"Are you even listening to me, Draco?" Pansy's voice cut through his concentration. "Hello?"
Draco looked up quickly, having completely forgotten that Pansy was in his bedroom. "Huh?" he asked dumbly.
Pansy rolled her eyes, clearly impatient with him. "So you weren't listening to me."
"Sorry, Pans," Draco said absently, eyes drifting back to his mother's journal. "I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment."
"Yes, yes," Pansy replied in a deprecating tone. "Just catching up on your reading in the nude, then?"
Draco started, looking down at his lap where a towel was still loosely wrapped. He was naked from the waist up. In his haste to read the journal, Draco had completely forgotten to put on clothes. He didn't have to energy to feel embarrassed by it, and he rolled his eyes. "You've seen it all before, Pansy."
Pansy rolled her eyes again. "Yes, darling, and while you're just as handsome as ever, I believe a certain bushy-haired swot might attempt to blind me if I so much as take a peek at you."
Instantly, Draco was pulled out of 1981 completely and back into the present. "We broke up, Pansy," he insisted.
"Yes, and you're both idiots," Pansy grumbled. "What's in those books?" she asked after a moment, squinting at the cover.
Draco sighed. He hadn't wanted to share the journals with Pansy originally, but now that he knew she couldn't read them, it felt less like an invasion into his mother's privacy. "My mother's journals," he answered quietly.
Pansy's eyes bulged. "All of those books were her journals?" she asked in disbelief.
Draco nodded, closing the journal he held in his hands. "Yes. She wrote everything down."
"In Russian?" Pansy continued.
Draco let out a short laugh. "No," he replied. "They're just enchanted to look that way so others can't read them."
"But you can read them?" she asked, gentler now.
"Both me and Andromeda, it appears."
Pansy stood on the tips of her toes, still peering down at the journal as if she could glean its secrets if she looked at it hard enough. "Anything interesting?" she asked in a conspiratorial tone.
Draco sighed. "Yes," he replied shortly. "No offense, Pans, but I'm just starting to read these, and I want to get the full picture before I'm ready to share anything. Let's just say that my mother was a very complicated individual."
"All women are complicated," Pansy drawled.
Draco's thoughts instantly shot to Hermione. Hermione, so utterly good and kind and patient, who was bad at talking about her feelings. Hermione, who was brilliant beyond measure, and completely ruthless when it came to protecting those she loved. Hermione, who was so possessive that his mother had compared her to a dragon.
Pansy's eyes had gone soft as she looked at him. "You're thinking about her, aren't you?" she asked. They both knew the her she meant.
Draco swallowed and nodded. "Yes," he admitted. It was pointless to deny it.
She sighed and shook her head, "I'm sorry," she said quietly. After a brief moment, all the softness that Pansy had exuded disappeared, and she clapped her hands to together. "Now, go get your arse dressed. I am not here with entirely unselfish motivations."
Draco gently placed his mother's journal on his bed and stood, heading towards his closet. Hastily, Draco chose a pair of gray tweed trousers and a black jumper, which he pulled over his head, ruffling his hair. Now dressed, Draco left the closet and returned to Pansy, who was once again flipping through the journal. "You're not going to gain a sudden mastery of the Russian language, Pans," he said.
"No harm in trying," Pansy replied primly.
"Now, to what do I owe the pleasure? I am clearly alive and well, and not passed out on the floor of the cellar. I think we could call that marked improvement," Draco said.
Suddenly, Pansy looked nervous. She bit her lower lip delicately and twisted her hands where they laid in her lap before unclenching them and smoothing her skirt. "I have a favor to ask."
"Okay," Draco replied with a shrug. Pansy had been a good friend to him. He owed her a favor, at least. Perhaps several favors.
"You're not going to like it," she continued, not meeting his eyes.
"Out with it, Pansy," Draco demanded.
"I need you to visit Astoria," Pansy finally said quietly.
At this, Draco laughed. "Surely, you're joking."
"I'm not," Pansy replied crossly. "I am being completely serious, Draco."
Draco crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Pansy, willing her to explain herself.
He didn't have to wait long. "I'm desperate, Draco," she said earnestly. "She won't listen to me. All she does is lounge about and drink herself insensate. I need her to have this treatment. Magic or no, I need her to get well. She's being unreasonable. And I—I'm at wits end, Draco. I'm hoping you might be able to talk some sense into her."
Pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, Draco exhaled heavily. "Pansy," he said slowly. "I'm still very angry with her. After what she did—"
"Let her explain," Pansy interrupted. "Let her apologize. I know she feels badly about it."
"Fine," Draco said softly.
Pansy stood immediately, wrapping her hand around his forearm. "Great," she said. "I'll apparate us."
"What? Like right now? Pans—" her name was cut off as Draco was wrenched from his bedroom. When they landed, Draco found himself in a very posh hotel room that he did not recognize. "Pansy, I swear—" Draco began, before he cut himself off. The hotel was certainly posh, but it was also filthy. The floor was littered with empty bottles, both beer and liquor. The plush, ivory carpet was stained in several places—wine, brown liquor, and in one spot, what appeared to be vomit. A silken armchair had been flipped over, a rip in its cushion. One curtain had been pulled from the window, the rod bent. In the middle of the room, sat a couch. Astoria was strewn across it, seemingly asleep, a bottle held loosely in her hand.
"Fuck," Pansy swore. "I just cleaned this place two days ago." Immediately, she went to righting all the furniture and picking up the bottles. "Astoria, wake the fuck up!"
Astoria did not wake up. Pansy strode towards her prone form and grabbed the bottle from Astoria's hands. Immediately, Astoria awoke with a gasp, sitting up sharply and searching for the bottle. "What the fuck," she slurred at Pansy through glassy, hooded eyes.
"Draco's here," Pansy said shortly, holding the bottle just out of Astoria's reach.
"Draco?" Astoria asked frantically, her eyes searching the room for him. "Draco," she repeated when she saw him. "Draco, I am so sorry."
Draco took several steps forward, grabbing an armchair and moving it so it sat directly in front of Astoria on the couch.
"And I'm incredibly angry at you," he replied, not bothering to mince his words.
Astoria nodded, briskly, then winced and turned a violent shade of green. "'Scuse me," she muttered before darting off the couch, running towards what Draco could only assume was a toilet. She returned several moments later, looking slightly better. "You should be angry at me," she said quietly.
"I don't understand, Astoria. Why—why would you do that? You always liked Hermione. You encouraged me to be with her. You asked about our sex life. So why—when did that change?" Draco asked.
Astoria shook her head, more delicately this time, and seemed to think for several moments. "I take it you know—about my predicament," she began with wince. When Draco nodded, she continued. "I just want to have fun until—" Astoria broke off. "I just want to have fun. You were my only friend, Draco, and you spent so much time with Hermione—and I just, I thought—"
"That I'd spend more time with you if I didn't have Hermione?" he asked, though the answer seemed rather obvious.
"Yes," she said quietly, looking away from him. "Just until."
"Until what?" Draco asked.
Astoria looked him square in the eye. "Until," she repeated, quietly.
Pansy, to her credit, had made herself scarce, and Draco could faintly hear her muttering spells in what appeared to be a bedroom.
"Until you die?" Draco challenged.
Astoria paled and looked away. "Draco, stop it," she said quietly. Leaning forward, she grabbed one of the bottles on the floor and sipped at it desperately. A gesture with which Draco was intimately familiar.
"No," he said flatly. "Because I'm told you don't have to die. That's there's a treatment."
Astoria scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Did she tell you that it's very likely that I'll lose my magic?"
Draco nodded. "She did."
Astoria appeared surprised by that. "And you're here to convince me to do it anyways?" she asked in a strangled voice.
"I'm not here to convince you of anything, Astoria," Draco replied. "But are you really having fun? Are you really? Because to me, it looks like you've hit rock bottom. And as someone who is also currently sitting at rock bottom, I'm not having any godsdamned fun."
"I am not at rock bottom," Astoria protested.
"You didn't answer my question," Draco persisted.
"Yes," she said forcefully, crossing her arms over her chest. "I am having a great time."
Draco scoffed. "Right," he replied.
"I am!" Astoria insisted.
Draco sighed, choosing his next statement carefully. "She doesn't care if you have magic, Astoria," he said quietly. "I don't know if she's told you that. But she doesn't care. She just wants you alive. And as angry as I am at you, I don't want you to die. And I don't care if you have magic either. I know it's hard choice, Astoria. But all she's asking you to do is live." Draco paused, twisting his hands together. "Hermione and I broke up, you know," he continued after a minute. "But if—if I had a blood curse, and she asked me to do a treatment that might make me lose my magic, I don't think I'd even have to think about it. I'd do it, in an instant."
"You would?" Astoria asked quietly. "You'd lose your magic?"
Draco shook his head. "That's not the choice I'd be making."
"I don't understand."
"I'd be choosing to live so my witch wouldn't have to cry at my funeral," he said flatly. "Don't do that to her, Astoria."
Astoria visibly flinched, her eyes flicking to the room Pansy had sequestered herself in. "I—I hadn't considered that," she admitted.
"I know," Draco agreed. "Because you're being selfish."
Her eyes met his again. "I am," she agreed, looking down at her hands which were shaking slightly. "I always have been."
"Just—" Draco began, flinching at the irony of what he was about to say, "Try," he finished quietly.
Astoria nodded, her eyes now locked on the bedroom where Pansy was. She swallowed audibly. "Pansy," she called, her voice slightly raspy.
Pansy appeared immediately, her face betraying no emotion. "Yes?" she asked.
"I'll do it," Astoria said quietly. "I'll have the treatment."
Pansy's face immediately brightened and broke out into the biggest smile Draco had ever seen on the usual prim and proper witch's face. "You will?" she asked breathlessly.
Nodding, Astoria replied, "Yeah." Her voice was shaking. "I will."
Pansy rushed forward, pushing Draco's knees out of her way, and wrapped her arms around Astoria and then burst out into tears. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," she repeated into the other witch's hair. Astoria wrapped her own arms around Pansy, holding her tightly.
Draco watched the intimate display for a moment before averting his eyes. When Pansy and Astoria finally broke apart, Pansy launched herself at him, hugging him just as fiercely as she had held Astoria. "Thank you, Draco," she whispered into his ear. "Thank you so much."
"Don't mention it," Draco whispered back.
When Draco returned to Black Manor several hours later, he was completely and utterly exhausted—emotionally, physically, and otherwise—and more than ready for a nap. After tears and hugs, and more emotion than Draco had ever seen Pansy exude, she had gone to work. Immediately, she contacted Astoria's Healer abroad in France to arrange for Astoria's treatment before ordering Draco to clean up the hotel room while she packed Astoria's things. The Muggle way, of course.
Just in case.
Truthfully, Draco didn't mind it too much. He liked to do things the Muggle way on occasion. But now a nap was in order.
Or it had been, before he was greeted by the sudden reappearance of Hexy and Jinxy in the foyer, the latter holding several pillowcases and socks in her arms. "Master Dracos!" she cried. "Jinxy is moving back to Black Manor with Hexy!"
Draco smiled a tired smile. "That's a great idea, Jinxy," he replied.
"Jinxy has been telling Hexy all about beings a free elf," Jinxy continued, before shyly saying, "Hexy is telling Jinxy that hims would like to be a free elf, toos, Sirs."
Nodding, Draco replied, "Of course, my intent was always to free you, Hexy." There were still some boxes littered about the foyer, and opening one, Draco pulled out a white cotton t-shirt and handed it to Hexy. "For you," he said. Hexy immediately accepted the shirt, pulling it over his head. The t-shirt nearly touched the floor, but Hexy appeared thrilled. "I'll pay you the same wage that I pay Jinxy, if that is acceptable to you."
Hexy nodded eagerly. "More thans, Sirs!" he agreed.
"Is there anything we can be doings for Master Dracos?" Jinxy asked.
Draco thought a moment before he turned to Hexy. "Is there any magic here that would hurt someone with Muggle heritage?" he asked.
"Lots of things, Sirs," Hexy replied.
Draco had expected as such. "Get rid of all of it. Every bit of it. I don't care how ancient it is or how valuable it is, I want it gone."
"Hexy will take care of thems, Sirs!" the elf said before scurrying away.
Jinxy stared up at him expectantly, before an idea suddenly struck. "Jinxy, you always helped my mother tend the gardens. Do you think—" he broke off. "Do you think you could work on the gardens?"
A huge smile grew on Jinxy's face. "Jinxy and Mistress Narcissa always loved the flowers. Jinxy will plant all Mistress' favorites: Roses and lilacs and chrysanthemums and gardenias and her favorites—Master Draco, our favorites were always the violets."
"That sounds perfect, Jinxy, thank you," he said, smiling back down at his faithful elf, who gave him a cheeky grin and headed outsides, presumably towards the gardens.
Alone now, Draco once more resumed his trek towards his bedroom, his eyes fluttering shut as he walked. As soon as he reached his bedroom, Draco threw himself down on his bed. He turned onto his side and opened his eyes for moment, checking for his mother's journal. He wouldn't put it past Pansy to steal it and attempt to decipher it. Draco found his mother's journal just where he had left, as well as a vial of bright pink potion sitting pointedly on his bedside table. Pansy, of course. Draco stared at the potion for several seconds, debating, before he sighed and uncorked the vial, draining it in one swallow.
Try, Potter had told him.
Try, he had parroted back to Astoria.
Perhaps it was time to try.
The potion settled in his gut, and he felt a warmth not dissimilar to that of firewhiskey bloom in his belly. It left him feeling—content. He hadn't felt any effects—positive or negative—the last time he had taken the potion, but this time, he could practically feel the magic thrumming in his veins. Sighing, Draco felt all of his muscles gradually relax as he laid back against his pillow. He felt—lighter, somehow. Like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He closed his eyes and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep almost instantly.
It was the niggle that woke him.
Groaning, Draco's eyes fluttered opened, taking in the low light of his bedroom. It appeared that the sun had just begun to set. Pulling the comforter off of him, he swung his legs over the bed, rubbing at his eyes as he did so. The niggle became more persistent, and Draco swore. "I'm coming," he muttered, leaving his bedroom and walking down the hall. He could hear someone pounding on the front door. "I'm coming!" he shouted.
When Draco opened the door, he was not entirely surprised to see Potter standing on his doorstep. "Oh, there you are," Potter said with wide eyes.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You were banging at my door, Potter. I'm here. What is it?"
Potter exhaled deeply, closing his eyes. "I have to tell you something," he said quietly. "Something you're really not going to like."
Draco suddenly felt very cold. Dread, harsh and distinct, coursed through him, and he was instantly nauseous. Had Hermione been hurt? Where was she? Was she safe? Potter was supposed to keep her safe. "What?" Draco asked stiffly.
Again, Potter exhaled. "I just needed to tell you before you found out elsewhere."
"Tell me, Potter," Draco snapped.
"Ron's back," Potter said lowly, "from Romania." Draco instantly grabbed his wand, prepared to apparate to Hermione's flat—break up be damned—before Potter grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. "He's reached out, but she's refusing to see him. I just wanted to tell you before you saw his picture in The Prophet or something."
"Do you think they'll get back together?" Draco asked, sounding more vulnerable that he'd ever wanted to.
Potter gave him a strange look. "No, Malfoy," he said seriously. "I don't think they'll get back together."
"Will you—will you make sure she's all right?" Draco continued. "That he won't hurt her?"
"He seems better, Ron. Happier. I don't think he'll hurt her."
"I don't care what you think, Potter," Draco spat. "I want you to make sure he doesn't hurt her."
Potter shook his head, sighing. "I'm not the one who's supposed to be taking care of her, Malfoy," he said quietly.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Draco fixed Potter with his deadliest look. "Promise me right now you'll make sure she's okay, Potter," he demanded.
Potter held up his hands, clearly backing down. "I will make sure Ron doesn't hurt her. But the okay part? There's nothing I can do about that."
All of Draco's venom left him all at once. "Is she still—?" Draco asked, knowing he didn't have to finish his question for Potter to know what he meant.
"Still bad," Potter confirmed. "She won't say it, but I know she misses you."
Draco looked down at his feet, feeling guilty. He didn't want Hermione hurting—especially because of him. "I miss her, too," Draco admitted.
Potter nodded. "I know," he said simply, clapping Draco on the shoulder and shooting him a sympathetic look. "You won't do anything stupid, will you?"
"You mean like kill Weasley?" Draco asked.
Potter's gaze didn't so much as flicker as he stared at Draco.
Draco shook his head. "I won't go near him as long as he leaves her alone. If he hurts her, all bets are off."
"Fair enough," Potter replied in apparent agreement. "Are you doing—" Potter winced. "Okay?"
"Don't hurt yourself, Potter," Draco scoffed.
"I'm being serious, Malfoy," Potter said earnestly.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Gods, having you think we're friends is exhausting."
"Oh, come off it, Malfoy, you consider me your friend, too," Potter argued. "Also, don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't answered my question."
Relenting, Draco sighed and rubbed at his brow. "I'm—better, I guess. I've been busy. Less time to think." He shrugged.
Potter nodded. "You seem better. Hey, did you ever talk to Andromeda?"
"I did," Draco answered shortly.
Potter rolled his eyes. "And?" he prompted.
"She didn't know anything," Draco replied with a shrug of his shoulders. It wasn't a lie. Draco wasn't sure why he was being so cagey with the role his mother played in the War, just that he wanted all the information for himself before he shared it with anyone else.
Suspiciously, Potter eyed him. "Right," he said, his tone disbelieving.
"If you'll excuse me, Potter, I've had a rather long, tiring day, and I'd like to go back to bed," Draco replied haughtily.
"You do that," Potter said with another roll of his bespectacled eyes. "I'll see you, yeah?"
"Whatever, Potter," Draco replied, closing the door behind the other man.
With Potter gone, Draco returned to his bedroom, climbed into bed and grabbed his mother's journal, intent on returning to 1981.
With the exception of the first entry and a handful of condescending remarks about Dumbledore, 1981 appeared to be a year of relative peace for his mother. The majority of her entries were about him, it so happened, as she watched him grow. It made his heart ache with yearning. How had he ever doubted how much she cared about him? In 1981, he was all she cared about.
He wasn't entirely when he had started to cry, but by the time 1982 arrived, there was a steady stream of them flowing down his face.
At the end of 1982, Draco closed the journal and his eyes, trying to process everything he had just read. It hadn't been the monumental discovery that his mother had betrayed her husband and The Dark Lord—not once, but at least twice—but it was the evidence that his mother loved him more than she loved anyone—or anything—else.
It was the most important thing to Draco.
Draco wiped furiously at his eyes, pushing his tears away. Placing the journal back on his bedside table, he grabbed his wand and wordlessly summoned the box full of journals from where it still stood in the foyer. He supposed Pansy did have a point—it seemed that Draco would be staying at Black Manor for the foreseeable future, and he might as well unpack. Sighing, Draco opened the box and peered down inside. The next journal that awaited him made his blood run cold. 1996. Just reading the cover had his fingers trembling violently, his belly bubbling with nervous energy. Draco shook his head and swallowed, trying to force the anxiety back.
With his fingers shaking, Draco pulled the journal from the box and held it in his hands so forcefully that his knuckles turned white. He opened the journal and took note of the first date: July 12, 1996. Less than a month before he was branded. Suddenly, nausea overwhelmed him. His mouth tasted distinctly of bile.
This was the next journal he had to read, he knew. Its placement had been deliberate.
Without a second thought, Draco instantly made his way to the cellar. He had managed the first journals without his trusted firewhiskey, but Draco was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to make it through this year without a considerable amount of alcohol coursing through his system. He grabbed the first bottle he could reach, instantly opening it and taking a large swig. He continued to drink from the bottle as he walked back down the hall to his bedroom. Bottle in hand, Draco sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the cover of the journal. Taking another sip of firewhiskey followed by a deep breath, he flipped the book open.
July 12, 1996
Our only duty was to keep our son safe, and we have failed. Lucius has failed me innumerous ways over the course of our marriage, but this failure is by far the worst. Any love remaining for my husband is gone.
He failed The Dark Lord, he failed me, and he failed my son.
Lucius has offered my son to The Dark Lord, a most humble offering as an apology for his failings.
My son. My only son. My sweet, sensitive, creative son.
Draco has agreed, of course. Always trying to please his father. I want to tell him that he cannot, and it doesn't matter if his father is proud of him—that I'm proud of him, and I would rather die than allow him to take the horrible Mark.
But it is too late now. Draco has agreed and now The Dark Lord will never let him go.
August 5, 1996
The ritual nearly killed him. I have seen Markings before, and they are always gruesome, but there is truly nothing worse than seeing your own son screaming in agony. He fainted twice and The Dark Lord Rennervated him so he could finish. As soon as it was done, Draco fell to the ground, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. I thought he was dead, truly.
He still may die, I am told. He has been unconscious for days now, and I will remain at his bedside until he wakes. I am refusing to allow anyone else in his room, save for Jinxy. If Lucius manages to get through my enchantments, I fear I will claw out his eyes with my bare hands.
The Dark Lord is demanding to see Draco immediately, but my son will sleep as long as he likes. The Dark Lord can kill me later for my insubordination later if he wishes.
August 13, 1996
Draco has received his first mission, and it is far worse than I could have ever imagined.
He has been tasked with killing Albus Dumbledore.
My idiot husband thought this was a payment for his errors. He was wrong. It is a punishment.
August 15, 1996
A cave. A tower. A Mark, high in the sky.
August 22, 1996
I have met with Albus and Severus, and we have devised a plan—a most devious plan, if I do say so myself. But it will work, of that I am certain. Thanks to my flashes, Albus has uncovered most of the Horcruxes, and he assures me that the Potter boy is well-equipped to find and destroy the rest.
The plan is thus: Severus will take an Unbreakable Vow to keep my son safe and to help him with his task. Ultimately, Severus will be the one to kill Albus, and then take over as Headmaster of Hogwarts. I may not have been able to prevent my son from taking the Mark, but I will do my best to protect him from afar.
I will not have my son be a murderer. If it's all I can do now, I will protect his soul.