Springfic: "Footsteps on Fallen Snow" (1/2) for scarletladyy
Title: Footsteps on Fallen Snow (1/2)
Author: catsintheattic
Recipient: scarletladyy
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Narcissa Malfoy, Pringle the house-elf
Rating: R (see warnings)
Warnings (highlight to view): PTSD issues, bodily mutilation through burning, character deaths
Spoiler (highlight to view) : may seem AU
Wordcount: 20,996 words
Summary: Imagine a world where Pansy Parkinson changed the outcome of the war.
Author’s Notes: Dear scarletladyy, when I read your prompt I was jumping up and down with joy - Draco and dark or angsty fic are my favourite pastimes. I had no idea what I was getting into when I started this story. I’m not sure if I managed what you aimed for with the prompts, but I hope you will enjoy this story. I also hope you like house-elves. :-)
Betas: Thank you, celta_diabolica and melusinahp, for your sharp eyes and helpful comments, for pushing me to write a better story and for making time in the thick of your own tasks. You rock! Thank you, AmyLouise, for sharing your knowledge of Latin to help me come up with a new spell. kennahijja inspired the summary, even though she didn’t know it. :-D And massive thanks to the springtime_gen mods for being so patient with me.
His mistress is deeply worried. After months of hosting a monster, the household is finally relieved of it. And yet, she continues to worry. He isn’t a reader of minds, but he has known her all her life, has moved with her to the manor house. “Bring the tea,” she says, and from the tone of her voice he knows what kind of day it’s going to be. He is bound to her by life and secrets. And if she is miserable, his life is prone to misery, too.
***
When the Dark Lord defeated Potter, it was due to Draco’s best friend.
After Pansy’s betrayal of Potter, she was sent from Hogwarts with the rest of Slytherin House and the younger students. But immediately upon her arrival in Hogsmeade, while Draco, Crabbe and Goyle sneaked back to the castle and into the Room of Hidden Things, Pansy went straight to the Dark Lord and then returned to Hogwarts with his troops. And in the decisive moments of the battle, when Harry Potter and the Dark Lord set about duelling to the death, it was Pansy who launched herself at Potter and wrung Draco’s hawthorn wand from his grip. The Dark Lord, master of the Elder Wand, didn’t hesitate and killed Potter with an efficient, merciless Avada Kedavra. And that, as they said, was the end of the story.
Draco, unfortunately, hadn’t witnessed Pansy’s great moment. He was still outside the castle, wandless, afraid, and unable to fight. But, of course, Pansy told him all about it when she visited a day later to return his wand. The first wave of frantic celebration was slowly ebbing away and rumours had spread that the Dark Lord, now residing at Hogwarts, was already planning the final wipe-out of the remaining Potter-fighters.
“I knew I could do it,” Pansy said to Draco, laughter bubbling from her lips. “Because it was your wand. It has this notch where the handle rests against the hand, which bites into your palm when an opponent grabs the wand, making it impossible to keep your grip. You have a little beast of a stick, Draco, so willing to turn against its owner.”
Her throaty laughter rubbed pleasantly against his eardrums, and he joined her then stepped up closer, put his arms on her waist and twirled her around between more bouts of laughter. Too soon he had to stop, gasping for air. His breathing was not yet back to normal; his lungs still suffered from the effects of what had happened in the Room of Hidden Things. Every breath felt like an intake of shards of glass. His skin, where it had been exposed to the Fiendfyre, was stretched taut over his flesh, and he felt the pulls and burns with every move.
Despite the soft pressure of his wand in the back pocket of his trousers, Draco almost couldn’t believe the outcome of the war. If he thought about what the Dark Lord’s victory meant for his family, the twist in his stomach he’d grown accustomed to over the last two years worsened. But when he looked into his best friend’s eyes, he decided that, right at this moment, he preferred not to think about the future.
***
The day after Pansy had brought his wand back, Draco found his mother in front of the fireplace in his father’s study, tear tracks in the smudges of soot on her face. When Draco entered, she quickly ended her call and wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her thumb.
After all they’d been through, she was still trying to protect him.
“Mother,” he said. “Don’t.”
“Draco.” She stood. “There’s something I have to tell you. We should sit.”
She crossed the room and sat down at his father’s desk, which was covered in papers. His mother’s favourite white peacock quill lay across them. Draco took a visitor’s chair and pulled it over to the corner of her side of the desk. His mother’s posture was as upright as ever, but whereas she usually held herself with a natural grace, now her back was rigid and her gestures stiff.
“Your father,” she drew a deep breath, “was forced to leave.”
Draco opened his mouth, but she lifted her hand, silencing his question.
“I’d hoped that they would have spared him, that our choices in the end would have been enough. But ... no such luck.”
Draco knew that in the thick of the battle all Father had done was looking for his son and wife. The Dark Lord couldn’t be too happy about further proof of their shifted priorities, of another failure to serve him. Draco’s mind reeled with a million questions. How had his parents known that Death Eaters would come for his father so quickly? How had Father managed his escape? Where was he now and how long would he be gone? They had a little chalet near Geneva, where the magical community had always remained neutral towards the rest of Europe. And his father’s life would probably be worth less than a Knut should he ever set foot on British soil again.
But one look at his mother told Draco that she was holding onto the last shred of her dignity. He couldn’t bother her with questions.
He simply nodded. “Is there anything ...?”
Narcissa shook her head. “No, thank you. I should go through these papers, make sure that we’re taken care of. I’m sorry.”
She shifted her chair towards the desk, and Draco, knowing he’d been dismissed, left the study. But the image of how her hands trembled when she picked up her quill burned on in his mind.
***
She is wife and mother, and keeper of the keys. Other mistresses might hand them over, but never she. Whenever he brings her afternoon tea into the study, she is working her way through stacks of papers and documents. She always needed to stay on top of things, and now she tries to come to terms with the changes in her life. The world has turned into a place where she is no longer the donor of charity, but almost a receiver. She must remain unnoticed, she must keep control, and she must preserve what matters most.
***
Draco didn’t go to Aunt Bella’s funeral. There must have been an obituary in the Prophet, but since the war had just ended, the manor was still cut off from owl delivery. Bella had been killed by the mother Weasel in the erupting chaos right after Potter’s death. Even though she had been taunting and vicious in life, Draco still missed her as a protector and a link to the throne. Her death had left a huge gap in the life of his mother. Narcissa was in deep mourning, pale and withdrawn on those rare occasions when Draco met her at breakfast. Pain had etched deep lines into her beautiful features, and even though she retained her silent resolve, Draco often caught her on the verge of tears if she thought he wasn’t looking.
The Parkinsons were rewarded beyond imagination. Draco wasn’t invited to Pansy’s Marking ceremony or the feast held in her honour and neither was his mother. But he often imagined what it must have been like. Pansy, in her dark-green dress, its colours and her black hair bringing out the milky light of her skin and the pale glitter of the diamonds around her neck. She was old money, Pansy, just like Draco, and now that she was among the Dark Lord’s favourites she could have any bachelor she wanted. She might not want to look at Draco twice, with his family fallen out of grace and hers quickly rising in ranks.
There wasn’t enough for him to do and too much on his mind, and so he decided to fill the empty time with a bit of potion brewing. His father’s small potions lab in the cellar was still intact. The adjacent cell held unpleasant memories of captives being imprisoned and tortured during the war, and Draco was eager to slip past it into the comfort of the old laboratory.
It reminded him of the time when he was still too young for Hogwarts, helping his father to brew the potions a self-respecting wizard never bought: healing salve, Pepper-up Potion, Blood-Replenishing Potion. To be honest, he hadn’t so much helped as rather sat around, playing with spatulas and watching his father go through the stages of brewing. Something akin to peace washed over him when he breathed in the scent of sulphur and asphodel that had seeped into the walls, when his gaze travelled over the neatly arranged spatulas and cauldrons, the glass flasks and wooden boxes full of precious ingredients. It lasted only until he found a small stack of parchment with notes - the handwriting not his or his father’s, but that of Severus Snape.
It took him several minutes of standing with his eyes closed and holding onto the work table until he was able to touch the notes and put them aside, to clear away the last few items: a forgotten quill, a pot of ink, a tiny flask, meticulously clean. Snape was dead and Draco’s father was in Switzerland, and only Draco himself was still here, braving the ghosts of abandoned cauldrons and ingredients to claim back his life and undo the damage to his family’s reputation.
The Draught of the Living Death would be a difficult enough potion to start with, ideal to occupy his mind and the perfect solution to his continuing bad dreams. Draco opened Advanced Potion-Making on page ten, set a fire under a small-sized copper cauldron and began heating a half-litre of water to prepare the infusion of wormwood. Once the wormwood was steeping, he started cutting up valerian roots. Very soon, he felt the calming effect that cutting and measuring always had on him. It was a relief to do something he enjoyed, something he was good at without a doubt. And it wasn’t until the final stages, after he had been stirring his potion counter-clockwise for more than twenty minutes with no change of colour from lilac to clear as water, when it occurred to him that something was wrong. Had he set the fire too high? The set-screw for the regulation of the flames was a little loose, and maybe he had given it an inch too much. Letting go of his stirring staff, he bent down to examine the flames. But in his annoyance, the staff got caught in the sleeve of his robes and the cauldron tipped over.
Draco jumped back with an angry snarl, while the potion spilled onto the work table and the floor. It wasn’t so much that he minded brewing another batch, but simply that the potion-maker in him hated the waste of time and perfectly good ingredients. Absently, he pulled out his wand, cast a Vanishing Spell, and was about to put his wand back when he noticed that the mess was still all over the table and floor.
He repeated the spell.
Nothing happened.
“Evanesco!” This time with a more forceful motion of his wand arm.
Still: nothing.
Frowning, Draco pointed his wand at Advance-Potion Making. “Wingardium Leviosa!”
The book stayed on the table.
Draco shook his wand first carefully, then with increasing vigour. The wand didn’t even give a spark.
“No,” he whispered. In the silence of the laboratory his voice still sounded too loud.
He tried again. “Accio Potions book!”
And again. “Lumos!”
And again.
Finally, Draco put down his wand. The handle was wet with sweat. His throat closed off in terror. Something was deeply, thoroughly wrong, but he couldn’t even bring himself to think it in his mind. Perhaps he should first clean up and brew a new batch of the sleeping draught before he investigated further.
But after another round of brewing, after stirring the final stage of the potion for over an hour without the expected change in colour, Draco had to face the facts: despite following the correct procedure to the letter, he wasn’t able to brew the potion any longer. And yet his mind still refused to accept the consequences.
All he knew was that looking at the unfinished potion hurt too much. Draco sank down on a small stool in front of a nearby desk, turned his back to the work table, and covered his face in his hands.
***
Her nerves are worn thin, and he has the bruises on his skin to prove it. She has never been the most patient or compassionate of mistresses, but he has no choice but to follow her whims. It can’t be easy, with her husband torn from her side and her son’s health so deeply impaired. She watches her son, all the time, like a hawk watches a mouse from high in the sky - ready to catch him if he falls.
***
Over the summer and autumn that followed the Dark Lord’s victory, Draco’s worries for his parents and himself proved sadly justified. Pansy’s Marking wasn’t the only event they weren’t invited to. No owl, no Floo-call, no visitor disturbed the silence of the manor. Draco instructed Pringle to keep the fire in the drawing room and the study constantly fed, and the flames crackled merrily, uninterrupted. No assignments came for Draco to redeem himself, not even the task to house a minor protégé of the Dark Lord.
But even with his magic off, he was the only member of his family who could gain back the Malfoys’ rightful place in society. Every time he so much as mentioned the Dark Lord’s name his mother flinched, no matter how much she tried to hide it. It was such a sharp contrast to her cool demeanour at the time they’d actually hosted their master at the manor that Draco couldn’t stop wondering how much more had gone on during that time that he didn’t know of. So far he had not talked with his mother about what to do, but it was only a matter of time before they would have to. Something must be done, and soon. Better to be one of the lowest in ranks than to be forgotten.
The idea to write a letter to the Dark Lord came to him one afternoon, after another abandoned attempt to talk his mother into taking the first steps towards greater visibility. Narcissa ignored Draco’s hints, steered the conversation to lighter issues and then retreated into the study.
Which was why Draco found himself in his room, chewing on his quill while he tried to compose his letter. He had to pick his words carefully: there wasn’t much he could tell the Dark Lord that couldn’t be turned against him. The form of address alone was tricky. My Lord? That had been sufficient before. But would it still be good enough now? Draco shuddered. He didn’t know. But he knew whom he could ask for help.
Pansy, wonderful Pansy, was still loyal to Draco, a real friend. She didn’t have a lot of time to visit in those first months after the war, and whenever she visited, she was so tired from all the social gatherings and Death Eater meetings that she didn’t talk much. But she stayed with Draco for tea, and her eyes gleamed when they met his over the steaming cups. He was glad to know that they were connected by more than social glue.
So it was only natural for Draco to let her in on his plan, and to ask for her support. Alas, Pansy’s reaction was far from what he’d hoped.
“Are you daft?” she exclaimed, almost spilling tea onto herself.
Draco glared at her.
“You can’t do that. You can’t write to him!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too damn dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you see?”
Red spots danced high on her cheeks, and she gestured wildly with her fingers spread wide, so that the light caught on her rings and flashed across the tea tray, the fragile cups on their saucers, and the silverware.
“All I see is that I have to do something,” Draco pressed on. “And you’re the only one I can talk to. Why can’t you at least tell me how to address him?”
“Because I don’t want you to write that letter.” And she continued in a much softer voice, “I’m too afraid something might happen to you.”
Draco nodded. “Pansy, please.”
Pleading had never failed with her, and it didn’t now.
She locked eyes with him. “It’s still ‘My Lord’,” she said. “Promise you’ll at least show me what you’ve written.”
This, he could do.
And when he did, she told him he’d written a good letter. There were still no owls available, and so Pansy took Draco’s letter with her to give it to the Dark Lord.
***
They tell him to feed the fire, and that is what he does. When he comes to see to it first thing in the morning, he cleans out the cold ashes and throws them out into the garden. Ashes make an excellent fertiliser for herbs and flowers. He keeps dry wood neatly stacked near the fireplace, and enough paper to quickly rekindle the flames from the embers. Sometimes, he puts orange peels onto the ashes and their soothing, bittersweet scent fills the air, reminding him of happier times.
***
With his best friend so close to the Dark Lord and her promise to take care of the situation, Draco felt safe enough to let things slide for a little while. But as autumn turned into winter, winter into spring and spring was about to make way towards summer, the situation should have improved.
Instead, nothing changed. He was still stuck at the manor and Pansy, who miraculously managed to divide her time between her visits and her new position as the Dark Lord’s favourite, never mentioned his letter or the Dark Lord’s reaction to it. What was taking her so long?
It wouldn’t do to ask her directly about the letter. Knowing Pansy, Draco was certain that she would feel insulted by his lack of trust. And he wanted to trust her. All he wanted was to bask in her reassuring smile and let himself believe that all was well. But how could he, when all he did was wait for time to move on and release him? He wouldn’t become delusional like an insect that was stuck in amber for all eternity, still believing it could fly away at any moment.
Pansy’s visits were sweet as ever, her gaze warmed him and her stories made him laugh. But something had to be wrong, or else she would have mentioned his letter months ago. Did she regret her promise, afraid of associating herself with a social pariah after all? Draco had known Pansy all his life, and he was certain that something wasn’t right, even though he wasn’t able to tell what exactly.
Maybe it wasn’t about him? Maybe it was something to do with the Dark Lord and she said nothing about it to spare Draco the worry? Whatever it was, he had to find out, not only for his safety, but for hers as well. Draco’s place with the Dark Lord was precariously close to eviction. But as the new star among the Death Eaters, Pansy’s position was even more dangerous. Too many would envy her tremendous success in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts and be continuously on the lookout for weak spots. She had to be careful.
Draco knew too well what happened to Death Eaters who lost their wits around the Dark Lord. He couldn’t bear for her to make a mistake. The thought of Pansy going through something similar to what he had experienced in his sixth and seventh year made Draco break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t watch another friend suffer. And while Pansy was able to look out for herself pretty well, she couldn’t have eyes everywhere. Pansy was a social creature, always quicker on the uptake with others than at realising what she herself might reveal. It was Draco’s task to cover her back. He had to find out what was going on, and he had no more time to lose.
So on Draco’s nineteenth birthday, while he and Pansy sat on the sofa in the newly decorated drawing room over tea and scones, Draco put down his cup and took the Boggart at wand point.
“Pansy, we have to talk. Something is off, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Pansy’s eyes shifted away from him and towards the wedding portraits of his parents on the wall above the mantelpiece as if asking them for assistance on how to deal with Draco.
“No, don’t do that. Look at me! I’m ... I’m worried about you. You don’t know what it’s like, being so close to him and then ... to make a ... to slip. You know?”
She turned her whole body around and stared him fully in the face. “What’re you trying to say? That I’m about to lose my wits, my position?”
Draco lifted his hands. “No, I ... Listen. I care about you. You know that, don’t you?”
Pansy faked a laugh. “Yeah, ‘course. You’ve a funny way of showing it. You should be happy for me instead of acting jealous.”
“I’m ... I’m not jealous. Remember how happy I was when you first told me? But now I’m concerned. You don’t show it, but you must be tired all the time, the way you travel between the manor and your position as the Dark Lord’s lieutenant. And you can’t go on like that, rolling your eyes when you talk about his followers as if they’re a bunch of halfwits.”
She grinned. “But they are. And it’s not as if I’m showing them.”
“For how long? If you don’t control yourself here with me, it’s only a matter of time until you slip up with them. And you can’t let that happen. Believe me, I know how these things work. I’ve seen them.”
Pansy uncurled Draco’s hands from around his knees. She held them loosely at the wrists, her own palms turned upwards.
“You’re trembling,” she whispered.
Why did she have to expose his weakness like that when he was only trying to protect them both?
“You do care about me, don’t you?” Pansy continued.
She knew him too well. His anger evaporated like mist in the morning sun. “’Course I do. I want you safe.”
She pulled his hands down into her lap, and started to caress the knuckles with her thumbs.
Draco briefly closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on her touch. He still had his suspicion and he had to voice it, even at the risk of losing her.
“It’s not that the Dark Lord is giving you a hard time because you associate yourself with ... with my family?”
She continued her stroking and shook her head. “No. I have to admit I don’t flaunt it in his face, but if he knows, he hasn’t mentioned my connections with your family. And I’m not going to break them.” Pansy gripped his hands, hard. “You’re my friend, Draco. Nothing is going to change that. Understood?”
He gave her a small nod. “I know. That’s why I was worried.”
“Enough about me.” She smiled at him. “How are you doing?”
She must know how it was for him, with his father out of the country and his mother lost in her own pain. Apart from Pansy, he had no one to talk to all day long, worrying about how he should approach his come-back.
Draco shrugged. “Why do you ask? It’s not like I can tell you anything new. I’m still biding my time, and I wish that Mother would finally talk to me about how to approach the Dark Lord’s regime. I haven’t got a clue about what’s going on outside, aside from the titbits you feed me.”
“There are many things I’m not allowed to reveal, you know that.”
“I know! And I’m not blaming you. It’s just that ... I should never have fallen into such a position - a Malfoy being cast away. It’s ... unacceptable.” The portraits of his ancestors kept berating him every time he had to walk down the corridor to the library.
“I can’t just go on doing nothing. I appreciate your loyalty, and what you do for my family. I really do. But I have to do something myself, too. Look at my parents: Father is out of the picture and Mother hasn’t recovered from Aunt Bella’s death. Every day she disappears into the study for hours, and I don’t know what she’s up to. She’s probably going through old pictures and letters. I can’t wait for either of them to reclaim our family’s place. It’s my job.”
“I know. It must be hard for you to sit around and do nothing but wait,” Pansy said.
She was still stroking his hands, such a gesture of reassurance that he wished she would go on with it forever. Draco’s stomach lurched. The chance to ask was finally there, and he couldn’t shy away from it. He swallowed hard.
“You remember my letter to the Dark Lord? The one where I was asking him to take me back? You said you’d take it to him. That was months ago.”
He winced. There. He’d said it. He averted his eyes, afraid to see the warmth in Pansy’s gaze turn into contempt.
“Draco, don’t push it. From what I keep hearing, it’s still best if the Malfoys keep a low profile, and that includes you. There’ll still be time to contact the Dark Lord, later.”
He voice was firm but calm. She was still on his side. Draco fought hard to suppress the urge to cover his face with his hands and rub his eyes. “Oh, Pansy.”
She placed her hand softly on his shoulder. “I know.” And after a pause: “Leave it to me. Please.”
Nothing more. No promise. But enough to make him look at her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I am.” A crooked little smile played around her lips and eyes. “You have to be patient. I’m doing what I can, and you’re the first one I’m going to pull back into the Dark Lord’s circle when the time is right. But so far, it’s still better not to mention your family’s name to him. Just yesterday, he punished Rowle for a minor infraction at the Ministry. Trust me, Draco. You don’t want him thinking of you right now.”
Draco shuddered at the thought of Rowle writhing at the Dark Lord’s feet and gritted his teeth. She was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Pansy glanced at her watch. “I have to go.” Already on her feet, she leaned forward and kissed Draco on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay safe. You are mine, Draco Malfoy, and don’t pretend otherwise.”
“Will do. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
At least he had managed to avoid discussing his health. He was anything but fine, but he didn’t want her to worry about that too. Over a year after his encounter with the Fiendfyre, his magic was still off. On good days he had the magical skills of a first-year. On a bad day, his wand wouldn’t even give off a spark. With diplomacy, Pansy would be able to help in due time. But how could she help with Draco’s magic? If she found out, she might reconsider her association with someone who was not far from a Squib, all reassurances aside. Even her loyalty could stretch only so far.
Draco felt his lip curl into a snarl. He hated what he’d become. And he wasn’t willing to let anybody know, not his mother, not Pansy, and certainly no one else. The Malfoys’ defences were low enough, and he had no intention of letting anyone see another weakness. St. Mungo’s was out of the question - too many of the Healers would love nothing better than to report such delicate information to the Dark Lord. Draco couldn’t have that. He had to find a way to heal on his own.
***
Trusting Pansy’s judgement was easy when they were together. Left alone, Draco found it a lot harder. His mind told him that she was right, that her position of power allowed her to see his situation much clearer than he. That it would be wise to stay out of sight until his magic was healed. His heart told him to trust her, because they were friends. But he knew his first duty was that of a Malfoy. Malfoys were survivors, and they didn’t survive to hide from the world. They could lie low in times of danger, but they also knew when to seize the occasion and act.
Was it time to wait? Or was it time to act? Pansy had told him to wait, but Draco felt his patience wearing thin.
He waited for a few more weeks before he wrote the next letter. This time, it was a lot easier, and his words flew from My Lord to Yours sincerely as if he’d done nothing but write letters for ages. He regarded it as a sign that he was doing the right thing. The Dark Lord would hear him out, after all. And if Pansy ... well, Draco didn’t have to involve her at all. That way, she would be protected if anything went wrong. But ... it wouldn’t go wrong. It couldn’t. Everything Draco had laid out in his letter was proof of his willingness to bend over backwards to get back in the Dark Lord’s good books.
Now, all he had to do was to get the letter out of the house.
The solution was so easy that he couldn’t believe that he had not thought of it before. All he had to do was give the letter to Pringle. House-elves could Apparate to any place they wanted, and it wasn’t as if Pringle could say no to Draco. Eventually, he would manage to deliver the letter.
Alone in his room, Draco summoned the elf, who bowed low before him.
“I have a task for you.”
“Yes, young master.” The elf bowed again.
“Take this letter to the Dark Lord. You know him, don’t you?”
The elf flinched. “Yes, master.”
“So you will find him for me, won’t you?”
Another flinch.
“Answer me!”
The elf’s ears drooped. “Nuh-, yes, master. Pringle will ... will do everything to find him.”
“Good. And don’t let Mother know about it. Now, leave.”
The sounding crack of Disapparition was like the trumpet of a new age. Draco’s return to the world was within his reach.
***
He can tell that something is going on. The family documents are newly arranged, and yet his mistress spends hours in the study, writing letters, talking at the fireplace. She is testing her boundaries, looking for ways to improve the dire situation. This morning, she told him to prepare a guest room in the west wing, one of the ones that haven’t been stripped bare. He would have put some flowers on the dressing table, too, but with the garden under so much snow it is hardly possible.
***
A few days later, Draco came down for breakfast after a night of restless sleep and found his mother in the sitting room with a visitor, whom she introduced to Draco as a friend from France. The other woman held herself in the same proud way as his mother, but with much greater ease. The war had treated her well; with her chestnut-brown hair open and long enough to reach over her shoulders she looked like a woman in her mid-twenties and not a day older. When Draco kissed her hand and told her this, she blushed delicately and broke into a smile.
Draco turned to his mother. “Will your guest stay for tea? Pansy said that she would visit, and we might take our tea together.”
Narcissa shook her head. “I’m sorry, Draco. We won’t make it. I promised to help with a few arrangements.”
“That’s a pity. I would have loved to introduce your friend to Pansy. She might be able to help with ... the arrangements.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Narcissa’s guest said. A frown had formed on her forehead. When she noticed Draco’s irritated look, she reassumed her pleasant demeanour. “I’m sorry. I was forgetting my place. Please, understand, this has nothing to do with you or your friend, Mr Malfoy. It’s more that-“
“It’s about family matters. Draco, please,” said his mother, with a subtle emphasis on family.
What was he doing, pressing his mother’s guest about her personal affairs, when Narcissa had taken every care not to introduce them? No matter how young the stranger looked, she might have losses to bear and secrets to keep, too.
“It is I who must apologise, madam.” Draco bowed deeply to the woman. “I forgot my manners, didn’t pay attention to my words. Could you forgive me my impertinence?”
She nodded.
They exchanged a few more polite pleasantries, then Draco excused himself and left for his room.
To his surprise, Pansy was there, lounging on a recliner. When she saw him come in, she jumped to her feet and crossed the room with quick steps.
“Draco Malfoy! Have you lost it completely?”
Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Pansy. Nice to see you, too.”
Pansy waved an envelope into his face. It bore the familiar Malfoy signet. “Do you have any idea about the danger you’d have been in, had your letter been delivered?”
His letter? How did she know about his letter?
“I knew it! Look me in the eye, and then tell me that you didn’t send that house-elf to seek out the Dark Lord.”
Draco bristled. How dare she Apparate directly to his room and then attack him on top of it? And how on earth had she found the letter in the first place? He would have a word with Pringle; that much was certain.
“So what? It’s not as if you’ve done anything for me.”
“Not as if-? I told you to wait! I told you it’s still too dangerous. You can’t just walk into the Dark Lord’s-”
“And I can’t wait forever either! You have no idea what it’s like, and ... you know what? I think you don’t care! All your visits and pretty words - they’re just to distract me from doing what I should have done long ago. I don’t need you!”
“I see ...” Pansy’s gaze could have frozen a dragon’s breath. “Well ... if you think so, maybe it’s time you try it on your own.”
All she left behind was his letter.
Draco shrugged, then called for Pringle and sent him to stand outside in the snow for an hour. Pansy would come around. She usually did.
Yet this time, Pansy didn’t return either the next day or the next week, not even for their traditional Sunday afternoon tea. Draco waited in vain.
The second Sunday without her, he sat down and wrote a letter, telling her that she was wrong. He demanded that she come and see him or at least write back. After several letters, he started explaining to her why there had been no other option for him but to send his letter with Pringle.
Every day, Draco wrote a new letter to Pansy, his project to reach the Dark Lord completely forgotten. As his last resort, he sent a Howler, insulting, shouting at and threatening her. She had never been able to let go a provocation unanswered.
But Pansy remained silent.
Finally, Draco wrote another letter, in which he apologised profusely. When he was done, the floor was covered with paper and the feather of his quill was chewed down to a stub. He walked through the manor, but couldn’t find an owl. How could he send a letter without an owl? The question seemed important, and he made a note on one of the papers lying around in his room so that he wouldn’t forget ask his mother about getting a new owl.
When he woke up the following morning, the floor was immaculately clean. One could say a lot about house-elves, but those belonging to the Malfoys were well-trained and knew their job.
***
It’s silly for someone like him to get his hopes up. Nothing has come of the letters and the Floo-calls, and the visitor has left without a promise. The joints in his hands ache from the times he shut the oven door on them, but there is still work to be done. The young master’s health is not getting any better. He fears the day when his mistress finds out just how damaged her only son is. On that day, he will hurt in a lot more places than his hands.
***
Draco was constantly freezing, and no amount of heating could drive the chill from his bones. His feet stayed cold, no matter how tightly he tucked them under the duvet. His naturally pale skin had a constant bluish hue, and all his use of Pepper-up potion couldn’t chase it away. And the worst thing was: he couldn’t even cast a warming charm. Finding sleep grew into a serious problem.
Every night, Draco lay in bed shivering under layers and layers of blankets, unable to sleep. Warm milk and hot baths didn’t help. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he tried reading. Why on earth was there snow and ice in August? Maybe the weather was related to his misery about the loss of Pansy, or to the prolonged instability of his magic? He’d heard of wizards whose loss of magical control could even cause a hailstorm. But that couldn’t happen to him, could it? The thought gave him the chills. If the icy wind and snow storms were his doing, he wouldn’t be able to hide his condition from his mother much longer. Every other night, he took another book from the manor’s huge collection, searching for an explanation for his miserable situation. From medical books for Healers he turned to books on spells and potions, finally even searching the whimsical truths of legends. Every night, he read until exhaustion claimed him at dawn. He slept fitfully for a few hours and then awoke with eyelids heavy as lead.
The snow around the manor was too thick for owls to get through, so ordering Dreamless Sleep was out of the question. And he wasn’t desperate enough to try brewing a potion on his own. Instead, he went into the smoking room and opened the cabinet to his father’s collection of the finest brands of Firewhisky. Different shades of amber glittered in beautiful crystal bottles, with stoppers shaped like magical creatures and objects of wizardry. Draco let his gaze wander over the tiny models of unicorns and fairies, over miniature wands and cauldrons, and remembered how much he had admired them as a young boy, how later he had dreamt of the day when he would come of age and be invited by Father to share a glass of Firewhisky in the smoking room. The thought made his eyes burn, and he hastily picked the nearest bottle, removed the stopper and poured a glass.
The whisky burned when it went down his throat, and Draco gasped for air. That was, as he found out, a mistake, because the next moment he was coughing and spitting so hard that tears ran down his face. Once he was back to breathing normally, Draco filled another glass. Determined not to breathe, he pinched his nose and gulped it down. His eyes still watered, but the burn of the alcohol travelled all the way to his stomach and settled with a warm glow.
The third glass he knocked back in his room, sitting in his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and three blankets bundled up all around him. It went down smoothly, and after that one, Draco stopped counting.
He woke up some indefinite time later with his mouth tasting like mould on a rat’s arse. His cheek and pillow were covered with stinking gunk, and while he realised that he must have puked all over himself, the room never stopped spinning. Draco heaved again, bitter-tasting green bile gushed into his mouth and nose and onto the sheets.
His greatest shame was caused by Pringle’s worried look when the elf came to change the sheets.
***
The following night, Draco lay in his freshly made bed, tense and desperately wanting to sleep, when Pringle appeared, carrying a bulky object.
“Master Draco?” he croaked and bowed low.
“What is it?”
“Pringle brought Master Draco a bed warmer.” The elf presented the object in his hands. Its thick part was covered in wool, and a long metal handle stuck out from it. “It goes into the bed and-”
“Give it here!” Embarrassment shot through Draco like white-hot coals and made his cheeks burn, but he would be damned if he refused the means for a night of sleep in a warm bed. He grabbed the handle and wrenched the bed warmer from Pringle’s hands.
“Please, Master Draco must take care that the cover doesn’t-”
“All right, all right, stop your blubbering. You can go now.” Draco had already turned and stepped over to his bed to tuck the bed warmer under the covers and only spared the elf one glare over his shoulder. Pringle stood in the middle of the room, wringing his hands. “Are you still there?”
“Please, Master Draco, be careful that-”
“I said: Go now! So go, before I change my mind and demand that you punish yourself for lingering.”
A squeak and a crack, and the elf was gone.
Draco went to bed. Warmth radiated from the lower end towards his frozen feet and legs. Not long and they were practically glowing. It was heaven. He snuggled closer under the covers, placing the bed warmer a little higher up, so that he could curl around it. When his finger accidentally brushed the metal under the woollen cover, he snatched his hand back with a hiss. The metal was brutally hot, and without the cover, there was no question what it would do to his skin. But Draco wouldn’t be so stupid as to remove the cover. He found a comfortable position on his side, the bed warmer close to his stomach and chest, his knees drawn a little upwards so that he could take up maximum heat. Exhaustion and warmth made him drowsy, and before he could finish another thought, he was fast asleep.
***
He woke up to an inferno.
His skin was on fire, and fire was clinging to every part of his body. He wanted to get away from it, but whatever it was that he held in his arms, he wasn’t able to let go of it. A distant part of his mind told him that it was causing him incredible pain, and the pain itself made it almost impossible to think about anything else. And yet Draco knew that he had to hold on, no matter how much it hurt, he had to hold on to the fiery object because otherwise, he would die, and others would die too. Someone was screaming at the top of their voice, and hands were touching him, shaking him, trying to uncurl his cramped body. The pain kept eating him alive, and Draco wanted to let go and yet didn’t dare to let go, until his arms were forced open, and whatever he was holding was ripped out of his grip.
“Draco, let go!” The voice of his mother - desperate and pleading. She had her wand drawn, and had flung the object away. It was the bed warmer, Draco realised, through the haze of pain that throbbed through his hands, arms, chest and belly. He whimpered. She removed the top of his pyjamas with a flick of her wand, and Draco stared at the angry red blisters with incredulous detachment.
“What happened? What was that thing doing in your bed?”
“I ... ah ... ugh ...” He couldn’t even talk.
“Hush, darling. I’m sorry. No questions. Just lay still, all right?”
He gave a small nod, and his mother started murmuring a sequence of healing spells, moving her wand over his body in a soothing pattern. The stabs of pain dulled to mere throbs. Draco closed his eyes in relief.
When his mother was finished, she repeated her question.
“Pringle gave it to me, last night.”
Her eyes flared. “Pringle!”
A moment later, the elf cowered on the carpet.
“What have you done to my son? Speak!”
“Pringle is sorry, Mistress Narcissa, so sorry. Pringle never meant Master Draco to come to harm. Please!” The elf threw himself at Narcissa’s feet, beating his bulbous head against the floor.
“Why?”
A sound escaped Draco’s throat, and the elf’s frantic gaze flew towards him.
“Pringle can’t say, Milady, please. Pringle can’t say, but Pringle meant no harm, none at all. Pringle only wanted ... please!”
Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “Go to the kitchen, and hold your hands in the fire until they start blistering. Then, heal yourself and do it again, five times. You are not allowed to heal yourself after the last time. You hear me?”
The elf lay on the floor, whimpering.
“You hear me?”
A whisper from the floor. “Yes, Milady. Pringle hears you.”
“Then go and do what you’re told.”
A shudder went through the elf’s body, and Draco found his voice.
“Mother, no.”
Narcissa turned towards Draco, her blue eyes wide. “No? But Draco ... this mindless beast is the reason you were hurt.” She looked at him more closely. “Or is there something you haven’t told me?”
“I ... Mother ... I can explain. But please, don’t make him burn his hands. I ...” Draco fought for words, but couldn’t find any. His chest rose and fell in quick succession.
Narcissa lifted her hand. “All right. It’s all right.”
She addressed the elf. “You are lucky to have such a generous young master. Leave us. And take that ... thing ... with you.”
“Yes, Milady, thank you so much, Milady. And thank you so much, Master Draco.”
When they were alone, Narcissa turned to Draco. “Why a bed warmer, Draco? Why didn’t you use a warming charm?”
Draco’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He wanted to deny it, to apologise, to hide inside a hole in the ground. How could he tell his mother that her adult son was practically reduced to a young wizard with his first signs of magic? He searched his mind for a way to phrase the truth so that it wouldn’t hurt too much. What would his father say if he knew? How could Draco ever manage to win back his family’s place? Question upon question, consequence upon consequence piled up in his mind - but no explanation came forth that he could offer his mother.
He sat for what surely must have been minutes, not uttering a single word, when her hand came to rest on his shoulder ever so lightly. “Draco,” she said, and her voice was warm like an embrace. “Draco, you’re making it snow.”
***
Kindness from his masters is something he’s never seen before. He has no idea why the young master has prevented his punishment, but he is glad. Burnt hands hurt like hell. He still remembers his Aunt Elsie who - back in the good old days - had to burn her hands so severely that once the infection was healed, only the stumps remained. She didn’t survive long after that, a useless mouth to be fed. For a moment, he is tempted to think about useless wizards and what would happen to them. But that’s not a very safe thought, and so he goes back to cleaning up the kitchen.
***
His mother brushed aside Draco’s objections to seeing a Healer with one determined raise of her chin, and the next weeks went by in a blur of medical examinations. Draco didn’t know what she told St. Mungo’s to receive personal visits, but when his mother wanted something done, she usually got her way. Alas, after a lot of wand waving and blood tests, the latest Healer, a tiny wizard who reminded him of his former Charms professor, only shook his head and declared that no known remedy existed to help Draco with the loss of his magic.
“His wand isn’t working for him, but he’s making it snow in the middle of the house? It might be due to shock. Who knows? Such incidents happen, and they usually take their time to wear off,” he croaked. “You said he’d been in an accident? Mmm ... Well,” he threw a fleeting look at Draco, “you could always consider a Kwik-spell book for him. I’ve heard they aren’t that bad ...”
Narcissa’s hand shot to her wand. “Get. Out.”
When the flames had fallen low behind the departing Healer, Draco turned to his mother. “No. I’m not going.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest.”
“You’ll either try to send me to Paris Academy or the Carpathian Committee of Knowledge. And I’m not going. I’m not a medical case to be prodded and mocked.”
“But, Draco ... what if they could help with your magic?”
Draco’s cheeks burned with shame. Being forced to discuss his disability with his mother, of all people, after what had just happened - it was humiliating. “No. We can’t afford such nonsense. I just need to sleep properly.”
“But isn’t your ... problem the reason why you couldn’t sleep in the first place?”
“Yes. No. I ... I don’t know. I just can’t leave. This is my home. Don’t make me, please?”
Narcissa’s eyes softened. “All right. But if you aren’t well by the end of the year, we’ll see another expert.”
It wasn’t typical for his mother to give in so easily, but Draco was grateful for even a small victory. It wasn’t as if he had many, these days.
***
He shouldn’t get his hopes up. But when his mistress tells him to prepare the guest room in the west wing, again, he can’t stop himself from suggesting flowers. He has never seen her cry and cringes in shock when she turns to him with a wet gleam in her eyes. “That would be lovely,” she says, and he can only nod and bow and assure her that, yes, he will get the flowers. Somehow.
***
With the return of summer, finding sleep was a little easier. Even though the warmer weather made his accidental snow appear more often, the fact that no outer cold added to his chills was a bonus for his health. And when Draco came down to breakfast on his twentieth birthday, a pleasant surprise awaited him.
“Look who’s here!” called his mother from the drawing room.
There, dressed in travelling robes and with her hair longer than he’d ever seen it, stood Pansy.
After months of missing her every day, Draco almost couldn’t believe that she was back. He should have felt awkward, embarrassed about their fight and his childish behaviour, but he was too relieved to have her back to waste time worrying.
Draco crossed the room with a few quick steps and embraced her. “Pansy! It’s so good to see you.”
Pansy yelped a little, before she relaxed into Draco’s arms.
He pushed her away at arm’s length. “What’s wrong with you? Since when don’t you-”
“You shocked me, Draco. That’s all. Your hands are like ice.”
There wasn’t anything he could say to that, and she noticed his strained silence immediately.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry. Is it still that bad?”
How did she know? He might have mentioned it to her in one of his letters. Draco nodded. “’m always cold,” he mumbled.
Pansy took his hands into hers, surrounding Draco’s hands with warmth. “Don’t worry. I’m here to take good care of you.”
A small cough reminded him of his mother’s presence. “Pansy is back from her trip around Europe. She will stay with us for the time being.”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” Pansy continued to hold Draco’s hands. He couldn’t remember the last time his hands had been that warm.
And she had come to stay. He smiled at her. “That’s wonderful. And I like your hair. You’ve finally come to your senses and let it grow.” Now he spied the small armada of suitcases and boxes behind the sofa. “I see you’ve already brought your luggage. Let’s go and pick a room for you.”
***
When he brings the tea, his mistress and her guest are talking so intensely that they almost don’t notice him coming and going. He is a good servant, and when his hands don’t hurt he carries his trays silently and steadily. His mistress touches the younger woman’s cheek as if admiring a statue. Magic buzzes in the air while the two witches size each other up. He hastens to leave the room. But as the days add up, the young woman stays in the guest room, and he concludes that she and his mistress must have reached some kind of agreement.
***
Having Pansy around was such a relief. Finally, there was someone to talk to who wasn’t carefully avoiding every other subject. They laughed together and made fun of each other just as they had in their time at Hogwarts. Pansy was the security of a shared past, a past in which Draco had been capable of doing magic and had a future. Now that future was taken out of his hands, but Pansy was back at his side, ready to tell everyone that she belonged with Draco. Not that anyone asked, but that wasn’t what was most important. And what did it matter that Pansy kept a long list of associates she corresponded with by Floo-talk or owl post? What did it matter that she sometimes was so occupied with her latest project that she forgot some of the anecdotes of their youth? Draco was happy to refresh her memory when they sat together on the sofa over tea and scones, anxious for the moment when Pansy would move a little closer to pet Draco’s hair or to hold his hands until warmth and feeling came back into them.
Time flew by, and Draco was glad to let it slip through his fingers like the quicksilver fish he never had been able to catch as a young boy. He knew that his mother was taking care of their financial affairs. Any day, he would join her and take up the mantle. But for now, he was content that he could find sleep without shivering for hours from the cold, and that he could rest without a constant stream of nightmares. The Malfoys’ ban from society had never been Pansy’s fault. It was the Dark Lord whose harsh regime kept them confined at the manor.
One afternoon in December they were sharing a cup of the light-bitter green tea Pansy had grown used to drinking during her stay on the continent. She now preferred it to black tea, even though she complained that Pringle could never get it right. Outside, the snow on the hedges in the garden sparkled in the sun.
“I wish time would stop,” Draco said.
Pansy resumed combing his hair with her fingers. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s a perfect day. I just don’t want it to change.”
“Wouldn’t you want it to be even better?”
He would have, once. He would have wished for power, influence and recognition. And after that, for more. But he’d learned his lesson. All he wanted was to keep everything as it was.
Draco firmly shook his head. “I don’t think it could get any better.”
When things changed, most of the time, they changed for the worse.
***
The owl that brings the sealed letter is huge. It must have come from a far-away place, judging from the ferocity with which it drives its beak into the bowl of owl-treats. His mistress takes the letter to the study, charms the door shut and doesn’t leave the room for three days. He magicks her tea to appear on the small table in front of the fireplace and hopes that she will remember to drink and eat. It’s not his place to tell her what to do, but if she crumbles, he and the young master will no longer be safe. He is a lot less concerned about the young witch.
When he learns that she, too, is to be regarded as family, he has to hide his surprise. His mistress’s wishes leave no room for interpretation, and so he moves the young lady’s belongings to a larger room and arranges the furniture to accommodate her needs. If this is what it takes to preserve the family’s fragile fate, he will do his part.
***
“Draco, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Pansy’s expression was the one she wore for particularly bad news, with her brows forced so hard into a position of fake relaxation that it almost made Draco want to laugh out loud.
“I have to go away for a few months. My parents asked for my assistance in a family matter.”
There. She was going to leave him. The urge to laugh passed in a heartbeat and left nothing in its wake but the wish to protest. It didn’t matter that her parents had moved to Russia, to help the Dark Lord’s campaign over there. That didn’t mean Draco had to like it.
He swallowed hard, unable to contain his need. “When will you be back?”
“Four months, five at most, I hope.” She studied his face. “I don’t want this any more than you do. But they are my parents. And they need me.”
Draco scowled at her for the three days she took to pack her things. When all her suitcases had been shrunk and owled ahead and the time arrived for Pansy to take the Floo, she turned towards him.
“I’m really sorry. I wish I could stay.” She opened her arms. “Give me a hug, will you?”
He stepped into her waiting arms, felt them close around him. His lips brushed the shell of her ear and he breathed in the spicy scent of her hair.
“Pansy.”
She pushed him away, gentle but determined. “Don’t. I have to go now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“I won’t.” She smiled and waved, and then she was gone in a swirl of colour and flames.
***
They are back to being three in the house: his mistress, his young master, and he. It’s unnerving how much laughter and joy have left with the departure of the young witch, and he grudgingly acknowledges her soothing influence on young master. His mistress is back to dividing her time between the study and her son, but a day has only so many hours and the burden is clearly eating away at her strength. He does his best to cook the tastiest titbits to whet her appetite, but he cannot force her to sit down and take the time to eat. So he hopes every day that the young witch will return soon and continues to dust the abandoned shelves in her room.
***
Pansy’s notes were short and almost detached, no match for the dedicated letters Draco sent to her. Well, he had sent such letters at first, but lately he’d toned them down considerably. Her lack of enthusiasm stung. Being left to wait and unable to act was bad enough. He didn’t have to make a fool of himself on top of it.
And if being miserable about Pansy wasn’t enough, Draco’s sleep was more disturbed than ever. Every night, he lay awake for hours and when he finally fell asleep his nightmares showed him events of the war. Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower. Draco standing with his wand trained at a helpless victim on the floor. And worst of all: the night of the final battle. Hogwarts burning. His classmates dying, or barely surviving.
***
Two young men sat half-lying on the floor in a corridor whose walls were streaked with soot. Draco’s breath came in choked gasps, the burning in his lungs made every breath feel like someone was pouring hot poison down his throat. He sensed more than he saw Gregory crouch beside him, heard his friend panting for air just as hard. Gregory reached out for Draco, but the touch of his hand on Draco’s caused pure agony, and Draco flinched away from it.
Draco looked down at his hands and arms. His skin was cracked and pulled taut over his flesh, covered in angry red scratches that looked like he had been attacked by fiery claws. The trouser leg on his left thigh was torn and the leg underneath was oozing blood where bits of flesh had been torn away by angry teeth. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer, and focused on Gregory’s wheezing. They sat like that, unable to move, for what could have been only minutes, but to Draco it felt like eternity.
Suddenly he felt a soft prickling on the back of his left hand. The sensation lasted mere moments and was quickly replaced by the next prickling, and the next. Draco opened his eyes. There, on the back of his hand, sat a snowflake. It melted into his skin, and the next snowflake followed. He stared at his hand, while snowflakes kept falling down on it and melted on his burning skin, soothing the pain.
“Draco,” he heard Gregory’s voice between coughs, “since when ... since when does it snow inside Hogwarts?”
***
Draco woke up, trembling with cold. Snow covered his duvet and blankets; they were soaked through and icy. Pushing them back, he sat up and fished around for his slippers. He walked over to the dresser on numb feet and fumbled with the drawers to retrieve a fresh pair of pyjamas. His fingers were so cold that he almost couldn’t close the buttons. Going to sleep in an icy wet bed was no option, and so he put on a dressing gown, picked up a blanket and headed for the library.
There was no explanation for this nightmare other than Pansy’s absence wearing him down. Why would he dream of that night in the Room of Hidden Things, more than two years after Vince’s death? That part of his life was over and dealt with. He had lost his magic. He had lost Vince, and Greg had never visited the manor after the war, probably to save himself from being associated with social pariahs. But Draco wouldn’t lose Pansy. He would make her see that she was his. She was his Pansy, and he knew her better than anyone else. She had come back once and promised she would never leave him.
All she had to do was to come back again.
When she Floo-called him the next day and he told her about the dream, she blanched considerably. Draco had a hard time seeing her fully, because the fireplace on her side was such a tiny thing. She insisted on taking the calls in her private room instead of her parent’s drawing room. It looked like she was swaying from exhaustion, but Draco couldn’t tell for sure. It could have been a flicker of the flames. But there was no use in asking her. Being Pansy, she would dismiss it with a throw-away gesture and a smirk. So Draco kept his questions to a minimum.
“How long until you can come back?”
She coughed, and this time he was sure that she sounded exhausted.
“I’ve started packing. Give me another few days, and I’ll be back.”
“You’ll stay with me?”
She nodded. “I won’t leave you again.”
He had no words for his relief or his gratitude. But he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen a fraction and had to suddenly blink to clear his sight.
Draco remained in front of the fireplace long after they had closed the call, his face burning with the shame of what she must have seen. She must feel pity for him. Why if not out of obligation would she return to such a sorry excuse for a wizard?
Concluded in Part 2
Author: catsintheattic
Recipient: scarletladyy
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Narcissa Malfoy, Pringle the house-elf
Rating: R (see warnings)
Warnings (highlight to view): PTSD issues, bodily mutilation through burning, character deaths
Spoiler (highlight to view) : may seem AU
Wordcount: 20,996 words
Summary: Imagine a world where Pansy Parkinson changed the outcome of the war.
Author’s Notes: Dear scarletladyy, when I read your prompt I was jumping up and down with joy - Draco and dark or angsty fic are my favourite pastimes. I had no idea what I was getting into when I started this story. I’m not sure if I managed what you aimed for with the prompts, but I hope you will enjoy this story. I also hope you like house-elves. :-)
Betas: Thank you, celta_diabolica and melusinahp, for your sharp eyes and helpful comments, for pushing me to write a better story and for making time in the thick of your own tasks. You rock! Thank you, AmyLouise, for sharing your knowledge of Latin to help me come up with a new spell. kennahijja inspired the summary, even though she didn’t know it. :-D And massive thanks to the springtime_gen mods for being so patient with me.
His mistress is deeply worried. After months of hosting a monster, the household is finally relieved of it. And yet, she continues to worry. He isn’t a reader of minds, but he has known her all her life, has moved with her to the manor house. “Bring the tea,” she says, and from the tone of her voice he knows what kind of day it’s going to be. He is bound to her by life and secrets. And if she is miserable, his life is prone to misery, too.
***
When the Dark Lord defeated Potter, it was due to Draco’s best friend.
After Pansy’s betrayal of Potter, she was sent from Hogwarts with the rest of Slytherin House and the younger students. But immediately upon her arrival in Hogsmeade, while Draco, Crabbe and Goyle sneaked back to the castle and into the Room of Hidden Things, Pansy went straight to the Dark Lord and then returned to Hogwarts with his troops. And in the decisive moments of the battle, when Harry Potter and the Dark Lord set about duelling to the death, it was Pansy who launched herself at Potter and wrung Draco’s hawthorn wand from his grip. The Dark Lord, master of the Elder Wand, didn’t hesitate and killed Potter with an efficient, merciless Avada Kedavra. And that, as they said, was the end of the story.
Draco, unfortunately, hadn’t witnessed Pansy’s great moment. He was still outside the castle, wandless, afraid, and unable to fight. But, of course, Pansy told him all about it when she visited a day later to return his wand. The first wave of frantic celebration was slowly ebbing away and rumours had spread that the Dark Lord, now residing at Hogwarts, was already planning the final wipe-out of the remaining Potter-fighters.
“I knew I could do it,” Pansy said to Draco, laughter bubbling from her lips. “Because it was your wand. It has this notch where the handle rests against the hand, which bites into your palm when an opponent grabs the wand, making it impossible to keep your grip. You have a little beast of a stick, Draco, so willing to turn against its owner.”
Her throaty laughter rubbed pleasantly against his eardrums, and he joined her then stepped up closer, put his arms on her waist and twirled her around between more bouts of laughter. Too soon he had to stop, gasping for air. His breathing was not yet back to normal; his lungs still suffered from the effects of what had happened in the Room of Hidden Things. Every breath felt like an intake of shards of glass. His skin, where it had been exposed to the Fiendfyre, was stretched taut over his flesh, and he felt the pulls and burns with every move.
Despite the soft pressure of his wand in the back pocket of his trousers, Draco almost couldn’t believe the outcome of the war. If he thought about what the Dark Lord’s victory meant for his family, the twist in his stomach he’d grown accustomed to over the last two years worsened. But when he looked into his best friend’s eyes, he decided that, right at this moment, he preferred not to think about the future.
***
The day after Pansy had brought his wand back, Draco found his mother in front of the fireplace in his father’s study, tear tracks in the smudges of soot on her face. When Draco entered, she quickly ended her call and wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her thumb.
After all they’d been through, she was still trying to protect him.
“Mother,” he said. “Don’t.”
“Draco.” She stood. “There’s something I have to tell you. We should sit.”
She crossed the room and sat down at his father’s desk, which was covered in papers. His mother’s favourite white peacock quill lay across them. Draco took a visitor’s chair and pulled it over to the corner of her side of the desk. His mother’s posture was as upright as ever, but whereas she usually held herself with a natural grace, now her back was rigid and her gestures stiff.
“Your father,” she drew a deep breath, “was forced to leave.”
Draco opened his mouth, but she lifted her hand, silencing his question.
“I’d hoped that they would have spared him, that our choices in the end would have been enough. But ... no such luck.”
Draco knew that in the thick of the battle all Father had done was looking for his son and wife. The Dark Lord couldn’t be too happy about further proof of their shifted priorities, of another failure to serve him. Draco’s mind reeled with a million questions. How had his parents known that Death Eaters would come for his father so quickly? How had Father managed his escape? Where was he now and how long would he be gone? They had a little chalet near Geneva, where the magical community had always remained neutral towards the rest of Europe. And his father’s life would probably be worth less than a Knut should he ever set foot on British soil again.
But one look at his mother told Draco that she was holding onto the last shred of her dignity. He couldn’t bother her with questions.
He simply nodded. “Is there anything ...?”
Narcissa shook her head. “No, thank you. I should go through these papers, make sure that we’re taken care of. I’m sorry.”
She shifted her chair towards the desk, and Draco, knowing he’d been dismissed, left the study. But the image of how her hands trembled when she picked up her quill burned on in his mind.
***
She is wife and mother, and keeper of the keys. Other mistresses might hand them over, but never she. Whenever he brings her afternoon tea into the study, she is working her way through stacks of papers and documents. She always needed to stay on top of things, and now she tries to come to terms with the changes in her life. The world has turned into a place where she is no longer the donor of charity, but almost a receiver. She must remain unnoticed, she must keep control, and she must preserve what matters most.
***
Draco didn’t go to Aunt Bella’s funeral. There must have been an obituary in the Prophet, but since the war had just ended, the manor was still cut off from owl delivery. Bella had been killed by the mother Weasel in the erupting chaos right after Potter’s death. Even though she had been taunting and vicious in life, Draco still missed her as a protector and a link to the throne. Her death had left a huge gap in the life of his mother. Narcissa was in deep mourning, pale and withdrawn on those rare occasions when Draco met her at breakfast. Pain had etched deep lines into her beautiful features, and even though she retained her silent resolve, Draco often caught her on the verge of tears if she thought he wasn’t looking.
The Parkinsons were rewarded beyond imagination. Draco wasn’t invited to Pansy’s Marking ceremony or the feast held in her honour and neither was his mother. But he often imagined what it must have been like. Pansy, in her dark-green dress, its colours and her black hair bringing out the milky light of her skin and the pale glitter of the diamonds around her neck. She was old money, Pansy, just like Draco, and now that she was among the Dark Lord’s favourites she could have any bachelor she wanted. She might not want to look at Draco twice, with his family fallen out of grace and hers quickly rising in ranks.
There wasn’t enough for him to do and too much on his mind, and so he decided to fill the empty time with a bit of potion brewing. His father’s small potions lab in the cellar was still intact. The adjacent cell held unpleasant memories of captives being imprisoned and tortured during the war, and Draco was eager to slip past it into the comfort of the old laboratory.
It reminded him of the time when he was still too young for Hogwarts, helping his father to brew the potions a self-respecting wizard never bought: healing salve, Pepper-up Potion, Blood-Replenishing Potion. To be honest, he hadn’t so much helped as rather sat around, playing with spatulas and watching his father go through the stages of brewing. Something akin to peace washed over him when he breathed in the scent of sulphur and asphodel that had seeped into the walls, when his gaze travelled over the neatly arranged spatulas and cauldrons, the glass flasks and wooden boxes full of precious ingredients. It lasted only until he found a small stack of parchment with notes - the handwriting not his or his father’s, but that of Severus Snape.
It took him several minutes of standing with his eyes closed and holding onto the work table until he was able to touch the notes and put them aside, to clear away the last few items: a forgotten quill, a pot of ink, a tiny flask, meticulously clean. Snape was dead and Draco’s father was in Switzerland, and only Draco himself was still here, braving the ghosts of abandoned cauldrons and ingredients to claim back his life and undo the damage to his family’s reputation.
The Draught of the Living Death would be a difficult enough potion to start with, ideal to occupy his mind and the perfect solution to his continuing bad dreams. Draco opened Advanced Potion-Making on page ten, set a fire under a small-sized copper cauldron and began heating a half-litre of water to prepare the infusion of wormwood. Once the wormwood was steeping, he started cutting up valerian roots. Very soon, he felt the calming effect that cutting and measuring always had on him. It was a relief to do something he enjoyed, something he was good at without a doubt. And it wasn’t until the final stages, after he had been stirring his potion counter-clockwise for more than twenty minutes with no change of colour from lilac to clear as water, when it occurred to him that something was wrong. Had he set the fire too high? The set-screw for the regulation of the flames was a little loose, and maybe he had given it an inch too much. Letting go of his stirring staff, he bent down to examine the flames. But in his annoyance, the staff got caught in the sleeve of his robes and the cauldron tipped over.
Draco jumped back with an angry snarl, while the potion spilled onto the work table and the floor. It wasn’t so much that he minded brewing another batch, but simply that the potion-maker in him hated the waste of time and perfectly good ingredients. Absently, he pulled out his wand, cast a Vanishing Spell, and was about to put his wand back when he noticed that the mess was still all over the table and floor.
He repeated the spell.
Nothing happened.
“Evanesco!” This time with a more forceful motion of his wand arm.
Still: nothing.
Frowning, Draco pointed his wand at Advance-Potion Making. “Wingardium Leviosa!”
The book stayed on the table.
Draco shook his wand first carefully, then with increasing vigour. The wand didn’t even give a spark.
“No,” he whispered. In the silence of the laboratory his voice still sounded too loud.
He tried again. “Accio Potions book!”
And again. “Lumos!”
And again.
Finally, Draco put down his wand. The handle was wet with sweat. His throat closed off in terror. Something was deeply, thoroughly wrong, but he couldn’t even bring himself to think it in his mind. Perhaps he should first clean up and brew a new batch of the sleeping draught before he investigated further.
But after another round of brewing, after stirring the final stage of the potion for over an hour without the expected change in colour, Draco had to face the facts: despite following the correct procedure to the letter, he wasn’t able to brew the potion any longer. And yet his mind still refused to accept the consequences.
All he knew was that looking at the unfinished potion hurt too much. Draco sank down on a small stool in front of a nearby desk, turned his back to the work table, and covered his face in his hands.
***
Her nerves are worn thin, and he has the bruises on his skin to prove it. She has never been the most patient or compassionate of mistresses, but he has no choice but to follow her whims. It can’t be easy, with her husband torn from her side and her son’s health so deeply impaired. She watches her son, all the time, like a hawk watches a mouse from high in the sky - ready to catch him if he falls.
***
Over the summer and autumn that followed the Dark Lord’s victory, Draco’s worries for his parents and himself proved sadly justified. Pansy’s Marking wasn’t the only event they weren’t invited to. No owl, no Floo-call, no visitor disturbed the silence of the manor. Draco instructed Pringle to keep the fire in the drawing room and the study constantly fed, and the flames crackled merrily, uninterrupted. No assignments came for Draco to redeem himself, not even the task to house a minor protégé of the Dark Lord.
But even with his magic off, he was the only member of his family who could gain back the Malfoys’ rightful place in society. Every time he so much as mentioned the Dark Lord’s name his mother flinched, no matter how much she tried to hide it. It was such a sharp contrast to her cool demeanour at the time they’d actually hosted their master at the manor that Draco couldn’t stop wondering how much more had gone on during that time that he didn’t know of. So far he had not talked with his mother about what to do, but it was only a matter of time before they would have to. Something must be done, and soon. Better to be one of the lowest in ranks than to be forgotten.
The idea to write a letter to the Dark Lord came to him one afternoon, after another abandoned attempt to talk his mother into taking the first steps towards greater visibility. Narcissa ignored Draco’s hints, steered the conversation to lighter issues and then retreated into the study.
Which was why Draco found himself in his room, chewing on his quill while he tried to compose his letter. He had to pick his words carefully: there wasn’t much he could tell the Dark Lord that couldn’t be turned against him. The form of address alone was tricky. My Lord? That had been sufficient before. But would it still be good enough now? Draco shuddered. He didn’t know. But he knew whom he could ask for help.
Pansy, wonderful Pansy, was still loyal to Draco, a real friend. She didn’t have a lot of time to visit in those first months after the war, and whenever she visited, she was so tired from all the social gatherings and Death Eater meetings that she didn’t talk much. But she stayed with Draco for tea, and her eyes gleamed when they met his over the steaming cups. He was glad to know that they were connected by more than social glue.
So it was only natural for Draco to let her in on his plan, and to ask for her support. Alas, Pansy’s reaction was far from what he’d hoped.
“Are you daft?” she exclaimed, almost spilling tea onto herself.
Draco glared at her.
“You can’t do that. You can’t write to him!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too damn dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you see?”
Red spots danced high on her cheeks, and she gestured wildly with her fingers spread wide, so that the light caught on her rings and flashed across the tea tray, the fragile cups on their saucers, and the silverware.
“All I see is that I have to do something,” Draco pressed on. “And you’re the only one I can talk to. Why can’t you at least tell me how to address him?”
“Because I don’t want you to write that letter.” And she continued in a much softer voice, “I’m too afraid something might happen to you.”
Draco nodded. “Pansy, please.”
Pleading had never failed with her, and it didn’t now.
She locked eyes with him. “It’s still ‘My Lord’,” she said. “Promise you’ll at least show me what you’ve written.”
This, he could do.
And when he did, she told him he’d written a good letter. There were still no owls available, and so Pansy took Draco’s letter with her to give it to the Dark Lord.
***
They tell him to feed the fire, and that is what he does. When he comes to see to it first thing in the morning, he cleans out the cold ashes and throws them out into the garden. Ashes make an excellent fertiliser for herbs and flowers. He keeps dry wood neatly stacked near the fireplace, and enough paper to quickly rekindle the flames from the embers. Sometimes, he puts orange peels onto the ashes and their soothing, bittersweet scent fills the air, reminding him of happier times.
***
With his best friend so close to the Dark Lord and her promise to take care of the situation, Draco felt safe enough to let things slide for a little while. But as autumn turned into winter, winter into spring and spring was about to make way towards summer, the situation should have improved.
Instead, nothing changed. He was still stuck at the manor and Pansy, who miraculously managed to divide her time between her visits and her new position as the Dark Lord’s favourite, never mentioned his letter or the Dark Lord’s reaction to it. What was taking her so long?
It wouldn’t do to ask her directly about the letter. Knowing Pansy, Draco was certain that she would feel insulted by his lack of trust. And he wanted to trust her. All he wanted was to bask in her reassuring smile and let himself believe that all was well. But how could he, when all he did was wait for time to move on and release him? He wouldn’t become delusional like an insect that was stuck in amber for all eternity, still believing it could fly away at any moment.
Pansy’s visits were sweet as ever, her gaze warmed him and her stories made him laugh. But something had to be wrong, or else she would have mentioned his letter months ago. Did she regret her promise, afraid of associating herself with a social pariah after all? Draco had known Pansy all his life, and he was certain that something wasn’t right, even though he wasn’t able to tell what exactly.
Maybe it wasn’t about him? Maybe it was something to do with the Dark Lord and she said nothing about it to spare Draco the worry? Whatever it was, he had to find out, not only for his safety, but for hers as well. Draco’s place with the Dark Lord was precariously close to eviction. But as the new star among the Death Eaters, Pansy’s position was even more dangerous. Too many would envy her tremendous success in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts and be continuously on the lookout for weak spots. She had to be careful.
Draco knew too well what happened to Death Eaters who lost their wits around the Dark Lord. He couldn’t bear for her to make a mistake. The thought of Pansy going through something similar to what he had experienced in his sixth and seventh year made Draco break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t watch another friend suffer. And while Pansy was able to look out for herself pretty well, she couldn’t have eyes everywhere. Pansy was a social creature, always quicker on the uptake with others than at realising what she herself might reveal. It was Draco’s task to cover her back. He had to find out what was going on, and he had no more time to lose.
So on Draco’s nineteenth birthday, while he and Pansy sat on the sofa in the newly decorated drawing room over tea and scones, Draco put down his cup and took the Boggart at wand point.
“Pansy, we have to talk. Something is off, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Pansy’s eyes shifted away from him and towards the wedding portraits of his parents on the wall above the mantelpiece as if asking them for assistance on how to deal with Draco.
“No, don’t do that. Look at me! I’m ... I’m worried about you. You don’t know what it’s like, being so close to him and then ... to make a ... to slip. You know?”
She turned her whole body around and stared him fully in the face. “What’re you trying to say? That I’m about to lose my wits, my position?”
Draco lifted his hands. “No, I ... Listen. I care about you. You know that, don’t you?”
Pansy faked a laugh. “Yeah, ‘course. You’ve a funny way of showing it. You should be happy for me instead of acting jealous.”
“I’m ... I’m not jealous. Remember how happy I was when you first told me? But now I’m concerned. You don’t show it, but you must be tired all the time, the way you travel between the manor and your position as the Dark Lord’s lieutenant. And you can’t go on like that, rolling your eyes when you talk about his followers as if they’re a bunch of halfwits.”
She grinned. “But they are. And it’s not as if I’m showing them.”
“For how long? If you don’t control yourself here with me, it’s only a matter of time until you slip up with them. And you can’t let that happen. Believe me, I know how these things work. I’ve seen them.”
Pansy uncurled Draco’s hands from around his knees. She held them loosely at the wrists, her own palms turned upwards.
“You’re trembling,” she whispered.
Why did she have to expose his weakness like that when he was only trying to protect them both?
“You do care about me, don’t you?” Pansy continued.
She knew him too well. His anger evaporated like mist in the morning sun. “’Course I do. I want you safe.”
She pulled his hands down into her lap, and started to caress the knuckles with her thumbs.
Draco briefly closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on her touch. He still had his suspicion and he had to voice it, even at the risk of losing her.
“It’s not that the Dark Lord is giving you a hard time because you associate yourself with ... with my family?”
She continued her stroking and shook her head. “No. I have to admit I don’t flaunt it in his face, but if he knows, he hasn’t mentioned my connections with your family. And I’m not going to break them.” Pansy gripped his hands, hard. “You’re my friend, Draco. Nothing is going to change that. Understood?”
He gave her a small nod. “I know. That’s why I was worried.”
“Enough about me.” She smiled at him. “How are you doing?”
She must know how it was for him, with his father out of the country and his mother lost in her own pain. Apart from Pansy, he had no one to talk to all day long, worrying about how he should approach his come-back.
Draco shrugged. “Why do you ask? It’s not like I can tell you anything new. I’m still biding my time, and I wish that Mother would finally talk to me about how to approach the Dark Lord’s regime. I haven’t got a clue about what’s going on outside, aside from the titbits you feed me.”
“There are many things I’m not allowed to reveal, you know that.”
“I know! And I’m not blaming you. It’s just that ... I should never have fallen into such a position - a Malfoy being cast away. It’s ... unacceptable.” The portraits of his ancestors kept berating him every time he had to walk down the corridor to the library.
“I can’t just go on doing nothing. I appreciate your loyalty, and what you do for my family. I really do. But I have to do something myself, too. Look at my parents: Father is out of the picture and Mother hasn’t recovered from Aunt Bella’s death. Every day she disappears into the study for hours, and I don’t know what she’s up to. She’s probably going through old pictures and letters. I can’t wait for either of them to reclaim our family’s place. It’s my job.”
“I know. It must be hard for you to sit around and do nothing but wait,” Pansy said.
She was still stroking his hands, such a gesture of reassurance that he wished she would go on with it forever. Draco’s stomach lurched. The chance to ask was finally there, and he couldn’t shy away from it. He swallowed hard.
“You remember my letter to the Dark Lord? The one where I was asking him to take me back? You said you’d take it to him. That was months ago.”
He winced. There. He’d said it. He averted his eyes, afraid to see the warmth in Pansy’s gaze turn into contempt.
“Draco, don’t push it. From what I keep hearing, it’s still best if the Malfoys keep a low profile, and that includes you. There’ll still be time to contact the Dark Lord, later.”
He voice was firm but calm. She was still on his side. Draco fought hard to suppress the urge to cover his face with his hands and rub his eyes. “Oh, Pansy.”
She placed her hand softly on his shoulder. “I know.” And after a pause: “Leave it to me. Please.”
Nothing more. No promise. But enough to make him look at her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I am.” A crooked little smile played around her lips and eyes. “You have to be patient. I’m doing what I can, and you’re the first one I’m going to pull back into the Dark Lord’s circle when the time is right. But so far, it’s still better not to mention your family’s name to him. Just yesterday, he punished Rowle for a minor infraction at the Ministry. Trust me, Draco. You don’t want him thinking of you right now.”
Draco shuddered at the thought of Rowle writhing at the Dark Lord’s feet and gritted his teeth. She was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Pansy glanced at her watch. “I have to go.” Already on her feet, she leaned forward and kissed Draco on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay safe. You are mine, Draco Malfoy, and don’t pretend otherwise.”
“Will do. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
At least he had managed to avoid discussing his health. He was anything but fine, but he didn’t want her to worry about that too. Over a year after his encounter with the Fiendfyre, his magic was still off. On good days he had the magical skills of a first-year. On a bad day, his wand wouldn’t even give off a spark. With diplomacy, Pansy would be able to help in due time. But how could she help with Draco’s magic? If she found out, she might reconsider her association with someone who was not far from a Squib, all reassurances aside. Even her loyalty could stretch only so far.
Draco felt his lip curl into a snarl. He hated what he’d become. And he wasn’t willing to let anybody know, not his mother, not Pansy, and certainly no one else. The Malfoys’ defences were low enough, and he had no intention of letting anyone see another weakness. St. Mungo’s was out of the question - too many of the Healers would love nothing better than to report such delicate information to the Dark Lord. Draco couldn’t have that. He had to find a way to heal on his own.
***
Trusting Pansy’s judgement was easy when they were together. Left alone, Draco found it a lot harder. His mind told him that she was right, that her position of power allowed her to see his situation much clearer than he. That it would be wise to stay out of sight until his magic was healed. His heart told him to trust her, because they were friends. But he knew his first duty was that of a Malfoy. Malfoys were survivors, and they didn’t survive to hide from the world. They could lie low in times of danger, but they also knew when to seize the occasion and act.
Was it time to wait? Or was it time to act? Pansy had told him to wait, but Draco felt his patience wearing thin.
He waited for a few more weeks before he wrote the next letter. This time, it was a lot easier, and his words flew from My Lord to Yours sincerely as if he’d done nothing but write letters for ages. He regarded it as a sign that he was doing the right thing. The Dark Lord would hear him out, after all. And if Pansy ... well, Draco didn’t have to involve her at all. That way, she would be protected if anything went wrong. But ... it wouldn’t go wrong. It couldn’t. Everything Draco had laid out in his letter was proof of his willingness to bend over backwards to get back in the Dark Lord’s good books.
Now, all he had to do was to get the letter out of the house.
The solution was so easy that he couldn’t believe that he had not thought of it before. All he had to do was give the letter to Pringle. House-elves could Apparate to any place they wanted, and it wasn’t as if Pringle could say no to Draco. Eventually, he would manage to deliver the letter.
Alone in his room, Draco summoned the elf, who bowed low before him.
“I have a task for you.”
“Yes, young master.” The elf bowed again.
“Take this letter to the Dark Lord. You know him, don’t you?”
The elf flinched. “Yes, master.”
“So you will find him for me, won’t you?”
Another flinch.
“Answer me!”
The elf’s ears drooped. “Nuh-, yes, master. Pringle will ... will do everything to find him.”
“Good. And don’t let Mother know about it. Now, leave.”
The sounding crack of Disapparition was like the trumpet of a new age. Draco’s return to the world was within his reach.
***
He can tell that something is going on. The family documents are newly arranged, and yet his mistress spends hours in the study, writing letters, talking at the fireplace. She is testing her boundaries, looking for ways to improve the dire situation. This morning, she told him to prepare a guest room in the west wing, one of the ones that haven’t been stripped bare. He would have put some flowers on the dressing table, too, but with the garden under so much snow it is hardly possible.
***
A few days later, Draco came down for breakfast after a night of restless sleep and found his mother in the sitting room with a visitor, whom she introduced to Draco as a friend from France. The other woman held herself in the same proud way as his mother, but with much greater ease. The war had treated her well; with her chestnut-brown hair open and long enough to reach over her shoulders she looked like a woman in her mid-twenties and not a day older. When Draco kissed her hand and told her this, she blushed delicately and broke into a smile.
Draco turned to his mother. “Will your guest stay for tea? Pansy said that she would visit, and we might take our tea together.”
Narcissa shook her head. “I’m sorry, Draco. We won’t make it. I promised to help with a few arrangements.”
“That’s a pity. I would have loved to introduce your friend to Pansy. She might be able to help with ... the arrangements.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Narcissa’s guest said. A frown had formed on her forehead. When she noticed Draco’s irritated look, she reassumed her pleasant demeanour. “I’m sorry. I was forgetting my place. Please, understand, this has nothing to do with you or your friend, Mr Malfoy. It’s more that-“
“It’s about family matters. Draco, please,” said his mother, with a subtle emphasis on family.
What was he doing, pressing his mother’s guest about her personal affairs, when Narcissa had taken every care not to introduce them? No matter how young the stranger looked, she might have losses to bear and secrets to keep, too.
“It is I who must apologise, madam.” Draco bowed deeply to the woman. “I forgot my manners, didn’t pay attention to my words. Could you forgive me my impertinence?”
She nodded.
They exchanged a few more polite pleasantries, then Draco excused himself and left for his room.
To his surprise, Pansy was there, lounging on a recliner. When she saw him come in, she jumped to her feet and crossed the room with quick steps.
“Draco Malfoy! Have you lost it completely?”
Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Pansy. Nice to see you, too.”
Pansy waved an envelope into his face. It bore the familiar Malfoy signet. “Do you have any idea about the danger you’d have been in, had your letter been delivered?”
His letter? How did she know about his letter?
“I knew it! Look me in the eye, and then tell me that you didn’t send that house-elf to seek out the Dark Lord.”
Draco bristled. How dare she Apparate directly to his room and then attack him on top of it? And how on earth had she found the letter in the first place? He would have a word with Pringle; that much was certain.
“So what? It’s not as if you’ve done anything for me.”
“Not as if-? I told you to wait! I told you it’s still too dangerous. You can’t just walk into the Dark Lord’s-”
“And I can’t wait forever either! You have no idea what it’s like, and ... you know what? I think you don’t care! All your visits and pretty words - they’re just to distract me from doing what I should have done long ago. I don’t need you!”
“I see ...” Pansy’s gaze could have frozen a dragon’s breath. “Well ... if you think so, maybe it’s time you try it on your own.”
All she left behind was his letter.
Draco shrugged, then called for Pringle and sent him to stand outside in the snow for an hour. Pansy would come around. She usually did.
Yet this time, Pansy didn’t return either the next day or the next week, not even for their traditional Sunday afternoon tea. Draco waited in vain.
The second Sunday without her, he sat down and wrote a letter, telling her that she was wrong. He demanded that she come and see him or at least write back. After several letters, he started explaining to her why there had been no other option for him but to send his letter with Pringle.
Every day, Draco wrote a new letter to Pansy, his project to reach the Dark Lord completely forgotten. As his last resort, he sent a Howler, insulting, shouting at and threatening her. She had never been able to let go a provocation unanswered.
But Pansy remained silent.
Finally, Draco wrote another letter, in which he apologised profusely. When he was done, the floor was covered with paper and the feather of his quill was chewed down to a stub. He walked through the manor, but couldn’t find an owl. How could he send a letter without an owl? The question seemed important, and he made a note on one of the papers lying around in his room so that he wouldn’t forget ask his mother about getting a new owl.
When he woke up the following morning, the floor was immaculately clean. One could say a lot about house-elves, but those belonging to the Malfoys were well-trained and knew their job.
***
It’s silly for someone like him to get his hopes up. Nothing has come of the letters and the Floo-calls, and the visitor has left without a promise. The joints in his hands ache from the times he shut the oven door on them, but there is still work to be done. The young master’s health is not getting any better. He fears the day when his mistress finds out just how damaged her only son is. On that day, he will hurt in a lot more places than his hands.
***
Draco was constantly freezing, and no amount of heating could drive the chill from his bones. His feet stayed cold, no matter how tightly he tucked them under the duvet. His naturally pale skin had a constant bluish hue, and all his use of Pepper-up potion couldn’t chase it away. And the worst thing was: he couldn’t even cast a warming charm. Finding sleep grew into a serious problem.
Every night, Draco lay in bed shivering under layers and layers of blankets, unable to sleep. Warm milk and hot baths didn’t help. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he tried reading. Why on earth was there snow and ice in August? Maybe the weather was related to his misery about the loss of Pansy, or to the prolonged instability of his magic? He’d heard of wizards whose loss of magical control could even cause a hailstorm. But that couldn’t happen to him, could it? The thought gave him the chills. If the icy wind and snow storms were his doing, he wouldn’t be able to hide his condition from his mother much longer. Every other night, he took another book from the manor’s huge collection, searching for an explanation for his miserable situation. From medical books for Healers he turned to books on spells and potions, finally even searching the whimsical truths of legends. Every night, he read until exhaustion claimed him at dawn. He slept fitfully for a few hours and then awoke with eyelids heavy as lead.
The snow around the manor was too thick for owls to get through, so ordering Dreamless Sleep was out of the question. And he wasn’t desperate enough to try brewing a potion on his own. Instead, he went into the smoking room and opened the cabinet to his father’s collection of the finest brands of Firewhisky. Different shades of amber glittered in beautiful crystal bottles, with stoppers shaped like magical creatures and objects of wizardry. Draco let his gaze wander over the tiny models of unicorns and fairies, over miniature wands and cauldrons, and remembered how much he had admired them as a young boy, how later he had dreamt of the day when he would come of age and be invited by Father to share a glass of Firewhisky in the smoking room. The thought made his eyes burn, and he hastily picked the nearest bottle, removed the stopper and poured a glass.
The whisky burned when it went down his throat, and Draco gasped for air. That was, as he found out, a mistake, because the next moment he was coughing and spitting so hard that tears ran down his face. Once he was back to breathing normally, Draco filled another glass. Determined not to breathe, he pinched his nose and gulped it down. His eyes still watered, but the burn of the alcohol travelled all the way to his stomach and settled with a warm glow.
The third glass he knocked back in his room, sitting in his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and three blankets bundled up all around him. It went down smoothly, and after that one, Draco stopped counting.
He woke up some indefinite time later with his mouth tasting like mould on a rat’s arse. His cheek and pillow were covered with stinking gunk, and while he realised that he must have puked all over himself, the room never stopped spinning. Draco heaved again, bitter-tasting green bile gushed into his mouth and nose and onto the sheets.
His greatest shame was caused by Pringle’s worried look when the elf came to change the sheets.
***
The following night, Draco lay in his freshly made bed, tense and desperately wanting to sleep, when Pringle appeared, carrying a bulky object.
“Master Draco?” he croaked and bowed low.
“What is it?”
“Pringle brought Master Draco a bed warmer.” The elf presented the object in his hands. Its thick part was covered in wool, and a long metal handle stuck out from it. “It goes into the bed and-”
“Give it here!” Embarrassment shot through Draco like white-hot coals and made his cheeks burn, but he would be damned if he refused the means for a night of sleep in a warm bed. He grabbed the handle and wrenched the bed warmer from Pringle’s hands.
“Please, Master Draco must take care that the cover doesn’t-”
“All right, all right, stop your blubbering. You can go now.” Draco had already turned and stepped over to his bed to tuck the bed warmer under the covers and only spared the elf one glare over his shoulder. Pringle stood in the middle of the room, wringing his hands. “Are you still there?”
“Please, Master Draco, be careful that-”
“I said: Go now! So go, before I change my mind and demand that you punish yourself for lingering.”
A squeak and a crack, and the elf was gone.
Draco went to bed. Warmth radiated from the lower end towards his frozen feet and legs. Not long and they were practically glowing. It was heaven. He snuggled closer under the covers, placing the bed warmer a little higher up, so that he could curl around it. When his finger accidentally brushed the metal under the woollen cover, he snatched his hand back with a hiss. The metal was brutally hot, and without the cover, there was no question what it would do to his skin. But Draco wouldn’t be so stupid as to remove the cover. He found a comfortable position on his side, the bed warmer close to his stomach and chest, his knees drawn a little upwards so that he could take up maximum heat. Exhaustion and warmth made him drowsy, and before he could finish another thought, he was fast asleep.
***
He woke up to an inferno.
His skin was on fire, and fire was clinging to every part of his body. He wanted to get away from it, but whatever it was that he held in his arms, he wasn’t able to let go of it. A distant part of his mind told him that it was causing him incredible pain, and the pain itself made it almost impossible to think about anything else. And yet Draco knew that he had to hold on, no matter how much it hurt, he had to hold on to the fiery object because otherwise, he would die, and others would die too. Someone was screaming at the top of their voice, and hands were touching him, shaking him, trying to uncurl his cramped body. The pain kept eating him alive, and Draco wanted to let go and yet didn’t dare to let go, until his arms were forced open, and whatever he was holding was ripped out of his grip.
“Draco, let go!” The voice of his mother - desperate and pleading. She had her wand drawn, and had flung the object away. It was the bed warmer, Draco realised, through the haze of pain that throbbed through his hands, arms, chest and belly. He whimpered. She removed the top of his pyjamas with a flick of her wand, and Draco stared at the angry red blisters with incredulous detachment.
“What happened? What was that thing doing in your bed?”
“I ... ah ... ugh ...” He couldn’t even talk.
“Hush, darling. I’m sorry. No questions. Just lay still, all right?”
He gave a small nod, and his mother started murmuring a sequence of healing spells, moving her wand over his body in a soothing pattern. The stabs of pain dulled to mere throbs. Draco closed his eyes in relief.
When his mother was finished, she repeated her question.
“Pringle gave it to me, last night.”
Her eyes flared. “Pringle!”
A moment later, the elf cowered on the carpet.
“What have you done to my son? Speak!”
“Pringle is sorry, Mistress Narcissa, so sorry. Pringle never meant Master Draco to come to harm. Please!” The elf threw himself at Narcissa’s feet, beating his bulbous head against the floor.
“Why?”
A sound escaped Draco’s throat, and the elf’s frantic gaze flew towards him.
“Pringle can’t say, Milady, please. Pringle can’t say, but Pringle meant no harm, none at all. Pringle only wanted ... please!”
Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “Go to the kitchen, and hold your hands in the fire until they start blistering. Then, heal yourself and do it again, five times. You are not allowed to heal yourself after the last time. You hear me?”
The elf lay on the floor, whimpering.
“You hear me?”
A whisper from the floor. “Yes, Milady. Pringle hears you.”
“Then go and do what you’re told.”
A shudder went through the elf’s body, and Draco found his voice.
“Mother, no.”
Narcissa turned towards Draco, her blue eyes wide. “No? But Draco ... this mindless beast is the reason you were hurt.” She looked at him more closely. “Or is there something you haven’t told me?”
“I ... Mother ... I can explain. But please, don’t make him burn his hands. I ...” Draco fought for words, but couldn’t find any. His chest rose and fell in quick succession.
Narcissa lifted her hand. “All right. It’s all right.”
She addressed the elf. “You are lucky to have such a generous young master. Leave us. And take that ... thing ... with you.”
“Yes, Milady, thank you so much, Milady. And thank you so much, Master Draco.”
When they were alone, Narcissa turned to Draco. “Why a bed warmer, Draco? Why didn’t you use a warming charm?”
Draco’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He wanted to deny it, to apologise, to hide inside a hole in the ground. How could he tell his mother that her adult son was practically reduced to a young wizard with his first signs of magic? He searched his mind for a way to phrase the truth so that it wouldn’t hurt too much. What would his father say if he knew? How could Draco ever manage to win back his family’s place? Question upon question, consequence upon consequence piled up in his mind - but no explanation came forth that he could offer his mother.
He sat for what surely must have been minutes, not uttering a single word, when her hand came to rest on his shoulder ever so lightly. “Draco,” she said, and her voice was warm like an embrace. “Draco, you’re making it snow.”
***
Kindness from his masters is something he’s never seen before. He has no idea why the young master has prevented his punishment, but he is glad. Burnt hands hurt like hell. He still remembers his Aunt Elsie who - back in the good old days - had to burn her hands so severely that once the infection was healed, only the stumps remained. She didn’t survive long after that, a useless mouth to be fed. For a moment, he is tempted to think about useless wizards and what would happen to them. But that’s not a very safe thought, and so he goes back to cleaning up the kitchen.
***
His mother brushed aside Draco’s objections to seeing a Healer with one determined raise of her chin, and the next weeks went by in a blur of medical examinations. Draco didn’t know what she told St. Mungo’s to receive personal visits, but when his mother wanted something done, she usually got her way. Alas, after a lot of wand waving and blood tests, the latest Healer, a tiny wizard who reminded him of his former Charms professor, only shook his head and declared that no known remedy existed to help Draco with the loss of his magic.
“His wand isn’t working for him, but he’s making it snow in the middle of the house? It might be due to shock. Who knows? Such incidents happen, and they usually take their time to wear off,” he croaked. “You said he’d been in an accident? Mmm ... Well,” he threw a fleeting look at Draco, “you could always consider a Kwik-spell book for him. I’ve heard they aren’t that bad ...”
Narcissa’s hand shot to her wand. “Get. Out.”
When the flames had fallen low behind the departing Healer, Draco turned to his mother. “No. I’m not going.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest.”
“You’ll either try to send me to Paris Academy or the Carpathian Committee of Knowledge. And I’m not going. I’m not a medical case to be prodded and mocked.”
“But, Draco ... what if they could help with your magic?”
Draco’s cheeks burned with shame. Being forced to discuss his disability with his mother, of all people, after what had just happened - it was humiliating. “No. We can’t afford such nonsense. I just need to sleep properly.”
“But isn’t your ... problem the reason why you couldn’t sleep in the first place?”
“Yes. No. I ... I don’t know. I just can’t leave. This is my home. Don’t make me, please?”
Narcissa’s eyes softened. “All right. But if you aren’t well by the end of the year, we’ll see another expert.”
It wasn’t typical for his mother to give in so easily, but Draco was grateful for even a small victory. It wasn’t as if he had many, these days.
***
He shouldn’t get his hopes up. But when his mistress tells him to prepare the guest room in the west wing, again, he can’t stop himself from suggesting flowers. He has never seen her cry and cringes in shock when she turns to him with a wet gleam in her eyes. “That would be lovely,” she says, and he can only nod and bow and assure her that, yes, he will get the flowers. Somehow.
***
With the return of summer, finding sleep was a little easier. Even though the warmer weather made his accidental snow appear more often, the fact that no outer cold added to his chills was a bonus for his health. And when Draco came down to breakfast on his twentieth birthday, a pleasant surprise awaited him.
“Look who’s here!” called his mother from the drawing room.
There, dressed in travelling robes and with her hair longer than he’d ever seen it, stood Pansy.
After months of missing her every day, Draco almost couldn’t believe that she was back. He should have felt awkward, embarrassed about their fight and his childish behaviour, but he was too relieved to have her back to waste time worrying.
Draco crossed the room with a few quick steps and embraced her. “Pansy! It’s so good to see you.”
Pansy yelped a little, before she relaxed into Draco’s arms.
He pushed her away at arm’s length. “What’s wrong with you? Since when don’t you-”
“You shocked me, Draco. That’s all. Your hands are like ice.”
There wasn’t anything he could say to that, and she noticed his strained silence immediately.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry. Is it still that bad?”
How did she know? He might have mentioned it to her in one of his letters. Draco nodded. “’m always cold,” he mumbled.
Pansy took his hands into hers, surrounding Draco’s hands with warmth. “Don’t worry. I’m here to take good care of you.”
A small cough reminded him of his mother’s presence. “Pansy is back from her trip around Europe. She will stay with us for the time being.”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” Pansy continued to hold Draco’s hands. He couldn’t remember the last time his hands had been that warm.
And she had come to stay. He smiled at her. “That’s wonderful. And I like your hair. You’ve finally come to your senses and let it grow.” Now he spied the small armada of suitcases and boxes behind the sofa. “I see you’ve already brought your luggage. Let’s go and pick a room for you.”
***
When he brings the tea, his mistress and her guest are talking so intensely that they almost don’t notice him coming and going. He is a good servant, and when his hands don’t hurt he carries his trays silently and steadily. His mistress touches the younger woman’s cheek as if admiring a statue. Magic buzzes in the air while the two witches size each other up. He hastens to leave the room. But as the days add up, the young woman stays in the guest room, and he concludes that she and his mistress must have reached some kind of agreement.
***
Having Pansy around was such a relief. Finally, there was someone to talk to who wasn’t carefully avoiding every other subject. They laughed together and made fun of each other just as they had in their time at Hogwarts. Pansy was the security of a shared past, a past in which Draco had been capable of doing magic and had a future. Now that future was taken out of his hands, but Pansy was back at his side, ready to tell everyone that she belonged with Draco. Not that anyone asked, but that wasn’t what was most important. And what did it matter that Pansy kept a long list of associates she corresponded with by Floo-talk or owl post? What did it matter that she sometimes was so occupied with her latest project that she forgot some of the anecdotes of their youth? Draco was happy to refresh her memory when they sat together on the sofa over tea and scones, anxious for the moment when Pansy would move a little closer to pet Draco’s hair or to hold his hands until warmth and feeling came back into them.
Time flew by, and Draco was glad to let it slip through his fingers like the quicksilver fish he never had been able to catch as a young boy. He knew that his mother was taking care of their financial affairs. Any day, he would join her and take up the mantle. But for now, he was content that he could find sleep without shivering for hours from the cold, and that he could rest without a constant stream of nightmares. The Malfoys’ ban from society had never been Pansy’s fault. It was the Dark Lord whose harsh regime kept them confined at the manor.
One afternoon in December they were sharing a cup of the light-bitter green tea Pansy had grown used to drinking during her stay on the continent. She now preferred it to black tea, even though she complained that Pringle could never get it right. Outside, the snow on the hedges in the garden sparkled in the sun.
“I wish time would stop,” Draco said.
Pansy resumed combing his hair with her fingers. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s a perfect day. I just don’t want it to change.”
“Wouldn’t you want it to be even better?”
He would have, once. He would have wished for power, influence and recognition. And after that, for more. But he’d learned his lesson. All he wanted was to keep everything as it was.
Draco firmly shook his head. “I don’t think it could get any better.”
When things changed, most of the time, they changed for the worse.
***
The owl that brings the sealed letter is huge. It must have come from a far-away place, judging from the ferocity with which it drives its beak into the bowl of owl-treats. His mistress takes the letter to the study, charms the door shut and doesn’t leave the room for three days. He magicks her tea to appear on the small table in front of the fireplace and hopes that she will remember to drink and eat. It’s not his place to tell her what to do, but if she crumbles, he and the young master will no longer be safe. He is a lot less concerned about the young witch.
When he learns that she, too, is to be regarded as family, he has to hide his surprise. His mistress’s wishes leave no room for interpretation, and so he moves the young lady’s belongings to a larger room and arranges the furniture to accommodate her needs. If this is what it takes to preserve the family’s fragile fate, he will do his part.
***
“Draco, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Pansy’s expression was the one she wore for particularly bad news, with her brows forced so hard into a position of fake relaxation that it almost made Draco want to laugh out loud.
“I have to go away for a few months. My parents asked for my assistance in a family matter.”
There. She was going to leave him. The urge to laugh passed in a heartbeat and left nothing in its wake but the wish to protest. It didn’t matter that her parents had moved to Russia, to help the Dark Lord’s campaign over there. That didn’t mean Draco had to like it.
He swallowed hard, unable to contain his need. “When will you be back?”
“Four months, five at most, I hope.” She studied his face. “I don’t want this any more than you do. But they are my parents. And they need me.”
Draco scowled at her for the three days she took to pack her things. When all her suitcases had been shrunk and owled ahead and the time arrived for Pansy to take the Floo, she turned towards him.
“I’m really sorry. I wish I could stay.” She opened her arms. “Give me a hug, will you?”
He stepped into her waiting arms, felt them close around him. His lips brushed the shell of her ear and he breathed in the spicy scent of her hair.
“Pansy.”
She pushed him away, gentle but determined. “Don’t. I have to go now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“I won’t.” She smiled and waved, and then she was gone in a swirl of colour and flames.
***
They are back to being three in the house: his mistress, his young master, and he. It’s unnerving how much laughter and joy have left with the departure of the young witch, and he grudgingly acknowledges her soothing influence on young master. His mistress is back to dividing her time between the study and her son, but a day has only so many hours and the burden is clearly eating away at her strength. He does his best to cook the tastiest titbits to whet her appetite, but he cannot force her to sit down and take the time to eat. So he hopes every day that the young witch will return soon and continues to dust the abandoned shelves in her room.
***
Pansy’s notes were short and almost detached, no match for the dedicated letters Draco sent to her. Well, he had sent such letters at first, but lately he’d toned them down considerably. Her lack of enthusiasm stung. Being left to wait and unable to act was bad enough. He didn’t have to make a fool of himself on top of it.
And if being miserable about Pansy wasn’t enough, Draco’s sleep was more disturbed than ever. Every night, he lay awake for hours and when he finally fell asleep his nightmares showed him events of the war. Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower. Draco standing with his wand trained at a helpless victim on the floor. And worst of all: the night of the final battle. Hogwarts burning. His classmates dying, or barely surviving.
***
Two young men sat half-lying on the floor in a corridor whose walls were streaked with soot. Draco’s breath came in choked gasps, the burning in his lungs made every breath feel like someone was pouring hot poison down his throat. He sensed more than he saw Gregory crouch beside him, heard his friend panting for air just as hard. Gregory reached out for Draco, but the touch of his hand on Draco’s caused pure agony, and Draco flinched away from it.
Draco looked down at his hands and arms. His skin was cracked and pulled taut over his flesh, covered in angry red scratches that looked like he had been attacked by fiery claws. The trouser leg on his left thigh was torn and the leg underneath was oozing blood where bits of flesh had been torn away by angry teeth. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer, and focused on Gregory’s wheezing. They sat like that, unable to move, for what could have been only minutes, but to Draco it felt like eternity.
Suddenly he felt a soft prickling on the back of his left hand. The sensation lasted mere moments and was quickly replaced by the next prickling, and the next. Draco opened his eyes. There, on the back of his hand, sat a snowflake. It melted into his skin, and the next snowflake followed. He stared at his hand, while snowflakes kept falling down on it and melted on his burning skin, soothing the pain.
“Draco,” he heard Gregory’s voice between coughs, “since when ... since when does it snow inside Hogwarts?”
***
Draco woke up, trembling with cold. Snow covered his duvet and blankets; they were soaked through and icy. Pushing them back, he sat up and fished around for his slippers. He walked over to the dresser on numb feet and fumbled with the drawers to retrieve a fresh pair of pyjamas. His fingers were so cold that he almost couldn’t close the buttons. Going to sleep in an icy wet bed was no option, and so he put on a dressing gown, picked up a blanket and headed for the library.
There was no explanation for this nightmare other than Pansy’s absence wearing him down. Why would he dream of that night in the Room of Hidden Things, more than two years after Vince’s death? That part of his life was over and dealt with. He had lost his magic. He had lost Vince, and Greg had never visited the manor after the war, probably to save himself from being associated with social pariahs. But Draco wouldn’t lose Pansy. He would make her see that she was his. She was his Pansy, and he knew her better than anyone else. She had come back once and promised she would never leave him.
All she had to do was to come back again.
When she Floo-called him the next day and he told her about the dream, she blanched considerably. Draco had a hard time seeing her fully, because the fireplace on her side was such a tiny thing. She insisted on taking the calls in her private room instead of her parent’s drawing room. It looked like she was swaying from exhaustion, but Draco couldn’t tell for sure. It could have been a flicker of the flames. But there was no use in asking her. Being Pansy, she would dismiss it with a throw-away gesture and a smirk. So Draco kept his questions to a minimum.
“How long until you can come back?”
She coughed, and this time he was sure that she sounded exhausted.
“I’ve started packing. Give me another few days, and I’ll be back.”
“You’ll stay with me?”
She nodded. “I won’t leave you again.”
He had no words for his relief or his gratitude. But he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen a fraction and had to suddenly blink to clear his sight.
Draco remained in front of the fireplace long after they had closed the call, his face burning with the shame of what she must have seen. She must feel pity for him. Why if not out of obligation would she return to such a sorry excuse for a wizard?
Concluded in Part 2