Chapter Text
The war was over, and people tried to get back to normal. Normal, as things could be after a war. Draco Malfoy, too, was trying to get back to normal and trying to get used to a world that hated him and his family, especially since Draco himself had not been sent to Azkaban, thanks to Saint Potter's testimony.
That alone was enough to earn him looks.
Most times not just looks, whispers.
Muttered conversations that stopped when he entered a room. Eyes that lingered a second too long. Judgments passed in silence and sometimes not in silence at all.
He supposed he deserved some of it.
Not all. But some.
His father, of course, had not been so fortunate. Lucius Malfoy now resided in Azkaban, exactly where most of the wizarding world believed he belonged. Draco had no particular argument against that.
It made things quieter.
Malfoy Manor had always been quiet though, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Less… controlled. Less suffocating.
His mother filled the space as best she could. Narcissa Malfoy moved through the Manor with the same grace she always had, but something in her had softened. Or perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath expectation and survival.
Draco wasn’t entirely sure.
What he did know was that she spoke more now. Not much—but more. She asked him how he was.
Draco never knew how to answer that. So instead, he focused on practical things.
Eighth year at Hogwarts had been offered to those who had missed their education during the war. Draco had accepted, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Habit, perhaps. Or the simple fact that he had nowhere else to go that didn’t feel like standing still. He just wanted normal, something familar.
Though going back to Hogwarts didn't mean he would get normal, because going back meant facing people. People that he had actively directly or indirectly hurt over the years and during the war.
It meant facing Harry Potter.
Draco tried not to think too hard about that.
Instead, he spent his days walking the halls of the Manor, relearning spaces that felt both familiar and foreign. Rooms that had once held grim and darkness now held nothing at all.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
His mother had summoned him to the sun room for their normal afternoon tea together, like they had taken to doing. The tea was served but Draco wasn't paying attention to that.
His mother was holding a letter. And with the lines forming at the corner of her mouth, it wasn't something good.
Draco didn't need to get a closer look to know, It wasn’t from Hogwarts, It wasn’t from the Ministry and with the look on his mother's face, It wasn’t from anyone he knew.
Which meant, immediately, that he didn’t like it.
But nonetheless, he took the letter from her when she offered it to him.
Draco turned the envelope over in his hands, considering it for a long moment before breaking the seal.
He scanned the contents once.
Then again.
Then a third time, slower.
“…No,” Draco said aloud.
The word echoed faintly in the quiet room.
“It was something your grand father Abarax suggested after you were born,” Narcissa said. “He thought it wise your father had....spares and since I couldn't have another child, he advised your father to try his luck outside.”
Draco choked on air.
“I didn't think he would actually do it.”
Draco let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
He stared at her.
“…Three?”
There was the faintest pause.
“Yes.”
“Three,” he repeated flatly. “Children.”
“Yes.”
“Father’s children.”
Narcissa’s expression did not change, but something colder settled behind her eyes.
“Yes.”
Draco looked back at the letter again.
Draco,
By the time this letter reaches you, I expect you will already have heard a number of unpleasant rumours regarding my circumstances. You may rest assured that I am enduring them with considerably more dignity than most would manage.
That, however, is not the purpose of this letter.
There are matters of legacy that could not be entrusted to chance—nor, regrettably, to you alone.
It would appear that recent events have forced a rather… premature evaluation of succession. While I had every intention of ensuring the continuation of the Malfoy line through you, I have never been a man to rely on a single outcome.
You will, therefore, receive three children at the Manor.
They are mine.
Each was placed under the care of their respective mothers, with the understanding that their existence would remain discreet unless circumstances demanded otherwise. Those circumstances have now, quite inconveniently, arisen.
You will find them adequately educated for their age, though not, I suspect, in the manner I would have preferred. Their mothers, while acceptable in certain regards, lacked the necessary discipline of proper wizarding upbringing.
Do not mistake this for sentiment. This is practicality.
Should you fail—as you have demonstrated a remarkable inclination to do—the family name must persist through more capable means.
You are not to discard them.
You are not to neglect them.
You are to ensure they are housed, trained, and prepared to carry the Malfoy name with the standard it demands.
Consider this, if nothing else, an opportunity to prove that you are not entirely without use.
Your mother, I trust, will manage the more… delicate aspects of their integration. See that you do not disappoint her further.
Lucius Malfoy
Draco scoffed. He didn't know what made him more furious. The fact that his father already saw him as a failure even as a child or the fact that Lucius Malfoy was reducing his children to nothing more than 'outcomes', spares. Nothing else but to carry on the stupid family name.
Draco scoffed again. As if that name meant anything now.
He turned to his mother. “…They’re coming here.”
“They have nowhere else to go.”
Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. Then really looked at his mother. She was looked really disturbed yes but apart from that, all he could see was obvious concern. Concern for children that are proof of her husband's stupidity and unfaithfulness.
“Are....are you okay with this Mother?”
“They are children, Draco.” she answered without hesitation. “Their mothers were lost in the war and now they have nowhere to go. I will not turn my back on them.”
Draco nodded.
He looked at the letter again. Looked at it one last time, at the neat handwriting, the calculated cruelty, the expectation woven into every line. He knew what his father wanted. To raise them to be exact reflections of what Lucius Malfoy is. Cruel, bigoted and evil.
Draco laughed, short and sharp.
“Well,” he said, raising his head to look at his mother, “he’s made one rather significant miscalculation.”
Narcissa’s brow lifted slightly.
Draco smirked. “I am not him.”
Narcissa studied him, carefully.
Then—
“No,” she said softly. “You are not.”
Draco folded the letter and kept it on the table, picking up the cup of tea that has been poured out for him.
“When do they arrive?”
Narcissa too picked up her cup of tea. “Tomorrow afternoon, I've already informed the house elves to prepare rooms for them.”
Draco nodded.
Good.
He supposed it's time for the over due meeting.