wizards and dragons, miniature Quidditch, hide and seek. She took me on long walks around the grounds, showing me all the different plants and flowers she grew. We’d pick fruit off the trees and have picnics by the stream.

At twelve, freedom was my brand new broom. The Nimbus 2001, black handle, mahogany twigs, smooth as water. I loved flying, the feeling of freedom, of being able to go fast enough to leave everything behind. There was nothing like that feeling. The only problem was that it was fleeting. Couldn’t live in the air.

Fourteen was hurried snogs between classes and tingles in my stomach when I held Pansy’s hand. The rush of sensation, exploration, playing at love. Before I forgot was love was.

The ceiling above my bed during sixth year. Every morning, when I woke up to stare at that old, grey stone, each new breath I took was a small kind of success. The last holiday before the end, my mother and I sitting in the back garden, trying to pretend things were completely normal.

The sky at eighteen. After learning I wouldn’t be shut away from the sun, the wind, the stars, I couldn’t stop looking up.

At twenty, beauty was everything I could touch-as much and as often as I could touch it.

There was a pub I frequented for awhile at twenty-four. I could go, sit, drink my fill, and leave without looks or whispers following me into my booth. It was a Muggle pub.

That’s where, celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday all alone, my world shifted. (Again.) When she walked through the door, our eyes met, and she sat across from me.

Now beauty is her laugh, and freedom is her love.



0 + 31.5

“Draco?”

Your mother’s voice stirs you from your thoughts, and you look up to see her sitting beside you. “Hi, Mum.”

For a few minutes, the only sound is the wind through the trees. You’re on the verge of something, and it is the most relaxing, peaceful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Are you all right?” she eventually asks.

You sigh deeply. “I’m afraid I’ve made a huge mistake.” It comes out a whisper, but at least you put the words on the wind. They weren’t doing any good inside your head.

“About what, dear?”

“Hermione.”

She nods knowingly, her gaze on the woods. Another strong gust of wind send the tops of the trees swaying. “Well, go fix it.”

Her quiet confidence is almost enough to force you out of your chair to do just that, but not quite. You shake your head. “The last time I saw her, she slapped me.”

“You probably deserved it,” she replies, not missing a beat.

For the first time in weeks, you laugh. She joins you, and soon you’re laughing so hard that tears threaten. But once you allow that, you know you’ll fall apart, and you aren’t ready for it.

“I did. That much is certain.”

“What happened between you?”

You’ve never shared the details with your parents. They simply accepted your decision without a single word-neither of comfort nor congratulations.

“It … was Father. In a way. I kept slipping up with Hermione, saying the wrong thing, being hurtful, stupid. It’s like I couldn’t let myself be happy with her, even though I was. We’d get close, and I’d push her away.”

She smiles sympathetically. “That’s not an uncommon problem.”

“Perhaps not, but whenever we’d fight about it, I refused to change. I was certain I couldn’t change. That’s really where the end came. I knew I needed to be better for her, but I didn’t think I could.”

“What’s that got to do with Lucius?” she asks.

You grimace. “I thought I was too much like him. He couldn’t change-or wouldn’t-and I was afraid the same pride was buried in me.”

“Oh, Draco.” Your mother shakes her head sadly. “You are not Lucius.”

“I know that. Now. I grew up wanting to be just like him, and then when I understood what that meant, I was terrified I would get my wish.” Merlin, you need a drink. “And the more I pushed against him, the more I saw myself becoming him.”

She reaches over and squeezes your hand. “My son. You’ve always been too inquisitive, too strong-willed to be just like him. Lucius, for all his good qualities, was too afraid to ask the difficult questions. To ask himself difficult questions.” A soft chuckle escapes her lips. “You’ve got too much of me in you to simply follow orders. Oh, you tried, but that didn’t turn out the way you’d expected.”

You nod. “And now he’s gone, and we’ll never see eye on eye on the one thing that mattered most.”

“Hermione.”

“But he is gone, and I find myself asking why I’m being so stubborn. Father couldn’t change, he refused to, so I just tucked my tail, convinced I was no better? What a coward.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Narcissa scolds. “No one grows up all at once. It’s a process. You’ll be doing it until you die.” She pauses. “Your father was.”

“He didn’t make it, at least not where it concerned me.” You sit up in the chair, try to get comfortable, but nothing works. “I can’t help but think that it was all so … silly. While I thought I was doing the noble thing, protecting her from me, we spent months apart, time we’ll never get back. Was it worth it? Father’s death was so sudden; it could have been me, or her, and we’d never have figured this out. Decided to make it work.”

Your mother sighs. “And you’ve wasted precious minutes on this conversation. Why are you still here?”

Twenty minutes later, you knock on her door. Her expression is hard when she answers, her body language denying you any ground-physical or otherwise. Your heart swells at the sight of her, and you know that if she won’t listen, won’t hear you out, it will shatter. But your throat also tightens, and all you can say is, “Hi.”

She keeps her face closed, her lips tight when she responds. “Hello.”

You almost leave, but there’s something in the way she’s gripping the door handle, her knuckles turning white, that keeps you still. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you decide that she isn’t quite through with you yet, despite what you’ve put her through. You don’t deserve it, but you won’t take it for granted.

Then something happens you hadn’t prepared for. Hot tears prick the corners of your eyes. No, no, no! NOT NOW!

She sees them, however, and softens. “Draco. Come in.”

As soon as you cross the threshold, you’re done for. Somehow you stumble to the sofa and collapse on it, sobs issuing from your soul. Heartache wracks your body, pain flows down your cheeks. Weeping unabashedly in front of the woman you still love wasn’t your plan for winning her back, but there’s nothing else you can do.

You are paralyzed with the flood of emotions, too devastated to be as embarrassed as you should be. Some part of your mind vaguely registers her sitting beside you, drawing you into her arms, cradling you against her. She rubs your back as you rock back and forth until you settle into a ball on the seat beside her.

Eventually the torrent subsides. Your eyes sting, your nose is running, but you feel lighter somehow.

Hermione’s hand still moves gently across your back as you lay beside her.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “I screwed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Letting you go. I’m … better with you.” How do you adequately express yourself? How can she take you seriously after what you just did? “I think I know why I came here that night.”

“Oh?”

You force yourself to sit up so that you can look her in the eyes. “I … I need you. My life … needs you in it. I was at my worst that night, and I had to be near you. Near my best.”

The faintest hint of a smile graces her lips. “I think I knew that, but I needed you to say it.”

You scoff. “I didn’t know myself it until today.”

She lifts your arm, wraps it around her, and snuggles close. You breathe deeply-which is difficult, since you’re rather congested at the moment. You’ve missed her more than you ever let yourself realize.

“I thought I’d truly lost you,” she said after a while. “When you ended it, I gave you three months, tops, to come to your senses. When six passed without even seeing you, I started to despair. But that night, I saw it in your eyes. I knew you’d figured it out. Which is why I was so confused the next day when you had no idea what had happened.”

“Let’s … not revisit the past.” You kiss the top of her head.

She threads her fingers through yours. “I do have a few things to say, however. I’ve been working on this for months, and it’s changed many times, but I need to say it.”

“Of course.”

“You have no right to presume that you aren’t what I want or need,” she begins. “I don’t love you because you’re perfect or because you always make me feel good or say the right thing or do the right thing. I love you because there’s no one else I’d rather spend my time with. No one I’d rather do nothing or anything with. And you touch my heart like no one else, you make me laugh, make me think, make me better.”

“You’ve said that to your mirror, haven’t you?” It feels so weird and so right to make a joke, even though you still feel like you’re falling down an endless hole. It’s different now though because you’ve got a line to safety, someone holding you up and also waiting for you.

She elbows you lightly in the ribs and burrows closer. “So what if I have?”

You hold her tight. “I’m still a mess, Hermione.”

“I know. You will be for awhile. But you aren’t alone.”



After the war, everything changed. My father was arrested and put on trial-our whole family was. Every day they printed “news” about our family in the paper, but it was only a chance to rub our name in the mud. They called for justice and the worst possible punishment-not just for us, but for all Death Eaters. We were called all manner of names, cursed to all the circles of hell.

But my father endured it without a word. He never fought back, didn’t open his mouth to retaliate, even when physically attacked on a couple of occasions. He just took it all with a stoic attitude, held his head high and took what people gave.

I hated it. I was used to seeing my father fight for our family, even when it wasn’t advantageous or popular. I argued with him, fought, begged him to stuck up for us, to do … something. He simply shook his head and reminded me of what the wizarding world had lost because of us. For him, that was enough.

By the time sentencing came around though, the attention was no longer on us. The wizarding world was more interested in the Death Eaters who continued their murderous rhetoric-my horrid uncles included-and they’d all but forgotten us. I don’t believe that was my father’s intent, but it was a welcome side-effect.

In the end, we were shown mercy. I think Harry Potter, who was granted full access to any proceeding and a weighty say in each matter, had had enough of killing and war and death and pain. He asked for leniency where he could, and my father’s attitude and behavior convinced him we deserved it.

And my father never gave those powers opportunity to regret their decision. He lived the rest of his life above board. If he ever did anything with Dark magic, I never knew about it.

It took me a few years to realize that while my father’s priorities hadn’t changed, he was no longer afraid to express them after the war. His family came first and always would. It’s just too bad he couldn’t have made the effort before it didn’t really matter. When he could have protected us from the Dark Lord.

ooo

About four months before my father died, he and I had the most important conversation of my life. Over Hermione.

We’d been split for about five months when my father came into the room where I was reading and announced that I needed to patch things up with her because I was spending all of my time moping and generally bringing down all the positive energy he and Mother worked so hard to keep up.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said drolly, returning to my book. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

“I’m being perfectly frank,” he responded, taking the book out of my hands and tossing it on a table beside the chair he then sat in. He propped a leg up on a knee, bridged his fingers, and looked at me, waiting.

I scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but you are wrong there, Son. It’s very much my business. You are my only son, of course.”

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. Father had never shown any interest in my relationships, least of all with Hermione. He’d tolerated the relationship by ignoring it completely. He never spoke of it to me or in front of me, and she was never invited to the Manor. Except for a few random comments, this conversation marked his first mention of her existence in my life.

“We are through,” was all I said. “Accio book.” The novel soared into my hands, and I opened it to my page and resumed reading.

Father wasn’t done with me. “Incendio.”

I just managed to drop the scorching book before my fingers burned. My blood, however, was boiling.

Brushing ash off my robes, I stood. “What is the matter with you?”

“Sit, Draco. Let’s pretend it’s our annual Honesty Bash and discuss the girl.”

This wasn’t a request, a polite invitation or casual suggestion. He used the tone he only used when he would tolerate no argument. And he was still my father; obedience was absolute.

I sat as deliberately as I could, hoping he could feel my anger radiating through the space between us. I think he did because he smirked.

“You’ve ended things. Why?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Fine, fine. It’s not really important. What is the issue is your continuing to miss her to the point that you’re no use to anyone.”

“That’s hardly a fair picture-”

“Narcissa reports that you do nothing but sit around all day, sometimes in your bed clothes, your nose stuck in a book.” He flicked something off the arm of the chair. “You barely eat-”

“I’m not hungry,” I mumbled.

He looked at me sternly. “Regardless, you see my point, I’m sure. So why haven’t you reconciled?”

I slouched on the sofa from the mental anguish at having this discussion with my father. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

At that, I’d had enough. I stood and started pacing in front of the windows. “And so what if we did? Reconcile. To what end? Are you telling me that you’re going to approve of the relationship? Acknowledge it? Suffer her presence in these vaunted halls?”

Father’s face turned to stone, and he sat impassively for a long moment. His voice was stiff when he spoke again. “Are you … interested in … marrying her?”

The question made me angry, not least because my interests didn’t matter. “Don’t worry, Father, it’s never going to happen.”

“My question had nothing to do with probabilities.”

I scowled, crossed my arms, shifted my weight impatiently. I didn’t really want to answer the question. It would mean voicing aloud the depth of my feelings for Hermione while knowing they could never be realized. But he wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t going to let me not answer. Better to get it over with and see where he wanted this conversation to go.

“Not that it matters now, but … yes. I’d considered it.”

Father swallowed dramatically. He frowned, then frowned deeper. “I see. Is that why you ended things?” he asked distantly.

“No, it’s not,” I said with a huff. “What is your point, Father? And just what’s so wrong with marrying a Muggle-born anyway? There have been centuries of labeling and mistrust between pureblood and not, and for what? Why?”

He studied me closely, then sighed. “Around the time of Slytherin, it became common practice for pure-blood families to put a clause in their Records of Succession. If a child were to marry a Muggle-born-or a Muggle-they would be cursed and could bear no children, thereby not mingling the dirty blood with the pure.”

I stared at him, incredulous. He didn’t crack a smile. “You can’t be serious. That’s so antiquated!”

“Of course,” he said, as though it was ridiculous to think otherwise.

“But … why? That doesn’t really answer the question.”

Father waved dismissively. “There are various legends, of course, but it doesn’t really matter. The point is, the clauses continued through the centuries.”

My heart sank. “And you signed such a clause.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.

“Because you couldn’t possibly know your child’s future!” I cried, exasperated. “It’s not fair for you to make decisions that affect my life so dramatically!”

The look he gave me was grave. “Oh, Son. The idea that you would want to date a Muggle-born-much less marry one-never would have entered my darkest dreams.”

I scowled and crossed my arms, but I couldn’t say anything. Who knows how my life would have gone under different circumstances? Had there been no war, I would probably have already been married to one of the Greengrass girls-mother’s favorites.

I slumped in the seat. “And there’s nothing that can be done?”

At least he managed to look like he cared. “These are very Dark and ancient spells, Draco.”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t even matter. She and I are through.”

He was silent for a long moment. “You care about her?”

“Yes,” I said with a heavy sigh. I felt cursed already. Then a thought stuck me. “I … don’t have to actually marry her. Hypothetically speaking.”

Father shook his head. “You must legally marry in order to receive your inheritance upon my death. If I die while you are unmarried, it goes into an account to await transference. At the time of your legal, magically binding nuptials.”

“And if I were to never marry?” I asked with a dark chuckle.

The edge of his mouth quirked in the beginnings of a smile. “You’d be living under your mother’s roof until her death. And if you are still not married, you would receive an allowance to live on and nothing more.”

I didn’t want that-I wanted to marry, have a family, grow old with someone. I wanted Hermione to be that person, but I needed to be the right kind of man for her. I’d ended the relationship thinking I could never attain such a status, but now I was doubting my own doubts.

“Charming,” I grumbled. “And these … rules about succession, marriage, living arrangement, finances …. They never bothered you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he replied. “I’m sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping for a bit more from me. I was the dutiful son-I had to be. There was simply no option. My upbringing was far colder and emptier than yours was. My … father … never would have had such a frank discussion with me. There were rules, and that was that.”

I’d never really considered my father as anything other than my father. He rarely talked about his childhood, and my grandfather died before I was born. It was strange imagining my father with a father. I wish I could have seen them interact.

I wonder what I might have learned.

“That was that,” I repeated.

The conversation was over, but my mind was racing. If-IF-I wanted to be with Hermione, I would simply have to forgo my place as my father’s heir and all that would come with it. No Manor, no business, no money, no more status. I’d have to start over. It would be worse than starting over. I’d be so far behind everyone else. I wouldn’t be able to provide for her, do anything for her for a long while.

Could I make that work?

Could I be that man?



0 +

“You’re coming back,” she says, gripping your tie and keeping you close.

“Yes, Hermione. We’ve lots to discuss, and I’ve already promised and you’ve already threatened bodily harm if I’m not back in five minutes.” You chuckle as she kisses you again. “Five. Or I’ll shave my head.”

She looks at you intensely, so close that she can only focus on one eye at a time. “Deal.” Then she releases you and spins on her heel, pulling her hair out of her chignon, letting her thick curls cascade down her back. It’s the perfect vantage to showcase the very low dip in the back of her dress. Under which you are certain she can’t be wearing a thing.

“Three if I can help it,” you say, breathless already.

When she ignores you, it only makes you more determined.

With a pop! you Apparate to your flat. You wanted nothing more than to pick right up where you’d left off those too many months ago, but she said no, you needed to work on things, needed to take things slowly at first because, as you’d said, you were still messed up.

Reluctantly you’d agreed, but you’d been unable to resist kissing her. And she’d been unwilling to make you stop, so one thing led to another which led to her bed. And a lot of talking after, which is good.

She thinks you need more talking, and you tell her you need to be holding her, naked, your mind in that blissful, relaxed post-coital state before you can talk. She smiles and obliges.

You’ve just got to grab something from your room, but then you notice your mother’s enormous owl, Antilles, sitting on your dining table, staring at you. It’s huge yellow eyes blink once.

You do not have time for this, but you cannot ignore a letter from your mother, especially when Antilles is waiting.

Indecision wars in your blood, but you’ve no choice. Cursing the fates, you write Hermione a quick note and send it via your owl before opening your mother’s missive.

The message is: Please come home at your earliest convenience.

But you know she must prefer sooner rather than later, so you Apparate directly to the Manor.

Your mother is waiting in the drawing room, reading. At least, she’s holding a book in front of her, but when you walk in, she’s staring out the window.

“Draco.” She sounds relieved.

“Hello, Mother.” You stride across the room and take the seat nearest hers. “I came as soon as I got your message.”

Her expression is oddly blank when she looks at you. “The … Aurors left. Potter. An hour ago, or three. I’m not sure.”

“What did they want?” you ask.

“They’ve closed the investigation into your father’s murder,” she says, her voice flat.

“I see.” You swallow hard, and your mind shifts. All of your focus is on your mother. “And they’re certain it’s murder.”

She nods. “They found Lucius’ briefcase, the one witnesses reported seeing him carry when he entered the bank. It was buried in the Crabbe’s back yard.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Draco.”

“How did they know where to look?”

“They searched all the homes of the suspects and discovered it. They arrested Crabbe and he eventually gave up the plot.”

“So it was over what was in the briefcase?”

“It’s more about what wasn’t in the briefcase, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lucius had a meeting scheduled with Reginald, the Executer of our Estate, at noon on Friday. Then he was going to the bank at the end of the day to deposit the documents in our vault.”

“What was the meeting for?”

Narcissa sighs. “Well, I didn’t even know Lucius had planned this meeting. It wasn’t until the Aurors looked into Lucius’ agenda for the day that they even spoke with Reginald. It was during their conversation with him, however, that they finally uncovered a motive.”

You aren’t sure if you’re ready for this. “All right. What was the motive?”

She blinks slowly, a strange expression on her face. “You don’t know?”

“No, why would I know?” you ask incredulously.

“It involves you,” she replies. “I’d just assumed he told you before.”

You frown, trying to remember what your father might have told you that could get him killed. At least, something new, something that hadn’t been there for the last nine years. “What do you mean, it involves me?”

She doesn’t look like she quite believes you. “He … went to have the Records of Succession altered.”

Your blood freezes and your heart thuds against your chest. Of course her answer brings to mind that important conversation you’d had with your father. “The Records of Succession.”

She’s still watching you closely, waiting for you to relent and say that you did know after all. “Yes. The … Muggle-born clause was removed.”

All the words fly out of your head; all you can do is stare at her.

For a moment, she is still hesitant to believe your ignorance, but then she decides you must be telling the truth.

She sighs and finally closes the book. “So you can see why this could be seen as motive.”

Your frown deepens. “Not really, no.”

“This group of former Death Eaters didn’t want that document reaching its destination inside our vault,” she explains patiently. “Once there, it would be extremely difficult to obtain. But if they could get to it before it was deposited and destroy it, then no one would be the wiser. Lucius would be dead and unable to make any permanent alterations. You never would have known you could marry a Muggle-born, and you probably never would have.”

Now isn’t quite the time to correct her; there’s still so much you don’t understand. “But why … would my marriage matter to any of them? What do they care what I do, who I marry?” you ask. “Naturally, they wouldn’t understand or agree, but I fail to see what business it is of theirs.”

Your mother taps a long finger on the cover of her book. “These men-save the boy-had numerous financial endeavors that Lucius supported. Upon his death, you would, and did, inherit everything, including the business as it currently stands. If a Muggle-born ever heard about what they’re doing, ever got involved, that support would end. It’s not exactly sanctioned by the Ministry, and apparently, it was worth killing for.”

“Wow.” That’s all you can say.

“The plan was that he’d meet with Reginald at noon, change the papers, then deposit them,” she summarized.

You run through the details in your mind again. “But since you know this, something in the plan didn’t go right.”

She smiles. “You could have been an Auror, Son. You’re correct. The document was already in the vault when Lucius was killed. He must have become suspicious because he changed his appointment with Reginald to the day before but didn’t mark the alteration in his agenda. Friday he was simply at the bank for the weekly deposit. But Crabbe and the others didn’t know about the change. Lucius was correct in his suspicion, and he made the effort to make sure everything was changed on paper and safely stored in the vault.”

You’re … stunned. It all seems so senseless. “And they were willing to create this elaborate plot, this ruse, in order to kill him because he wanted wanting to change these documents.”

“Yes.”

“All because they were concerned about who I might marry.”

She sighs dramatically. “Draco, it isn’t simply a matter of who you marry. Your wife will one day have access to everything, including the Malfoy name. We may not be where we once were, but it still carries some weight. It is still powerful. You might have been bought or made to see their side of things, gone along with what your father had done. But with a Muggle-born-especially Hermione Granger, and everyone knew you two were together, so it’s not an unreasonable supposition-in a position of influence with you, they feared the worst.”

You’re simply speechless for a few minutes. “I would have, you know. Married her anyway.”

Narcissa doesn’t look all that surprised. “I see.”

“I did some research and some thinking. We’d have been married the Muggle way. There’s no provision for that in all the old rites and documents.”

She smiles. “You see? You’re not so unlike your father after all.”

You look at her with a puzzled expression. “How do you mean?”

“You explained to me that you ended things because you were worried about being too similar to Lucius,” she replies with a gently voice. “Afraid you couldn’t change for the better. But you did-you decided to be with her anyway. Lucius may have taken a lot longer, may have been far more stubborn, but in the end, he was able to see past the past and do right by you.”

Huh. You tilt your head slightly in thought, your gaze drifting away from hers. You haven’t really had the time and space to process what you’ve just learned, but … she’s right.

There’s so much to think about, to deal with, but when you factor out all the extraneous information …. It occurs to you, slowly, as though your neurons protest the discovery, that your father died for you. Or, rather, so that you could be happy. He finally did the one thing that you’ve wanted him to do for as long as you could remember: take a stand for you.

You’re a lot like your dad; you’ve always been. You’ve gone back and forth with how you feel about it, but nothing can change it. Now, at least, you can feel good about it. You are a little bit like him after all-and maybe that’s not such a terrible thing.