Chapter Text
Friday, August 1st, 1994
“Move a little to the left… perfect!”
Draco sighed, stretching his mouth tiredly as with a loud click! the photographer snapped yet another flawless picture of him and his parents. How many did he need for one article anyway?
It felt as if the three of them had been standing, posing and preening like his father’s pride and joy, a collection of albino peacocks, for hours, but Draco knew from his watch that it had only been one. The rest of the time spent at the Ministry he’d simply been standing around smiling his usual practiced propaganda smile and giving various Ministry folk firm handshakes while they threatened to break his bones with the firmness of their shakes in return.
Last week, his father had been oh so kind enough to offer the Minister a donation to St. Mungo’s, and that, along with many various charitable actions throughout the summer, meant he was firmly back up in the Ministry’s good graces after the Chamber of Secrets debacle, but it also meant quite a lot of publicity shoots.
It seemed every issue of the Daily Prophet this summer had had Draco and his parents’ faces plastered on it, grinning stiffly like porcelain dolls. It was awful, and Draco could only imagine how his friends were mocking him to no end for it, before he remembered his friends were all too nice for that sort of thing. He’d do it, of course, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione? Well, maybe Ron…
But, remarkably, none of those thoughts were what dominated Draco’s mind throughout July. They hadn’t even made up one tenth of his crowded mess of a mind. Instead, while his body had been growing stiff and store from staying in the same pose for hours on end, his thoughts had been back in his bedroom, and more specifically, the small glass ball and short parchment letter that sat locked tight in his wardrobe and hidden in the depths of his trunk under mountains of clothes.
Two items he hadn’t dared tell even his best friends about, for as mysterious as they were, he was just as certain this sort of thing should be kept to himself.
The letter had been brief as it had been foreboding, written in a messy scrawl clearly in mere moments, and spotted with blood.
Draco,
At the end of your fourth school year during 1995, Lord Voldemort will rise again.
YOU MUST PREVENT THIS.
At any cost!
If not, then on June 18th, 1996, disaster will strike at the Department of Mysteries. If you want any hope of saving yourself, keep this ball hidden - it is a prophecy - and run. Escape home, and don’t come back.
Make sure the Dark Lord does NOT COME BACK.
He knew his father had written this note, for it was in his handwriting and had been given to him by him personally, or at least his father from the future, as crazy as that sounded and was to believe. But both his future father and this letter were disheveled and dirty, and nothing like the father he knew. Nothing like the pureblooded noble standing proud, trimmed, and clean beside him as he puffed out his chest more and lifted his chin higher for the next and (thank Merlin) last picture.
So Draco didn’t know what to believe. He’d trudged through summer with his head low, lifting it only to smile for a camera, a politician, or his family. But it was hard, so hard.
He kept thinking about that line about leaving home. His own future father wanted him to leave his home… he kept wondering what this present nobleman beside him would say if he were to explain it all. Show him the letter and the ‘prophecy.’ Would he know what it was? A part of him told him he would. That he’d recognize it and take it away at the first opportunity.
But that piece of him conflicted with the piece that knew it was his own father telling him to run, to keep the prophecy secret, to stop the Dark Lord.
It was like the deranged man he’d met briefly in his Common Room last June and was now haunting his every nightmare was the shadow that followed his real father wherever he went. Everytime he looked at him all he saw were those exhausted eyes.
What happened on June 18th?
He had two full school years to prepare, but laying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, it felt more like a lifetime, spent tossing and turning, imagining the worst, holding the cold little glass ball tight in his hand, pleading it for answers.
When he wasn’t worrying himself away or posing for photographs, it was that prophecy that was the only place he even knew to begin with. He’d opened up his old Divination textbook, and scoured the Manor library for every book on prophecies he could find, laying them out across the library floor and reading and reading and reading until his head dropped and he ended up using one of the dusty tomes as a pillow, waking up hours later, sneezing and coughing.
In any other circumstance, his parents might notice, but this summer things seemed… different.
His mother was quiet, very quiet, speaking exclusively to him in small sentences, taking small bites at dinner, and generally moving like a ghost tiptoeing through the house. Meanwhile his father stayed locked in his office all day, so that Draco only saw him during photoshoots and at mealtimes, and when he did see him, he moved rigidly, almost, too stiff. More stony than usual. They both made Draco’s home feel smaller than it ever had been.
Last summer he’d been firmly grounded, confined to his room, thus he felt suffocated, longing for those wide, high ceilinged halls and his mother’s beautiful gardens again. But now? Now those halls were too empty, with every footstep seeming to echo endlessly, bouncing off the walls. He felt more alone than ever, and every letter he received from his friends only emphasized that fact.
It felt like they were across a deep chasm, into which laid only darkness, and Voldemort’s eyes, which he pictured as Riddle’s, peeking out through the endless dark. He was stuck on the other side of the chasm, with nothing to get him across, even if he wanted to.
And truly, he didn’t even know if he did.
With a final click, they were finished for the day, and his shoulders instantly slumped.
“Well,” Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic exclaimed, stepping away from his father’s side, “I do believe that’s enough photos for one day, don’t you think?”
His mother laughed politely, and Draco smiled in the practiced way, but as soon as the Minister turned to address his father alone, his smile fell, and he sighed as he turned to look up at the massive golden fountain the four of them had posed in front of.
It was the centerpiece of the Ministry of Magic, its crowning glory; a gold statue of all the magical races recognized by the Ministry; wizard and witch, goblins, House-elves, and centaurs. Draco frowned at the figure of the centaur, wondering, first, what they might think seeing this depiction, considering themselves far away from the bustling politics of the Ministry’s halls, and then remembering Firenze.
Firenze was a centaur in the Forbidden Forest outside of Hogwarts to him Draco had made his inquiries about Divination. Surely he’d know what to do with the glass ball.
“Draco!” Draco whipped around in surprise and nodded numbly as his father gestured him forwards toward one of the floo powder fireplaces. Straightening, he bid his farewells to the Minister, photographer, and various other Ministry representatives he didn’t care enough to know, with a smile that stretched out his already sore muscles on his face.
Then the Malfoy family stepped into the flames. They waved, for a moment a complete family of three again, but as soon as they stepped out onto the polished floors of their home his parents had split off in different directions, leaving Draco standing alone in the Drawing Room.
No matter what the Prophet, and probably his father, liked to portray, the Malfoy family could not be farther apart this summer.
-*-*-*-
That night, after another unproductive session of reading in the Manor (he was realizing the matter of prophecies was a very hush hush topic, which he probably should have deduced from the fact that all prophecies were kept under the scrutiny of Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries) Draco sat down for what he expected to be another drab evening of poking at his dinner and trying to make small talk with his parents.
He found, instead, that his father was in a good mood, or at least better than usual, and initiated the conversation himself this summer, for once, instead of eating as fast as he could while still being polite and dismissing himself just as fast.
“I have good news, Draco,” he said with a smile playing on his lips as he cut into his roast chicken daintily. Draco raised his eyebrows, looking over at his mother, who had also raised her eyes, looking confused.
“What is it?” He asked carefully, and waited, his foot tapping just slightly on the floor, as his father swallowed and patted his mouth before straightening to announce…
“The Minister informed me this morning that the Triwizard Tournament will be held for the first time in a century at Hogwarts this year.”
Draco dropped his fork with a clatter. “What?” He stammered, bewildered.
His father grinned. “You heard me.”
The Triwizard Tournament? Draco had heard stories, of course, of the greatest magic schools of Britain and their age long competition to prove who was superior, and he’d heard of how dangerous it was. How the death toll had gotten so high they’d canceled it a century ago. He’d read stories, and heard how past champions went on to be great witches and wizards. But for it to return… for him to actually be a part of the ancient, arcane spectacle this year…
For one, beautiful moment, there was no prophecy, no note from his future father, and no impending doom of Voldemort’s return. There were only visions of how thrilling this year would be, the students he’d get to meet. Images of regal Beauxbatons and strong, imposing Durmstrang, the school he almost went to filled his mind, and were shattered in mere seconds by his father’s smiling face as he spoke again.
“I hope I can expect you to put your name in the running for school Champion, Draco.”
He looked up and met his father’s eyes, wide eyed. “What?”
“It would be a great honor,” his father said smoothly, lifting his goblet of wine and swirling it. “A way of bringing pride to your family name. A little pocket money too.”
There was a clear message laced in his father’s words; that ring he’d offered last year might not have been brought up again, but the implication that Draco was walking farther and farther away from the path to being a pureblooded noble was clear. He’d ignored him all summer, only to come in with unsuspecting good news, hiding the truth that his opinion of his son hadn’t changed one bit under it.
Draco found himself burning on the inside with a strange, newfound hate, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his father had nearly killed Ginny Weasley. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, it was shattered, like his dreams for the Triwizard Tournament, because next thing his father stood from the table, reached into his pocket and placed down three tickets.
Tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, emblazoned with a gold border indicating they were passes into the Top Box.
“Here,” his father said, still persistently smiling, “A gift from the Minister. Do think it over, Draco,” he said lightly, patting his back before picking up his cane, which leant as always by his chair, and striding out of the dining room.
Draco turned to his mother, who was watching him go with a small frown, and allowed his emotions to seep through and frown himself. He no longer felt hatred, only a twisting mix of emotions, because those tickets reminded him of a birthday spent at a Muggle ballet.
Last year, that memory had been strong enough to conjure his corporeal Patronus; a pure white peacock. A representation, he figured, of his desire to be a part of his family. For them to love him unconditionally. Now he thought of that peacock bittersweetly, and that memory. On the one hand, those tickets sounded like the perfect way for his family to be happy like they once were, but on the other it was just a clear carrot leading a donkey back to prejudice, with a stick at the ready behind.
Draco was the donkey, the carrot, the tickets his father dangled before him, but the stick didn’t feel behind him but in front him, beyond the initial reward of a night spent with his family and Quidditch. The stick was Lord Voldemort, lying behind even his father, far behind, but getting ever closer, and Drsco didn't know how long he'd last resisting the carrot.
-*-*-*-
Monday, August 4th
Draco smiled at the postcard in his hand, a Muggle picture, on which a Hufflepuff boy in his grade, Justin Finch-Fletchley, was waving at him, his Muggle parents at his side. Behind them stood something called ‘skyscrapers,’ impossibly tall buildings that filled the city skylines of New York, where Justin had spent a week while his father was on a business trip.
See you soon! Was scrawled in the corner, in his tiny handwriting, and Draco couldn't help rubbing his thumb over the three words fondly. He liked Justin, quite a lot, and had even kissed him on the cheek, twice. He hadn’t invited him to the Manor, however, unlike how he’d implied he would at the end of last year. He hadn’t even invited his closest friends, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, knowing this environment was not something he wanted them to experience.
Even as Harry kept insisting in his letters anything was better than the Dursley’s, and it certainly sounded like that.
Harry had been having quite a drab summer indeed, dealing with a new diet his Aunt and Uncle were enforcing on his cousin Dudley, and having to see all the news reports of how Sirius’s trial had gone secondhand. Why Dumbledore was so insistent on him staying with those abusive, Muggle bastards Draco couldn’t even begin to comprehend, no one knew, but it was making him start to dislike the man he’d grown to respect more and more through his schooling. Harry had had a beautiful couple of hours of thinking he’d be able to live with his Godfather, his father’s best friend, only for it to be ripped from his hands. How could he not be upset?
Yes, part of Draco feeling this passionately most definitely had to do with the fact that he also very much liked Harry, but he’d been growing out of it. He still had a hopelessly romantic crush on his best friend, but he’d grown to accept that some crushes could never be reciprocated, and moved on to other things.
Like Justin Finch-Fletchley, who he now turned to write an excited and long letter filled with questions about New York City to. He’d only made it halfway down one sheet of parchment, however, when a knock sounded on his door, and he turned in his desk chair to see his mother peeking his head around his door.
He smiled in greeting and she let herself in, sitting at the edge of his bed and smoothing out the ruffles in the covers, smiling at the series of photos, Muggle and magical alike, mostly from Colin Creevey, that he’d strung on his wall with scarlet and gold ribbon.
“You have such wonderful friends,” she mused, which is what she always said when she came into his bedroom.
“I know,” he said, which is what he always said in response.
They exchanged a smile, then she got to business, reaching out to tuck his hair, which had only gotten longer since he’d left it to grow out through the chaos of work and time travel that was his third year, behind his ear.
“Your father would like an answer on the invitation soon,” she said softly.
Of course he would.
“I know,” he sighed, turning away from her and gazing out his window. It was getting to be sunset, which meant it would be dinner soon, and he’d have to give his answer to his father by then. “I just…” He looked back at her, trying to see in his mother, who’d always been so understanding and loving, where the love for Lucius Malfoy lay. “He tried to killGinny, Mom. How can I trust him again?”
And to his surprise, the sigh she released was one that meant she’d been expecting that, and had come to this conclusion many times before, as he had. Slowly, she looked down at her hands, slightly fidgeting in her lap, something he rarely saw his mother ever do.
“You know how our family was mostly Death Eaters, Draco, but your mother wasn’t?” he nodded. “Well, I hope you can imagine I wasn’t onboard with what my sister, cousins, and boyfriend, fiance, husband, and eventually future father of my child did most of the time. It is why I never joined. Sometimes I even wonder if…” she looked out of his window as he had just done, wistfully, and shook her head.
He wasn’t letting her slip away that easily, however. “What is it?” he implored, leaning forward, and she gave him a small smile.
“Sometimes I wonder if your Aunt Andromeda wasn’t traitorous at all.”
Draco’s jaw dropped. She never mentioned his disowned aunt. Ever.
“I have so many good memories with your aunt, Draco,” she shook her head, smiling, “I wish desperately that you could have met her. And it is those memories, and that wish, that makes me wonder how a family could ever cut someone out like that. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis, and for the first time Draco saw a truly sad emotion in his mother’s eyes; trauma. She was remembering the day she’d lost her older sister forever.
Just as she never talked about Aunt Andromeda, he never really wondered about her, or how it might feel to be cut from a sister forever. Being burned off the Black family tree… It was so normalized… He’d never even given it a thought. But now he saw her meaning, and imagined all the good memories with his father, and how it would feel to just… not have him anymore. For good.
“I’m not saying his views are right, or how our society works, I know perfectly well I wasn’t supposed to be with the man I love in this pureblooded world, but I simply ask that you think, Draco, before you speak to your father. I don’t want you to regret what might be your last ever words to him, as I do mine.”
She was looking deep into him now, and it was that first moment of connection he’d had with either of his parents all summer that really made him lean forward and ask, breathlessly, “What were they?”
She froze, and there was that traumatic glint, as if the memory was flashing before her eyes, then she lowered her head, and stood. Draco was sure she was going to leave without another word, but after she brushed off her skirt she turned back, and whispered, “Andy, please,” then turned and left his room silent as she’d been all summer.
-*-*-*-
Sunday, August 24th
In the end, he said yes. His mother’s words had hit hard in his heart, and he couldn’t fathom having to hear his Slytherin friends brag about seeing the game, seeing Viktor Krum, in person. He was very grateful to have said yes, then, when just days before his family departed for the campsite, he was written to be the whole trio, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, telling him they were going with the Weasley family to the game, and had also gotten seats in the Top Box.
How the Weasley’s had managed to win the lottery and get seats in the Top Box two summers in a row was luck Draco couldn’t begin to fathom, especially as he was standing in his room, suitcase in front of him, staring at the glass ball and letter, wondering whether it was safe to even travel anywhere without it.
He was too scared it would break during Apparition, but he also didn’t have a clue what was going to happen in the next few minutes, much less in two days when he came home. What if it was stolen by a Death Eater servant? Then again, how could they possibly know Draco had it -
“Draco!” His mother’s voice rang through the hall to his bedroom, and with a resigned sigh Draco snatched up the ball and stuffed it in a sock, wrapping the end of the sock into a knot he tied tight, and stuffing the sock-covered ball into his purse.
“Coming!” He called, latching his suitcase shut and clipping on his best traveling cloak before heading out.
He padded down the stairs and skidded to a halt before his parents, standing and waiting for him in regal robes of green velvet. Draco suddenly felt quite out of place in his clean black cloak, sure, but what about his ruffled tunic and Bulgarian scarf?
However, if his father looked unimpressed by this, he didn’t show it. Instead he turned from the doorway with a wide smile, unlike anything Draco had seen on his face in years. Once more, he felt pulled back to that beautiful memory of a birthday spent laughing like he never had before or since with his parents. But was this real, or a simple ploy to pull him towards the stick beyond the carrot?
Draco settled for giving a small smile back and letting his father place his hand on his shoulder as he led him out the door, glancing sideways at his mother. She was also watching her husband cautiously, though when she caught Draco’s gaze she gave him a tightlipped smile. More of a grimace than anything. Draco looked between his parents and found that brief moment of comfort shattered; it truly would never be as it had those many years ago…
They reached the gates and his father turned to place both his hands on his son’s shoulders.
“Ready?” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically joyful.
“Yep,” Draco nodded, giving a stiff nod. He’d traveled by side-along apparition before, and ever since the first journey in which he’d vomited over his father’s shoes, made a point to be brave about it.
He tensed as his father closed his eyes, preparing to Apparate. He heard the crack, felt his feet leave the ground, then he was being thrust through space, a blur of colors pressing against his eyelids. He felt bile rise in his throat and swallowed it down then, just as soon as it had started… it stopped.
He was standing in front of the Malfoy traveling tent, their most extravagant, more of a palace of striped silk than a tent, and three House-elves, who had been sent ahead to sign in the family and pitch the tent, were already tending to three peacocks tethered to the grand canopy entrance.
“Hello there, Lucius!” Called a voice to their left, and they turned to see emerging from the bustle of groups of family and friends moving to their plots of land the Goyle family, Greg waving exuberantly at Draco, a stark contrast to his father’s relaxed smirk. “The boys are getting together for a round of cards while the kids walk around. Would you be game?”
Involuntarily, Draco looked up at his father sadly. Just days ago he would’ve shrugged and told him to go on, but for some reason he now wanted him to stay, he wanted his family to feel as it used to. For one horrible moment, he felt scared of it, like he was taking a big bite out of the carrot and now there was no going back…
But then his father waved his hand and, with an easy smile said, “Maybe a later date, Ezra. For now the Malfoy’s have some family time to get to, good day.” With that he turned and strolled through the canopy into the tent, and Draco couldn’t see how this was a lie or ploy. He found himself waving to the Goyle’s and striding right after his father into the tent, grinning at the prospect of two full days with his family, and then the Quidditch Cup!
-*-*-*-
They never seemed to run out of ways to pass the time. In a tent surrounding him with memories more than he already was, Draco slipped easily into the body of his child self (before Hogwarts, before Harry Potter, before the Chamber, before any of it) and felt as if he was physically back in time, vacationing at Loch Ness, or a tropical island, or isolated forest. Anywhere would do, as long as his parents were there.
Gone was the chasm that seemed to have separated them, replaced with easy smiles and laughter, and long forgotten games.
By the end of the night, the Malfoy family was all exhausted at the dinner table, for once not minding that it was half covered in clutter from the number of Wizard’s Chess matches and other board games they’d occupied themselves with, instead eating at the other half more relaxed than they had in years, Draco even being allowed to take swigs from a Butterbeer bottle instead of sipping from a refined glass.
“I forgot how much I enjoyed charades, Lucius,” Draco’s mother sighed, lowering her glass of white wine to smile at him, her eyes alight with joy and love. “Though I still believe I was the true winner.”
“And I remember telling you props weren’t allowed, Cissa,” his father responded, narrowing his eyes at her in a manner Draco could only describe as playful.
Surely it was his disgust at his parents flirting in front of him that made him lean forward to say, “Hey, what happened to the rule about not using magic then?”
“Adult privilege,” his parents agreed in unison, his mother patting his cheek. He scoffed then, crossing his arms with a huff, and they chuckled, which, of course he had to hide his smile at.
He just felt so… happy. He knew the butterbeer wasn’t intoxicating him, and had never been drunk before anyway to know what it felt like, but he still felt as if he was in a buzzed haze brought on by how quickly his summer had taken a turn. In under twenty-four hours he’d become a part of a family again. It was hard to believe that the touch he’d felt from his mother patting his cheek had been truly real; that he could reach out and hold his parents, because they really were there, and they really were smiling.
“Well,” his father sighed, reclining back in his chair and checking his watch while seemingly unconsciously rubbing some itch on his forearm. “It’s getting late. You should be off to bed soon if you want to see your friends in the morning.”
The crazy thing was, Draco would be perfectly happy staying in this tent of memories instead of running to join his trio, but they’d eaten dinner late and talked for an hour so that it was now nearing eleven, and he was feeling quite drowsy indeed. So, eyes drooping, he stood from his seat and kissed his mother on the cheek then gave her and his father a hug before departing for the bathroom.
It was while he was brushing his teeth that he heard it; the scream.
Spitting hurriedly and dropping his toothbrush, he ran out while wiping his mouth clean with a towel to find his father had seemingly tipped over out of his chair, his mother bent down beside him. He hadn’t heard yelling while getting changed into his pajamas, only idle chatter… What was going on?
“What’s the -”
“Your father’s fine, dearest,” his mother looked over her shoulder to give him a strained smile, nothing like the pure joy she’d exhibited only moments ago. “Hurry to bed, you need your rest. It’ll be a long night tomorrow.”
“But -”
“Draco,” now his father got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane with his right arm, his left hanging limp at his side. “Go.” He said, that stern voice Draco was so used to finally returning.
For a moment, he considered protesting, then his eyes slowly drifted down to his father’s arm, and he instead mumbled, “Yes, father,” turning back to the bathroom and closing the door.
Pressed against the wood, he sank down quietly and strained his ears to listen as best he could, hoping in their distressed state his parents would forget to magically muffle their voices.
“How often -?”
“It’s nothing, Cissa -”
“Lucius I’m not daft, I know the signs, I know what that means.” A pause, than his mother continued, gentler this time, “Do - Does it really mean what -”
“It can’t. Maybe… I don’t know, but that’s,” his father released a heavy sigh. “That’s what this was all for. Climbing back up in the Ministry; I have to look in control. Putting you on the front page of the Prophet. We have to look like the perfect Pure-blooded family. But today? This trip? It’s…”
In the silence that followed, Draco breathed in and out sharply, listening to his own rapidly thumping pulse.
“What is it, Lucius?”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Draco didn’t look back to say goodnight to his parents when he tiptoed up the unnecessary grand staircase to his bedroom - it was still a tent after all, and suddenly the lavish beauty seemed as empty and soulless as the Manor - only slipping under his covers and turning off the light silently.
But he wouldn’t settle into the sweet release of sleep for a long while, left staring up at the ceiling, feeling a sting behind his eyes.
Because Voldemort was coming back by the end of this year, that letter had told him as much. His father had told him as much. And his same father, as difficult as it was to believe they were the same man, had been gripping his left forearm all summer long.
Once more, Draco recalled that day, long ago, when he’d had it explained to him what the Dark Mark was, what it meant, and how it would always be a part of Daddy. How it could never possibly go away.
“This isn’t a matter of nobility, it’s a life debt. You can never undo it, and out there… the consequences are life and death.”
And then Draco was reminded of his own words at the end of his second year, spoken in an angry rage to his father, for all the terrible things he did and seemed to have no problem continuing doing, instead of finding a way out of his own terrible debt he trapped himself into.
“You’re no more a slave to Riddle than he was to us, Dad!”
Draco shivered in the suddenly hostile stillness of his dark bedroom. No, his father hadn’t answered his mother’s question, no he hadn’t said what the point of this day of nostalgic joy was, but he knew, and he knew his mother knew as well. There was no reason for a member of the Malfoy family to say it out loud, they all knew that when that Mark burned, Lucius Malfoy, matriarch of the household he may be, was going to turn his back on all he’d built for fourteen years. They all knew Lord Voldemort’s blood ran far thicker than water when it all came down to it.
They all knew that today wasn’t a celebration of a return to the way things used to be - it was goodbye.