Chapter Text
Malfoy Manor – August 1993
Draco watched the almost hypnotic sway of the pendulum of the Grandfather clock in the corner. The room was silent, save for the tick-tocking of the clock and the scratch of a quill on parchment.
“Why are we just sitting here?"
"Well, you said you didn’t want to talk. So, that's what we're doing," came the serene tone of Mrs Harrow. "Not talking.”
Draco scoffed, turning his head to look at the wrinkly old witch. “That’s right, this is ridiculous. I still don’t see why I should have to tell you anything. I don’t know you. I’m fine, I don’t need to sit in this room while it’s perfectly sunny outside, and talk about my feelings with you.”
"I'd hope you'd know me at least a little after four weeks."
Draco only turned his nose up in response.
"...How are your night terrors? Are they any better after opening up about them last week?"
"Well, I don't have nearly as many, now!" Draco harrumphed. “Is that a good enough answer?”
"Well, yes, actually. That sounds like a huge breakthrough,” said Mrs Harrow calmly, leaning forwards in her chair with a small, comforting smile. “How do you feel about it?”
Draco stared at the assortment of healing stones on the table beside him that were supposed to have a calming effect . “I feel…good. Like it gets further behind me each day.”
Mrs Harrow only nodded sagely before scrawling more notes down on her parchment. Draco tried to crane his head to steal a glance at whatever the wicked hag might be saying about him, but quickly looked away once she was finished writing.
“And how about this?” she asked, holding up her quill. “Does it still bother you?”
“It…only a little. My hand is much steadier now when I write. Spilling ink gives me a fright, I suppose…But — but only for a moment!”
She gave him a mollifying look. “You went through a horrific ordeal, Draco. Possession is not a thing to shrug off. It may all be in the past, but the memories will remain with you. It’s important to take care of how you handle your reactions as well as accept your limitations.”
The Grandfather clock finally chimed for three, and Draco eagerly sprung to his feet.
“Well, that concludes our meetings for the summer,” said Mrs Harrow as she busied herself with packing away her crystals and files.
“Oh, thank Merlin’s –” Draco stopped himself. “I mean…Thank you,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand politely.
***
“While your son was very, very reluctant to open up about his concerns at first, I believe he’s well on his way to healing properly now. And I hope the advice I have shared with him will help him along the way,” came Mrs Harrow’s voice from the parlour. “If you find yourself needing my services again, don’t hesitate to get in touch. Good day to you.”
There was the whooshing of the Floo being activated, followed by a flash of green light. Draco peered around the doorframe, finding only his mother standing beside the fireplace.
The air in Malfoy Manor had certainly been… stilted since Draco’s return for the summer holidays. At first Draco’s father hadn’t even deigned to speak with him, let alone be in the same room. His mother had not spoken a word to his father for a firm four weeks. Seeing as his father hadn’t even come to see his Mind Healer off, the stand-off quite evidently persisted.
“Mother?” he asked quietly.
At the sound of his voice, she turned around, smiling brightly. “Hello, dear,” she said, then held out an arm. “Come, let us have some afternoon tea.”
His stomach rumbled at the mention, and not even five minutes later they sat in the glass sunroom, sharing a pot of tea and a stand of sandwiches and cakes between them.
Draco took a bite of a cheese and cucumber sandwich, the soft crunch filling the room. China clinked as his mother placed her teacup on its saucer, regarding Draco with warm eyes.
There came a pop! as a house elf appeared, carrying a silver platter.
“The post has finally been arriving, Mistress Narcissa,” said the elf, holding the tray up to her.
“Very good, Nipsy.”
Nipsy bowed deeply and shuffled six steps backwards, still bowing, until they bumped into a potted plant and squeaked their apology.
Nipsy was a young elf, a new addition to the staff. It took several house elves to keep the manor in tip-top condition, some in the kitchen, some in the gardens, and the others to maintain the housework. Up until the end of the last school year, Dobby had been their main butler as well as Draco’s father’s personal assistant. But Dobby was nowhere to be found, and his father would not say anything on the matter of it.
The post consisted of the Daily Prophet and five envelopes, two of which carried the purple wax seal of Hogwarts.
“Ah, it’s about time,” his mother tutted. “They’re not terribly fussed about whether the back to school shopping is a mad rush, are they?”
Draco saw that of the remaining three letters, one was addressed to his father with the Ministry seal, one was addressed to his mother in handwriting he didn’t recognise, and the remaining letter was addressed to him.
Draco snatched up his letter, hoping that it was the one he’d been waiting ages for.
The last letter Harry Potter had sent him was two long weeks ago, and he'd basically written to ask Draco if he knew the answers for the Potions homework. Draco had snorted, of course, and told him, ‘Yes, I do, but I’m not going to tell you,’ and there had not been a response since.
He wondered if perhaps Harry was sulking about it.
However, as Draco was disappointed to find, the letter was not written in Harry Potter’s chicken scrawl, but Hermione Granger’s loopy handwriting.
He sighed sadly, but opened it nonetheless.
A single Muggle photograph slipped out of the envelope. It was of Hermione posing in Wixen Paris, with three French Wixen messenger pigeons perched upon her shoulder. 'I made some friends!' was written in the same handwriting at the bottom of the photo.
Draco snorted.
“We’ll need to take a trip to Diagon tomorrow for your robes, stationery, and new spellbooks, Draco,” his mother said distractedly as her eyes skimmed the first Hogwarts letter. “And of course, your … non-spellbook.”
She smiled, but it seemed far too tight to be genuine.
“Do you also think I should switch classes?” Draco asked. “Like Father?”
“No, no, not at all! I think it's just wonderful how you’re seeking to broaden your mind!” His mother assured him, patting his hand. She then turned to the other letter.
“Oh, look! Hogsmeade, how delightful!”
She snapped her fingers at Nipsy. They shuffled forwards, and, as if reading her mind, magically produced a magnificent purple quill and an inkwell.
Draco watched as his mother dipped the nib in the dark liquid, a stray drop of black ink splattering on one of the envelopes. He couldn’t help but stiffen at the sight – he still hadn’t been able rid himself of one particular recurring nightmare where he always drowned in ink before waking up.
“There. You’ll have so much fun in Hogsmeade, sweetie.”
Draco mumbled a thank you and turned to the Daily Prophet , instead. He scoffed softly as he read the article about the Weasleys’ winning a holiday to Egypt, the ginger brood beaming back up at him looking extremely sunburnt and freckly. He unfolded the newspaper, frowning as Sirius Black’s sunken, grim face stared back at him.
“Mother, why —?”
“We do not speak of Sirius Black, Draco,” his mother cut in with an air of finality, not looking up from writing a reply to her letter.
“I was… only going to ask who you’re writing to,” Draco lied feebly.
“Nobody you need to worry about, darling,” she said with a small smile, dipping her quill back in her ink.
***
'On the 23rd of June 1994, Peter Pettigrew returns to the Dark Lord to nurse him back to power. This happens on the same night that Sirius Black is both captured, and mysteriously vanishes at Hogwarts. The events are connected somehow.'
"But how are they connected, Future-Me?" Draco tutted after spitting his teeth-cleansing potion into the sink. He carried the Journal of Dreadful Things back into his bedroom, turning the page.
'Various accounts note that Sirius Black was innocent. You already have some understanding of this because of Mother and Father, I know you do. You know Sirius Black had never been involved with the Dark Lord. He never gave up the Potter's hiding place to him, and he never killed those thirteen people. He is remembered as a hero in my time.'
Draco scrunched his nose in thought…
And promptly gave up with a sigh, falling back on his bed and staring up at the deep purple canopy in the early morning light.
He was trying to be better organised with his burden of a mission to save the wixen world, but his future self had not made it easy for him.
It felt like all Draco had was breadcrumbs.
He desperately wanted to have a much calmer school year than the last, but first he needed to figure out how to tackle this year's imminent mystery before he could even so much as think about enjoying himself at Hogsmeade.
He had vowed to himself he wouldn't make any more mistakes. Tom Riddle had been an utter disaster. Draco hadn't fixed it, or stopped the Chamber from being opened, or stopped the petrifications …
All he'd really done last year was take Ginevra Weasley's place and make a fool of himself!
And this year he really didn't know what to do with the information his future self had given him.
Sighing again, Draco tucked the Journal into his bedside drawer before leaving his bedchambers.
He meandered gently through the gilded manor halls, stopping to look in a hallway mirror as he passed and tucking a wayward strand of white-blond hair behind his ear. It had gotten long enough that Draco could tie it into a tiny little ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was considering asking to have it cropped again like he always did…When it got too long it began to curl ever so slightly like his mother’s natural hair. It was the Black genes, she always said, to which his father would respond with 'Malfoys never have a stray hair on their head.'
He consulted the mirror, saying as much.
“Embracing change can do wonders for the soul, you know,” replied the mirror whimsically.
Draco pulled a face, and was about to scoff out a response, when a sudden voice spoke.
"Draco."
Ignoring the fleeting spike of fear that perhaps Tom Riddle had come back to haunt his reflection, Draco spun around, his fright quickly turning into curiosity as he saw his father peering around the corner of the west hallway.
He then turned on his heel and disappeared again.
Draco groaned quietly. He was entirely fed up with his father. Nonetheless, he let out a huff of air before trailing after him to his office.
Upon entering the room, Draco saw that it was a tip. Books and paperwork covered every surface, the chaise lounge in the corner had heaps of dirty robes strewn across it, teacups and saucers were piled up high on the window cill, and worst of all there was no air. It was warm, stuffy, and smelt ever so slightly of bird droppings.
The source of said smell, Bartholomew the white peacock, perched proudly on the desk. His father petted his chest and the peacock cooed in response, ruffling his feathers.
His father had shed his outer-robes and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the faded snake and skull upon his left arm. There were slight bags beneath his red-rimmed eyes, and his usually immaculate silvery blond hair was in a straggly unkempt ponytail.
"Father," Draco began warily, "are you quite all right?"
"Yes, of course I am!" His father said, forcefully bright. “As you well know, it’s simply been… difficult to make amends with your m—” he paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “With the board.. . The board of governors. At the Ministry. For whom I no longer work after that… little fiasco with the Chamber of —”
“Father, why did you call me in here?” Draco cut in, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence.
“Do not interrupt, Draco,” his father admonished. “It is most unbecoming.”
“My apologies, Father.”
His father gave him a placating look, before clearing his throat and breaking into a jarringly manic grin, clapping his hands together. "I've simply come to the decision that I do not want you to associate with that Potter boy any longer!"
Draco blinked, reeling in shock. “...F—Father?”
"I believe he has had a negative influence on you," he carried on, striding to the window and looking very pleased with himself.
Draco stood in shocked silence as his father smiled like a madman.
"But Father, Harry saved my life three months ago," Draco said imploringly. He of course had no intention to follow his father’s orders, but his father didn’t need to know that.
"So you owe him a life debt and nothing more," his father said easily, flapping a hand as if a life debt were something you could just brush off. “You can forget all about him and the riff-raff he dithers about with, and resume your rightful place on the path to your heirdom.”
“I —” Draco stuttered.
“I really ought to have been firmer in your first year,” his father said thoughtfully. “The moment I heard you’d befriended Harry Potter I knew no good could come of it. Gallivanting about, breaking school rules, associating with traitors and Mudbloods, and now his influence on you even has you taking that ridiculous excuse for a class!”
His father gave a weak, mirthless chuckle.
“I still cannot not fathom it. My own son…taking Muggle Studies,” his father said the words as if the very notion made him want to throw up. Which it probably did. "I'd hoped I'd raised you better than that."
Draco took a deep breath. "I've told you already, Father. I'm simply repairing my reputation and climbing my way back into the good graces of my peers,” he said diplomatically.
It wasn't a complete lie. Draco was trying to make amends after the horrific events of the last school year. He didn’t have very high expectations for Muggle Studies at all, everyone said it was boring and unnecessary. Draco would just have to grin and bear it.
Draco was astonished to see his father’s eye actually twitch. An actual, honest to Merlin, agitated twitch. The maniacal smile was one thing…twitching eyes was another.
“Do you want to end up like him?” he asked quietly. Dangerously. Pointing to the top-most newspaper sprawled on the desk.
Draco looked closer. It was the first edition of the Daily Prophet after Sirius Black’s escape, with the entire article consuming the front page, Black’s face glowering up, filled with rage.
“Disowned. Disgraced," his father carried on, his lip curling into a sneer. He gave a cold, mirthless chuckle. “It’s laughable that anyone would ever believe the notion that the Dark Lord would dirty himself with a filthy blood traitor like him… And that is exactly what you will be if you carry on down the road you are, Draco. A blood traitor. Unworthy of serving the Dark L—"
"I do not wish to serve Riddle," Draco snapped, interrupting.
" The Dark Lord, Draco," his father ground out.
"He's not the lord of anything to me after he nearly killed me!"
His father slowly turned, staring at him with a strange, haunted intensity.
Draco took a hesitant step back. “If that’s all, may I be excused, Father?”
His father was quiet for a long pause, just staring at him, before finally he blinked out of his daze. “Hm? Oh. Yes…Yes, you are dismissed…"
With that, Draco left his office, immediately sagging as he closed the door. “He’s officially lost his gobstones,” he muttered under his breath as he stalked off.
“The pox upon the house of Malfoy, dear nephew!” exclaimed the portrait of Cadmond Malfoy from his ornate gold frame. “Just you wait!”
***
Diagon Alley – August 1993
The late morning saw Draco and his mother apparating to the bustling streets of Diagon Alley in a flurry of summer robes. The sun shone down on the London Wixen District, bringing out the vibrant hues painting every shop, blazing off of shining cauldrons, and beating down on the various wix going about their days.
Perhaps the only new edition to Diagon were the wanted posters with Sirius Black’s face plastered to every lamppost and shop window.
They stopped first at Wiseacres Wixen Equipment to retrieve an enchanted abacus and two sets of rune stones, one already engraved with the runic alphabet, the other blank. Draco had a hard time choosing which stone to get, but in the end opted for two elegant sets of obsidian with the carved runes painted in gold.
They stocked up on fresh Potions ingredients for him at Mulpepper’s Apothecary, and Draco encouraged his mother to buy the emerald green velvet witches hat she kept looking at longingly in Madam Malkin's shop window when he got his new school robes fitted. She ended up getting one for him, too.
Their shopping bags trailed after them through the air as they strolled down the winding cobblestone road in their matching hats towards their final destination, Flourish and Blotts. Draco’s mother looked down at him from within the shade of the brim of her hat.
“Do remind me, what books will you be needing this year?” she asked.
Draco took the list from his robe pocket, unfolding it with a deep sigh. “I’ll need the Standard Book of Spells Grade 3, Intermediate Transfiguration , The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as The Home Life and Social Habits of — POTTER?!”
Draco, having glanced up from his list for only a split second, immediately clocked the unmistakable unruly mop of black hair and stupid round spectacles, and felt his already flushed face grow unspeakably hotter.
Because there was Harry Potter, casually sitting on the curb, biting — yes, biting, the weirdo — into a scoop of ice cream like there wasn't a rumoured serial killer on the loose and after him.
At Draco’s exclamation, Harry’s head whipped in his direction with wide, startled green eyes. There was a fleeting moment where they both just stared in surprise at each other. Then, Harry’s scoop of ice cream slid off its cone and landed on the cobblestones with a splat.
Draco’s mother cleared her throat. "Draco," she murmured quietly, "gawking is most unseemly."
Draco automatically clicked his jaw shut, managing to school his face into one of unperturbed nonchalance as they approached.
Harry got to his feet, brushing his hands awkwardly on his strange, baggy Muggle trousers with a hole on one knee. "Hello, Draco. Er, Mrs Malfoy," he said. "Thanks for the macarons on my birthday, Draco."
With glee, Draco noticed that while Harry remained the same height, he had grown taller. Draco now had to look ever so slightly down to meet Harry’s eye.
"Think nothing of it, Scarhead." Draco managed coolly, holding his head high and revelling in the half inch between them.
"Draco, that's not a very nice thing to call your friend," his mother scolded lightly.
"Oh, it's fine Mrs Malfoy,” said Harry, despite looking the tiniest bit annoyed. “He calls me that all the time. It’s just his stupid nickname for me at this point.”
Draco poked his tongue out at Harry.
"…I see," said Draco’s mother in a strange tone, glancing between them with an even stranger twinkle in her eye. "I never did thank you properly for saving my son's life, did I, Mr Potter?"
Draco’s cheeks flooded with heat at the reminder, and he lost all previous composure. “ Mother ,” he whined quietly.
"Please, just call me Harry,” said Harry, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. “And it was nothing, really."
"I beg to differ," Draco’s mother said fiercely. "It was everything."
“Er, right!” Harry stammered, looking startled. “Then, erm…you’re welcome?”
“Hmm,” his mother hummed, that twinkle still dancing in her eyes. “Quite.”
Draco did not like that twinkle one bit.
“Well, I think I shall take a moment to do some more window shopping. Why don't you and Harry here catch up while you collect your books?" With that, she turned on her heel and wandered away in the direction of Twilfitts and Tattings.
Draco narrowed his eyes in thought, slowly turning to Harry. “Why is it that you’re always in Diagon Alley when I am?” he asked, suspicious. Was it purely coincidence, or something deeper…like fate? Destiny? Were they destined to meet here always on the same day, as two halves of one —
“I’ve been here for two weeks now,” Harry replied simply, promptly trampling all over Draco’s fantasy. “I’m staying in the Leaky Cauldron.”
"You've been staying in the Leaky Cauldron?" Draco echoed weakly, feeling a little stupid, and like he was severely out of the loop.
"Well, yeah. I didn't really have anywhere else to go after I ran away, so I took the Knight Bus–"
"You ran away?!" Draco yelped, now feeling really severely out of the loop.
"Well, yeah," said Harry, his brow furrowed. Then it sprung up again as his face cleared of its confusion. “Oh, right. I didn’t get round to owling you, I’ve only told Ron and ‘Mione so far.”
Ignoring the jealousy flaring up in him at somehow still not being Harry’s main priority, Draco shook his head. “But Harry, surely you must know what's happening right now? With Sirius Black and everything?”
"Why does everyone keep saying that? Yeah, it’s scary that a magical murderer has escaped from magical prison, but I don't see what that has to do with me."
"Sirius Black is…Well…" Draco took a deep breath. "Not many people know this, but it's said that Sirius Black was the one to rat your parents' hiding place out to the Dark L — to Riddle… thus causing their…death."
Harry just stared at him, his green eyes haunted. Draco suddenly regretted saying anything at all
"But,” he marched on bravely, thinking of the Journal, “the story doesn't make complete sense, you see, my um — my father says he was never involved with Riddle."
"How do — how do you know so much about this?" Harry asked tonelessly, sitting down heavily on the curb again, staring into space.
Draco hesitated, “Well, what with my father’s past, and my upbringing, also there’s the factor of my mother being his —”
"He's the reason? Why they're dead?" Harry cut in roughly, his knee bouncing as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
Draco really had not thought this through.
"Um…Well, that's what everyone says, but it doesn't really add up ," Draco emphasised once more. He really did hate having more intel but not enough, it was like Quirrell all over again.
Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as static filled the air. Nearby, cauldrons began to rattle and shop doors began to rapidly swing open and closed like a harsh wind had picked up.
"Potter, contain yourself!" Draco yelped, grabbing Harry's wrists. He was both shocked, envious, and fascinated at the raw display of accidental magic. Draco had of course had his own glass-shattering moments of blind fury growing up, but none to this scale.
Harry gulped and gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry! I don’t know why my magic is acting so crazy … I blew up my aunt the other week.”
Draco felt his eyebrows climb to his hairline. He let go of Harry’s wrists. "You what?!"
Harry's eyes widened. “Not literally! I — er…Well, I inflated her. Like a balloon. She went flying over the neighbourhood. I didn't mean to do it, but she…” he brought one knee up to his chest, hugging it. “She insulted my parents.”
Draco grimaced, sitting down beside him. “Yes, that will do it, I suppose.”
Harry was quiet for a moment. “You said it doesn't make sense. How doesn't it make sense?”
“Did you not listen to a word I said?” Draco scoffed.
“I was a bit too focused on the whole betraying my parents to their death part,” Harry said moodily.
"Sirius Black was never involved with Riddle,” Draco said with confidence. “He couldn’t have been a spy for him, and he couldn’t have betrayed your parents."
Harry frowned down at the ground. Draco followed his eyes as they watched his melted ice cream ooze between the cracks of the cobbles.
Draco bit his lip as his gut squirmed, the feeling he had absolutely grown to despise more than anything gnawing away at his insides. Guilt. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
Huffing, he got to his feet and marched into Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. He demanded two of the last flavour Harry Potter had ordered. Mr Fortescue chuckled heartily, quickly scooping treacle ice cream onto two waffle cones. Draco paid and quickly shuffled back to where Harry still sat with his head resting between his knees, looking like a kicked puppy.
“Here,” he said, sitting back down and handing Harry his cone. Harry mumbled a thanks, still frowning.
Draco sighed, licking his own scoop of treacle ice cream. “Did you manage to figure out the answers to the Potions homework in the end?”
“What?” Harry asked, blinking. “Oh — yeah.”
“All on your own?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
Harry huffed. “I had a bit of help from Mr Fortescue,” he admitted.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing in Diagon Alley for two weeks?” Draco murmured, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Paying the ice cream man to do your homework?”
“Shut up!” Harry snorted. “When you put it like that it sounds terrible!”
“Well it is terrible!” Draco gasped. “Unsuspecting ice cream men all over the wixen world are being targeted every day by ruthless school students like you to do their bidding!” He flung a hand against his forehead dramatically. “Justice for the ice cream men, I say!”
By the end of his little scene, Harry was laughing.
“Draco, dear, did you get your books?”
Draco looked up to see his mother swishing towards them with three new paper bags bobbing behind her, all of them with the Twilfitts and Tattings logo printed on them.
“Ah…I forgot,” he admitted, sheepish despite beaming from ear to ear.
His mother blinked, looking between him and Harry, that strange twinkle in her eye becoming stranger still.
"You know, you're more than welcome to join us for a spot of lunch if you’d like, Harry," she offered politely.
"Er…" Harry trailed off, looking completely caught off-guard. "I'm alright — I mean, no, thank you, Mrs Malfoy." He grimaced, holding his new cone up. "I think I've had too much ice cream."
"Well, then it was lovely seeing you again under much sunnier circumstances," she said with a nod. “Come along, Draco.”
“Coming!” he called, getting to his feet. “Harry, I – I do apologise if I've just tilted your entire world on its axis."
"No, I'm glad you told me, it was obvious nobody else was planning on it," Harry replied darkly, before giving Draco his patented grimace.
Draco gave a weak smile in return, walking away from him backwards. "See you at school, Scarhead."