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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.

Chapter Text

Monday, August 25th, 1994

Draco pushed open the flap to his opulent tent, stepped into the morning sunlight, and let out a tired yawn as he stretched his arms over his head, smiling down at the nearest Peacock already stretching his neck out to him to pet.

He hadn’t slept well, but he was intent on pushing all the horrible thoughts that had kept him tossing and turning all night to the depths of his brain. He didn’t want to face his parents, he didn’t even want to hear their voices echoing off the barren tent. What he wanted was a day with his friends and a Quidditch match to end it with, where he could forget his father’s Dark Mark and the letter and prophecy. What he wanted was walking right towards him.

Beaming, Draco tucked his hands into his Muggle jeans (he’d dressed like a Muggle to avoid snide Ministry officials looking for trouble) and strode up to his friends, running towards him with the same wide smiles on their faces.

He had only a moment to brace himself before Hermione tackled him in a flurry of afro hair, and he was left whirling, trying fruitlessly to disentangle himself.

“You made it, you made it!” She cheered, mercifully letting him go after he started to fear for his ribcage.

“We weren’t sure you’d come,” said Ron, a good deal taller than when he’d last seen him, stubbornly, though Draco supposed he’d never get that gangly and didn't really want to.

“You know because of… your Dad…” He slowly turned to meet Harry’s gaze, forcing down the familiar fluttering in his stomach with a hard shove when he met those sparkling green eyes.

“Right,” he nodded, glancing back at his tent only once before throwing his hands up with a smile. “Well I’m here aren’t I? Pretty sure I’m officially un-grounded too, so how about we all celebrate,” he threw his arms around his friends necks so he could force them forwards, down the path leading away from his father’s tent. “No use standing around, is there? It’s the Quidditch World Cup!”

And, without further protest, they were off, passing wizarding families from all over the world, idly chatting about their holidays, speculating about the upcoming school year.

“I assume you’ll want to enter, Scarhead,” Draco drawled, leaning against a counter while the boy watched, bored, as Hermione was delighted by the process of the wizard shop-keeper spinning thin flosses of candy into sparkling candy floss. “Have to keep your streak of senseless heroics going, afterall.”

He was met with only confused blinking however from his friends. “What are you talking about?” asked Harry, and Draco looked around to see even Hermione looking confused, returning with her purse lighter and bright pink candy floss stuck to her cheeks.

“What’s Harry supposed to be entering?” she asked.

“You mean you don’t know?” He exclaimed, chuckling. Surely Ron’s father would be told, he worked at the Ministry! He said as much, and Ron scowled.

“He has been tight lipped about something. Remember how Percy acted at dinner last night?” he turned to ask the other two, who seemed to remember something.

“If they’re tight lipped it’s because they’re keeping something from you,” glancing around, Draco once more wrapped his arms around his friends shoulders so he could pull them into a huddle to the side of the candy floss booth and explain, “this year the Triwizard Tournament is coming to Hogwarts!”

Ron and Hermione both gasped while Harry, predictably, looked as out of the loop as always.

“You’re barking!” Ron exclaimed.

“Really?!” Hermione squealed.

“What is going on right now?” Harry asked bluntly, for they looked like two children on Muggle Christmas morning.

“The Triwizard Tournament, Harry!” Hermione turned to say, raising a finger and launching into one of her usual scholarly explanations. “It is an ancient tournament dating back centuries when the three most prominent magic schools in Britain - Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons - compete to determine who is really ‘the best’ by having a champion selected from each of their schools fight in three tasks over the course of a school year. It hasn’t happened for a century, though! Because the death toll got too high!”

Harry looked to be processing far too much information at once, but the first thought he could coherently put together was, “I’m sorry, death toll?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron shrugged, “‘s’posed to be dangerous stuff, these tasks. But blimey, it’s a thousand galleons prize money if you win, Harry! What do you think? Would you go for it?”

Harry seemed to be envisioning such a victory in his green eyes, but quickly they slid over to Draco, and he blanched, realizing he was looking for his input on the situation. Certainly, he’d considered it, outside of the fact that his father wanted him to, but not really. More for fun. When it came down to it he never imagined putting pen to paper and throwing his name in. Maybe early last year he would’ve lied and said yes, to impress Harry, but now he’d prefer to impress Justin Finch-Fletchley, so instead he merely shrugged, relaxed.

“Of course not, I do try to be the most sane out of the four of us from time to time, you know.”

Hermione cleared her throat harshly. “Er, I believe I far succeed you in that category, Draco.”

He slowly dropped his chin to eye her dryly. “Really? Hermione Granger you were at the end of your wits last year taking all those classes.”

“Yes… well…” she stuttered, glancing around for an out. “You weren’t doing so well yourself! Look at your hair!” With that she took a large chomp out of her candy floss.

“My… hair?” he unconsciously tugged at the ends of his mullet, frowning. “It’s not bad, is it?”

“No!” Harry blurted, then, when everyone looked around at him in confusion and surprised, stuttered, “Well… it’s a bit more Muggle. I like it.”

Draco smiled. “That’s what I was going for. Dad would just have to look at me long enough to notice…” The last part he mumbled under his breath, not intending to cause a stir from his friends, so at their worried faces he put on a wide smile and moved forwards down the path. “C’mon, let’s check out the enemy up ahead.”

Sure enough right before them was a world of green. It seemed the Irish had all congregated and, a while away, Draco could see a sea of red, avid Bulgaria supporters as well. Here they said their hellos to Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, friends of theirs in Gryffindor, tried to avoid the smiley Ernie Macmillan and ended up running into a freshly graduated Oliver Wood, who was thrilled to see Draco and dragged him away from his friends to meet his parents and regale him with tales of serving on Puddlemere United’s reserve team.

When Draco managed to find his friends again in the Bulgaria crowd, they were all sported face paint.

“I don’t even know how -” Harry sputtered.

“Sort of just grabbed us and -” Ron muttered.

“Does it look bad?” Hermione seemed to be looking for some reflective surface to check the red and black stripes across her cheeks.

“Not at all,” Draco lied, smirking, and, wondering if his father would at least notice this, managed to find an avid face painter who charmed some stripes for him too.

From here they moved back into the main camp and found some more familiar faces; Cho Chang, who Harry spilled his water over and to which Draco had to hide a gag; Pansy, Greg, and Theo, who had apparently lost Vincent along the way and were thrilled to see Draco so they could thank him for getting them out of stuffy pureblood games yesterday by spending the day with his father, before running off to find Vince before he got jumped by Bulgarian face painters; and finally they spotted a group of foreign students and locked eyes and smirked, eyes sparkling with ideas of the Triwizard Tournament and the knowledge that they were in on some big secret no one else they’d come across knew about.

At last, it was getting late and they were all getting hungry for lunch, and Draco had to contend with the fact that if he didn’t get back to his tent soon, his father wouldn’t be a happy sight.

“See you soon!” He called to his friends, waving them off to their own small camp, before turning to trudge up the path to the stretch of elaborate tents lining the edge of the campsite.

Warm light came from each tent, but unlike the other campers these proper nobles all stayed snug in their homes, instead of sitting warm by a campfire. When Draco reached his own elaborate, purple structure, he turned back and saw, down the hill, the glow that must’ve been the Weasley’s campfire. Or some other fire maybe, but he had a feeling…

Frowning down at the little set up of logs on rocks that came with the tent, Draco walked over and unclipped his traveling cloak - he’d be switching into a different one designed to look like the Bulgarian flag anyway - folded it up to lay on the grass and sat on it, bending forwards to pick up a log.

He’d never made a fire by hand before, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the general idea, and also had a good deal of conviction. Focused, he grabbed a thin twig poking out of the log and tore it off. Then he set the log flat down in front of him and placed the stick on it, working his hands back and forth against the wood. The idea was he was supposed to be driving pressure into the wood, right? Enough to create friction, then heat. Enough to create fire.

It wasn’t an easy process, but eventually, the wood lit up. Carefully, he threw the log back into the pile and watched, smiling proudly, as his handiwork spread, trapped in the safety of the rocks.

Rubbing his hands together he held them in front of the heat, letting it warm the soreness. Letting it warm the cold hate for the life behind him that had made him do this in the first place.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there, staring into the little fire, before he heard the rustling of fabric and knew his mother had come out to check on him. She sat down beside him on the patch of his cloak left, and held out a plate of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He took his dinner and quickly ate it in small bites; he’d suddenly felt quite sick to his stomach.

“Did you do this by yourself?”

He nodded.

“Impressive… I certainly wouldn’t know how to.”

“Well I am going to take Muggle Studies this year.”

His mother fell silent, and he turned to look at her. They haven’t spoken much about his change in classes, because, well, they haven’t spoken much at all this summer. He saw in her, for the first time, disappointment.

“Mom -”

“Darling, you know your father and I have tried our best to support you in all you’ve done these past few years,” she turned to say, smiling, and he recognized exhaustion in the tired creases in her eyes. “When you got into Gryffindor all I saw was my brave little boy being himself. When you befriended blood traitors and Muggle-borns I knew you were choosing to walk a different path. Forgive me, then, my dear dragon, if I’m a little scared that that path may be… too far.”

He recalled how she’d spoken of his Aunt Andromeda last week. She was clearly thinking of her once more. Two mentions after years of pretending she didn’t exist… the world may just be falling to pieces. At least, Draco’s perfect little kingdom he’d always imagined his family at Malfoy Manor being, was.

“Promise me,” his mother cupped a hand to his cheek, holding it tightly, hand and eyes full of love (and tears), “you will not go far.”

She was right, their views were wildly different. He was walking the path of a blood traitor while she remained glued to her husband’s side. Perfect Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black), who never spoke up. Not when her sister had been banished for following her heart, wherever it may lead, and not when her husband proved time and time again to care more for image and loyalty to Lord Voldemort, than his own family.

But despite it all, this woman before him was not Perfect Cissy, it was Mom.

“Of course, Mom,” he smiled, pulling her into a hug, “I won’t.”

-*-*-*-

Before Draco knew it, it was time for the game. The gong sounded, and the family of three was off, together physically, enough to present the perfect little picture they’d been showing off all summer, but apart in their hearts. No simple hug or loose promise could change that. Draco knew now he couldn’t be more wrong yesterday; the chasm between them had only grown farther apart.

Silent, movements stiff and methodic, the Malfoy family walked alongside wizards and witches from across the globe towards the Quidditch World Cup. Draco had been to every one, and so when the stadium loomed into view, it brought barely a turn to his insides. Instead, he felt quite hollow. His mother kept squeezing his hand, as if trapped in a little fantasy their discussion by the fire had created, convinced things would be different, but it was as if the squeezes he offered back were given by some phantom. Certainly not him, at least.

At last, the lantern-lit path came to stop at a ticket booth and the family proceeded up flights and flights of purple carpeted stairs until, just when Draco was sure his legs would give out and could only thank the many stairs at Hogwarts and secret tunnels he’d traversed throughout his years there that they hadn’t yet, they stepped inside the highest point of the stadium, into a box filled to the brim with noble witches and wizards alike.

And the Weasley’s.

All the redheads turned at the sound of his father’s name from the Minister’s lips, plus Hermione’s bushy head, Harry’s messy jetblack mop, and - was that Sirius? And Lupin?

Last Draco had seen Sirius Black in person; he'd been in rags, hair overgrown, features slim and gaunt, and eyes full of darkness. While he still looked quite hardened by his years in Azkaban there could be no doubt since his name was cleared he’d been living the good life; he looked as if he actually got sun now, for one, and his clothes were much more neat.

Lupin, however, looked shabbier than before. Surely the fact that he was a werewolf now being public knowledge - required, so that Sirius’ story would be clear - had taken its toll. Draco could only imagine, with great disdain, the prejudice he now faced trying to get a job.

Draco glanced up at his mother, briefly, wondering how she might feel being so close to her disowned cousin - thinking of his Aunt Andromeda - but she was clearly avoiding his gaze pointedly, instead fixing a smile at the Minister.

“Ah, Fudge,” Draco’s father greeted, and he managed to tear his eyes away from the pair of men to smile politely at the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” He shook hands with the Minister, and he bowed to his mother. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. - well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else - you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”

Draco bit his tongue, eyes flicking between his father and Ron’s tensely. The last time the two had been in the same room they’d gotten into quite the row at Flourish and Blotts’, ending in bruises and blood on both ends. Not to mention in between that Lucius had tried to get Arthur’s daughter killed and his entire family disgraced. Hardly a nice history.

Unsurprisingly, his father made the first move in insulting the Weasley family. “Good lord, Arthur,” he said, eyes sweeping the box. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Fudge clearly wasn’t listening, instead explaining, grinning obliviously, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.”

“How - how nice,” Draco did have to give Ron’s dad credit for his restraint, but when he noticed his dad’s eyes landing on Hermione, and his lip start to curl, he didn’t hold back.

“Let’s take a seat, Dad,” he said forcefully, trying to play the part of an excitable teen. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

His dad startled, blinking at him, then nodded, and the three of them took their seats behind Draco’s friends.

“What are Sirius and Lupin doing here?” Draco immediately asked in low tones, leaning forwards.

“Fudge gave him a free ticket plus a plus-one. He’s been handing him all sorts of gifts as a… you know… apology.” Harry explained, smirking slightly. Draco had no reason to wonder why; the idea of Fudge panicking over how to make up for twelve years in Azkaban was quite amusing.

He looked around the rest of the box, but there was nobody of note. They all looked like boring old geezers, save a little house-elf weeping off to the side, no doubt saving a seat for her master.

Draco suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and was forced to face forwards.

“Now don’t get any ideas, Draco,” his father drawled, a twinge of amusement in his voice, but not over a shared joke, “can’t have you freeing everyone’s house-eleves.”

Draco felt a surge of hate in his heart. Really? That was simply uncalled for -

Then he felt a soft hand on his, and turned to see his mother facing forwards, face impassive, and though it made him keep his mouth shut, reminding him they were in public, it only made his rage burn hotter.

The next moment Ludo Bagman, a Ministry man and old Quidditch player, and commentator for this game, apparently, bounded in, and without further ado, the Final had begun.

“Ladies and gentlemen...welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Draco tried to enjoy himself, he really did. He clapped when he was supposed to, cheered when it was necessary. He caught leprechaun gold when the mascots threw it along with his friends, tried to appear pleased by the veela even though their charms passed right over him, and when the teams flew out he booed the Irish and cheered for Krum.

But all the while he felt that same hollow feeling in his bones. He felt more focused on his father’s movements, his father’s face, than the monumental game playing out before him.

His left arm kept twitching, and was Draco imagining it, or could he feel the heat radiating from it? For minutes at a time Draco found himself staring, just staring, at the black sleeve of his father’s cloak, hating, more and more, the ugly symbol it hid, and all it meant.

A decision made before he was even born. Could he really blame his father for throwing his family's lives away before he even knew they existed? Yes, he could, because he was doing it now. Because it was still a decision, no matter what he may try to tell himself.

What had Dumbeldore said at the end of his second year? Something about choices… His father wasn’t making the choice to stay with Voldemort, he was making the choice to stay a blood purist.

“Draco did you see that?!” He startled. Harry was turned around in his seat, holding out his Omnioculars. Numbly, Draco took the pair and rewound to see what the crowd was losing their minds over.

Krum had pulled off a brilliant Wronski Feint, but Draco couldn’t find it in himself to feel excited. He gave Harry a convincing smile as he passed his Omnioculars forward, but once Harry had turned to face the field again he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms tight.

The rest of the game he couldn’t care less about what he was seeing. Bulgaria was stumbling, and Ireland’s score just kept climbing higher. Eventually he joined the crowd in rising to cheer on the pair of Seekers hurtling towards the Snitch, clapping numbly along as the others reacted in confusion to Krum catching the Snitch. He’d done a mercy play, Ireland wins, those Weasley twins get their bet. Could he go… back, now? The tent was hardly ‘home…’

Mercifully, the answer was yes. The Cup was brought into the Top Box along with Ireland, who rose it in victory, even their half-conscious Seeker, and then his father was summoning him.

“See you at school,” he said with a tight smile to his friends before turning without a second glance, shoulders hunched.

Somehow, the walk back was even lonelier than the walk to the field, but they kept going, and eventually the massive mansion of a tent loomed into view. Fondly, Draco allowed himself to bend down and scratch one of his father’s peacock’s behind the ear, before standing and stepping inside.

The elves had prepared dinner, but it was more of a feast, and there was no need to wonder why; all around the table men already sat, mugs full of frothing liquid that was most definitely not butterbeer.

“Lucius!” Ezra Goyle boomed, clearly already having had too much of what was in that cup. He tore off a piece of the turkey leg in his hand with his teeth and Draco sneered. These men… Drunk and greedy… What were they planning? “The boys are all ready. Are we doing this or not?”

Draco turned, looking up at his father, to see any trace of hesitation or uncomfortableness had been cleared from his face, and it had suddenly become masklike, smooth as stone.

“Of course. You all can go along, I’ll be ready in a moment.”

There was a great deal of clattering, scraping, and bellowing laughter of drunk men gone off to relive the glory days (because Draco had a good idea of what they were leaving to do). Some patted his dad on the shoulder as they passed, but all ignored Draco and his mother, like they weren’t there at all. Lucius’s similar numbness to his wife and son’s made it seem like the family were in a little bubble - a world of their own, entirely cut off from everyone else.

Or maybe the men were on the other side of that precipice, and Draco and Narcissa were the only things keeping Lucius from joining them any second.

“Dad?”

“Lucius?”

Both of them spoke at once, and so both of his father’s hands flinched as he lowered his head.

“What are you doing?” His mother pressed, clearly trying her hardest to keep her voice as gentle as possible.

“Draco, leave.” His fists had tightened, and that small movement was probably what made Draco step back involuntarily, and his next words be spoken in a raised voice.

“What?” He cried. “Dad, tell us what’s going on -”

“I said leave,” he repeated, more firmly this time, turning to look his son in the eye but still avoiding his wife’s. “Go to the forest. Hide. Your mother will come find you -”

“I’ll be doing no such thing!” His mother snapped, “Until you tell us what’s going on here -”

“Can’t you see?” He unexpectedly burst out, making both of them flinch at his anger. “He’s coming back! The Mark burning… It can only mean one thing. What do you think he’s going to see when he returns? A league of Death Eater’s who’ve moved on without him, built homes, built families -”

“Families they’re not even considering,” his mother cried. “Are you really condemning Draco to this life - this life of hell?”

“I’m not -”

“That’s what it is, Lucius, and that’s what you’re doing. Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand. I. Was. There. My sisters were a part of it. You were a part of it, and I saw what it did to you. You became an animal, enjoying the torture you dealt out. But when we had him,” she looked over at Draco, and he stumbled back, feeling like he was suddenly a part of an argument he didn’t belong in. But that didn’t mean he still didn’t feel warmed by the love in her gaze. “When we had our little dragon… That all melted away.”

“You say we’ve built a family,” she turned back to him, ice in her eyes, “and we have. But it’s not something to surrender to him. To hide. Lucius,” she stepped forwards, taking his hand, and his eyes went wide. Draco, for one fleeting, happy moment, believed he might even be listening. “Draco can run to the woods. I can run. But you can come with us. Please.”

But it was a fool’s hope. As soon as it was there, the life and love in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes was gone. His face was a mask again, and he dropped her hand, instead putting it into an inner robes pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he lied, and removed a smooth, porcelain, skull-like mask. His Death Eater mask, Draco realized, feeling his blood run cold at the sight of it.

“Lucius, don’t -”

He pushed her aside, placing the mask on his face like some possessed puppet, and stepping out into the darkness.

“Lucius! LUCIUS!”

His mother raced after him, and with an explosion of orange light just visible as a glow against the tent flap, Draco was left alone, stunned, scared, and - he was quite embarrassed to admit - sad.

He thought he’d be ready, prepared. He thought he understood where his father’s loyalties were in the end, but he could never have prepared himself for the different person he seemed to become. There was the father of his memories - the one who loved, the father obsessed with his self-image, the father from the future, and now this new one, and a new least favorite; his father the Death Eater.

He was terrifying. Nothing in his eyes, except for that brief moment, had shown the slightest hint of humanity all the while his mother had pleaded her heart out to him. There was only tunnel vision of a faithful servant to Lord Voldemort.

As he so often did, Draco recalled the memory of having the Dark Mark explained to him. Who his Daddy was during the First Wizarding War explained to him. Back then he’d called it an Unbreakable Vow to flex his newly learned words. Now it felt all too accurate. The way his father acted… He wanted to say you’d think he felt like he was going to be killed on sight when Voldemort returned, but that felt too close to reality. He’d met him before, afterall, as Tom Riddle. He didn’t seem the lenient type.

But enough worrying on the past; his father was gone, Draco had known that for quite some time - maybe even since that fateful summer when he’d overheard his plans to kill Ginny Weasley and maybe some Muggle-borns that got in the way. There was nothing left now but to run. That’s what his future father had said in the letter, hadn’t he?

His future father…

Did he, perhaps, feel remorse in 1996? Was that what this was all for? Giving him the letter, the prophecy, telling him to stop whatever was coming…

Did the father that had just run out into the frying pan know what was coming? Was he aware of the fire?

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, Draco decided for now, he better pull himself together. He ran for his bedroom, and in a flash had torn apart his trunk until he reached the letter and prophecy, tucked in his socks.

Escape home, and never come back.

That was written as if he only needed to run if he failed at the end of this year, but what if something had gone wrong - what if his father’s time traveling back had interfered with the future, and now June 1995 had become August 1994?

Thoughts of time travel were starting to make Draco’s head pound, but he reread the letter three more times either way. But no matter how many times, it was just as it had been all year; it offered him no hints, nor clues, simply told him to do something and expected him to. In the event of failure, he was meant to run.

What if he ran now?

Though he knew no window would allow him to see the outside world, Draco turned and looked to the walls of the tent anyway, beyond which he could just make out flashes of fire - hear the sounds of laughter and screams. He imagined that being his life; waking in a home filled with the sounds of madmen’s laughter. His father’s friends. That was no world he wanted to be a part of.

It was with this conviction that he stuffed the letter and prophecy back into the socks, threw them into the trunk, locked it shut, and ran - out of the room, out of the tent, into an explosion of green light.

Spells were flying everywhere, lighting up the night, and the laughter was booming all around him now. Draco didn’t dare give the cloaked figures at the source of the chaos more than a mere glance, scared of what he might see (what if his father was the one who’d just spun a little Muggle boy floating in the air around like a top?) and instead turned tail and ran, as fast and as hard as he could, for the woods.

Slamming into the trees Draco grabbed the nearest tree around the trunk and swung himself behind it, panting to catch his breath, and making the horrible mistake of looking.

There it was - terror incarnate. His father and his friends, the Death Eaters, were reliving their glory days, sure and true, by torturing innocent Muggles. It must’ve been the family that owned the campsite, Draco reasoned, as the man’s figure he faintly recognized, but otherwise they were just faceless victims. Far less so to their torturers.

There are moments when a sight is so horrid, so disgusting, that it is simply human nature to not look away. Draco couldn’t do it, his curiosity compelled him to keep looking, straight ahead, at the helpless family. Bile turned in his stomach and his blood ran cold yet still he stared, wanting more than ever to run, run, run, as far from here as he could, but finding all his muscles suddenly frozen.

He had to thank Merlin and the stars above for the voice that at last broke him out of his daze; a cry of pain, and a thud right next to him. Turning and retreating farther behind the tree he’d grabbed to hide, Draco carefully looked into the gloom for the source of the yelp and thud, and couldn’t say he was that shocked to see bright red ginger hair in the dark.

“What happened?” Hermione’s voice, “Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid - lumos!”

The path next to Draco’s tree lit up, on which Ron’s body clearly lay, sprawled across the ground.

“Tripped over a tree root,” he grumbled.

“Well, with feet that size, hard not to.” The three of them jumped out of their skins as Draco slowly stepped into the light, hands raised so the tensing Hermione didn’t zap him into next Christmas. “Relax… it’s just me.”

“Draco!” Harry breathed with relief, Hermione sighing and dropping her wand, “What’re you doing here?”

“I…” He looked over into the trees, where his trunk lay, tipped over, from where he dropped it. Realization came to each of them, awkwardly shifting and glancing back at the scene behind them, but they didn’t say anything. Draco was very grateful for that.

“We should move,” he said, nodding down the path and hurriedly picking up his trunk, “before they see her.”

A flash of green light erupted from the campsite with an enormous booming sound. “What do you mean?” Hermione asked, her voice wavering.

“They’re after Muggles, aren’t they? Trust me, they don’t care about the difference.”

Silent with that solemn statement on their minds, the friends made their way down the path. Draco wouldn’t admit it aloud, trying to keep a brave face in the presence of leaving his family behind, but having company in the darkness of the woods certainly helped. Otherwise he expected he’d feel like that scared eleven year old in the Forbidden Forest again, frightened by snapping twigs.

This was evidenced by the fact that his heart leapt into his throat at just the sounds of voices, before he calmed when they saw it was simply a group of teenagers in pajamas.

One of the group, a curly haired witch, turned and asked the four as they passed, “Ou est Madame Maxime?” speaking very quickly. “Nous l’avons perdue -”

“Er - what?” Ron sputtered, and Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“We are from Hogwarts,” he said to them in French, ignoring the way his friends turned to balk at his surprising new ability. “We have not seen this… Madame Maxime.”

“Oh…” She turned then, telling her friends, “’Ogwarts,” and leaving Draco to continue on, his friends now lagging behind.

“Where’d you learn to -”

“Lessons,” he said shortly, “When I was little. I have quite a few French relatives. Now can we keep moving, please?” He cast an anxious glance behind him, and was very pleased to see the glow of the campsite flames was nearly out of sight this far deep.

Seeing his anxiety to get as far away from his parents as possible, his friends didn’t pry, and so they trekked along in silence.

“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” Ron broke the silence to say, and Draco paused so that he could step ahead, holding out his wand to light up the path.

“Ah, no, I don’t believe it…” Draco, Ron, and Hermione turned to look at Harry standing with his jeans pockets inside out, curiously. “I’ve lost my wand!”

“You’re joking…” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes. There were times when it was cute for him to be daft, but this was really not one of those times.

“You’re kidding!” Thankfully Ron agreed with him.

They looked around a little, using their wand beams to light up the grass, but there was no stick of holly wood to be found.

“Maybe it’s back in the tent,” said Ron.

“Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?” said Hermione.

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Well it’ll do Harry no good standing around,” Draco said, gesturing with his trunk back down the path, “You three can go on and get his wand, I’ll continue on.”

“No, no,” Harry shook his head, “it’s fine. It’s too dangerous back there.”

As if to emphasize his point, a sudden great scream rang through the trees.

“Let’s get moving, then,” Draco muttered darkly, and so they continued.

He turned, and stopped in his tracks. A very bizarre sight stood before him; The house-elf from the top box whom his father had made fun of him over seemed to be physically fighting with something in the clump of bushes directly in front of the four of them, except whatever the something was was either a figment of her imagination or invisible. It looked as though she was being grabbed and dragged, certainly, but not by anything they could see.

“There is bad wizards about!” She squeaked, and it was clear she seemed to be speaking to something, or someone else; she didn’t even seem to notice the kids. “People high - high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!”

With that she hobbled into the trees, still looking to be pulled and dragged all of the way.

“What’s up with her? Why can’t she run properly?” asked Ron.

“Probably didn’t get permission from her master. Why does it matter?” He turned and gave Ron something of an accusatory stare, then realized how his anger was misplaced and waved a hand. “Sorry I’m just… Can we pick up the pace a little?” He demonstrated a more hurried stride and the others followed. “Thank you,” he sighed.

“You know,” Hermione said as they walked, as if to make side-conversation, though her tone was very passionate. “house-elves get a very raw deal! It’s slavery, that’s what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her bewitched so she can’t even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something about it?”

“Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron pointed out. “You heard old Winky back at the match… ‘House-elves is not supposed to have fun’... that’s what she likes, being bossed around....”

“Not necessarily,” Draco shook his head, casting Ron a warning look to try and mutely tell him he was only digging a bigger grave for himself. “It’s brainwashing, when you think about it; centuries of wizards have convinced elves this is all they’re good for. Did you know that their power is probably double that of wizards? We harp on Muggles fearing us, but we really fear -”

“Please,” said Ron, throwing his head back to show his boredom, “don’t go all ‘know-it-all-Draco,’ on us, Hermione’s enough.”

A bang echoed through the trees.

“I mean,” Ron choked, coughing in his hand, and hurrying up beside Hermione. Draco didn’t miss the almost protective way he kept looking around into the trees, “It’s great when you do it Hermione, but on you Draco it just looks sad.”

He’d take the clear insult if it meant he got to bear witness to the disaster that was Ron’s painfully obvious crush on Miss Granger Danger. It at least brought a small smile to his face on a night that had been bringing anything but.

They walked, and walked, and found no signs of Ron’s siblings. It got to a point, after they’d passed Stan Shunpike, the conductor for the Knight Bus, that Draco wondered where he was even planning to go, debating striding right up to Stan and asking for a ticket onto the bus then and there. But after that… where? He supposed wherever Sirius was staying was probably open if he only asked, otherwise he might be able to go to Gringotts, take some money from his private vault, and rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron.

But as Draco started to think more and more on his gameplan, he found more and more that his grip on his trunk was slackening, as was his resolve. The idea of leaving the Manor, his family, his home, his history… It was starting to feel more like an impulsive decision than a reality he was prepared for.

These thoughts carried Draco all the way into the darkest part of the woods yet. The campsite was a mere memory, the world here quiet, dark, and still.

“I reckon we can just wait here, you know. We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off,” Harry suggested, but Draco was already dropping his trunk against a rock and sitting down on said rock, exhausted from all the walking and hauling his luggage with him. He had only just leaned back to stretch when he was startled up right by the sound of shuffling bushes. Ludo Bagman, who Draco only recognized from parties and that he’d commentated on the match, had just emerged into the clearing.

“Who’s that?” He squinted at their faces in the dark. “What are you doing in here, all alone?”

The four of them exchanged looks, Draco rolling his eyes, exasperated.

“Well - there’s a sort of riot going on,” said Ron.

Bagman stared at him, and Draco was actually surprised to see he looked confused.

“What?”

“At the campsite...some people have got hold of a family of Muggles....”

“Fuck,” he swore, running a hand through his hair, and now the kids exchanged confused looks again. They’d expected he was just being daft, which suited him, but this… certainly didn’t. “Damn them!”

More shocking, he Disapparated with a pop! leaving the kids to stare at the spot he’d last been, stunned.

“Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?” Hermione frowned.

“That’s one word for it,” Draco drawled, nudging them forwards so they could continue down the path.

But the riot was dead silent now. Maybe it was even over, and Draco’s legs were sore from the walking and his arm was exhausted from carrying his trunk, so when they emerged into a clearing he didn’t object to sitting down on a circle of rocks to rest.

“I hope the others are okay,” Hermione whispered after a time, fiddling with her skirt.

“They’ll be fine,” said Ron, giving her a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Draco tried to roll his, but they landed on Harry, who was staring at him already, and his heart skipped a beat.

“What is it?”

Harry blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t realized he’d even been staring, which confused Draco, briefly, but he shrugged it off.

“I was just thinking… is your dad out there?”

Oh, of course.

Draco scowled, staring down at his hands, and noticing for the first time he’d been bouncing his foot throughout the few minutes they’d sat there. Now he steadied it with a deep sigh.

“I… I’m sorry but…” he looked up, giving his friends a crooked smile. “I’m not likely going to tell you, am I?”

“S’pose not,” Ron shrugged, leaning back on his hands.

“But - Ron, what would your dad do if he caught him?” Hermione asked, looked concerned.

“Probably Flourish & Blotts round two,” said Ron.

“Sirius is out there too. I bet he’d give him a run for his -”

“Could you three shut it about my dad?” Draco barked, and they immediately did, turning to look at him, scared, but it was that fear that really got him going.

“So that’s what this is about?” He leapt to his feet, glaring, “you think I’m gonna snap and lift Hermione upside down too!”

“Well - no -” Ron said unconvincingly, shifting away from Hermione, whom he’d moved closer to protectively. “Not exactly…”

Draco scoffed, shaking his head. “I thought you guys - you guys are supposed to be different! You’re my friends. If you can’t see that I’m not him, that I’m different -”

He cut himself off, because he couldn’t admit the fear no one would see him as anyone but his father. And the definition of who his father is has been changing so much lately, from past to present, to future… Draco didn’t even know anymore.

“Well, you were acting really weird at the match!” Ron exclaimed. “The Quidditch Final! And you looked like you couldn’t care less!”

“Well, maybe I couldn't,” he said, but his lie was feeble at best.

“And the way you practically ran from your tent to go with us -” Hermione started, but Draco cut her off with a yell.

“Maybe that’s because I’ve been avoiding him! Because I’M NOT LIKE HIM!”

He was quite sure a couple birds had fled the trees and squirrels had skittered through the grass past his feet at these words, but his friends didn’t flinch, instead staring up at him in the rapt attention that came with being scared. Of him.

He couldn’t take it. Scoffing, he stomped through the trees out of the clearing but not back onto the path, instead pushing through branches and bushes, driven by his anger. At his father. At the stupid hair he now saw everywhere he looked in his peripherals, and now found far too long. At his friends, betraying him. At Harry, and how he couldn’t bear the look in his eyes.

“Draco!”

And yet he stopped at the sound of his voice, almost against his will, because at the end of the day it still made his heart leap to his throat.

“You don’t understand.” The crunching leaves following Harry’s footsteps stopped, and Draco turned around, looking into his eyes, frozen under the moonlight, and trying to convey in him through his eyes that he was just tired, nothing else, because there was no world where he could understand everything that was really happening to him. The prophecy, whatever it was, the letter, his future father…

“Then help me to,” but Harry would always try, wouldn’t he? And he did, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

Draco hesitated. For a moment, he thought of the twin stags, galloping through the trees. It was a recurring dream he’d had all summer, it seemed, always the same; he was a peacock, chasing a stag, then he became its partner, and they circled each other.

Now they stood still, shadowed in the trees from everything but dim spots of moonlight, and Harry was holding his hand out towards him, and Draco wanted to take it, he wanted to the pain in his heart was almost overpowering but -

“Harry -”

“MORSMORDRE!”

Then they were suddenly, without warning outside of that voice shouting a spell from the shadows, engulfed in green, glittering light. For a moment, Draco thought there were Dementors, because his mind was still full of patronuses and he knew all too well that when they got too close, Dementors made him see his worst nightmare; the Chamber of Secrets.

But there was nothing gloomy about the green light shining above them, as if a part of the stars. It was bright, glittering, like a spotlight. And at first glance, it was even beautiful.

But only for a moment.

As soon as that moment the world was lit with a green to match Harry’s eyes was over Draco raised his head, and let out a howl of horror - a raw, animalistic thing that seemed to claw out his mouth to roar. He fell backwards onto the grass, onto his back, staring in fixed terror at the Dark Mark.

He’d seen it before, but only in fleeting moments when his father’s sleeve shifted, or he had just taken a shower or bath, wrapped in a bath towel or loose robe. They were few and far between, and always glimpses, except for the time, when he was still quite a small boy, when he’d had what the Mark meant explained to him.

But a tattoo of deepest black ink was nothing in comparison to the horrible thing above him. Emerald little lights glittered like stars, forming a green skull from which a greener snake slithering out its mouth. Death has arrived, come to eat its prey.

The world around him was screaming too. From dead silence to chaos the forest was suddenly filled with a symphony of terror, and Harry stood over Draco, looking up at the symbol of Voldemort, his scar shimmering green under its light, oblivious to what it all meant.

“Draco…?”

He gasped but couldn’t form words as he rolled over, one hand over his eyes, the other grasping for his trunk, and stumbled back to his feet. He only shook, mouth forming orders for Harry to flee, to run, to hide, but no sound coming out but the occasional strangled scream.

“Draco!” He caught him by his arm, lowering it from his eyes, so that Draco only saw him, perfect Harry, worried and not even a little scared. “What is it?”

But he should be scared. The Mark was there, reflected in his eyes, because he was returning, and there was nothing Draco could do about it.

With one last scream he turned tail and ran, pushing Harry off of him, and broke through thickets of trees back onto the path. He found a crowd here, of people who’d foolishly thought they’d be safe, now screaming and sobbing, running for their lives even though they all knew it was fruitless.

It was right there, above them whoever they ran, like the moon, or stars, or a constellation. Like the Lord himself was gazing upon them, choosing his next victim.

Draco realized, once they’d broken out of the forest into the campsite, and everything turned an ugly mix of green and orange lights, that the crowd was made of families. Witches and wizards carrying witch and wizard children to Portkey’s at the edge of the campsite, while cracks and pops filled the air as adults apparated at will.

Draco thought for a moment about his parents. Would they leave without him?

No, he told himself firmly, you’re leaving.

With that he kept running towards the edge of the campsite, riding along with the wave, but he was a Seeker. He was thin and fourteen, where these were fully grown adults - parents, who only had the lives of their children on their minds. As a result, he was too quickly jostled by the crowd, pulled under. Suddenly, the crowd surge was pushing in on him and he couldn’t even breath, not aided at all by the fact that his breaths were already thin from the amount of running he’d done.

Then he felt his hands slip on his trunk handle.

“No!”

He didn’t think, except of the prophecy, falling to his knees to grab it and instantly getting every part of him trampled by the crowd. He howled, but it was no use, no one would be able to hear him over the identical sounds of anguish surrounding him. And if they did, they wouldn’t care. Instead they all trampled over him, and for a fleeting moment, after he could feel his trunk’s handle securely held in his hand, he thought of his parents, and his promise to not go far.

I’m sorry, he thought to his mother, but couldn’t bring himself to feel for his father at all, only picturing the porcelain white skull mask of another faceless Voldemort slave.

Then everything went dark.

-*-*-*-

“...could have gotten hurt…”

“...don’t understand…”

“Lucius, he’s our son!”

“It could be his life if I don’t do this.”

“What kind of a life would it be, then? Lucius, you don’t know how it felt the first time, you can’t. It was terrifying. I didn’t know if you were dead, if you were caught - and Lucius by Merlin I didn’t know if when you were hurt it was from an Auror or - or from him.”

Draco blinked, though it was a slow, groggy movement as his eyelids felt heavy as rocks. The sounds around him were coming to him as if from underwater, and so he groaned and rolled his head back to make sense of it all. His mother and father… Those were the voices. And that patterned canopy bed, the soft covers, this was his bedroom. They were far from the campsite, from the Dark Mark, from all of it. They were safe -

So why did it feel wrong, then?

That’s when he remembered; he’d been running. As far from his family as he could get. But he clearly hadn’t gotten very far. Instead he’d been a little child, trapped in a world wider than he could ever have imagined, and he’d gotten hurt almost immediately.

If he was so helpless then, how was he possibly going to prevent Voldemort’s return?

With another groan he sat up this time, rubbing his eyes, and his parents ceased their arguing at once, so that when he lowered his hands and got his first good look around him at his familiar bedroom, they were both turned towards him at the doorway.

“Draco!” His mother sighed, face breaking into a relieved smile as she rushed forward to hold him gently, though even that caused him to wince from the pressure on his throat.

“Ma -” He tried to speak but all that came out was a raspy sort of gasp that caused him great pain as he instantly pushed his mother off to lie back down, placing a hand on his throat, wincing. His father now stepped forward too, and even without the mask he still looked like the faceless man Draco had seen swarming through his dreams and nightmares.

“Don’t try to speak, Draco, it’ll only make it worse. You were in a crowd surge, and you fell. The nurse said you have asphyxia, but you should be healed in a matter of days.”

Draco frowned. He wanted to scream, punch, and kick, but instead he’d awoken more trapped than he could imagine in this house, being bedridden and helpless. Oh what would his friends say if they saw him now…

“Don’t worry, darling,” his mother cooed, having sat down on the side of his bed and begun running a hand through his hair, “your father has it all sorted with the Minister. We’ll be getting tickets to the next World Cup to make up for this catastrophe.”

Draco blinked. But… hadn’t his father been the one to cause such a catastrophe? He knew that, why were they pretending - Oh.

It clicked, and with it so did a sour, acidic taste falling onto his tongue. They had lied to Fudge, and they were even lying to him, because they’d settled back into the perfect little Malfoy family bubble as easy as breathing, like nothing had happened. Like his father hadn’t openly told them he cared more for loyalty to Voldemort than his family. Like it hadn’t been clear by the trunk in Draco hand - which he now saw was safely set beside his bed, still locked - that he’d been running. From them.

But something within him, some instinct, or voice, told him to play along. He was trapped within the Manor now, against the wishes of his letter, so why not use the proximity to Death Eater ranks to his advantage?

“He better have compensated us,” He wheezed out instead, coughing harshly in his fist before finishing, with a sick smirk, “look at what lax security causes? Could’ve had Muggle blood on his hands.”

While his father seemed pleased, his mother’s smile quavered, and she shot a glance at her husband. Her worry that her little son was falling back into the dark place his father desired of him was almost enough for Draco to snap out of it, to hug her, and reassure her he’d never go far. But he didn’t. Instead he nodded along when she hurriedly told him to rest and not use his voice anymore, and waved a hand to beckon a house-elf who’d been busying herself cleaning the floors forwards to request a cup of tea with honey. With that, and a final glare at her husband, his mother left, leaving the men alone.

“Rest well, Draco,” his father nodded to him, and started to leave.

“Dad?”

He paused at the doorway and turned again, hands poised on his cane. It occurred to Draco they were still in their clothes from yesterday, though it was well into the morning. His father looked exhausted, and for the first time it occurred to Draco that he must have rushed, and risked his own discovery by the Ministry, to get his son to safety. And the way he looked at him… It almost looked as if he cared.

“You told me -” He coughed again - by Merlin it hurt to talk - and he swore he saw his father’s hand flinch at his side before dropping again, as if he had been about to comfort him. “You told me once that becoming a Death Eater is a choice, but after you do, you’ll never get a choice again. You work for Him. So I’m asking you,” he straightened up in his bed so he could look his father straight in the eye, eyes they shared to a tee, “if you could go back, would you do it again?”

Perhaps he was looking for some justification, some defense, some something that could point to his dad being one and the same with the one from the future. And for a moment, he saw it, in the flash of pure humanity in his father’s eyes.

Then the mask slid over his face once more, and he smiled tightly.

“Get some rest, son.”

The door shut silently, and Draco lay back down, frowning up at the canopy of his bed. He hadn’t answered, and Draco really hadn’t expected he would, but he needed to know. Would he become a Death Eater again, if given the choice? Was it truly the acts of a foolish kid fresh out of Hogwarts? That’s what he’d told himself for years, really, even during second year, when all evidence pointed to his father being pure evil.

But in the end that flash of humanity had been there, and it hadn’t been the first time he’d seen it. Just as Perfect Cissy was his Mom, Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater was still Dad.

He has to be, Draco thought as he closed his eyes, picturing the shell of his father who’d spoken to him two months ago, giving him nothing but vague hints and clues as to what he was to do to stop some uncertain doom, or else what is this all for?

Chapter Text

Thursday, September 1st, 1994

Draco frowned at the bustling atmosphere of King’s Cross Station moving all around him, shivering in his robes, which had been soaked in the mere moments he and his parents had spent under the rain after apparating into the Leaky Cauldron and walking here. Of course his return to Hogwarts had to be met with a downpour, because he couldn’t be greeted with a good omen for a change, now, could he?

He coughed as they hurried towards the barrier, his father driving a path through Muggles as usual, and his mother turned to hand him a handkerchief. He really didn’t need it, his throat was sore but crowd surges didn’t give you colds, nor did a few minutes in the rain, but he accepted it anyway with a tight smile. He’d learned in the last couple of weeks of summer at the Manor that it was best to smile and nod sometimes.

They slipped behind a crowd and stepped through the barrier together, into the much more comfortable world of wizards and witches running around with their luggage and pets. Draco ducked a barn owl flying over his head, turning and smiling fondly at the little firstie chasing after it. How did they get so much smaller every year?

“Draco!”

He turned and beamed at the sound of Hermione’s voice, waving wildly from the train. She was standing with the Weasley family and Harry, who were all waving to Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, and Lupin.

She turned and tapped Ron and Harry’s shoulders, and Ron nodded with a smile while Harry positively lit up, swinging himself off the train and bounding forwards.

“Harry!” The others called after him and Draco chuckled as he skidded to a halt.

“What are you doing, Scarhead?” he drawled, folding his arms.

“Saying ‘hi’,” Harry shrugged, and for a moment, he stared at Draco, then when the moment got maybe a bit too long he turned and nodded to his parents. “Hi,” he said. Draco snorted.

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” his father said dryly, nodding to him, then turning to his son. “Draco, may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Draco and Harry chorused, and the two of them glanced at each other, and Harry awkwardly smiled, backing away. “So that’s er -” he pointed between Draco’s mom and Sirius. “That’s your cousin.”

As the two fell into stilted small talk Draco and his father stepped aside, Lucius clasping a tight hand around his son. With a quick glance at the crowd around him he bent slightly, so that he could regard him seriously.

“Remember what I said about the Triwizard Tournament,” he said lowly, “it would bring great -”

“Honor to the family name, I know, Dad…” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes, then remembering his act and instead holding his father’s gaze, smirking. “If nothing else I can get a leg up on Harry, right?”

But his father didn’t seem amused. “This will be a big year for you, I trust you not to let the family name down. No matter what classes…” he looked to the side, his upper lip curling for a moment, “you choose.”

Draco frowned, and with a great deal of effort forced out an admittedly weak, “I won’t, Father,” despising every second of it. So what if he liked Divination, and Muggle Studies… So what if he was never going to enter the Triwizard… That just meant he wasn’t going to die like an idiot for honor, or his family’s name. Could his father really say the same?

“Goodbye, Draco,” his father squeezed his shoulder lightly, then nudged him forwards. Draco quickly hurried back to give his mother a hug and kiss on the cheek, then stepped up to Harry.

“Thank God,” he sighed, “I was about to ask your mom where she bought her robes!”

Draco laughed goodnaturedly, though felt a part of him still lay behind. He quickly said ‘hello’ to Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, and Lupin, and climbed onto the train beside Ron and Hermione and the other Weasley’s, but as soon as he’d pulled his trunk and owl cage with him he looked back out at the crowd.

Almost instantly he found the blonde heads of his parents, raising hands to wave goodbye to him. For the first time all summer, they didn’t look like the perfect couple from the magazines. They looked as exhausted as they had the morning after the riot, maybe even worse, and stood at least a foot from each other. As Draco waved back, he didn’t smile. He couldn’t make this fake. This was real and raw.

“Goodbye,” he mouthed, and felt the chasm between them shatter into a distance that felt like the distance between Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor itself.

With that he turned away from them, and stepped inside the train.

“Whoo,” Ron shook his head like a dog, tiny water droplets flying at his friends, who all flinched. “Thought she’d never say goodbye. Let’s find a compartment.”

The four of them broke away from his siblings to the nearest empty compartment, and they slipped inside. Immediately Ron opened his trunk and pulled out a set of - dress… robes?

“Ron…” Draco said slowly, lowering his trunk onto the luggage rack and sitting down carefully across from the monstrosity of clothing now draped over Ron’s new owl’s cage. “What are those?”

“Huh?” Ron looked from the dress robes to Draco and rolled his eyes, flopping down beside Harry. “Oh, those… Mum says they’re ‘dress robes.’ ’Spect they’re for the Triwizard. Thanks for the tip for that by the way, Malfoy, Gin doesn’t know a thing!”

Draco winced a smile, though he was still focused on the travesty that was Ron’s clothes. He felt a sudden sink of pity, considering his was very poor, but suddenly felt eyes on him and turned to meet a familiar pair of emeralds.

“What?”

“I just asked what you know about the other two schools.”

“Oh! Right…” Draco straightened, turning to face his friends and assuming his I-Am-Draco-And-I-Know-The-Most-In-This-Group demeanor. “Well it’s called the Triwizard for a reason. There are three schools, the biggest in Britain; Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. Now I don’t know much about Beauxbatons, but we all met a couple in the woods. Their Headmistress must be that ‘Maxime’ they talked about. I think I’ve heard about her… She’s well… She’s suspected to be a half-giant. Big gossip point at parties when she became Headmistress.

“Now Durmstrang I do know. I was almost sent there, actually. My father wanted me to go to a school more accepting of the Dark Arts, if that tells you what they’re like, but my mother didn’t want me far away. It’s far North, Durmstrang. In the end I got to choose.”

“Why?”

“What?” He turned to frown at Hermione, who was watching him curiously.

“Why did you choose Hogwarts? No offense Draco but, well, before we were friends you were a bit of a…”

“Prat.” Ron finished with a good natured smile.

“You can say it,” Draco said, just as casually, “I know. I suppose I just liked it here. Whenever I came here for business trips with my dad, I always felt at peace. At home. I remember once I even got to go up to the Astronomy Tower. I fell in love with it on sight. It’s very peaceful really…”

He trailed off, glancing out the window listlessly, thinking of simpler times when he was just a young boy, making a decision he didn’t realize then would define his future.

“Regardless,” he said after a time, turning back to his friends, “Durmstrang’s got a bad reputation, but they can’t all be bad. I think this’ll all be fun.”

“Are you considering entering?” Harry asked, leaning forwards curiously, and Draco immediately shook his head, scoffing.

“Merlin, no. I may be a Gryffindor but I do try not to be senselessly courageous at times. I mean really, there’s nothing courageous about signing your own death warrant.”

Ron looked deflated, mumbling about how ‘it would feel good though’ and Harry frowned. “‘Death warrant?’”

“Why do you think it got discontinued?” he said.

“People have died, Harry,” said Hermione in the usual over-dramatic voice of hers. “It’s not exactly like, well… what you’re used to.”

He looked taken aback. “What do you mean what I’m used to?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco began tacking off on his fingers, “trapdoor leading straight to You-Know-Who, Chamber of Secrets leading straight to You-Know-Who, how about all those Dementors last year?”

“Yeah well, all those times you were all with me,” Harry said, cheeks turning pink. “I was just sort of making it up as I went along…”

“Exactly,” said Hermione smartly. “But the Triwizard’s not like that. It’s supposed to really test your skills, not just luck.”

Draco personally thought Harry was very skillful and not reliant on luck in all of those occasions, but felt that was treading too close to ‘crush’ territory to say. Instead he removed from his trunk a copy of Unfogging the Future and stared at the pages on prophecies he’d already read a hundred times over, not really reading, instead picturing Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face.

Within ten minutes, there was a knock on the glass and he looked up to still be seeing that face. He blinked, realizing that yes, in fact, this one was real.

“Hullo,” Justin said, waving with a smile and awkwardly stepping in. Draco beamed, snapping his book shut and trying to recline in his best-looking position.

“Hello, Justin,” he said smoothly, then cursed in his mind at how corny that sounded and how he looked, hoping no one noticed (They did. Ron, Hermione, Macmillan, and Abbott were all beside themselves with laughter, though Harry only had a thin smile on. Weird).

“Hi,” Justin repeated, and for a moment the two of them simply stared at each other. Draco didn’t know how long the moment lasted before Ron coughed and Draco weakly asked, “So… good summer?”

Justin shrugged. “S’alright. But the World Cup sounded fun!”

“‘Sounded?’” Harry asked behind him.

“Justin and I’ve been penning over the summer,” Draco said, not looking away from him. Had he gotten more freckles in the summer sun? They made him look oh so cute…

“So, you know what’s happening at Hogwarts this year?” He asked, sitting up and wiggling his eyebrows, taunting him with his forbidden knowledge.

“No…” Justin said cautiously, though there was a bit of a mischievous smile to his frown. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you’re scared of a little danger,” Draco drawled, standing up slowly and relishing in how he’d grown to be a good foot taller than the Hufflepuff over the summer. “Are you?”

“Of course not,” Justin scoffed, a blush to his cheeks now with Draco standing; he’d clearly noticed the height difference as well.

“Pity I’m allowed back in Hogsmeade, though,” He said, sighing as he tucked his hands into his pocket and turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Would’ve been nice to sneak in for our first date.”

“Right -” Justin chuckled then stopped abruptly, face bright red. Ron snorted, Hermione hummed, Macmillan pumped a fist in the air and Abbott sighed, already digging in her pockets for payment for a bet, clearly. Harry said nothing.

“First Hogsmeade weekend, Three Broomsticks,” Draco said, winking at him as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leading him to the door. “See you there.”

“It’s a date,” Justin beamed, and stood on tiptoe to peck Draco’s cheek. Draco felt a thrill of embarrassment of his own at the initiation by him, but when he blinked the trio of Hufflepuff’s were gone.

Instantly Ron applauded.

“Congrats, mate!” He said, holding up his hand for a high five, “you’re the first of us with a date!”

“Not so hard,” Draco shrugged, flopping back down in his seat. “Like I said, we were penning all summer. About time someone got it over with.”

He, maybe just to prove something to himself, pointedly avoided looking at Harry for the rest of the train ride, instead burying himself in his book, and the journal he’d started in second year and forgotten about last year, but had been filling with theories on the prophecy the past summer. His writing was quite disjointed, but then again so were his thoughts on the matter. The most he could put together was how prophecies were made, and were supposedly stored in the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Mysteries. However, this was only a guess, as no other department made sense. Unfortunately by nature the Department was mystery; the people who worked there were even called Unspeakables, and therefore had taken oaths to never reveal their work in the Ministry’s depths.

It could be a prime hive for Death Eater’s, where this prophecy had been stolen from his future father, for all Draco knew. It was a theory he found worth writing down, though.

As the rain pounded on, their compartment was busy with visitors. First Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom, who settled in to discuss the Cup with Ron and Harry, then the trolley witch, from which Harry bought a stack of Cauldron Cakes to share. By this point Hermione had broken in their new Standard Book of Spells and was attempting Summoning Charms on the cakes.

But for the most part the journey was silent, and eventually the train rolled to a stop as the teens finished clasping their robe collars. Heads bent against the downpour of rain, the group trudged through the crowd.

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry called out to their gargantuan friend, who as usual towered over the first years he called towards him.

“All righ,’ Harry?” Hagrid turned and called back, face only visible by the light of the lantern swinging in his hand. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”

Draco frowned out at the lake, shivering at the prospect of having to be a firstie, fearing for your life in the rain and a little rickety boat. Great first experience of Hogwarts, huh?

“Oooh,” Hermione shivering beside him, seemingly on the same wavelength. “I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather.”

Slowly, they inched forwards along the dark platform until they came to the horseless carriages that always stood waiting to take second years and up to the castle. Draco, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Longbottom climbed into one as Finnigan and Thomas broke off for Patil and Brown, and Draco paused for a moment to look out into the rain for signs of his other Slytherin friends.

“C’mon, Draco, you’re letting all the rain in,” Ron grumbled, and, frowning, Draco shut the door.

“I’m sure they just found their own carriage,” Hermione reassured him, and he shrugged.

“Yeah, I’m not worried, I just…” He trailed off, looking out into the window at the dark expanse of rainy night. What was he, exactly? A part of him didn’t want to see his friends, really, he supposed he’d just been hoping to catch a glance to reassure himself that a part of that life on the other side of the chasm, the life of purebloods and parties and friends he made from toddler age, still existed.

He leaned against the glass moodily as the carriages rolled up the cobblestone path to the castle, feeling he wanted the night to be over so he could get a good night’s rest and have a clear head to focus on nothing but school in the morning.

A bright flash of lightning startled him out of his revere, lighting up the front oak doors to the castle; they were here.

Hurriedly, the group of five dashed up the steps into the safety of the warm, torch-lit Entrance Hall, and they all instantly wrang out their cloaks and shook water from their hair, Draco bending down to remove his boots and empty them of water.

“Blimey,” Ron panted, “if that keeps up, the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak - ARGH!”

Draco jumped to the side instinctively, ramming into Longbottom, as Ron staggered sideways into Harry. A large water balloon had just fallen from the ceiling straight unto his red head, and exploded, freshly showering him in water.

Soon, the whole entrance hall was full of people staggering around and slipping as they were plummeted with water balloons. Draco, ducking behind Longbottom for cover, looked up and narrowed his eyes upon Peeves the Poltergeist, cackling madly down at them.

“PEEVES!” Draco looked around, seeing Professor McGongall, his Head of House, in a rare state of anger, dashing out of the Great Hall. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!”

She slid across the wet floor, arms flailing wildly, one wrapping around Hermione’s neck to steady herself.

“Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -”

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped.

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” McGonagall straightened and called up to Peeves, glaring with a force that would make most firsties fear for their lives.

“Not doing nothing!” Peeves cackled, still lobbing water bombs at the crowd. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!”

“I shall call the Headmaster! I’m warning you, Peeves-”

Peeves turned and glared down at her, stuck out his tongue, and threw up his last balloon. Draco stepped backwards and let it shatter over Longbottom’s head, who instantly looked depressed.

“Always me…” he grumbled, as McGonagall ushered them all forwards into the Great Hall.

They waved off Harry, who crossed to the Slytherin table and sat with the other fourth years, before turning to sit with the Gryffindors, specifically beside the House ghost, Nearly Headless Nick.

“Good evening,” he said, and Ron grumbled a grumpy response, Longbottom crossing his arms over the table and dropping his head on them.

Draco and Hermione, for their part, tried their best to look away from them and focus on the Sorting, so as not to have their mood also bogged down (more than Draco’s already was, that is).

They were turned back around, however, by a familiar whisper.

“Psst!” Looking around, they spotted, completely passable with how small he was, the third year Colin Creevey, waving at them excitedly.

“Hello, Colin,” Draco said, his voice a dry mumble, though the little boy did bring a smile to his face. He’d grown to like Colin over the years.

“Guess what, guys? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!”

Draco blinked. Yes, he liked Colin, but the image of having a second, even smaller Creevey running around was a bit much.

“That’s… great, Colin. Really great,” he gave him a thumbs up as Hermione beamed encouragingly beside him.

“He’s really excited!” Colin exclaimed, looking as if he was the one about to be Sorted. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Though it would be cool if he was in Slytherin, like Harry! Right, Draco?”

“Sure…” Draco drawled, turning away with an eye roll. Colin had always had an excessive obsession with Harry. Draco obviously could not relate.

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Hermione suddenly, and Draco turned to look up at the staff table, frowning at the empty chair beside the otherwise unbothered looking Professor Dumbledore, who was staring up at the enchanted ceiling, now depicting the stormy gray of the rain outside, thoughtfully. They were all used to seeing a new face each year there by now, but unless their DADA teacher this year was invisible, Dumbledore seemed to have failed to get one.

Hermione said as much, and Draco, for a moment, considered suggesting it was at last given to Severus but no, there was no new face to replace him as Potions Master either.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron grumbled, “I could eat a Hippogriff.”

Immediately following those words the doors to the Great Hall swung open and Professor McGonagall strode in, leading a pack of sopping wet first years. All looked scared and cold, save for a boy who was distinctly Colin’s brother, with the same mousey hair and jubilant smile, or stood out absurdly from the rest in Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat.

Draco blinked. Why on earth -

Then he turned to his brother and, all the while grinning, mouthed, “I fell in the lake!”

Draco now joined Ron and Neville in dropping his head to the table. Such was his exhaustion he paid the Sorting Hat no mind when it sang its usual tale of the Founders’ friendship and different views and how they formed the Houses and blah… blah… blah… You know, Ron was right, where was the food?

He was startled alert only when the Great Hall applauded around him, and joined in belatedly, tiredly turned his attention to Dumbledore, now standing before him all with his arms splayed.

“I have only two words to say to you,” he declared. “Tuck in.”

“Hear, hear!” Draco and Ron chorused, immediately diving to fill their plates with their favorites. As Draco had his fill of turkey and baked potatoes, Ron and Hermione delved into a discussion on Peeves’ abhorrent behavior with Nick. Draco felt it hadn’t been any worse than the usual, but apparently it had at least been provoked in the eyes of the Poltergeist; a protest to not being allowed into the Sorting Ceremony.

Draco still didn’t find much of it worth note, which is why he startled at Hermione’s sudden rise in temper, pausing in taking a swig of pumpkin juice. She’d just knocked over her own goblet, eyes wide on Nick, manically.

“There are house-elves here?” she exclaimed, “Here at Hogwarts?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Yes, Dobby had thoroughly convinced and shown him how unjust house-elf treatment was, but for her to not notice… how did she expect all this food was made? How did Muggles do it? Themselves?

“Certainly,” Nearly Headless Nick said, looking rightly surprised. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”

“I’ve never seen one!”

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they? They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning... see to the fires and so on... I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?”

Draco winced. That was most certainly not the right thing to say to Hermione Granger. Pale and horrified, she gawped at the even paler ghost.

“But they get paid?” she squeaked. “They get holidays, don’t they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?”

Draco now pushed aside his plate, feeling quite uncomfortable, as Nick laughed hard enough to knock his head off his shoulders, Hermione turning very pink. Even Ron was looking up cautiously now, clearly bothered by Nick’s reaction.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he chortled, “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!”

Draco winced, leaning back and trying to look anywhere but at Hermione, appetite entirely gone now.

“Oh, c’mon, ‘Er-my-knee,” said Ron through a mouthful of food as Hermione too pushed away her food. He swallowed, yelling, “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!”

“Slave labor,” Hermione breathed, “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.”

The table was quiet save for the sound of the downpour outside, the occasional clap of thunder or crackle of lightning, and attempts from Ron to get his friends to indulge in dessert.

It was useless, though, Draco had turned his attention to Dumbledore, watching him patiently for the moment he’d stand to give the opening speech. Only once the plates had been cleared to crumbs did he stand however, calling the Great Hall to immediate silence by his mere presence.

“So!” He declared, “Now that we are all fed and watered,” Hermione gave a loud harumph. “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it. As ever, I would like to remind you all that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-house Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

All at once, those not privy to the fact that the Triwizard Tournament would be happening started to shout their disbelief. Draco was sure if Oliver Wood, his old Quidditch Captain, was still here he’d probably faint.

“Damn,” Ron cursed, “Didn’t think about that.”

Draco shrugged, but didn’t fail to notice the way his shoulders slumped more than they should’ve. He wasn’t on the team, after all, unless he’d been planning, in Wood’s absence…

In any case his hopes for Quidditch would have to wait until fifth year.

Dumbledore called the hall back to order and continued.

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -”

With a rumble of thunder that boomed above Dumbledore’s voice, drowning him out, the doors to the Great Hall banged inward, and everyone turned in their seats towards the commotion.

A man was standing there, leaning against a staff, dripping from his black traveling cloak. As a fork of flighting struck down from the heavens outside the windows, he was lit up, to reveal a chiseled, aged face, like one carved from wood, and graying hair. The light faded, and he began to walk up to the teachers’ dais.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

It was rude, probably, but every eye in the hall couldn’t help following the man’s right leg, which moved unnaturally, stiff, and there was a dull clunk every time it hit the floor. A wooden leg, and maybe that is what made it click in Draco’s brain why the imposing figure seemed faintly familiar the way one does from only stories. He'd never met The man, but he knew, somehow, that this was -

“Mad-Eye Moody,” Draco whispered, his friends turning to him, looking confused.

“What?”

“That’s Mad-Eye Moody,” Draco repeated, and when he reached Dumbledore, stretching an arm out from under his cloak to shake his hand, this became more apparent. Another flash of lightning struck across the sky, and his face was illuminated for all to see; scarred and aged from years of work as the Ministry’s best Auror, and a false eye, electric blue, flitting around in his head, seeing everything, even out of the back of his skull.

Draco had heard all the stories, and, wild or not they appeared, they all seemed to be true.

Dumbledore gestured to the empty seat at his right hand side, and Draco watched, gobsmacked, as the famous Mad-Eye Moody took his seat as their new DADA professor.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Dumbledore announced, to total stunned silence, “Professor Moody.”

New staff always got applause (swooning, too, if you were Lockhart), but the room remained in still silence, only Dumbledore clapping politely and Hagrid over-enthusiastically before glancing around and stopping, embarrassed.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered in Draco’s ear, “What happened to his face?”

“Dunno…” Ron whispered, and Draco shook his head, pressing his lips together. The sort of horror stories his father’s friends told at parties were not to be shared after mealtimes.

As Moody took a long swig from a private hip-flask, instead of simply drinking the pumpkin juice right in front of him, proving another rumor, Dumbledore turned back to the students, casually resuming his speech. “As I was saying, we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event which has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

And just like that the silence was shattered by a shout of, “You’re JOKING!” from Fred Weasley.

The hall instead erupted with laughter, Ron possibly the hardest, looking beyond delighted to have known something his brother didn’t for so long. It brought an easy smile to Draco’s face, knowing he made that happen.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore said with a light chuckle, “though, now you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag and a leprechaun who all go into a bar -”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat over his shoulder and he stopped himself.

“Er - but maybe this is not the time… no… Where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this Tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely…”

Draco did, only coming to after his drawl about unity between witches and wizards of varying nationalities led to the ‘death toll’ part, to which Hermione balked.

“Death toll?” she whispered, but Draco could only shrug, because the excitement surrounding them, not caring of the death toll, was palpable. Soon the small smile Ron’s laughter had brought to his face spread, and Draco felt, perhaps the lightest he had in months, as he listened, faintly, to Dumbledore describing the details of the Tournament. Mostly he was imagining a year of watching it, the Tasks, the Yule Ball… Having fun.

And when Dumbledore said that due to the high death toll there had been an age limit introduced? Well, he was hardly one of the people crying out in outrage, was he? No, he was positively thrilled! Now he’d just have to write a simple letter to Father in the morning explaining this change in rules and how there was nothing for him to do about it. So sorry, so sad.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October, and remaining with us for the greater part of this year.” Dumbledore continued, as the hall stewed in their anger at not being able to go get themselves killed at fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen (Draco hoped the first to third years were at least a little sensible). “I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

All at once, people stood, heading in a mob rush for the doors, talking madly to each other.

“They can’t do that!” George Weasley was saying angrily, glaring up at Dumbledore, “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred, also glaring. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Yeah…” Ron muttered, “Yeah, a thousand Galleons…”

Draco gave him a skeptical look. “Weasley, I know you’re… unusually tight for money and all that -” Hermione stepped on his foot with her heel, hard. “Ow. But c’mon, you wouldn’t kill yourself for it, would you?”

“What makes you think I’m not up for it?” He turned and demanded, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“The Tournament’s meant for really skilled witches and wizards, not kids who haven’t even taken their O.W.L’s. I’m not saying I’m better than you. Not even Hermione is at the level of a Triwizard Champion, right Hermione?”

Hermione shook her head, hugging herself. “I don’t know much about it, but from what I’ve read it’s supposed to be really dangerous…”

“OK, OK, I get it,” Ron said, waving a hand and walking ahead of them slightly. “No need to crush my dreams and all…”

They continued walking, and in the awkward silence Draco found a way to bring a smile to his friends’ faces again when the twins walked past, discussing ways to trick Dumbledore’s methods, whatever they may be.

“We should’ve taken bets on how long it would take ‘em to resort to cheating,” he muttered lowly, so only they could hear, and they did both smile. Point Draco.

They reached the portrait hole, where the Fat Lady asked them, “Password?” pompously.

“Balderdash,” said George, “a Prefect downstairs told me.”

They stepped inside, sighing in the comforting warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room. Draco swore he heard Hermione mutter ‘slave labour’ before turning for the girls’ dormitories staircase, but shrugged it off, pointedly avoiding looking at all the well kept furniture so he could go to bed on an easy mind.

Up to the boys’ dormitories Draco, Ron, and Longbottom climbed, Draco taking his usual bed at the back of the room by the window, passing Thomas tracking up a poster of Viktor Krum beside one of a strange Muggle sports team. Draco squinted at this one for only a moment, before shrugging and unlatching his trunk, set on changing and going straight to bed.

He paused for a moment at the sight of his wadded up socks in the corner of the trunk, however, and slowly, with a glance over his shoulder, removed them, slipping a hand in and sighing as he felt the cool surface of the prophecy, safe and secure. He then hid it away again and changed quickly into his silk pajamas, hopping into bed.

The boys were whispering quietly about the Tournament, but Draco’s eyes were drooping. He thought he heard, distantly, someone calling his name, but they soon gave up and the room was silent again, just in time for him to fully slip into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of forests and patronuses. Two Stags chasing each other through the trees.

Chapter Text

Friday, September 2nd, 1994

Draco checked to make sure his Time Turner was still carefully tucked under his robes collar before picking up his timetable, sighing at the prospect of having to face another year of time travel. But he’d do it, because he’d given up Arithmancy in exchange for Muggle Studies, and now was going to see if it had been worth it.

“Today’s not bad… outside all morning,” Ron said beside him, eyeing his own table. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures with the Slytherins. We’ll get to see Harry!”

Draco smiled at the idea of getting to keep Harry, then, for Double Divination that afternoon, but then frowned as across from him Ron and Hermione were beaming at the prospect of sharing Arithmancy. They were honestly gross at times with how oblivious they were.

“Er - you’re eating,” Ron suddenly said, clearing his throat, and Hermione, who had been gazing at him brightly, immediately snapped out of it.

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” she said haughtily.

“Yeah… and you were hungry,” Ron joked, to which she side-eyed him.

With a rustle of feathers, the owl post arrived, swooping down upon the tables. Draco raised a hand to scratch Giasar, his eagle owl’s chin when he landed on his shoulder, carrying the usual parcel of sweets from his mother.

“Draco, mate, you’ve been here for one night,” said Ron dryly, to which Draco shot him a narrow eyed glare.

“So? My mother works fast,” he said, immediately undoing the wrapping and popping a chocolate into his mouth. “And so do I.”

When breakfast was finished Draco stood and immediately dragged his friends over to the throng of Hufflepuffs leaving for Herbology, waving over Justin, Ron grumbling as they walked.

“Sod it, Weasley,” he muttered before turning to his new date with a wide, blushy smile. “Triwizard Tournament, huh? What do you think of it?”

“Never heard of anything like it in the Muggle world,” Justin shivered, “Isn’t it supposed to be really dangerous?”

“Only if you’re a cowardly badger. Not for the hearts of the lions over here,” said Draco playfully.

“Actually,” he frowned as Macmillan butted his head into the conversation, “Cedric Diggory’s said he’s already going for it -”

“I didn’t ask you,” said Draco harshly, before turning his charming smile back on Justin. “Now, what do you think? A whole year of not seeing this handsome face on a Quidditch broom.”

He flicked his hair and Justin, surprisingly, frowned. “You - er - Your hair is pretty long.”

Draco frowned. “Well… yeah… I thought you liked it.”

“Well, it’s just… At first, sure but now it’s…”

“Watch out Finch-Fletchley!” They paused, having just reached the doors out of the castle, turning to find the source of the voice that had shouted. A Ravenclaw sixth year, cupping his hands to his mouth and calling to them while his friends chortled behind him. “Before he finds other ways to get to see your knickers!”

For some reason, his friends roared with laughter then turned and sauntered away, leaving the group confused.

“What… What does he mean?” Draco asked, looking between the Hufflepuffs and Ron and Hermione, confused.

They all seemed to get it, watching him cautiously like he was a bomb about to blow, though he felt quite calm. He’d been happy just a minute ago, actually, happy since last night.

“Mate -” Ron started to say but Hermione turned and whispered something in his ear and he clamped his mouth shut. “It’s nothing,” he said unconvincingly instead.

Draco scowled, turning back to Justin only to find… He was already ten feet away, being practically dragged forwards by Macmillan and Abbott. Slowly, Draco followed, feeling his happy mood inexplicably deteriorate into a depressing sludge in his stomach.

After a disgusting lesson on Bubotubers, his mood did not increase at all. Instead Draco left shaking bubotuber pus off his hands, trying to reach out to Justin but getting swept farther away from him in the crowd. Well, at least he had Harry and his other Slytherin friends to look forward to this lesson.

He, Ron, and Hermione made their way down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut, finding him standing at the doorway, holding Fang by the collar, who at the sight of Draco only got more excited. He always liked him. Draco, reluctantly, at Hagrid’s urging, stepped forward to scratch the dog under the chin, enough to calm him down a bit.

“Harry!” He turned around sharply at Hermione’s call, beaming at the sight of the messy haired Slytherin. It truly was annoying at times how little they saw each other when in separate Houses. After quick exchanges over how their first lessons had gone they turned to face Hagrid, trying not to notice the open wooden crates at his feet, making strange rattling and explosive noises.

“Mornin’!” Hagrid boomed, “We’re doin’ Blast-Ended Skrewts today!”

“Come again?” said Ron at the same time Draco raised his eyebrows high. Hagrid gestured to the crates, and as they looked over the edges to see what was inside, Lavender Brown shrieked, and Draco felt like doing the same.

Inside the crates were possibly a creature even worse than Hippogriffs, even uglier; deformed, shell-less lobsters, they were horribly pale and slimy, and appeared to have no heads. There had to be a hundred, about six inches long, babies, probably, and Draco had the horrible suspicion that they were illegally bred. He’d certainly never seen nor heard of anything like this before.

“On’y jus’ hatched,” Hagrid declared, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yourselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”

“But why would we want to raise them?” Draco asked, with a large step back and a look of disgust. Hermione, Ron, and Harry all shot him quick looks, but he raised his hands. “What? I mean, what do they do? What is the point of them?”

This appeared to be a genuine question because Hermione opened her mouth and hesitated rather than berate him, instead turning to Hagrid for guidance, only he too looked caught off guard.

For a long moment, he appeared to be thinking hard, then waved a hand. “Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today.” Draco dropped his jaw, staring at him like he was crazy, but then Harry nudged him roughly in the ribs and he, with a harrumph, folded his arms and begrudgingly chose to drop it. “Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ‘em on a few diff’rent things - I’ve never had ‘em before, not sure what they’ll go fer - I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass-snake - just try ‘em out with a bit of each.”

“First pus and now this,” Finnigan muttered, and Draco caught his eye, exchanging an exasperated headshake.

For one hour Draco watched, arms folded, standing firmly off to the side, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione picked up handfuls of frog liver, occasionally slipping and having to catch them before they hit the ground, and held them out to the Skrewts. Whenever Hagrid looked his way, he stepped forward and bent over the crate, but no amount of urging from his friends could make him go any closer.

Within ten minutes the situation got worse; apparently Screwts didn’t have mouths, but ends that blasted off, hence the name, Draco supposed, and Hagrid’s nonchalance to the various burns soon sustained, even on Draco, who wasn’t able to dodge all of the blast debris quick enough.

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,” Draco drawled after an explanation of male versus female anatomy of blast-ended Skrewts. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?”

“Draco,” Harry said warningly, looking over his shoulder, holding his hand full of frog liver as far from himself as possible. “Could you try to reign it in a little? It’s rare Hagrid’s happy about a class, you know -”

“And it’s usually your fault when he isn’t,” Ron grumbled, to which Hermione stepped hard on his foot.

“I…” Draco was ready to retort, but the sight of those stubbornly bright eyes… “Fine.”

And he moved to the crate of frog liver and reluctantly stuck his hands in it.

Slowly, he carried it over to an empty spot between his friends and Brown, only dimly noticing when she shuffled farther away from him. Fine, maybe she just wanted a little space. But then, as he was persistently nudging a Skrewt in front of him with the liver, he couldn’t help but overhear her whispering to Patil.

“... even looks like him…”

“... let him in the school?”

“He’s just a Death Eater in training.”

“Maybe in disguise.”

Draco’s hand slipped on the liver and it fell to the bottom of the crate with a splat.

“What?” He turned and asked the two girls, who instantly turned around, eyes wide.

“Nothing!” Brown exclaimed.

“We weren’t talking about you. We were talking about… er… Crabbe!” Patil gestured wildly to Vince, standing a few feet away at a different crate with the other Slytherins. “Creepy bloke, right?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend, who had just been blown backwards onto the grass by a Skrewt.

“Right…”

He didn’t press the matter, because it was leaving an unpleasant churning in his gut possibly worse than the Skrewts. Instead, he turned to focus on them, having as much success as his classmates in getting the babies mildly interested in anything they prodded their shells with, and leaving for lunch without a bit of an appetite for it.

“Draco?”

He was startled out of his reverie only when Hermione repeatedly called his name, and he blinked, realizing he’d cut his boiled potato into miniscule cubes.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked him, brows creased. Even Ron looked mildly worried beside her.

“Er - nothing. Why would there be something wrong?” He asked, hurriedly stuffing the little pieces of potato in his mouth as if to hide them.

“We’ve been talking about those Skrewts and you haven’t said a thing. No insult or nothing,” Ron leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did Harry do something to you?”

“Merlin, no!” Draco leaned back away from him, waving a hand. “I’m just… tired. That’s it. Not used to getting up so early for school. Yeah…”

The two exchanged a look of disbelief, then Ron deadpanned, “Draco, you get up at seven a.m. on Saturdays.”

Draco scowled. Clearly he wasn’t fooling these two. “Fine! I - it’s just -” he leaned forwards, frowning, “didn’t you find what those Ravenclaws said weird? And what about Brown and Patil today in Care? I heard them talking about me. Said I shouldn’t be let into the school. They said I was -” he swallowed hard. “A Death Eater in training.”

Hermioen gasped and Ron winced.

“Oh I didn’t know it was that bad!” she exclaimed, to which Draco scowled.

“Are you saying you knew about this? People talking behind my back? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s just rubbish, Draco,” Ron shook his head. “Drama. It’ll go away once Rita picks a new topic.”

“Rita?” said Draco incredulously. “Are you telling me this is Skeeter’s work?”

The two exchanged another look, then Hermione sighed deeply and stood, walking down the table until she found a student with the Daily Prophet in hand and carrying it back to them.

“Look here,” she said, unfolding it to the third page and flattening it out so Draco could see. “See? Rubbish.”

The article had been written a couple days ago, and apparently put in every issue since. It was titled, “DRACO MALFOY; LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON” and full of pictures, all captioned with their own ‘Rita Skeeter’ lingo. Underneath a picture of his family posing for the St. Mungo’s shoot she wrote about how he’d been raised to be the perfect heir. How he even looked just like a clone of his father. Under a picture of the three of them at King’s Cross she theorized on whether their family unity was a front; ‘what goes on behind closed doors?’ And finally, what explained the gossip, she had written a long paragraph below a picture of him lying in the grass beneath the Dark Mark, discussing how ‘all signs pointed to young Mr. Malfoy’s involvement in the riot at the Quidditch World Cup.’

“What?!” Draco exclaimed, actually springing back in his seat from the shock. “I wasn’t part of it! I was injured because of it!”

“Yes we know Draco,” Hermione said calmingly, taking the Daily Prophet away. “But they don’t,” she gestured around to the Great Hall, and the few people around them at the Gryffindor table that had noticed his outburst and were now hurriedly turning back to their lamb chops and potatoes.

Draco scowled at them all, then down at the rolled up paper in Hermione’s hand. “I need some air,” he said, getting up and swinging his bag over his shoulder before they could protest. As he headed for the door, he paused, feeling Harry’s eyes on him, and turned to see him looking worried. He gave a slight shake of the head, and broke into a run.

He had planned to go to Divination first, but right now he didn’t want to be anywhere near his friends. He didn’t want their pity. Instead, he ran down a random hall before skidding to a halt, remembering he didn’t have a clue where the Muggle Studies classroom was.

Sighing, he ruffled around in his bag and pulled out his schedule. He thought that it may be close to the History of Magic classroom, so set off for there.

As he walked, he tried to calm himself down, but found it to be quite hard. All he managed to do was find that by the time he reached Binns’ room, he was muttering, “I’m not a Death Eater,” under his breath.

It was strange. He knew he wasn’t, why did he need to tell himself that? Regardless, he couldn’t focus on that right now. He needed to find his room.

He continued down the corridor, turning right and stopping at a door with a peculiar sign tacked up to it. It was brightly colored, like a rainbow, with ‘Welcome to Muggle Studies!’ written on it in sparkly ink.

It was this that made him pause, as it was obviously the place, as well as the witch already waiting outside the door. Sitting criss-cross, eating a sandwich, was his distant cousin Looney Lovegood.

He knew he’d be taking this class with third years, and starting next week he’d take a second class with fellow fourth years as well, but he hadn’t considered he’d actually know anyone. Now he thought that was short sighted of him; of course Looney Luna would be interested in the strange ways of Muggles.

“Hello, Draco,” Luna looked up at him with her usual distant gaze, and he managed a weak smile back.

“Hi.” He said then, for the first time, noticed that his legs were shaking from the run. He felt exhausted. Without really thinking, or perhaps because he felt more comfortable around a weirdo, he leaned against the wall behind him and slid down onto the floor, joining her.

She caught onto him immediately, however.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” He startled, then chuckled lightly, hoping he could brush this off by waving to the door. “Oh, I’m just nervous, that’s all,” he lied.

But Luna was smarter than that. She was a Ravenclaw after all. “No,” she said, frowning, and placed her sandwich down on a napkin, leaning forwards on her hands and knees so she could look at him closely. He leaned back, startled by her closeness, inches from his nose. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got dark thoughts there. What is it?”

“I…” He looked away. Even if he wanted to explain it, how could he?

“Oh! I know!” She exclaimed, jumping back on her heels. “It’s top secret, isn’t it? I won’t pry then,” she nodded, seemingly satisfied with herself, then turned to her bag and pulled out a rolled up magazine. Draco immediately flinched, knowing what was coming.

“Here, I think this will make you feel better,” she said, holding the Quibbler out to him. At his hesitation she added, “Trust me. Daddy did a spot on you, and I think you’ll like it.”

Cautiously, he picked the magazine out of her hand and opened it, flipping pages until he landed on a drawing of… him? It sort of looked like him, enough to count on the Quibbler’s standards at least. He was posing under a bad cartoon depiction of the Dark Mark, looking up at it quizzically, while a tiny figure he assumed was his father looked on from behind, an evil smile on his face.

“Oh Merlin,” Draco whispered quietly so Luna wouldn’t hear, and began to read.

DRACO MALFOY: DEATH EATER? OR CLONE?

“Oh Merlin,” he repeated, unable to contain himself, and Luna motioned for him to continue.

All the rage in the news lately has been the recent riot of rowdy Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup. How could anyone miss it, nor stop talking about it? A scare and a nightmare the Ministry wishes to cover up (more on page. 9). But possibly the biggest mystery is one to do with one Draco Malfoy (14), a son of an acquitted Death Eater, who was suspiciously found at the scene on the night in question.

The events have pulled all the details aligning young Draco to his father into question. Has he been trained to follow in his father’s footsteps? Has he been molded to be the perfect Jr?

WE THINK NOT

In fact, we at the Quibbler have substantial evidence claiming Draco is not just a copy of his father metaphorically, but literally. Yes dear readers, Draco Malfoy is indeed a clone of Lucius.

Evidence? Fact 1: The Matching Appearance. All have pointed out the startling similarities between the two. They LOOK like clones! And, all have noticed how Draco’s been growing his hair out just like his father as of late. A sign of similar viewpoints, or natural instinct he can’t ignore?

Fact 2: Suspicious Dark Artifacts. Recent behavior around Knockturn Alley has led many to suspect the Malfoy family are in possession of many dark artifacts. Arthur Weasley, correspondent, states that two years back Lucius suspiciously appeared not in possession of many items he and his employees swore he owned at the same time the Ministry conducted raids on such possessions. Could these items contain the secrets to copying one’s DNA? For what purpose? And to what end?

Draco rolled up the magazine, now beside himself with laughter, and looked up only to see Luna beaming across from him, holding out the magazine to her.

“I knew you’d like it,” she said, but pushed it back towards him. “Now read the editor’s note. Just do it!”

Slowly, he flipped to the back, sighing and wiping tears of joy from his eyes so he could read clearly.

Regarding Article 3:

Many theories have been potent in newspapers as of late regarding Draco Malfoy, with little regard to his age or innocence. The Ministry have insisted there were no signs of involvement in the riot on August 25th from any of the Malfoy family, that they apparated straight to their home in Wiltshire. This segment is only here to alleviate any falsehoods with good humor; Draco is not a convicted Death Eater, so let’s leave the child to his privacy, shall we?

Signed, Xenophilias Lovegood

Draco looked up and met Luna’s protuberant, kind eyes, not knowing at all what to say as he slowly handed the magazine back.

“I…”

She shook her head, smiling. “That’s all,” she said, stuffing the Quibbler back in her bag and dusting her hands off as if the whole thing never happened. To top it all off, she looked persistently away from him down the corridor, and hopped to her feet, waving a hand. “Ginny!”

Draco hurriedly stood, wiping any tears left in his eyes, to see a crowd of third years approaching. They were all talking animatedly, seemingly not noticing him, but towards the front he was surprised to see Ginny Weasley. Then again he didn’t really expect her to take any of the other electives save Care, so on second thought this made sense. She, however popular she was, seemed to not care about knowing anybody in the class save Luna, as she stood alone until the ditzy girl joined her side. And then of course she spotted Draco and beamed, hurrying over.

“Hey, Draco,” she said, gesturing to the door. “Muggle Studies, huh? Forgot you switched. Should clear up those rumors in the paper, right?”

“Right…” Instantly, Draco’s smile dropped, as did Ginny’s.

“Sorry,” she said immediately, “I didn’t mean -”

“It’s alright,” Draco lied, joining the small throng entering the classroom.

At first glance, it was a normal classroom, with desks all lined up in front of a chalkboard, but that's where the resemblance stopped. Beside the board was a second one, though this one was white, and along the walls were many larger desks on which various objects were stacked, such as boxes with bright colors and strange names on them, various ‘electronic’ devices - Draco could only guess - a strange cube with different colored squares patterning it, and a random large white box that Draco felt a cold rush of air from when he passed. Upon the walls many posters depicting what he assumed were ‘movies’ and different Muggle bands had been tacked up. In the back corner of the room was a box reminding Draco partly of a camera, but with large circles sticking out of it.

Everything was silent save for some confused muttering from the class as they took their seats, Draco sitting with Ginny and Luna at their beckoning. Then, suddenly, a clicking sound and everyone turned to the back of the room to find a young witch standing beside the strange camera, beaming. She had done something to it, because the circles had suddenly started to spin like wheels, and the people closest had to look away, wincing, when light suddenly poured out of the place where the camera lens should be. Instead, it appeared to be a device that showed pictures instead of taking them, as upon the white tarp images appeared due to the light shining from the camera.

Draco watched in wonder as the images flashed by before him. People bustling through city streets, like those Justin had visited the past summer. How did Muggles get buildings that high? Then the image changed and it was a classroom, and it looked much the same as Hogwarts, or any other school. Then there were soldiers marching towards war. Scientists working in labs, looking something like potioneers. Draco felt as if someone was invading his mind with Legilimency, shattering his Occlumency barriers. His mind was being cracked open like an egg to a world of the mundane and Muggle, and he’d never imagined it to be so incredible.

Muggles had gone to the moon, touched the stars! While royals married and wars waged. Muggles had movies, where fiction, fantastical stories like those of Gilderoy Lockhart could be made into something for visual entertainment. Draco felt as if he was watching a movie right now. He found he quite liked movies, if that was the case.

Then, as abruptly it had began, with no care for how it would shatter Draco’s life, it ended, and the young witch, their Professor, strode up through the desks to the head of the classroom, stood before the projector screen, the last image from the camera now projected onto her face, and bowed lowly. Grinning, Draco applauded, and found many others had been pleased as well, though perhaps not as much as him.

“Thank you,” she blushed. “My name is Professor Burbage. I am your Muggle Studies Professor. Welcome!”

She smiled at them all, a pretty blonde witch full of life and love for what she taught, and Draco felt the want to clap again.

-*-*-*-

“You look happy.”

It sounded almost sarcastic, though perhaps because he liked him, or perhaps because he’d known him for the past three years, Draco could tell Harry was being sincere. And yes, if he’d been in his shoes he’d find it alarming too if he arrived with a pep in his step after walking out on Ron and Hermione at lunch - he must’ve noticed, he was Harry after all.

For now, he only shrugged as he tucked his Time Turner under his robes collar and nodded towards the North Tower, watching briefly as Hermione and Ron disappeared around the opposite corner for Arithmancy. “Good class,” he said smoothly, turning back around to find Harry smiling at him expectantly.

“Oh no, Draco Malfoy likes Muggles?”

“Shut up,” Draco pushed him down a step playfully. “Some of their stuff is cool, I’ll admit.”

“Some?”

“Okay, maybe a lot -”

Harry laughed and thankfully seemed satisfied to drop the conversation (or had been just pushed down two steps and wanted to stay out of the Hospital Wing this year at last).

They continued on the long journey to Divination, Draco dragging his feet more and more with each step, and he wasn’t the only one. He knew Harry detested this class, while he felt, especially this year, with the weight of the prophecy and letter from the future resting on him, that Divination would be helpful, but it still didn’t mean its teacher wouldn’t be as unbearable as ever.

Or the classroom, he had to add, as he entered and instantly was floored with Trelawney’s outrageous perfume and heated teashop of a classroom.

Sighing resentfully at each other, Draco and Harry walked forward, finding a table alone and collapsing into chintz chairs. Almost instantly the air felt empty without Ron and Hermione, (metaphorically, of course, it still stank like Longbottom’s grandmother) but Draco tried not to focus on that, instead smiling, if a little awkwardly at Harry, who smiled tightly back.

Merlin damn it, they never seemed to get time alone, why did he have to go and make it awkward?

“Good day,” somehow Draco was grateful for the arrival of Trelawney, as at least her popping up behind Harry’s chair and giving the two of them a heart attack pulled them out of the awkwardness.

“You are preoccupied, my dear,” Trelawney said in her trademark misty voice, and Draco mentally resigned himself to another year of death predictions for Harry Potter. “My Inner Eye sees past your brave face to the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas... most difficult... I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass... and perhaps sooner than you think…”

Draco tried to exchange an exasperated look with Harry after Trelawney swept away, only to find Harry didn’t look amused, but rather as if he’d taken her words seriously. He recognized the face of a worried, deep in thought Harry immediately.

“What is it?” Draco immediately asked once the lecture was finished, during which Harry had even been called out for his trancelike state of not paying attention.

“Er - nothing,” Harry lied, pulling a circular chart towards him, on which they were supposed to fill out the position of the planets when they were born. “Let’s get this done quick, okay?”

“No,” Draco said, pulling Harry’s chart back away and frowning at him seriously. “What is it?”

Harry sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his scar. “I just… I tried to think, ‘I don’t have anything I’m dreading, do I?’” Draco scoffed. He hadn’t actually believed Trelawney’s rubbish, had he? “No, listen, she’s made a prediction before, hasn’t she? Last year! And, well, it came true. Pettigrew got away.”

“But we have no proof he got back to his Dark Lord, do we?”

Harry paused, looking down at the chart, seemingly far, far away. Draco frowned deeper and leaned forwards, resting a hand on his arm.

“What is it?” he asked sincerely.

“I…” Harry gave a long sigh, looked around the room, then leaned forward so they were now almost uncomfortably close, whispering as quietly as possible, so only Draco could hear. “I had a dream, over the summer, a strange one. Vivid. I was in a house, and Voldemort was there with Pettigrew, planning to kill someone. Planning to kill, well… me.”

He finished, but Draco continued to blink at him for a moment. When Harry didn’t say anything more, Draco coughed and asked, “And you’re er - sure this wasn’t just a dream, then?”

“Of course I am,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t remember it if it was. But, then, what was it?”

Draco shook his head. He doubted Harry was a Seer, but then he remembered something.

“Well… what did Dumbledore say at the end of second year? You can talk to snakes because of him. There’s some kind of… I dunno, connection between you two. Maybe you can see through him, in a way…”

Harry stared at him a moment, and Draco smiled awkwardly, wondering if he thought his idea was insane or not, but instead he grinned. “Draco that’s… that’s brilliant!”

“Good…” Draco sighed, “I thought it sounded kind of barmy.”

“No, no, it’s better than me having premonitions or something at least. Right?”

“Right,” Draco laughed, then noticed Trelawney passing and pretended to be busy working. He shared a final reassuring smile with Harry, who he was very pleased to see looked immensely relieved already. And so they focused on their work, which was dull, and boring, and Draco didn’t see how any of it tied back to anything relevant.

Trelawney ended the class with a homework assignment to chart the planetary movements each day for the next week, and dictate how that would affect you relating to the charts they’d just made. It wasn’t the worst, so Draco and Harry left class counting their blessings Ron wasn’t with them anymore to make things worse with an insult to Trelawney.

However, those blessings were shattered when the two of them caught up with Ron and Hermione, beaming ear to ear.

“Arithmancy is brilliant!” Ron exclaimed. “You think it’s really difficult, so Professor Vector broke it down really slowly, and we got no homework at all!”

“And I didn’t even have to do one line of his notes,” Hermione said, and Draco and Harry shared an exasperated eye roll at the softness in her voice.

They joined the que in the Entrance Hall, waiting for dinner, and Draco groaned, rolling his head back. “C’mon! I’m hungry…”

“OI! MALFOY!”

He groaned again, dropping his head and looking around. “What?” He barked to no one, as he saw only a crowd of fellow hungry students, then that crowd parted, and, with a great deal of muttering, he was facing that same group of Ravenclaws from the morning.

“Heard you’re taking Muggle Studies now. What exactly is it that you think you’re playing at?”

“What?” Draco blinked, frowning, then remembered all Rita Skeeter had said, and suddenly the pit in his stomach Luna had cleared was back, sinking in his gut. “I… No, I just… Find it interesting.”

“Interesting, eh?” The Ravenclaw boy crowed, stalking forward with his arms crossed. “Better watch out for him, Granger, he might find you interesting too.”

A good couple of people in the crowd winced, exchanging worried glances. Hermione, however, took a step closer to Draco.

“Leave him alone,” she said lowly, to which the Ravenclaws only laughed.

“Ooh, now you’ve both got me scared,” the boy said, raising his hands mockingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch your boyfriend. No, I’ll just be on my way,” he pushed through the crowd and shouldered past Draco and his friends, stopping only to whisper in his ear, “Go ahead. Do it. We all know you’re a Death Eater anyway.”

He clapped him hard on the shoulder, then laughed his way past, his friends chortling behind.

“Draco?”

He ignored him, staring at the ground, fists clenched.

I’m not a Death Eater.

“Draco, don’t listen to them.”

I’m not a Death Eater.

“Draco, wait! You could get in -”

But he wasn’t listening. He pushed past his friends and raised his wand, pointed right at that stupid Ravenclaws back, opened his mouth and -

BANG!

The boy flinched to the side, and several people, including Hermione just behind him, screamed. The fire he’d shot out of his wand missed the jerk though, damn. He readied himself to fire again but -

BANG!

“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!”

Draco was falling. The world was spinning and he was falling, falling, falling. His wand had slipped from his fingers and he saw it hit the floor with a clatter as he did too. He looked around wildly. Everyone was very big, or he was very small. What in the name of Merlin was going on?

He found his friends, who had pressed against the walls, looking terrified down at him. Hermione gasped something, but it seemed to reach his ears through a bubble. It sounded like his name, but he couldn’t be sure.

What was going on?

He tried to run towards them but found his legs had turned into four… paws? With… claws? Well at least that explained why he was so small, but before he could make sense of this - figure out what kind of creature he’d been turned into against his will - there was another deafening roar, like the one before, and he was suddenly flying upwards.

He tried to scream but heard only high pitch, panicked squeaks escaping his… lips? Did he still have those?

And then he was falling, and he screamed again. Tried to brace himself but SMACK! He hit the floor and he hit it hard and it hurt, so bad. A body the size of his normal head hitting the hard stone floor hurts like Hell, thank you very much.

He was rising again. Merlin no… And then he was falling again.

On and on he flew up and fell and screamed squeaky screams as he did, but above those screams he could hear a voice. That bubble was gone now, as he appeared to have adjusted to the sounds of humans. A low growl was speaking to him.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” it growled, “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do… Never -”

SMACK!

“Do -”

SMACK!

“It -”

SMACK!

“Again!”

Draco groaned, a desperate squeak, having lost the energy to scream now. He could hear voices, but he gave up on interpreting them, filled with pain. It sounded like McGonagall was yelling, and he thought, hopefully, she’d clear this all up. He hadn’t meant anything wrong… He was the one being called a Death Eater!

He hit the floor, again and again, and just when he was believing he’d never be himself again, he fell and hit the ground with his normal fourteen year old body again, arms splayed, pain shooting through every bone and muscle. Groaning, he started to get to his feet, and soon felt his friends helping to pull him up as he winced and a great deal of snapping sounds followed, his bones and joints, surely.

“Moody,” Professor McGonagall was lowering her wand from him, having transfigured him back, and now turned to face Moody (still glaring at him horribly) her voice weak with horror. “We never use Transfiguration as a punishment! Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” Moody dropped his glare to scratch his chin, seemingly unbothered, “but I thought a good sharp shock -”

“We give detention, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”

“I’ll do that, then,” Moody turned his glare back on Draco, and McGonagall scowled, placing her hands on her hips.

“That would be me, Alastor.”

“Huh? Oh, right,” he eyes, magical and normal, scanned Draco’s scarlet robes with a skeptical frown. Draco coughed, blood spattering down his front, turning them possibly more scarlet, and he huffed, turning to McGonagall.

“For once,” Draco croaked out, blinking away tears of pain and humiliation, “I think I’d like my father to hear about this.”

“Oh yeah?” Moody turned back to face him, slowly limping forwards, and Draco widened his eyes, tensing. What would he do? What could he do? “Well, I know your father of old, boy… you tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son... you tell him that from me…”

Draco blinked at him, a tear slipping down his cheek, and nodded slowly, though he felt chills running through all his bones. Was he threatening him? And was Draco worried for his father?

“Now,” But then Moody turned away and was regarding McGonagall like a normal, professional adult. “You’ll be the Head of House, Minerva?”

“Yes, Alastor,” McGonagall waved her wand over the books piled around her, which she must have dropped in shock, and caught them back in her arms. “Malfoy,” he gestured Draco forwards. “Come with me.”

Draco stepped shakily out of his friend’s grips and forwards towards her. He didn’t give them a backward glance as the three of them marched towards her office, up the marble steps, too embarrassed to look at any of the surrounding crowd, who were all muttering and doing a great deal of gawking at him as he passed.

But soon the muttering was out of reach, and the only thing breaking the group’s anxious silence was the dull clunk of Moody’s leg as he limped. They reached McGonagall’s office and she swiftly ushered them inside and closed the doors, rounding behind her desk.

“Now, Moody,” McGonagall sighed, rubbing at her temple, “What exactly did Mr. Malfoy do to warrant such a punishment?”

“He attacked a student, Professor,” Moody growled, normal eye on McGonagall, magical eye fixed on Draco. Draco shuffled uncomfortably, rubbing at his sore arms. “While his back was turned.”

“Whether he was dueling him or not doesn’t excuse the punishment, Moody,” McGonagall snapped, then sighed, turning to Draco, “but he is right Malfoy, you can’t attack students. I’ll be taking thirty points from Gryffindor.”

Draco nodded. It was better than more abuse as a ferret, he supposed.

“What about detention,” Moody suggested, and Draco swore his magical eye was watching him hungrily, “I could supervise -”

“No,” said McGonagall sternly, “Mr. Malfoy has been punished thoroughly enough. You may go.” She waved her hand, and when Moody remained standing there, both eyes now watching Draco with a firm glare, she repeated, “Go!” and he was gone with a couple clunks and a bang of the door.

Instantly McGonagall sank in her seat, rubbing at her temple more exhaustedly.

“Have a biscuit, Malfoy.”

“Er - What?”

“A biscuit,” she gestured to the tin tray in front of her, on her desk. “You need it.”

Slowly, Draco limped forwards and picked a ginger newt out of the tray, biting into it gratefully, the sugary taste almost instantly cheering him up.

“As an Animagus I have much experience in what it feels to be Transfigured into an animal, especially for the first time,” she assured him, “I’ll be sending you to Madam Pomfrey. But first, I’d like you to understand something,” she leaned forwards, regarding him seriously, though there was a gentility to her eyes.

“I’d like you to know, Malfoy, that the Professors here at Hogwarts are well aware of the gossip that goes on outside and inside the walls. Yes, we read the Daily Prophet, and I can only imagine how you must feel right now, but that doesn’t mean you can attack any student who calls you a Death Eater.”

“But I’m not -”

“I know you aren’t Malfoy,” there was something like a smile on her lips, “I’ve known you for three years. You’re kind, and sensitive. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t get so angry about the things people say, would you?”

Draco scowled, looking away. “No… I wouldn’t.”

“Ignore them, Malfoy,” she stood, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Skeeter will move on to some latest piece of gossip soon. Focus on your studies. On the Triwizard Tournament. This is going to be a fun year, Malfoy, do try to enjoy it.”

“I will, Professor,” he lied, only to get her to let him be. And no, he didn’t limp his way to the Hospital Wing afterwards, nor did he go to breakfast. He wasn’t hungry anymore, only tired. She could say this year was going to be fun all she wanted, but he’d met his future father, he’d heard Moody’s threats. He knew Harry certainly wasn’t dreaming, and all the plans he was seeing Voldemort make were real.

Something big was coming, and to McGonagall Draco may be kind, and sensitive, but he was also a Gryffindor. He wasn’t just going to lie down and wait for Voldemort’s return to come. He was going to listen to what the letter told him to do, and he was going to fight.

But first, he needed to figure out what that glass ball held, and there was only one place he knew to go to for that.

-*-*-*-

Saturday, September 3rd

Draco took a deep breath, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, and stepped into the trees. He really needed to stop going into the Forbidden Forest but, with all this talk of the future, it didn’t seem that day would come anytime soon. No, he needed Firenze, more than anything right now. He needed someone to help him make sense of this all.

Unlike his visit last year, when the forest had been blanketed in snow and he’d had to trudge through slowly, fearing he’d freeze to death in the search and wait for the centaur, it was easy to pass through the trees in fall, and he only had to worry about some too close thickets of trees as he got further in. But, eventually, he reached the clearing he was positive he’d met with Firenze last year at, and sat, waiting.

He was a centaur, who led his life through instincts and feelings. He would come to him, he was sure of it.

And he was right. Draco had only waited ten minutes, at most, and heard the sound of galloping hooves. Grinning, he rose from the rock he was seated on and peered into the trees, bowing his head in greeting to his centaur friend when he emerged.

“Draco Malfoy,” said Firenze, “Why have you come?”

“Good morning to you too, Firenze,” Draco said, but was already ruffling in his satchel, retrieving the prophecy. “I’ve come to show you this, in the hopes that you may be able to understand what secrets it holds.”

He held the glass ball up, sparkling brilliantly under the sunlight, and Firenze stared at it in deep thought for a moment, then looked to Draco. He looked mildly surprised.

“Where did you get this?”

“My father from the future.” No point in hiding it. He explained in detail the visit from his future father, the letter he’d received - which he read out to Firenze - and the prophecy he’d been given. By the end of the story, though, Firenze appeared no more or less bothered as he had at the start. Such was the way of centaurs, Draco supposed.

“This is very worrying,” Firenze said, though he didn’t show it, “You are not meant to have this,” he nodded to the prophecy, “your father was never meant to give it to you.”

“But - Can you at least tell me what it means?” Draco asked, wincing at the desperation in his voice. Firenze hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the prophecy, then shook his head.

“It is too dangerous. There is no need for you to know.”

“But I -”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Firenze said, his voice strangely stern, “You were never meant to have that prophecy in the first place. You’re lucky I’m not taking it from you. Now I suggest you leave, before I change my mind.”

Draco gaped at him. “But -”

“Leave,” said Firenze, who now looked unusually mad. Frowning, Draco stuffed the letter and prophecy back into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, turning and breaking into a run through the trees. Soon he emerged out of the forest and slowed to a walk, trudging up the path back to the castle, kicking rocks.

“Stupid centaurs… can’t trust a word they say…” He found himself repeating the words of Hagrid, of all people, from first year, but they mostly came out of frustration. He needed answers, and his only lead was being a closed off prude. Who was he supposed to ask now, his father? Hi Dad, I know we aren’t talking right now but I just wanted to ask if you’d ever go back in time to try and stop Voldemort from rising to power and another ‘bad thing’ your future self refused to tell me, and if you would, is there a certain prophecy you’d send me to help?

Draco sighed as he reached the castle, about to enter.

“C’mon Dad,” he groaned, turning his eyes to the sky, as if the answer would fall onto him from the clouds. “What did you do?”

-*-*-*-

Thursday, September 8th

Draco sighed, grip on his bag tightening. He’d hid his trepidation and joined the rest of the Gryffindor fourth years in their rush to Moody’s first lesson, but now that he was actually standing, waiting outside the door, with McGonagall nowhere in sight, he felt quite nervous. Moody could do whatever he wanted now… Could he trust his friends would protect him?

Right on time, a bushy head of brown hair entered his peripherals and he turned to see Hermione panting for breath beside Ron.

“Been in the -”

“- library,” the two boys said in unison, for they knew she’d spent any free time she’d had the past week running straight to the library.

“C’mon, we gotta get good seats,” Ron said excitedly, grabbing Hermione’s hand and Draco’s wrist and pulling them through the que of students to the front. To Draco’s dismay they managed to get three seats in the front row. Reluctantly, he pulled out his copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and soon was greeted by the sound of Moody’s clunking footsteps. They all turned in their seats to watch him enter the classroom, no less frightening when teaching, and followed him as he clunked up to his desk.

“You can put those away,” he growled, “those books. You won’t need them.”

Draco turned to put his book back in his bag and saw Ron’s face alight with excitement as he did the same. He rolled his eyes.

Moody called attendance, his magical eye surveying each student he called. He lingered on Draco’s name, both eyes watching him.

“Present,” Draco croaked, and the corner of Moody’s mouth tipped up in a smile.

“Right you are.”

When he finished he tossed the register aside, leaning forwards with his hands together on the desk. “Right then, I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures - you’ve covered Boggarts, Red Caps, Hinkypunks, Grindylows, Kappas and werewolves, is that right?”

They all nodded.

“But you’re behind - very behind - on dealing with curses. So I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark -”

“What, aren’t you staying?” Draco startled as Ron suddenly burst out beside him. Moody only fixed him with his magical eye, to which Draco was pleased to see disturbed Ron, but then Moody smiled, the first time he’d done so, and the sight of it made a chill run down Draco’s spine. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” He asked, “Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago… yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favor to Dumbledore... one year, and then back to my quiet retirement.”

He laughed, a harsh sound that made Draco’s skin crawl, then clapped his hands together. “So - straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you counter-curses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it ‘til then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m talking.”

Draco turned and rolled his eyes when he saw Brown and Patil had been giggling over their horoscopes.

“So... Do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?” Draco immediately raised his hand. He knew all three, though of course one in particular came to him first.

Moody slowly moved his magical eye from Brown, narrowing in on Draco, who almost instantly regretted raising his hand, but too late. He pointed at him, and Draco cleared his throat awkwardly.

“There’s the… Imperius curse. It lets you control people’s minds.”

“You’d know a lot about that one, would you laddie?” Moody growled, watching Draco with deep skepticism. “Your father was under it, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Draco said sternly, and maybe a little too loudly, as if he was trying to prove a point to everyone in the classroom, and maybe he was, but it couldn’t be plainer Moody didn’t believe him, only giving him that twisted smile of his before standing, opening his desk drawer, and taking out a glass jar.

Instantly, Ron flinched. Inside the jar were three large, black spiders, and Draco knew from personal experience just how much Ron hated spiders.

Moody grabbed one of the spiders out of the jar and held it on his palm out to them all, so they could see. He pointed his wand at it, and muttered, “Imperio!”

Draco watched, transfixed, as the spider moved not of its own accord. As Moody puppeteered it to swing backwards and forwards on a fine thread of silk, do a backflip, then cartwheel in circles, like a spider gymnast. This was what his father had claimed had happened to him, like real people hadn’t suffered the real effects. Complete control. Around him, Draco dully realized people were laughing, everyone was, even Hermione, who giggled when the spider began to tapdance. But this wasn’t funny. This was torture.

Suddenly, the laughter was that of the drunken Death Eaters at the World Cup. His father’s friends. Had they all laughed like that, clapping each other on the back, when they left the Ministry of Magic after fooling them they’d been mind controlled? Laughed at the thought of sharing the same fates as the countless Muggles they’d made do whatever they wanted? And then, did his father just go home, kiss his wife, kiss his baby son, and pretend the whole Wizarding War had never happened?

“Think it’s funny, do you?” Draco heard Moody growl, though his eyes were still fixed on the spider. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?” The laughter died instantly. Draco looked away, at Moody, to find his magical eye fixed upon him.

“Total control,” said Moody quietly, almost just to Draco, but then he looked down at the spider, and it seemed he was speaking to himself. “I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats…”

Ron shivered beside him.

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius curse,” said Moody, “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will. The Imperius curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

Draco jumped in his seat, but was slightly grateful for the near heart attack as it had entirely ripped him from his thoughts of the Imperius curse.

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

Hermione’s hand flew up beside him but Draco kept his hand down this time. He didn’t want to even say the other two. However, he saw another hand in his peripherals he didn’t expect and turned, jaw dropped, to find Longbottom looking surprised even at himself to be raising his hand.

“Yes?” Moody’s magical eye rolled over onto Longbottom.

“There’s one - the Cruciatus curse,” Longbottom said, voice small.

For a minute, Moody just stared at him, with both eyes now, intent and interested, and then the magical eye looked down at his register, and he asked, “Your name’s Longbottom?”

Maybe hearing his last name aloud jogged his memory, but suddenly something clicked in Draco’s brain, and he remembered Frank and Alice Longbottom, tortured to insanity by Barty Crouch Jr, Rodulphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and… his aunt.

Moody placed the second spider on his desk. “The Cruciatus curse,” he said, “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea. Engorgio!”

The spider grew larger than a tarantula, and Ron flung back in his chair, pushing it back so it slammed into Thomas and Finnigan’s desk behind them.

Moody pointed his wand at the spider, and muttered, “Crucio!”

Soundlessly, the spider rolled over and convulsed, twitching horribly, clearly in excruciating pain. Draco’s fists tightened on the desk as he winced. This was worse than the Imperius curse… this was genuine torture… and this was what his aunt had enjoyed, done for fun in the first wizarding war.

It was disgusting.

But still Moody continued to make it suffer.

“Stop it!” Hermione shrieked beside him, and Draco tore his eyes away, wincing. He couldn’t take it anymore. He could just see, at the desk beside them, that Longbottom too looked petrified, eyes wide, face pale as a sheet.

Moody raised his wand, and the spider was free. He shrank it back to its original size, and put it back in the jar.

“Pain,” he said softly to them all, pale and stunned to silence. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus curse... that one was very popular once, too.”

“Right... anyone know any others?”

Draco looked down at his desk. He certainly wasn’t going to name the last one, but Hermione raised her hand a final time, shaking slightly.

“Yes?” Moody prompted.

“Avada Kedavra,” Hermione whispered, and Draco flinched. Did she really just say the incantation? He opened his mouth, trying to shape his tongue on the words, but by the churning in his gut felt they’d never come, even if he wanted them to.

“Ah,” Moody smiled once more, “yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra... the killing curse.”

Draco shivered as he grabbed the final spider, who desperately tried to escape him to no avail, trapped with a cage of Moody’s fingers, then placed upon the desktop. It scuttled away, running, but Draco knew what was coming. And there was no way of stopping it, none at all. One minute you were there and the next -

“Avada Kedavra!”

Draco winced at the sudden blinding green light, felt deafened by the rushing sound, and could only watch helplessly when the spider rolled over onto its back, dead. How could a person ever want to do that? How could a person do it? Have the hate, the willpower, to look something in the eye, something so helpless, and snuff it out like a candle?

“Not nice,” Moody said calmly, oblivious to their horror and a couple of girls’ cries. “Not pleasant. And there’s no counter-curse. There’s no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it. Can any of you tell me who that is?”

“Harry Potter,” Draco whispered, slowly raising his eyes from the spider, and Moody nodded, face stiff and dark.

“That’s right. But you all won’t be so lucky.” He turned around sharply and sat back down behind his desk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it - you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nose-bleed. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.

“Now, if there’s no counter-curse, why am I showing you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

The whole class jumped again, but as before, the heart attack ripped them all from their petrified reveries, and suddenly Moody had a class all sitting at rapt attention.

“Now... those three curses - Avada Kedavra, Imperius and Cruciatus - are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills... copy this down…”

In silence, the class spent the rest of the lesson taking notes. The churning in Draco’s gut that he’d felt all throughout the process of watching the Curses was only getting worse, so when the bell rang he was the only one to let out an audible sigh of relief. Everyone else left the classroom talking excitedly, as if they’d just watched some great show.

“Hurry up,” Hermione said tensely to the boys, and Draco was relieved by this; it meant she, like him, had seen the lesson as serious as it was.

“Not the ruddy library again?” Ron asked her, looking on the edge of a groan.

“No,” she said, pointing down the passage, “Neville.”

They looked around, and Draco frowned when he saw Longbottom, standing and staring at the wall, the horrified look he’d had when Moody had shown them the Cruciatus curse still etched on his face, as if in stone.

“Neville?” said Hermione, moving towards him with a small, kind smile. He looked around at them, though his eyes were dilated and he seemed miles away.

“Oh, hello,” he said in an unusually high voice, “Interesting lesson, wasn’t it? I wonder what’s for dinner, I’m - I’m starving, aren’t you?”

“Neville, are you all right?” asked Hermione.

“You look ill,” said Draco, awkwardly shifting.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Very interesting dinner - I mean lesson - what’s for eating?”

Ron looked worriedly at Draco. “Neville, what -?”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Slowly, the group turned towards Moody, limping towards them, and Draco instinctively shrank inwards, stepping closer to his friends, grip on his bag tightening. But Moody limped right past him, instead reaching out to Longbottom, speaking in an almost unnatural kind tone.

“It’s all right, sonny,” he said, “Why don’t you come up to my office? Come on... we can have a cup of tea…”

Longbottom, if possible, looked even more terrified. Draco didn’t blame him.

Moody seemed to notice, and surveyed the group of them, magical eye lingering on Draco. Clearly, he was realizing how scared they all were of him, as his next words were as gentle as before. Reassuring. “You’ve got to know. It seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point pretending... well... come on, Longbottom, I’ve got some books that might interest you.”

Moody placed a tight, snarled hand around Longbottom’s shoulders and pulled him aside, back to the classroom. He looked over his shoulder at them pleadingly only once before he was behind the door and out of sight. Draco shuddered, feeling strangely worried for him.

“What was that about?” Ron asked once they were gone.

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered, and they turned and began heading to the Great Hall.

“Some lesson, though, eh?” Ron said, “Fred and George were right, weren’t they? He really knows his stuff, Moody, doesn’t he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that spider just died, just snuffed it right -”

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, pausing before they crossed the threshold to dinner. “Stop talking.”

And he did, and Draco was grateful for it. He didn’t want to talk about those curses. He hardly had the appetite to eat. It didn’t help that Hermione left for the library once more when she’d finished stuffing her face, thus he and Ron had to leave the Great Hall in awkward, alone silence, trudging back up to the common room. And, with both homework, Ron was able to go to sleep immediately.

Draco resolved to work on his own work for Divination, but when he sat down to stare at his horoscope beside a window, he ended up instead leaning his head on the glass, hearing the rush of death replay over and over in his head. He gazed into the depths of the lake, and wondered how Harry, down in the Slytherin Common Room, was doing right now. How did he feel seeing the curses? Did he think it was ‘cool’ like Ron?

He heard muttering around him and turned to see at two of the nearest tables, girls and boys were pointing at him, clearly gossipping. When they saw their eyes on him, however, they turned sharply around as if nothing had happened. Draco scowled, and turned back to the window. Who cared what they thought, Mr. Lovegood was right. Him being a Death Eater… It was as insane as him being a clone of his father. They didn’t look that alike! And regardless, you shouldn’t be ruining a child’s life -

His train of thought skidded to a halt abruptly as it had started, because in facing the window again he’d caught sight of his reflection in the glass, and it was…

From as early as he can remember, Draco’s been told he looks just like his father. He’s long known they’ve had the same face shape, the same hair color, and the same eyes. But in being so happy with having a Muggle-like mullet his father wouldn’t approve of, he’d failed to notice that he’d grown that mullet out. Failed to notice his hair was now long enough to sever the line between Lucius and Draco.

Justin had looked so put off by his hair last week, when he used to love it…

It was alarming what just a couple of inches could do to your opinion of a person, but Draco could hardly blame him. As he stared at his own reflection he too felt a measure of revulsion. How dare his father ruin another part about himself, even miles and miles away.

“Draco?”

Draco didn’t know how long he’d been staring at his reflection, but by the time he was pulled away by Hermione’s voice the kids in those two tables were gone and his cheeks were wet.

“Draco?” She repeated, eyes wide, and she immediately placed down the box in her arms. For a moment, he felt guilty, because she still had the shadow of excitement on her face, as if she was about to show him something in the box, but that would have to wait. For now…

“Hermione, I need you to do something for me.”

She raised her eyebrows, looking skeptical, and he offered the most reassuring smile he could, which wasn’t much.

“Trust me, it’s not bad,” he lied, because he knew full well that this was really probably a spontaneous and impulsive act, but he’d had a rough day, a rough week, and a rough couple of months. It was as if he’d hit a wall he was now determined to pound through. Probably wouldn’t sleep well again until he did. “Please.”

She hesitated, still watching him skeptically. Then she slowly raised a hand to wipe his cheeks, and smiled.

“Okay. What is it?”

Chapter Text

Friday, September 9th, 1994

Hermione scowled across the table from Draco all throughout breakfast while Ron looked between the two, baffled, but Draco refused to explain any of it to him nor address Hermione’s very concerned thoughts she’d already expressed many times over. What was done was done, and he was now back to sporting his usual short head of hair, with the exception of keeping it ungelled. He liked the little curls he sometimes got, as they set him farther apart from his father, reminding him of his Black traits.

And that was what all of this was about really; breaking away from his father. It’s what he needed, which is what he kept telling Hermione when he did give in and talk about it, though she didn’t seem convinced.

“Er -” Ron cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence that had filled the air ever since Ron woke up that morning to find his best friend having chopped off over half of his luscious blonde locks. “You wanted to show us something?”

Hermione had briefly mentioned that, Draco recalled, and he thought of the box she’d held last night before putting whatever she was about to do aside to cut his hair. Now her scowl dropped immediately and she beamed. “Yes,” she said brightly, then looked around Draco’s head at Harry, who he turned to see was already watching them, fork hovering mid air. He locked eyes with Draco, blanched, and hurriedly began jabbing at his plate with his fork. Draco frowned. What was that about?

“We’ll wait for Harry,” Hermione said, bringing Draco back to the conversation. “Library, after Care.”

“Right,” he said, and they finished their breakfast in silence, Ron checking and double checking Draco’s hair every few seconds, as if expecting it to fade and be an illusion.

Then they left for Herbology, and Draco was very pleased to see Justin was much more eager to talk to him today, and when class ended, he even ruffled his hair and gave him a wink before running off to join the Hufflepuff’s heading up to the castle. However, upon turning around he found Hermione and Ron watching him warily.

“What?” he asked obliviously.

“Nothing…” Hermione sighed and nodded down the path to Hagrid’s hut.

They immediately found Harry among the Slytherins, Draco smiling as Pansy sighed with glee at the sight of him.

“Finally you got that mop off of your head! I was trying to be polite, really, but it was getting much too long…”

At least one of his friends, other than Justin, was happy at the change. He noticed Harry smiling a good deal more to himself as well, though he didn’t outright compliment him. Strange bloke.

What he was not pleased to see was that the skrewts had only grown larger, despite the fact that they still didn’t seem to be eating anything the kids tried to feed them.

“Look at him standing up there,” Draco grumbled as he shook his hand after one had bit him, proving they did have some sort of teeth somewhere, “can’t he put in a little work? Why do we have to be his slaves?”

“Don’t say that Draco,” hissed Hermione.

“What? Gonna try and tell me this is learning?”

“No, but that word is disrespectful to house-elves.”

“What?” His befuddlement caused him to get bit again, of course.

They were soon free, however, when the bell rang for break, and, beaming, the four of them bolted up the lawns back to the castle, keen to have peace and quiet at last to talk, just them.

“So, what is it you wanted to tell us?” Ron asked Hermione immediately upon closing the door on an empty classroom, hopping onto a desk. Hermione beamed, bending down and lifting a box she had hurried off to retrieve from the Common Room before they had started. “Voila!”

The boys all leaned forwards to look at the contents, seeing about fifty badges, all variously colored, and all saying; S.P.E.W.

“Spew?” Harry said skeptically, picking up a badge. “What’s this about?”

“Not spew,” Hermione snapped, “It’s S - P - E - W. Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

“Never heard of it,” Ron sniffed.

“Well, of course you haven’t,” Hermione lifted her chin proudly, “I’ve only just started it.”

“Yeah?” Ron looked around at her, looking a little surprised, and Draco knew he’d be making a jab at her he’d regret before the words were out of his mouth. “How many members have you got?”

“Well - if you three join - four,” she said.

“And you think we want to walk around wearing badges saying ‘spew,’ do you?” There it was.

“S - P - E - W!” Hermione yelled, as expected. “I was going to put Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status - but it wouldn’t fit. So that’s the heading of our manifesto.”

She brandished a sheaf of parchment at them. “I’ve been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can’t believe no one’s done anything about it before now.”

“Hermione - open your ears,” Ron said loudly, and Draco and Harry locked gazes, knowing he was digging his own grave at this point. “They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!”

Now Draco pulled a book out of his bag and smacked Ron with it, who wheeled around, rubbing his skull. “What? C’mon Draco you know I’m right -”

“No! You’re not! Ron, do you think I freed Dobby for a bit of personal satisfaction? It’s all years and years of brainwashing, and I for one think Hermione’s onto something -”

“Draco,” Ron gave him a knowing smile, “c’mon, we can’t be basing this all on Dobby. He was a sort of nutter, wasn’t -”

Now Harry smacked him hard with a book.

“Ow! Come on guys! This is how it is! House-elves have been enslaved for centuries, like Hermione said! Why should we change it now!”

“If You-Know-Who won the first wizarding war, Ronald,” Hermione said seriously, folding her arms, “and I was enslaved for being Muggle-born, would you not do anything to change things then?”

He gaped at her, stuttering for words, cheeks turning pink.

“I - I -”

“Now,” she looked back at her sheaf of parchment, “Our short-term aims are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims…”

By the end of the manifesto Draco was pinning a badge to his robes, Ron fumbling with his own, glancing at Hermione, who was writing down their names and positions (Hermione was President, Draco Vice, Ron treasurer, and Harry secretary).

“Now, Harry, you should’ve been writing all this down, but I suppose we can start with our next meet -”

She stopped, because Ron had suddenly, with a great deal of chair squeaking, stood up, one hand raised in the air, as if to take hers. The next second it had dropped to his side again though, and he stood beside her, staring at her awkwardly, as if unsure how he’d gotten there in the first place.

“I -” He coughed, clearing his throat and straightening, and said, looking to be staring more at the wall than at her, “I wouldn’t let that happen, Hermione. You’re right.”

She smiled. “I know that, Ron, but you’ll never have to do a thing for me. That’s never going to happen. But these house-elves, they’ve been in pain for years Can’t you help me do something about that?”

He lifted his badge and slowly pinned it to his chest. “’Course, Hermione,” he said hoarsely, and she beamed.

As they walked out of the classroom to lunch, stomachs rumbling, Draco didn’t miss the reddening of her brown cheeks, and he shot Harry a sly smile, who rolled his eyes back.

-*-*-*-

October, 1994

The following weeks passed in a flurry of classwork and homework. Draco was realizing that, obvious as it seems, your workload did get larger with every year at Hogwarts, this year the worst yet. When he wasn’t trying to throw off the Imperius curse in Moody’s class and getting his day’s fill of trauma he was burning his hands off trying to handle the rapidly growing Blast-Ended Skrewts, while Hagrid beamed on cheerily like a proud dad.

See, Norbert was fine because he was a dragon. There was nothing cool or even remotely interesting about these monstrosities.

Remarkably, he found his biggest relief in Muggle Studies.

Professor Burbage had taken a particular interest in him, being that he was joining late and therefore doubling up on her classes so she saw him for nearly half a week, and that he was, of course, a Malfoy, a fact third years and fourth years alike couldn’t ignore as he walked among them, dazzled by the delights of the Muggle world.

The fact that they could take the power of lightning and make it move machines - it was like magic! It was wondrous, what the human mind can accomplish when they don’t have easy solutions.

“We are blessed with the privilege of waving our wands to solve any problem,” said Professor Burbage one afternoon to the third year class. “What wizards and witches need to understand, however, is that Muggles don’t just not have magic, but they don’t even know it exists! What would they have to fix? To them, driving a car is as natural as apparating is to us.”

On the third year scale all they talked about was the sort of problems Muggles solved with their various inventions. On the fourth year scale Draco was having fun, for he’d discovered a new talent of his; baking.

“It’s just like Potions you know,” he told his friends one day over lunch, “You follow a set of instructions, mix it in a bowl. If a little slower, it’s even more convenient.”

“And tasty, too,” Ron said, licking his lips, for he had presented his friends with a batch of biscuits he’d made in his most recent class - Ginger newts to rival McGonagall’s.

“Then you must be working in the kitchens,” Hermione frowned, turning the Ginger newt in her hand around.

“Well, yes,” Draco chuckled. “Where else?”

“Then you’ve seen the house-elves, surely!” She exclaimed, and Ron rolled his eyes, making sure she didn’t see.

“Well… no…” Draco said slowly, watching her cautiously, “they like to work in secret. They’re a bit shy. Why do you ask?”

“You have to show me!” She exclaimed, leaping to her feet, looking a bit mad in the eyes. “Now!”

“Hermione, did you just hear me?” He asked, “they’re shy, house-elves. If you jump on them now they’ll hate you before you even have made your pitch! How about this,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, lowering her back down onto her seat. “I’ll go find Dobby and explain everything to him, and we’ll arrange a time for you to talk to them. A sort of rally, right? That sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“A rally, right…” She nodded, then looked up and smiled at him thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s really smart, Draco.”

“Thank you,” he beamed, shrugging. “It was nothing.”

-*-*-*-

Draco was fully intending to fulfill his promise to Hermione, but he had to admit he got a little sidetracked as later that same day the group entered the entrance hall on their way to dinner, and halted at the sight of a crowd forming around a sign. Pushing through, they stood on tiptoes to read it.

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT
The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o'clock on Sunday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early. Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast.

“Only a week away!” He startled, turning to find Ernie Macmillan grinning at them, Justin over his shoulder. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him…”

With that he hurried off, Draco and Justin exchanging exasperated looks before he disappeared too.

“Cedric?” Ron said blankly.

“Diggory,” Harry explained, “he must be entering the Tournament.”

They started pushing out of the crowd, and Draco thought hard on the name, recalling the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain he’d beaten last year.

“Oh… he’s the really handsome one, right?” He said, grinning slightly at the memory of a chiseled face and dashing looks.

“He’s an idiot!” Ron barked, making them all look around at him, confused.

“He’s not an idiot, Ronald,” Hermione scolded, “I’ve heard he’s a really good student - and he’s a Prefect.”

“You only like him because he’s handsome,” Ron said.

“Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re handsome!” Hermione snapped back.

Ron gave a faux cough, distinctly muttering, “Lockhart!” under his breath. Draco blushed, looking away, knowing he’d fallen for the dashing fake as well.

“How about we all sleep on it, and agree any handsome Prefect would be better than Cassius Warrington as Champion,” Draco stuck out his tongue and the others all groaned as well. Ever since that rumor had leaked they’d been in agreement that anyone was better than the Slytherin gorilla on Harry’s Quidditch team. At least it was an easy way to end an argument, though.

Regardless, with this notice the castle suddenly was overtaken with excitement. All anyone wanted to talk about was the Triwizard Tournament, so soon Warrinton and Diggory weren’t the only ones on people’s minds, but Angelina Johnson, and Peregrine Derrick too (all of whom were Quidditch players, which the boys saw as no coincidence while Hermione, of course ignored the similarities). Even among the staff there was a sudden change in mood.

They suddenly seemed obsessed with keeping appearances in ways they never had before, primping and preening the castle until there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight, or smudge on the suits of armor. Filch had never been in a more erratic mood, jumping at shoes that didn’t perfectly show Mrs. Norris’ reflection when she walked by. And at random, you were likely to be berated for a failed spell, a spilled potion, or even a bitten finger in Care, followed by an exclamation of, “If Durmstrang had seen!” or, “I pray Beauxbatons forgives your foolishness!”

But everyone, obsessed with appearances or not, was excited, so that when dawn came on the bright morning of the thirtieth of October, spirits at Hogwarts had never been higher.

-*-*-*-

Sunday, October 30th

Shivering slightly, Draco looked up and down the lines of Gryffindors and beyond for any sign of traffic, but the night remained as still as ever.

“It’s nearly six…” Ron said beside him, checking his watch, so at least they weren’t late yet. “How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?”

Draco scoffed at the thought while Hermione said, “I doubt it.”

“Then… A Portkey? Apparition? Hey, maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds,” Hermione and Draco chorused, and she stared at him with wonder. “Have you -?”

“No.” He said sternly, because he had not read Hogwarts; a History, and never planned to, the fact that you couldn’t apparate into Hogwarts grounds was just common knowledge.

“Well, if you had, you’d know why,” Hermione continued matter of factly, “the charm on the grounds was created by the Founders, who first used this school as a safe haven for witches and wizards, and thus it’s battle proof. It’s got all sorts of security measures in case of a fight. No one is supposed to get in without the Headmaster’s approval.”

“Really?” Draco scoffed, “Can’t be that hard, can it? There’s floo powder -”

“But the Headmaster must allow it,” Hermione repeated.

“But,” he snapped back, “Floo powder and apparition are two entirely different kinds of magic. You can’t control channels that aren’t Ministry approved like floo powder. If there’s an open fireplace, you’d have to charm the fireplace itself to stop transportation, unlike a shield that stops apparition. Think of it like digging a tunnel under the Founders’ barrier. ’Course, I don’t blame them - floo powder hadn’t been invented yet.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, then hesitated.

“Well… yes, I suppose so…” She placed a hand on her hip, eyeing him skeptically. “Since when did you study Magical Theory, Draco?”

Since my dad from the future plopped into my common room and demanded I save the world. “Last Tuesday.”

She laughed, while a distinctive groan issued beside them.

“Can these schools hurry up so I don’t have to listen to your smart people talk!” Ron said, and Draco and Hermione rolled their eyes.

“Aha!” They were startled from their discussion from Dumbledore’s sudden voice, craning their necks over the lawn to spot him among the line of teachers at the front row. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” Students startled exclaiming, quickly followed by, “There!”

Draco followed the now many hands pointing towards the sky and saw a large something soaring through the air, hurtling over the trees of the Forbidden Forest towards them, getting larger by the second.

“It’s a dragon!”

“Don’t be stupid... it’s a flying house!” Dennis Creevey shouted back, to which Colin Creevey threw his hands in the air and cried, “It’s Superman!” and many people stared at him, confused.

But it wasn’t a dragon, or a flying house, or ‘Superman’ (whomever or whatever that was), it was a brilliantly blue carriage, the size of a house, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses. Abraxan, by the looks of them.

The tiny first through third years all had to draw back to make way for the carriage as it galloped to a halt, the massive horses swinging their manes, handsome and proud, and closing their wings. For a moment, Draco glimpsed the Beauxbatons coat of arms, two golden wands crossing and editing three stars, before the doors were thrown open by a haughty looking boy in pale blue robes.

He hopped down and unfolded a set of golden steps leading down from the carriage, springing back and bowing his head respectfully.

Draco didn’t need to ask to whom; the next second, the largest woman he’d ever seen in his life stepped out of the powder blue coach, a regal looking witch with olive skin and a curved nose that reminded him of Harry and the Patil twins. Clearly, aside from the obvious relation to whatever made Hagrid so large, she had Indian blood in her too.

Dumbledore began to clap, and the students, in a wave of applause, followed, bringing a smile to the woman’s stern face. She then strode towards Dumbledore, the crowd parting to let her through, watching her with awe, and extended a hand covered in glittering opals.

He kissed it, saying, “My dear Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” Madame Maxime greeted in a deep French accent, “I ’ope I find you well?”

“On excellent form, I thank you,” Dumbledore nodded.

“My pupils,” she gestured behind her, and everyone turned to see two lines of a dozen boys and a dozen girl Beauxbatons students, all dressed in the same silk, pale blue robes. They were also all shivering, because these uniforms looked freezing, but still held their chins regally high as they regarded the castle and its waiting students.

“‘As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Maxime asked, once the last straggler had joined the lines of students - the boy who'd first opened the coach’s doors.

“He should be here any moment,” Dunbledore said kindly. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think, but ze ‘orses -”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them… the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation which has arisen with some of his other - er - charges.”

Draco rolled his eyes high in time with Ron muttering, “Skrewts,” in his ear.

“My steeds require - er - forceful ‘andling,” said Madame Maxime, skeptically, “Zey are very strong…”

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” said Dunbledore, still persistently smiling. At last Maxime relented, bowing her head.

“Very well,” she said, “will you please inform zis ‘Agrid zat ze ‘orses drink only single-malt whisky?”

“It will be attended to,” Dumbledore bowed as the students, led by their large and imposing Headmistress, marched up the stone steps to the castle, the students parting to let them pass.

“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Draco and Ron leaned forward to see Finniagan leaning around Brown and Patil to talk to them.

“I doubt they’d come the same way,” said Draco, raising one eyebrow, “They’ll want to make as much of an entrance.”

“What do you think Hagrid’s doing?” Ron whispered just to him, eyes suddenly alight with excitement. “Maybe the skrewts have escaped!”

“Oh, don’t say that,” to the contrary, Hermione shuddered. “Imagine that lot loose in the grounds…”

Draco didn’t want to think about that either so, rubbing his sore hands from the most recent burn from the skrewts, he waited impatiently with everyone else for Durmstrang’s imminent arrival.

Then, Ron suddenly said, “Can you hear something?” and Draco could; it was an absurd sucking sound. Like… water?

“The lake!” Lee Jordan was excitedly pointing down at the Black Lake, its surface as dark as night in the darkness. “Look at the lake!”

That explained the water-sucking sound; something was happening to the center of the lake, something down in its depths, only bubbles and waves showing signs of the disturbance on the surface. But then a whirlpool appeared, and a second later, a long, black pole rose slowly out of the surface. But there was rigging too…

“It’s a mast!” Draco looked down the rows of students and spotted Harry among the Slytherin, grinning with excitement. He allowed himself one as well as the grand ship rose out of the water and seemed to land on its surface with a little jolt, the statue of a mermaid on the bow gleaming and gold. Slowly, and looking a little like a ghost ship, no figures visible in the dark, the ship began to glide towards the lakeshore.

With a splash, the anchor dropped threw the black surface of the water into the shallows, and the students of Durmstrang began to march down a lowering plank. Strong, imposing, Draco couldn’t help the little somersault his heart did. Hogwarts was his school, he’d chosen it all those years ago, and he belonged here, but that didn’t stop his mind from wandering, briefly, on the what ifs. What if he had gone to Durmstrang? Worn that red uniform with its fur lined cloak? Would he be marching along with the students now, see Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and not give them a second glance? Would he still know Pansy, Vince, and Greg, or would their friendship have faded to distant memory?

It didn’t matter, he decided, shrugging, because it hadn’t happened. He was here now, in the red robes of Gryffindor House, and they were there. Two separate worlds never meant to collide.

“Dumbledore!”

He craned his neck to spot the man approaching Dumbledore now, scowling. He knew him. Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of Durmstrang, and, more importantly, one of his father’s friends. A former Death Eater, but the worst kind, even worse than his father; the kind that didn’t just lie about being loyal, but turned snitch and gave up the names of other Death Eaters as well.

His father had never been thrilled to invite him to parties, and well Draco could care less whether he was a murderer or not - he still had that disgusting scar on his arm - he was glad for that; the man wasn’t necessarily nice company.

“How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?” He now spoke to Dumbledore with a voice as oily as his silver hair and beard, as if he could possibly hide his inner, just as oily nature.

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied, courteous as always, shaking his hand. Or, hands, because of course this was the sort of man who grasped the other’s hand with both of his instead of simply being normal.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he smiled up at the castle with yellow teeth, and Draco winced, disgusted. Somehow the smile was worse than the personality. “How good it is to be here, how good… Viktor, come along, into the warmth... you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…”

Karkaroff beckoned one of the students forward, and a good many people gasped, Draco among them, his jaw dropping to the floor. Nothing compared to Ron though, who looked as if Christmas had come early as he shook him, exclaiming, “That’s Krum!”

And it unmistakably was.

From the burly build and surly face to the curved nose and black hair, this was unmistakably the famous Quidditch star, walking among the common peasants of Hogwarts like he hadn’t just been in the Quidditch World Cup months ago.

The shock lasted all the way back up to the castle, the Hogwarts students trampling along behind the twenty something Durmstrang students, whispering as they went excitedly.

“I don’t believe it!” Ron was saying. “Krum! Viktor Krum!”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch player,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Only a Quidditch player?” exclaimed Ron incredulously, “Hermione - he’s one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he was still at school!”

Draco nodded along, feeling the sort of excitement he’d expected to get out of watching the Quidditch World Cup, but had been marred down by the knowledge that the whole trip was a goodbye from his father. Now though, he was already feeling cheerful for the first time in weeks with the Triwizard Tournament now a reality, and so having Krum so close, it was like he was in the top box again, experiencing watching him fly and catch the Snitch (mercy play most would call stupid or not). He didn’t even feel disgusted by his classmates’ desperation to see him and make him sign anything and everything; he’d gladly take an autograph.

Ron took a seat on the benches at the Gryffindor table nearest the doorway, looking at Krum and the unsure looking Durmstrang students gathered around him hopefully. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons had already been won over by the Ravenclaws, so Draco too looked towards the crowd of red.

“Over here!” Ron was hissing, and he didn’t object to joining him in beckoning Durmstrang. “Come and sit over here!”

“Honestly… You too, Draco?” He looked over at Hermione’s disapproving frown and shrugged.

“Ron’s right, he’s the best in the world. C’mon, Hermione, try to have a little fun. Look!” He pointed directly at the star, which was strictly a rude thing to do but not to celebrities, that’s what they were famous for after all. “He’s looking at you!”

And he was. Draco didn’t know why, but upon hearing Ron’s calls Krum had faced them and was looking directly at Hermione. His brow constricted, then someone tugged on his elbow and he turned to face the…

“No!” Ron groaned as the Durmstrang students headed for the Slytherin table, where Pansy stood half-up in her seat, twirling a lock of hair, beckoning them forwards. “Harry! You traitor!”

And Harry did look quite happy, the famous scarhead he was, when Krum sat right beside him and they were talking within moments.

Grumpily, Draco leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. Of course Harry was chatting it up with Krum, they were both oh so famous afterall. Probably bonding over their Quidditch star skills while the peasant folk sat and wallowed in self pity. Goodbye to Draco’s cheeriness, he supposed.

He looked away from the avidly chatting celebrities only when Dumbledore’s voice rang through the room, and was only mildly surprised by the appearance of Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime at the staff table.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and - most particularly - guests,” Dumbledore greeted, “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

A Beauxbatons girl seated close to Cho Chang laughed derisively.

“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispered, and Draco scowled at her.

“Lay off her, Hermione,” he said dryly, not in the mood.

“The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” Dumbledore continued. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

As soon as he sat Karkaroff was chatting his ears off. Draco rolled his eyes and they landed on Justin. He leaned forward in his seat, pretended to be stroking a beard, and made a grotesque imitation of Karkaroff. Draco snorted, cupping a hand over his mouth, and Justin grinned, apparently pleased with himself. He mocked applauding respectfully before catching sight of Harry laughing at something Krum had said over Justin’s shoulder and immediately having his joy squashed.

Grumpily, he loaded his plate with French foods. He always liked them, and deserved a little treat.

“What’s that?”

He was halted in reaching for Bouillabaisse by Ron’s finger, pointing at Draco’s favorite French stew.

“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione.

“Bless you.”

“It’s French. I had it on holiday, summer before last, it’s very nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He did, helping himself to black pudding instead. Draco met Hermione’s eye and the two exchanged an exasperated look.

He picked at his food quietly for a few more minutes, startled only by a very familiar voice calling out, “Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?”

He looked up and rolled his eyes. Of course Harry was being cordial to the newly appeared Hagrid instead of worrying for his life that the Skrewts were, “Thrivin’,” according to Hagrid (who appeared to be missing some of his hand).

“Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” Draco blinked as a girl stepped into his view. She had been the one to laugh earlier, a blonde from Beauxbatons.

“We were having a little,” he gestured to Hermione then himself, smiling, “It’s delicious.”

She smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before taking the bowl as Draco handed it to her. “Yes, it is one of my favorites.”

“Yeah,” Draco looked around, frowning at Ron’s absurd purple face. “It was excellent.”

What? He didn’t even have any -

The girl turned and glided gracefully back to her table, Draco and Hermione both rounding on Ron.

“You didn’t even touch it,” she sniped.

Her voice at least seemed to bring Ron back to his senses, as he was still goggling at the girl. Now he startled and looked between them, exclaiming, “She’s a Veela!”

“What?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Of course she isn’t!” Hermione said, looking very clearly bothered by Ron’s behavior, to which Draco had to hold down a smirk. They were not subtle at all… “I don’t see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot! Draco’s not!”

Draco choked on his drink, swallowing and turning to her, offended this time. “Hermione Granger! I am gay!”

She scoffed, throwing her hands in the air, hopeless as she was, instead going back to glaring at Ron, who kept staring at the girl.

“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” he said, and the longer Draco looked at her, the more she seemed more like a Veela… but he just couldn’t decide when he wasn’t attracted to her in the slightest. “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!”

“They make some…” Hermione grumbled, folding her arms, and Draco shook his head. Glancing over at the Harry and Krum discussion he could see he must’ve just been pointing out his friends, because Krum was pointing at Hermione and asking short questions while staring at her with the same downward turn of his brow as before.

Clearly some people thought they made them well at Hogwarts…

The dessert course arrived, joined with the arrival of Ludo Bagman and Mr. Crouch, no doubt judges as well, as they mandated the whole thing.

Draco helped himself to macarons and gougeres, trying to tempt Hermione with creme meringues but she was too busy glaring at Ron as he hopefully moved a plate of blancmange into the girl’s view, in vain.

Once everyone had had their fill, the plates cleared and Dumbledore addressed them again. Draco looked up sleepily. Between jealousy towards Harry and exasperation with Hermione’s jealousy, he was becoming quite exhausted with this long day.

“The moment has come,” he began dramatically, “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket just to clarify the procedure which we will be following this year. But firstly, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” they students and staff applauded politely, “and Mr Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

Draco yawned at this rise in applause. He’d never been much of a Ludo Bagman fan.

“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime on the panel which will judge the champions’ efforts. The casket, then, if you please, Mr Filch.”

Filch slowly approached, awkwardly carrying a chest much too big to be carried, old looking and encrusted with jewels.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways... their magical prowess - their daring - their powers of deduction - and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

Draco held his breath in anticipation, and seemed to not be the only one. Ron had leaned so far forward in his seat he might as well have been resting his chin on Longbottom’s shoulders.

“As you know, three champions compete in the Tournament,” Dumbledore said calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector... the Goblet of Fire.”

Dramatically, Dumbledore removed his wand and tapped it three times on the top of the casket. On its own, the lid creaked open, and Dumbledore reached inside it to lift an entirely ordinary wooden goblet, apart from the blue-white flames filling it instead of water or pumpkin juice.

Dumbledore shut the lid and placed the Goblet on top, so that it was visible to everyone - even little Dennis Creevey, who had resorted to standing on his seat to see.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it into the Goblet. Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Hallowe’en, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete. To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the Entrance Hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line. Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this Tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the Tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are whole-heartedly prepared to play, before you drop your name into the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Goodnight to you all.”

“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley exclaimed immediately upon the students all standing. “Well, that should be fooled by an Ageing Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s in that Goblet, you’re laughing - it can’t tell whether you’re seventeen or not!”

“Couldn’t you just ask an older student to do it for you?” Draco asked sardonically, to which Hermione stepped on his foot.

“Don’t encourage them!” She cried, watching the twins worriedly as they made their way back to the Entrance Hall. “I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance. We just haven’t learnt enough…”

“Speak for yourself,” George told her, before grinning at his brother. “What about you Ron? Think you’ll try for it?”

But Ron was staring straight at Harry and Krum, who were now walking side by side out of the hall, laughing at another joke one had made. Whereas Draco had all but given up on the celebrities, Ron looked transfixed, an angry fire burning in his eyes.

“Yeah…” He mumbled, not really acknowledging them, “Yeah maybe…”

Draco watched him cautiously as they continued out, Harry and Krum getting stopped by Karkaroff, who he introduced himself to. Here Draco temporarily forgot about Ron and smirked, knowing Karkaroff would just love to meet the famous Harry Potter who vanquished Lord Voldemort.

They continued up the marble steps to Gryffindor tower, Fred and George discussing aging potions as they went, everyone else avidly theorizing on which sixth or seventh year would be their champion. Draco bid Hermione goodnight, frowning as Ron grunted his response before trudging up the stairs to bed.

He was all changed and ready for a long night’s sleep when Ron suddenly grabbed his shoulder, and he turned to meet his wild eyes.

“Do you think it would work?”

“Would what work?”

“Having an older student put your name in the Goblet. Do you think it would work?”

Draco scowled at him. “Ron, I really don’t think that’s safe.”

“But it would work right?” He snapped, and Draco winced at the slight manicness in his voice and eyes.

“Yes… I suppose so…” He said cautiously, and Ron immediately let go of him, nodding stiffly.

“Thanks,” he grunted, turning and tossing himself in bed with his clothes still on.

When Dean reached out with his wand to turn off the lamps, he was still staring straight up at the ceiling with that strange look in his eyes. Frowning, Draco rolled over and tried to make himself comfy, though he couldn’t help worrying how far Ron would take his jealousy…

-*-*-*-

Monday, October 31st

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked immediately upon wandering over to the Gryffindor table at breakfast the next morning, to which Draco and Hermione pointed lazily over to the Hufflepuff table.

“What’s that about?” He asked curiously, sitting down, and Hermione shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll go ask,” she stood up, and Draco wanted to kick her. He’d known her long enough to know when Hermione got her ‘conspiring’ tone; clearly she was slipping away so that Draco could confess to Harry he and Ron were quite jealous of him at the moment, which in all honesty he’d been planning on addressing eventually… but c’mon, Hermione, it was breakfast!

“Ron wants to put his name in,” he ended up saying vaguely, poking at his sausage.

“Huh?” Harry blinked dubiously.

“He’s dead set on it. It’s partly your fault you know,” he pointed his fork at him, and Harry actually leaned back in his seat in surprise.

“Me? Why me?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Why do you think? Talking it up with Krum all night? Who wouldn’t get jealous…” He continued poking at his sausage to avoid Harry’s eye, cursing silently when the creaking of wood responded to him, indicating Harry was leaning forwards.

“Draco?”

“What?” It came out a little ruder than he meant, but he was upset! Why did Harry always get the celebrities, and the attention, and Quidditch stars -

“I don’t like it when people stare,” Harry said, and Draco looked up from his food, frowning. “That’s actually what we were talking about. I don’t like all the attention, and I don’t like being famous for having a pair of dead parents. Yeah, we bonded over Quidditch, but that’s it.” He shrugged. “He’s actually good company if anyone bothered to know him instead of just wanting his autograph.”

Draco blinked, feeling a sudden dark pit of guilt open in his stomach.

“I didn’t mean -”

“You’re fine,” Harry looked up, waving a hand nonchalantly, then turning to glare at Ron, who was smiling up at Hermione like a smartass who could do nothing wrong, Diggory obliviously munching on toast across from him. “It’s not you who was staring at me all night.”

I’m also jealous of you because I’m crushing on you. But Harry couldn’t possibly know that, would never know that. He liked girls. Besides, Justin was right there.

“Saw Angelina Johnson put her name in,” he said as he swaggered up behind Harry. “And all those Durmstrangs… Are you going to try?”

Draco blinked between him and Harry, who had turned and was watching him expectantly. Normally he’d lie and say yes, to impress, but he was slowly realizing his friends weren’t the type that needed to be impressed by things like that.

“Of course not,” he said, waving a hand, “it’s suicide. I don’t know what Ronald’s thinking,” he mumbled the last part to Harry, who smiled, seemingly pleased he’d taken his side and forgotten his jealousy.

At that moment Hermione stomped back over and flopped down beside him. “He’s hopeless!” She cried, throwing her hands in the air then grabbing her milk and gulping it down furiously, slamming the goblet down again when she’d finished.

A good deal of laughing sounded, and the group turned to see the Twin Weasleys and Lee Jordan were jogging into the Hall, looking way too excited.

“Here we go,” Draco mumbled, smirking as Fred bent down to whisper to them.

“Done it. Just taken it.”

“What?” Harry asked, looking confused, for he of course hadn’t heard all the twins were talking about morning noon and night in the common room since the Tournament was announced.

“The Ageing Potion, of course,” Fred said, smacking Harry’s shoulder.

“One drop each,” said George. “We only need to be a few months older.”

“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee proudly.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” Hermione frowned, “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”

“Well you can’t deny their nerve,” Justin said once the boys had strode off towards the cup, standing at the center of the Entrance Hall. Hermione hummed, standing.

“Well let’s see them get their just desserts, then,” she said, and, with exasperated looks and a short apology to Justin, Draco and Harry followed her.

“Fred and George did it then?” They turned at the doors, seeing Ron jogging up behind them.

“Not yet,” Hermione said, haughtily sticking her chin in the air.

At the center of the Entrance Hall, Fred was readying himself to jump the line. Everyone watched anxiously as he took a deep breath and stepped over it, preparing to clap when it looked like it worked., Fred grinning wide and pumping a fist in the air, his brother leaping over the golden line to join him. Then a loud sizzling sound sounded, Hermione folded her arms and hummed expectantly, and both twins shot out of the circle, spiralling through the air, landing with a painful sounding smack on the floor ten feet away.

Everyone winced, then burst out laughing when a pop! Sounded and they both sprouted identical white beards.

The twins didn’t look quite upset, however, instead standing and stroking their beards almost proudly.

“I did warn you,” the laughter quieted down when Dumbledore’s voice rang over it, sounding deeply amused. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little, too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

Fred and George nodded and, with one last bow, were dragged along by Jordan, who was beside himself with laughter.

Still laughing, the group all turned and entered the Great Hall to finish breakfast, and if Harry walked over to sit beside Krum again? Well, Draco found he didn’t even care all that much.

-*-*-*-

They passed the day with an unremarkable visit to Hagrid’s that Draco zoned out for most of, thinking only of the feast that night and the excitement it brought. He did pick up on Hagrid’s obvious fascination with Madame Maxime, however, to which he’d had to suppress a lurch of bile in his mouth.

Now though, underneath the vibrant Hallowe’en decorations in the Great Hall, he couldn’t contain his excitement. He wasn’t even jealous as he had been last night watching Harry and Krum talk at the Slytherin table; the Triwizard Tournament was really, truly, happening! A once in a lifetime opportunity Draco couldn’t help enjoying.

Finally, every golden plate was wiped clean and everyone beamed around at their neighbors, leaning towards Dumbledore in anticipation.

“Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” he said, “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber,” he gestured to a door behind the staff table Draco had always wondered the purpose of, “where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

Dramatically, as he had the night before, Dumbledore removed his wand and swept it around him, blowing out every candle lining the walls, save those inside the floated carved pumpkins, now grinning at them in a grotesque and creepy sort of way. Draco shivered, but wasn’t scared; the atmosphere only increased the suspense.

Everyone’s eyes turned to the Goblet of Fire, which had been brought to sit before the teacher’s dais, and was filling the room with bright blue light, reminding Draco of Hermione’s bluebell flames as they danced on the stone walls.

“Any second,” they heard Lee Jordan whisper, and next second, causing many people to gasp, the flames turned red and seemed to roar, spitting and fizzing. As Dumbledore approached, he had to hold his arm up to suppress the glare of the flame from his eyes. It was actually quite… alarming, like the Goblet was out of control, but before Draco could even think of words to whisper to his friend it spat out three tongues of flame, three small pieces of parchment visible within. Dumbledore cupped his hands to catch them all, cracking a playful grin.

“It seems the Goblet’s a little excited,” he quipped, causing a ripple of laughter to spread across the hall, breaking the tension. He then raised one of the parchments up and announced, “The champion for Durmstrang… will be Viktor Krum.”

“Bloody of course,” Ron rolled his eyes and grumbled as he clapped with everyone else, causing Hermione to give him a sharp glare.

“Bravo, Viktor!” Karkaroff shouted above the immense applause as he disappeared into the mystery room, “Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping died out once he’d vanished, instead turning to muttering. Draco’s eyes found Dumbledore, staring at the pieces of parchment still remaining in his hands, transfixed, and understood why; what was wrong? Why wasn’t he reading out the other names?

Fred started to stand, calling out, “Oi! What’s the hold -” but Dumbledore swiftly raised a hand then turned on his heel to stride up the dais to the teacher’s table.

“Huh,” Fred sank back down in his seat, looking genuinely confused, “he’s never done that before…”

Dumbledore immediately strode to Karkaroff, bending his head low and showing him the pieces of parchment, and the Durmstrang headmaster frowned, shaking his head and rising.

“Would Bjørn Bjørkson and Isá Wärnach come here, please?”

Everyone turned in their seats to the Slytherin table, where two figures in red slowly rose, one large and burly, the other petite and slim. Both looked quite awkward, tripping over their own feet as they crossed the hall, but halfway there they froze, throwing up their hands, blinded by the sudden flare up of the Goblet’s flames, turning from blue to red once more.

“What is going on?” Hermione whispered, looking around as if for an answer before turning back to the Cup, three pieces of parchment shooting out of it once more.

Dumbledore dropped the pieces in his hand into Karkaroff’s, and hurried down to pick them up from the floor. His brow furrowed, but Draco recognized the defeat in his posture, as if he'd expected what he was seeing.

“From Beauxbatons,” he called to the now bewildered and maybe a little fearful crowd, “would Fleur Delacour, Clovis Renaude, and Colette Renaude join the Durmstrang delegates out of the hall,” he gestured to the door Viktor had left through, “where the judges will speak with you shortly.”

Stiff and awkward, heads bowed against the onslaught of eyes - save the ‘Veela’ girl, who had tossed her sheet of perfect blonde hair in the face of another Beauxbatons student and proceeded with pride immediately - the group made it up the dais to the door and disappeared.

Not quite sure what was happening, but all possessing enough common sense to know what was probably coming next all students turned in their seats, fully facing and focused on the Goblet. It turned red again, and no one was surprised as for the third time, three names shot out at once. Drifting freely in the wind, the slips of paper slowly fell into Dumbledore’s hands, and he raised them one by one.

Draco was very concerned to see that, ever so slightly, his hand was shaking.

“Cedric Diggory,” he called, to a soft clapping from the Hufflepuff's and the occasional cough. Diggory, ever the gentleman, however, took it with stride, standing and waiting by the door.

Dumbledore paused, sounding almost disappointed when he said, “Ronald Weasley.”

Draco’s jaw hit the floor, and he turned, along with everyone else, to stare at Weasley, who simply rose slowly, looking very pale and embarrassed, but not surprised.

He’d put his name in on purpose! But how?

“Ron!” Hermione tried to call to him, “What’s going -” but she broke off. He’d stopped for a moment at her call, but was now continuing his slow walk of shame to Diggory, who was smiling at him encouragingly.

“C’mon Ron,” he beckoned him forwards, and soon Ron’s shoulders rolled back. A grin grew across his face - he looked almost proud. He turned and addressed the crowd, beaming, but with two words, that smile was gone.

With two words, the world fell silent.

With two words, Draco felt his heart freeze over.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and called out two words clearly for the entire room to hear…

“Harry Potter.”

Chapter Text

Monday, October 31st, 1994

There had been a time, many years ago, when Draco had sat on this very bench at this very table in this very hall, and something had been called out through the room that had shattered his life in ways he could never predict, but tonight felt different. Worse.

Those many years ago had been when Harry Potter was declared a Slytherin and he’d felt his world cave in around him. Tonight felt like a personal betrayal by the man himself.

He didn’t like being seen, he’d said this very morning, yet now he stood before the Great Hall with every eye on him. He’d said he wouldn’t go for it, wouldn’t put his name in. But he’d lied… of course he’d lied… And Ron…

The lying, scarheaded, famous Harry Potter disappeared behind the door and the Great Hall immediately erupted with outrage.

“It’s not fair!”

“Hogwarts gets underage champions?! But vat about us? Vat about the age line!”

“Zey are too little! Zey can’t compete!”

“How’d Potter get his name in! Nobody put it in for him!”

“C’est un scandale!”

“Tegne på nytt! Tegne på nytt! Tegne på nytt!”

The staff had all huddled and were doing nothing but adding to the chaos. Feeling sick to his stomach, like the feast was ready to come all the way back up, Draco turned to Hermione, and it broke his heart to see how betrayed she looked, until he realized her image was a reflection of himself.

“They lied,” she whispered, and Draco flinched, his hand having moved up towards her, but then Hermione fell into his own shoulder, and Draco had to look up to realize why. The gossip had turned its attention on them.

“I wonder what they know?”

“Ask them!”

“I bet they know how they did it!”

“You’re their friends, aren’t you?”

“Get them!”

This was followed by a rallying cry from the Slytherin team. A group of Durmstrang students stood and pumped their fists in the air. Draco flinched, his arm instinctively wrapping around Hermione’s shoulders protectively. A couple of Beauxbatons kids made to follow, but everyone froze in their shouting, their gossiping, and what may well have become fighting when three voices called out together.

“Students, would you please take your seats,” Dumbledore called, his voice still remarkably calm.

“Quiet, all of you!” Karkaroff barked, glaring at his students with something like disgust at their behavior.

“Tiens ta langue!” Cried out Madame Maxime, and Draco recognized she was telling her students to hold their tongues in French.

For a moment, everyone simply blinked at their respective Headmaster’s, then people noticed the Beauxbatons students had all risen from their seats in a sort of straight back salute, and a couple people chuckled. But for that to lighten the mood would be a miracle. In reality, it was more like dropping a cup of water in an ocean of outrage.

Regardless, it was enough to keep the hall silent so Dumbledore could step forward, arms outstretched, and call them to order.

“I believe I speak for everyone in this room when I say that was unexpected. For now, I believe a long night’s rest may just clear some things in everybody’s mind, and we can approach this Tournament and the Goblet’s decision here tonight with care in the morning. Prefects, lead your Houses back to their dormitories. Good night.”

There was a murmur of frustration at this, but other than that nobody made that much of a fight. They were all exhausted, it was true, especially Hermione, it seemed, who Draco had to help to her feet as he slowly stood. With his arm still holding her half up, he moved like a sack of potatoes, and tried to blend in with the crowd. But still people glared at Draco and Hermione when they passed.

“The Death Eater and Little Miss Perfect, here to mess up our Tournament!”

Draco turned, ready to shout, to scream, to whip out his wand - his hand had already slipped into his pocket - but then he felt a small pressure at his hip and looked down. Hermione had wrapped her arm around his waist to hold him back.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice faint, and she lifted a limp arm to rub her fingers at her temple. “Just leave them be.”

So they tolerated the gossip all the way up to Gryffindor tower. They let it happen, Draco doing nothing but keeping a firm grip on his wand, until by the time they’d stepped into the Common Room he’d made a deep red indent into his hand.

Silently, Hermione slipped out from under his arm and headed for the girl’s dorms.

“Hermione -” He stretched out his hand, moving to follow, but let it fall to his side. She needed this, he supposed.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

He scowled, slowly turning to face whatever arsehole had come to harass him this time.

“Gonna tell us how they did it or what?” The blonde fifth year asked, but before he could respond he was jolted by a hand slapping on his shoulder.

“Leave him alone, McLaggen,” Katie Bell said, “Did you see him? He was oblivious! He clearly doesn’t know a thing.”

“Ron fooled us all, the sly dog,” Fred said, and George wiped a faux tear from his eye. “We’re so proud,” he said.

“Listen, I just want to go to bed,” Draco said, ducking out of Katie’s grip and backing away, but when he turned he ran into Thomas at the steps, arms crossed. Why was he so bloody tall?

“Not so fast, Malfoy, I seem to recall you telling Ron he could use an older student to get into the Goblet. That doesn’t sound very oblivious to me.”

Draco paled, horrified, then tried to compose himself to laugh convincingly but it only came out croaked.

“I was joking!” He gasped. “Obviously! I mean who would actually have to be dumb enough to try to pull that off? Ron Weasley, am I right?” He turned around to yell this to the crowd, and grinned with relief at the smiles and nods he got.

“The way I see it,” Lee Jordan called over the chatter, and for a moment Draco was scared he’d jump on a table again, like second year, but thankfully he stood his ground. “Ron’s a hero! Bringing glory to Gryffindor and all that! I mean really, can you imagine having a Hufflepuff for a champion?”

Half the crowd laughed, while Draco scowled, thinking of Justin, and even his peaky friends, Macmillan and Abbott.

“They’re not all bad…” He mumbled.

“The real problem here is Potter!” Some girl close to the blonde boy, MacLaggen, crowed. “He’s the one who always needs the attention!”

“Oi! Lay off him!” George yelled, almost warningly.

“Harry’s done nothing but saved our arses at this school!” Ginny said, placing her hands on her hips.

“I think all that attention has gone to his head,” said McLaggen, “become a bit of a douche.”

“Well isn’t that the cauldron calling the kettle black,” said Alicia, folding her arms and starting to approach him threateningly. “Wanna say that again, McLaggen, a little louder for the people in the back?”

“Sure,” the arsehole said, refusing to back down like an idiot. “Potter’s a douche, no way around it. He’ll be rallying a fan club next, you watch.”

“I don’t like it when people stare.”

“Well I… I can’t help it -”

“I don’t like being famous for having a pair of dead parents.”

BANG!

McLaggen yelped, the girl beside him screamed, and many people gasped, jumping aside, so that they inadvertently created an open path between Draco and the idiot, showing just who’d set off the jet of fire that had just burned his face.

Draco slowly lowered his wand, feeling as if a great weight had just been lifted off his shoulders in letting it fire, then glared out at the crowd as threateningly as he could.

“Shut it,” he growled, then turned and trudged up the stairs.

In the dorms, he collapsed onto his bed with an exhausted sight, arms sprawled, feeling he could fall asleep in his robes like Ron the night before.

Ron.

Merlin…

“Ron,” Draco groaned, rolling over and holding one of his pillows to his chest, staring out of the window beside his bed into the unknowns of the night, not at all comforted by the family tree that were the stars as he usually was. “Harry… What did you do?”

The night offered no answers, and he was too tired to bother waiting for Ron to give one, so instead he sank his head into his pillows, and let the endless confusion of the dark take him.

-*-*-*-

Tuesday, November 1st

When Draco awoke the next morning he was quite upset to find Ron had already gotten up. Frowning, he got dressed as quick as he could so that he was hopping down the stairs to the Common Room still shoving on a boot, but at the bottom of the stairs he found none other than Longbottom, shaking his head.

“Don’t bother,” he said in his usual depressed tone, looking around then leaning forward to mutter, “Ron was in a fury last night before you left for bed. Came down stomping this morning, dragged out Hermione, and that was it.”

Draco thanked him, doubly thankful for Longbottom getting up so early to witness this, and flew out of the room. Sure he was upset at his friends betrayal, but with a night to sleep on it he realized they probably had a good reason for all of this - maybe McLaggen’s words had snapped him back to his senses that Harry would never ask for this - and now he was intent on keeping his no doubt fractured friend group together.

However, that possibility crumbled once he’d reached the entrance hall. At the top of the marble steps he glimpsed Harry slipping out of the oak front doors. Frowning, he hurried down the steps to the center of the hall, glancing into the great hall where breakfast was going strong, people talking avidly to their friends, no doubt about the last night’s events. If he leant forwards, he could just see Ron and Hermione, heads bent.

For a moment he hesitated, but he supposed, in the end, it really was never a question, was it?

“Harry! Harry!”

He had to chase him all the way down to the lake to catch up to him, for the stubborn Slytherin simply refused to listen to his calls.

Eventually they stopped at the bank of the lake, with Harry angrily kicking a rock into the water.

“Now really,” asked Draco, placing a hand on his hip like a disapproving mother, hoping that might lighten the mood, “what was that for?”

It didn’t. “Go away,” Harry growled, plopping down on the bank, elbows on his knees.

“Well see I can’t do that,” Draco said, sitting down gracefully beside him, “because a friend of mine called Harry Potter is in deep distress at the moment and needs my help. Know where can I find him?”

“Majorca.”

Draco frowned, looking into his friend’s sullen, hopeless face sadly.

“Harry, I’m serious. What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean what’s bloody wrong?!” Harry yelled, “I’m a champion, so go ahead and yell at me for putting my name in and go join Ron and Hermione.”

Draco’s frown deepened, and he inched closer to the boy, so their shoulders touched. “Harry…” He drawled, half amazed he could be this daft, “I don’t think you put your name in.”

Harry stiffened, then slowly turned his head to look at him with something like awe.

“You… don’t?”

Draco couldn’t suppress a chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course not. I mean, c’mon, you said it yourself; you hate all the attention, and let’s face it Harry, you’re too daft to figure it out if Fred and George can’t. They may be foolish but they’re not stupid. You, however -”

He cut himself off because his heart leaping into his throat made it quite hard to speak, actually. Harry had just hugged him, without pretense, just thrown himself at him, and Draco could only sit there, baffled and blushing, but a second later he had let go of him and the clock seemed to wind again.

“Sorry!” Harry gasped, looking just as surprised by the past few seconds as him. “I don’t know why I did that I just… Thanks,” he gasped, and though Draco hated it as much as he loved it, it was through the love that he didn’t need any more explanation.

“I understand,” he shrugged, then glanced up at the castle, bending his head closer to his so that he felt quite like how Ron and Hermione must at this moment. “Now that we’ve got that settled then, mind telling me what last night was all about?”

So Harry explained to him in detail the events that happened behind the door off of the staff table while he and Hermione were dodging gossipers and the Ron-supporters squared off against the Harry-supporters.

There had been quite the fight, it seemed, between the Headmasters, Bagman, and Crouch, over the bizarre reality that was having nine champions, two of which underage. While the fact that the Goblet allowed this phenomenon to happen was boggling as is, the Headmasters and judges chose to spend their time pointing fingers at cheater’s, despite everyone, except Hogwarts, as two of its Champions were fourteen, being on even playing ground. They had ended the night not determining who put Harry’s name in the Goblet (Dumbledore had believed him when he said he didn’t) but how to deal with Diggory and Ron’s names. Apparently Ron had struck a deal with Diggory that he would put his name in the Goblet, figuring an older student could do it. Diggory, all about fairness, tried to keep it on two separate sheets, so that the best champion may win, but the Goblet refused to accept two names, spitting them out. Instead, Diggory wrote the names on the same paper, shrugging that if they got in together they’d promise not to fight each other. Unless they were the last two at the cup, that was, but Draco didn’t have high hopes for Ron.

In the end by the magic of the Goblet the judges could do nothing but let all three Hogwarts champions compete. And there proved to be no foul play - at least, there seemed to be - involved in the other schools. Seeing as how everyone was really on an equal playing field in numbers, Bagman and Crouch had seen nothing for it but to let everyone play.

But the story wasn’t over yet, because then the topic turned to Ron.

“He just figures I’m mad, I suppose,” Harry shrugged as they moved back up the lawn towards the castle, because they had class soon and unfortunately couldn’t afford it. “Thought we could be chummy, the two fourth year champions. Got all pissy when I told him I didn’t put my name in because I wasn’t well -” Harry hesitated, biting his tongue. “A nutter… like him… but it’s the truth! What is he thinking? We’re going to get killed the moment we step into the first task, I know it -”

“Hey!” Draco stopped him at the oak front doors, tugging his hand. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not alone, are you? You’ve got me. Remember what Dumbledore said, about our patronuses? You really think I’m about to waste all those times I’ve saved your arse?”

“My arse?” Harry repeated, looking offended. “What about the basilisk? You would’ve been a snake’s dinner if I hadn’t stopped it.”

“Only because I told you to.”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

“No you wouldn’t’ve!”

Their argument took them up to the third floor, where they had to depart for classes, but Draco found himself smiling as he walked into History of Magic, something people rarely do, because Harry had been laughing, and that had been a truly good sign.

-*-*-*-

There weren’t many of those going around these days.

Ron’s temper with Harry was simmering to the point that they could study and work together in and outside of classes, but there had been the small incident with the blast-ended skrewts that had ended in a fiery argument between the two as they lie in the hospital wing, to which Hermione and Draco only felt safe listening in on through a door. In the end they quit trying to kill each other and agreed Ron had meant to do this to get a little more equal grounding with his friend that seemed so far above him sometimes, and Harry wanted no part in this.

Their little friend group repatching itself was only one small step in this fight, however; the whole school seemed to think it was their business to determine who got to be a champion and who didn’t, and though at first that just meant who thought Diggory, Ron, or Harry were the rightful champions, it soon became an all out feud between Slytherin House, and the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, one Draco did not like getting caught in the middle of one bit.

Slytherin was intent on maintaining that they had the rightful champion, the great Harry Potter, the ‘hero who conquered the Dark Lord,’ if you will. But Hufflepuff had the eldest, the only one legal, and probably the most popular boy in all of Hogwarts, who had joined himself at the hip it seemed with Ronald Weasley, who maybe was taking the pact they’d made too seriously.

They’d become best friends. Gone was the Ron who scoffed that Hermione only liked him for the looks, replaced with a suddenly far more confident Triwizard Champion, who flicked his hair, winked at girls, and hung out with the elite of the school. Of course, none of which would have happened without Cedric Diggory, but Ron seemed to think, in his lucid delusions, this was all him.

So when badges started springing out seemingly out of thin air asking, “Who’s the Spare?” followed by flashes of each champion’s face that you could get stuck on permanently for who you supported, Draco couldn’t say he was surprised when he found one depicting Ron winking at him in his bedside drawer.

“It’s just - someone gave it to me, okay?” Ron had defended weakly when he noticed Draco staring, to which Draco didn’t give a reply, instead rolling over in bed.

All of this fighting… He hadn’t engaged in a single exchanged blow. He refused, staunchly, to pick a side, because on one end stood Ron, Hermione, and Justin, the boy he was supposed to like Merlin damn it all -

But on the other was Harry, brilliant Harry, gazing at him helpless and alone across the chasm.

Draco had thought he was done with chasms in the safety of Hogwarts, his parents miles away, but it seemed sides, and impossible choices, followed him wherever he went.

“I sense great turmoil in you,” Trelawney had told him in class at the end of the week, “the dark crescents under your eyes suggest you are passing through a struggle of the lunar variety.”

Harry had made a werewolf joke at that, but Draco’s laugh had been dry and unconvincing. He knew he was struggling, amidst all these House wars, with the impending doom that still remained, written in the stars quite literally, with him wherever he went. His father’s warning… He still didn’t even know what the prophecy contained. And yet he had promised to help his friends prepare for the tasks ahead. How was he supposed to stop the apocalypse, Voldemort’s rise to power, and keeping Harry Potter alive?

He needed to know what the prophecy held. But how?

Still, the answer refused to come.

-*-*-*-

The Hogwarts champions weren’t the only topic of conversation; Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and even some of their Hogwarts supporters had bought into the “Who’s the Spare?” dung as well, making their own merchandising, betting rings, what have you.

The twins adored this prospect and they, alongside Lee Jordan, quickly pinned up fliers around the skill listing information on the champions and their attributes, such as Bjørn Bjørkson, the burly Durmstrang student, and his odds against Viktor Krum, the crowd favorite. There was also Isá Wärnach, a favorite of dizzy weirdos like Draco’s cousin Looney Lovegood, due to her shy manner and strange upbringing. Whispers had flown around that she was a member of the few remaining pure-blooded Sami families in Northern Europe.

“There were some quite brutal witch trials there in the 18th century,” Hermione had whispered to Draco one day at breakfast. “Missionaries trying to convert the Muggle Sami to Christianity. The magical Sami were pulled into the mix.”

One the bluer side of things, Beauxbatons couldn’t be counted out either, with the dazzling Fleur Delacour, the beautiful girl Ron swore to be Veela, and twins Clovis and Colette, the boy bespectacled and intelligent looking, the girl a dark haired friend of Fleur Delacour, who had a dangerous gaze that could kill.

“They’re all so skilled…” Hermione had said, frowning down at one of the twins’ fliers displaying a history of Krum’s scores in class - Draco wondered what they had bribed Karkaroff with to get those… - “I don’t know how they’re going to do it…”

But while Harry’s depression deepened with this realization, Ron didn’t seem at all bothered. Honestly, Draco has worried more that his ego would get him killed rather than whatever they were facing in these tasks.

Regardless of skill, seeing all the divisions between groups, the nagging and insulting, made him feel sick.

“It’s all in good fun!” The twins reassured him in the Common Room one night, “people love to have someone to root for, it’s why we all love our Houses!” Draco couldn’t argue with that logic, the House system had been in place for years, but still… Something about this all felt wrong, besides the fact that nine champions, two of which were minors, was never supposed to happen in the first place. The Triwizard Tournament was meant to be a source of union between different nationalities of witch and wizard, yet here those nationalities sat, talking amongst themselves, flashing badges bearing different faces at each other, grinning cruelly when they reached the ‘enemy.’

Almost unconsciously Draco felt his own chest, as if assuring himself he still wore no badge, fingers sliding over his S.P.E.W. badge. That’s when it hit him. He’d almost forgotten in all the chaos…

No, he couldn’t do much for bringing three schools together, and was stuck in a hopeless stalemate with the prophecy, but that rally with the house-elves was still a possibility, and at that moment Draco was ready to do anything good.

-*-*-*-

Monday, November 7th

“Dobby doesn’t know about this, Mister Draco, sir,” Dobby squeaked, wringing his hands and glancing at the red curtain, beyond which sat rows and rows of house-elves, the entire staff at Hogwarts, nervously. “What if they don’t listen to Dobby?”

Draco smiled genuinely, kneeling down to place a hand on one of Dobby’s tiny shoulders. “They’ll listen. How could they not? It may seem like it’s taking forever, that no progress has been made, but I promise it has. If nothing else, we’ll have left here leaving an impression on them. Isn’t that enough?”

Dobby smiled optimistically, then turned to the curtain, took a deep breath, and stepped out.

“That was good.” He turned and shrugged at Hermione, who was beaming at him.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said nonchalantly, “Also, give yourself some credit, Hermione. All he’s saying out there? That was all you.”

They could hear, muffled, the speech Dobby was delivering to his fellow house-elves, detailing the history they’d never been told since their enslavement, which Hermione had uncovered on her own in the library and Draco had helped her formulate into a speech for this “rally.” (“An improvised gathering in the Kitchens with an improvised stage,” but good enough, Draco supposed).

“Thanks,” Hermione blushed, then frowned, glancing back behind them, where the fireplace of the kitchens sat, Harry and Ron talking to a house-elf named Winky in front of it (she’d apparently been blamed for the Dark Mark at the World Cup and promptly “freed” by her master, Mr. Crouch, and they now had questions for her). “It’s sort of scary, though. I never knew any of those things… You’re right, Draco, it’s generations of brainwashing, but I think part of it is fear. House-elves are more powerful than wizards and witches, in more ways than one.”

Draco tended to agree. What they’d learned, and what Dobby was currently explaining, was that house-elves originally were “born” centuries ago by manifesting in wizard and witch homes as helpful elves only desiring to clean. If rewarded, they happily left the home to go find new work. Eventually, however, they gained more and more independence of thought and wanted to join wizard and witch society. There was then a skip in the history books Draco and Hermione could find to their enslavement, and the creation of the magic bonding them to their master’s. It seemed to be a mixture of history not caring and trying to cover up the truth, but Draco thought it was obvious, as Hermione said, that it was all fear. Dobby could have dropped the ceiling of Malfoy Manor down if he was bound not to harm his masters. Elves were more powerful, that was the simple truth.

Now they just had to hope the other house-elves would listen and feel as horrified as Draco, Hermione, Dobby, and even Harry and Ron had. Ron had at least helped Hermione in making a new name for their organization, so above their impromptu stage was a banner reading, “House-Elf Liberation Front.” He thought it was a clever mix between “help,” and “elf,” and Hermione had been very happy for his “helf.”

A few minutes later Dobby stopped talking and opened the curtain and crack, gesturing Hermione forwards. Hermione nodded and started to step out, then hesitated, turning and holding out her hand. Draco blinked, surprised.

“I - Hermione this is your -”

“Oh come on, Draco,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, “you’ve done most of this. Come out with me. Please?”

He hesitated, then looked through the crack, and though a good number of house-elves looked offended still, some clearly had the light of realization in their eyes. “Alright,” he sighed, and took her hand.

There was a smattering of applause when Dobby introduced them (“Madam President Hermione Granger” and, “Mister Vice President Draco Malfoy”) then the floor was theirs, and Hermione took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Hi,” she said, still sounding a little nervous. “I’m Hermione Granger, and I’d like to tell you about something called ‘racism.’”

And so Draco stood by, feeling a little out of place, and watched as she removed billboards they’d painted together from a bag and set them up on a stand, explaining centuries of world history with people of color like her being enslaved and then discriminated against, so that the house-elves could all learn and understand that yes, this was how they were viewed and treated by wizards and witches. Draco chimed in occasionally just to say as much, having first hand experience hearing what they are called by their “masters,” but otherwise left Hermione to the rest, knowing she understood this best.

“It is the belief of the wizarding world,” Hermione concluded, “that you all are inferior to us. The Ministry of Magic proclaims that the four dominant magical species - wizard, goblin, centaur, and elf - are all equal, but this couldn’t be farther from the truth. You have been mistreated for far too long, and I believe, and Dobby believes,” she gestured down to the elf who smiled out at his colleagues hopefully, “and Draco believes,” she smiled at Draco, who weakly smiled back, “that enough is enough. It is time you got equal treatment. So, what do you say?”

For a moment, nothing. The air was still and silent, then a quiet smattering of applause started and grew to a roar, the entire staff of house-elves at Hogwarts rising to their feet and applauding the three of them, and Draco found himself grinning with pride, joy, and hope.

Yes. They’d listened, and they agreed. Maybe Hermione wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe he could do something good. And maybe, just maybe, this H.E.L.F thing was going somewhere.

In the end Hermione was able to get them all pinning badges to their toga’s, and she promised she’d arrange a time for her, Draco, Dobby, and one other representative to meet with Dumbledore to request pay. They still seemed slightly scared at even the mention of “pay,” but it was a start, definitely a start.

-*-*-*-

Saturday, November 19th

“Draco?”

Draco startled in his seat, having gone into probably his third reverie in a row staring out the window of the Three Broomsticks, and looked across the table to see Justin watching him, frowning.

“Were you even listening to me?”

“Hm? Oh, of course,” he straightened, leaning forwards and beaming at his boyfriend cheekily. “You were just telling me how handsome I am.”

“Oh very funny,” Justin shook his head, then his frown deepened. “Listen, Draco, I do know what’s up. Believe me I’m not jumping on any of that ‘who’s the spare,’ crap. I really couldn’t care -”

“I know, I know,” Draco waved his hand, brushing him off as he reached out, instead leaning further back in his chair and staring grumpily out around him. “It’s not you…”

All around him people were gripping their copies of Witch Weekly, whispering and pointing over at the back corner of the pub, where Harry, Hermione, and Ron were huddled, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

Rita Skeeter had asked to interview the champions of the Triwizard Tournament at the Weighing of the Wands ceremony, because of course she had, but instead of focusing on the champions as a whole, had talked about Harry and only Harry, making up atrocious lies about him crying over his parents overnight, followed by a separate page devoted to him apparently dating Hermione.

(And if Draco’s heart had briefly surged with jealousy at this section. well… that was no one’s business, least of all Justin’s.)

The worst part was how popular Skeeter was, and therefore how well received the article had been, for everyone but Harry and anyone who knew him. So yes, Draco had tried his hardest to focus on Justin, but his mind was only half here at their little table drinking butterbeer - the other half was with his friends, trying to comfort Harry even when he felt just as hopeless.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he straightened, forcing a smile on his face and leaning forward, making sure he got Justin in the light so that he could distract himself with how handsome he was. “Like Quidditch. What do you really think of it? I know you like to watch me fly, but I’ve never seen you on a broom…”

“Well, Muggle-born’s don’t often go for Quidditch do they?” Justin asked, looking slightly relieved to have the real Draco back as he swirled his straw around their butterbeer tankard (they’d gotten a couples tankard, per Justin’s request. Draco wasn’t one for the mushy gushy stuff like this but hadn’t been in the mood to fight it.) “I only learned about it from Ernie. Still barely understand it…”

Draco’s spirit was briefly miffed at the mention of Macmillan, his smile cracking a little as he thought of his Cedric Diggory badge he proudly wore wherever he pranced, but plowed on. “Well how about Muggle sports? Are you good at any of those?”

Justin shook his head, blushing. “Well, not to brag but I was a bit of a football champion in primary school. You remember my name was down for Eton College? I was all ready to join their top football team. But then life struck a haul-truck at me in the form of McGonagall knocking on my parents door and telling them I could do magic.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. He’d never thought about it before, which felt a little insensitive now, considering he could have asked Hermione, but he’d never considered the top witch in the class not knowing she could do magic.

“Did you know - or did you guess - did you ever think you did anything… odd?”

Justin smiled wryly. “Did I ever guess I was magic? Maybe…” He shrugged. “I was little, and little kids play make believe all the time, but sometimes it felt like I was actually making things move, float, spark… little stuff like that.”

Draco nodded along, trying to imagine a world where he - and his parents, he supposed - didn’t know why he was setting Severus’s tutoring homework on fire. But it was simply too hard to imagine a world where his parents were Muggles.

“It’s strange to think about,” he settled for mumbling, swirling his own straw before taking a sip.

“So, how’s Muggle Studies?” Justin asked after a moment. “What do you think of us Muggles?”

“It’s…” Draco hesitated. ‘Weird’ had been on the tip of his tongue, but now it felt wrong. He didn’t think it was weird, though he supposed he ought to, he really thought it was… “Brilliant!”

Justin widened his eyes in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, really, it's crazy that they can do so much without magic, but then you think about how they don’t even know magic exists and… wow.” Draco shook his head, half-conscious of a wistful smile sliding onto his face, “It's kind of incredible, isn't it? Their creativity?”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget my parents can’t just multiply dinner, they actually have to work to make it.”

“I think the whole electricity impresses me the most, even though I still don’t really get it.”

Justin gave him a sympathetic smile, and they both leaned forwards to drink from the butterbeer. As they sipped, their eyes met, and Draco was sure he could count every speck of gold in Justin’s brown, if he wasn’t looking at himself reflected there, that is. Then Justin’s eyes flicked down, and Draco found him doing the same, to his pink, butterbeer smelling lips.

He’d never kissed a boy before, or anyone, for that matter. He’d kissed Justin on the cheek, but that had been coy and flirtatious. Simple, and ephemeral. A kiss was long lasting. His first kiss, and Justin was leaning forward and Draco realized…

He wanted it to be with him.

He closed his eyes, and let Justin’s mouth fall on his own. The kiss was electric, a thrill that sparked up from his core. Soon he was placing a hand on Justin’s cheek, leaning in when -

Justin pulled away, falling back in his chair, beat red and wide eyed.

“Sorry!” Draco instantly gasped, raising his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry if I -”

“No, you’re fine, it’s just…” Justin scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, “this is er - all new, for me?”

Draco smiled, shrugging. “Me too?”

For a moment they sat in the silence of awkward new relationships, then Justin asked, “Wanna walk back to the castle?”

Draco nodded, smiling, and the two stood, paying Madam Rosmerta for their drinks, then taking each other’s hand and, blushy and awkward, heading out the door.

At the threshold, Draco glanced back at his friends. Hagrid was talking to the little table hidden in the corner, but he could just make out Harry peeking around Hagrid’s back, staring directly at him with an unreadable expression on his face, then Justin tugged at his hand and he was pulled away into the snow.

-*-*-*-

Sunday, November 20th

“You’re barking!”

“I’m not, unfortunately…”

Draco laughed, in spite of himself, still unable to believe the ridiculousness of it all. Dragons! The first task was Dragons! Sure, in any other circumstance he would be jumping for joy, the spectacle would be amazing, but now his two best friends were about to get burned to a crisp by those dragons, unless they could somehow pull a miracle out of thin air in a week.

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” he muttered hopelessly, running a hand through his hair.

The four of them were sat in the library, Harry and Ron recounting the past night’s event to he and Hermione, but to their looks of hopelessness Harry raised his hand, grinning.

“Wait, I haven’t gotten to Sirius’s visit yet.”

For Sirius had spoken with Harry through a two-way mirror he’d gifted him from his house (Draco found himself comparing it to a telephone, then marveled that he could compare a magical object to a Muggle one. Who even was he?) and given him insight on how to fight the dragons, with the caveat that that insight had been vague and Harry didn’t have a clue how to cast the Conjunctivitis Curse.

“OK,” Hermione nodded reasonably, “that’s… OK. We’ll just have to teach you two a sixth-year level spell in a couple of days. No problem - UGH!” She shrieked under her breath, for she had just noticed the group of girls coming around a bookshelf to stare at Viktor Krum, sitting a few tables over, and hurriedly moved to pack up her own books.

“He did this four times last week, we are not doing this again!”

Draco found himself smiling, knowing the reason for her grumbling to be, unbeknownst to her, Krum’s clear infatuation with her, as all he did was stare when he thought no one was looking. But he also lifted his chin a little in satisfaction to see Ron didn’t look happy about the past few minutes at all; it appeared he’d noticed too.

Draco was a little bothered by Harry recounting Sirius’s warning him about Karkaroff, too, but he didn’t even want to think about it as they headed into the Great Hall for lunch and got a smile and wink from his boyfriend, feeling like he was sitting on the clouds instead.

That feeling did not last, however, because it turned out teaching Harry and Ron the Conjunctivitis Curse was a problem, especially because neither he nor Hermione knew it. Only late on Wednesday, the day before the task, did Hermione come back from the library, looking red in the face from running, having mastered the Curse, but by that point Ron refused, claiming he had a ‘different plan.’

“And I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell us what it is?” Draco drawled, and at Ron’s cocky grin he wanted to slap him.

“Surprise,” he said smoothly, backing away.

“Well let himself get burnt to a crisp, then,” Hermione snapped at his back before turning to Harry, “are you ready?”

“Suppose so,” Harry shrugged, and they began.

It was a grueling process, and made Draco positive he’d never consider a career in teaching, but he supposed most of the sheer, uncomfortable fear was that Harry was just. not. getting. it. And if he didn’t get it, how was he going to beat the first task?

It was past midnight, and Draco only had a mild stinging in his eyes.

“Maybe dragon eyes are more sensitive -”

“Don’t talk to me!” Harry burst out, waving his hands, then snatching up the Invisibility Cloak, clearly intent on trekking back down to the Slytherin Common Room and abandoning the ordeal. “Just… we’ll get in the morning, OK?”

Draco managed to hold back a dry retort that it was the morning, instead looking at Hermione sympathetically.

“Do you think -”

“He has to, Draco,” she said, “he has to.”

He nodded, feeling the exact same. He didn’t sleep easy that night, only when he replaced images of an even more scared Scarhead, covered in burns, with Justin and his perfect freckles and curls.

-*-*-*-

Thursday, November 24th

“Come on Harry, hit me again.”

They were standing in an abandoned classroom, a plate of uneaten sandwiches tossed to the side, and Harry was raising his wand to go again.

“Conjunctuvi!” He said, and Draco took the blow, wincing and rubbing at his eyes.

“That’s good!” He said, for his eyes had swelled so that he could only see half of Harry’s face. He waved his arms over his desk for a moment before Harry shoved the Oculus potion into his hand and he downed it, the swelling beginning to fade away. “Really good. Give it a few more goes and -”

“Can we just - pause, for a moment?”

Draco frowned, lowering his hand from rubbing at his sore eyes. “Okay…” He said carefully.

“Sorry it’s just -” Harry dropped down behind a desk, sighing as he raked a hand through his hair, making it more untidy than it already was. “It’s all just a lot.”

Draco stayed silent as he walked over to sit in the desk next to him, letting him stir in his thoughts as his gaze drifted to the window. If nothing else, it was a beautiful day for the first task.

“Do you think the way Ron’s acting… Hermione reckons he’s jealous,” Harry turned to look at Draco imploringly, “Did I do anything wrong?”

Draco thought of the youngest Weasley boy proudly commanding a chessboard while riding a knight’s horse. He thought of the way he’d faced his fear of spiders with the conviction of avenging Hermione, of the defeat in his voice when the cave-in in the Chamber occurred, and he was blocked from rescuing his own sister. He remembered his insistence that he could walk on his own, and the clear disgust at having to be half carried back to the school from the Shrieking Shack. And finally, he remembered this year, and the events leading up to that night in the Common Room, which felt like a century ago now, when Ron had asked if getting an older student to put his name in would work. He’d been jealous of Harry talking it up with Krum, of Hermione’s eye being caught by other boys, and he’d certainly looked oh so put out by the news there’d be no Quidditch this year.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Draco assured Harry, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Ronald is just a little… bad with emotions sometimes. He’s been jealous for a while, but he probably should’ve spoken up about it, right?”

Harry looked up, turning to eye Draco skeptically. “This is about Hermione, isn’t it?”

Draco gave him a weak smile and he sighed deeply, rolling his eyes. “Those two…” Draco chuckled, glad he could find someone else who shared in his exasperation, even if it had to be Harry, Harry who he still…

“Alright,” Harry rose with a new vigor, gesturing for Draco to do the same. “Let’s go again. We’ve got a few more minutes.”

So they did, despite the fact that Draco’s eyes were screaming at him, and with each time Harry was able to swell Draco’s eyes a little more, and Draco’s heart began to swell as much as his eyes with hope.

“Knock on wood, Harry,” he said when there were ten minutes left and they knew they had to go back now, “but I think you may just have a chance.”

Harry frowned, staring at the ground and chewing on his lip, then trudging for the door, grunting, “Let’s go.”

Draco picked up the plate of sandwiches and hurried after him, taking a hungry bite out of one.

They headed down to the Entrance Hall in silence, Draco casting him glances every few moments to see he still looked uncomfortable. With a jolt he realized how hypocritical it was to suppose his worry for Harry was at the same level as his own fear for his life. But now he didn’t know what there was left to say, or if Harry even wanted to hear it. He knew he wouldn’t have wanted to be babied while walking to his death.

Eventually they were standing on the marble steps and a certain Potions Master’s voice called from the doors to the Great Hall.

“Potter!” The boys walked over to Professor Snape, who was breathing a little heavier than usual, possibly because he’d been looking for him. “Potter, where in Merlin’s name have you been? I’m meant to escort you to the other champions to prepare for the first task. Come along, now.”

“OK,” said Harry blandly, and Draco tried to catch his eye, smiling.

“Harry -”

He was starting to walk away alongside Severus. He stopped and turned though, and Draco saw his clear horror seemed to have numbed out so that his green eyes, once so sparkly and bright, eyes he’d fallen in love with, were now dull.

“Don’t die, Scarhead, alright?”

But then he smiled, and a little light returned.

“Not on your life, Malfoy,” he said, then turned and walked away.

-*-*-*-

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unconsciously fiddling with the watch around his wrist, his gift from Dumbledore, almost wishing the task could be at night, so he’d at least know if it would end badly or not, thanks to the magical device. Instead, he was left to stew in the apprehension of the start of the task, as people cheered all around him, far too excited to watch children get burned and bitten at.

The three schools, plus a teacher’s and judge’s box, were all sitting around an enclosure in the Forbidden Forest, on stands that rose half as high as the Quidditch ones, with a single open path, currently fenced off, leading, no doubt, to the dragon enclosure from which they could hear the occasional roar.

People all around them were already placing their bets, whispering about what or who they thought the roars might belong to, but Draco paid them no mind. Instead he turned to Hermione, gripping the bottom of the wooden bench they sat on so tight her knuckles were white.

“Hermione -”

“Don’t talk to me,” she snapped, and he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Ginny had just arrived, Looney right behind her.

“Don’t bother, Draco, she’ll be alright,” she said, sitting down beside him, and Draco shrugged it off as a girl thing, facing forward once more.

“I hope the same can be said for Harry…” he mumbled.

“And Ron,” Ginny added.

“Don’t worry about Ronniekins, Gin!” said a voice, and they both turned to see Fred and George pushing past kids to get into the seats right behind them, carrying buckets of popcorn, “He’s a Weasley! He’ll be fine.”

“And if not,” said George, popping a handful of popcorn into his mouth, “we’ll just disown him in the afterlife.”

Hermione spun around but Ginny reached over to lay a hand on hers. “It’s their way of coping,” she said softly and Hermione, though still looking thoroughly disgruntled, turned back around.

Draco sighed deeply, turning his watch in a three-sixty around his wrist. Why couldn’t they get it over with and just start already?

And then, as if his thoughts had summoned him, Ludo Bagman strode out of the tent flap from which Draco supposed the champions would walk out of, and spread his arms wide. The crowd began to cheer immediately, but Draco could distinctly make out mutters and grumbles behind him, turning to see the twins glaring daggers down at Bagman. Unsure what that was about, and unsure if he really wanted to know, Draco chose to ignore it.

“Psst!” Instead, he was very thoroughly distracted when he saw a group of Hufflepuff’s stumbling over people’s knees towards them.

“Hullo,” said Justin, sitting down in front of him, “Excited?”

Draco gave him a deadpan look and he smiled weakly. “Yeah, I thought so…”

Bagman had reached the judge’s box. From here he pressed the tip of his wand to his throat, and muttered something that must’ve magnified his voice, for he next spoke with it booming around them like a Muggle loudspeaker (what was it with Draco comparing wizard things to Muggle things now?)

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “the first task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Our champions have been instructed to retrieve a golden egg,” he gestured down to the enclosure, where a group of wizards were setting up a nest of real dragon eggs, plus one golden one, “from a specific dragon, selected at random.”

The fence opened, and many people gasped or screamed in alarm, as a group of wizards now tugged and pulled at a board on wheels, on which a pearly white dragon slept soundly, no doubt charmed to keep it calm until the Champion was called. They all raised their wands and worked to slowly lift the dragon up and into the enclosure, the wizards who’d dropped the eggs grabbed a chain hanging from her neck and tied it to a peg in the ground, before they all left.

Once they were gone, the dragon sniffed, and raised her head, and the crowd gasped and flinched back once more, as she rose and began to prowl around her nest, watching the tent flap with pupil-less eyes one could get hypnotized in.

Then Bagman blew a whistle hard and called out, “Colette Renaude, our first Champion to face her dragon!”

The flap opened and Girl Renaude stepped out, holding her head high, though her skin was white, her eyes wide. She raised her wand, and just as the Opaleye lunged for her, jaws stretched wide, tapped her head with it, and a shimmery film suddenly seemed to fall and spread across her body, making her appear like the rocks and grass of the enclosure, like a human chameleon. Then, though Draco and, he realized, most of the crowd leaned forward and squinted their hardest, she seemed to disappear.

This certainly made the Opaleye angry, who began to fire jets of deep, vivid red flame at random spots, and eventually, when she turned, her tail swung to the side and knocked something right off its feet, as a shimmery form distinctly fell to the ground with a crunch. The Beauxbatons crowd all groaned, but while the Opaleye continued to fire at random nothing happened for another few moments - Renaude seemed to be trying to dodge her tail and flame to reach the golden egg, until finally the shimmery form made a dive for the egg, its cloak alight with red flames, and the Beauxbatons (plus the Ravenclaws) let out an uproar of cheers.

Renaude, her disillusionment charm melting away as she did so, stood and raised her golden egg high above her, grinning, though they could see she was bleeding from the mouth slightly. Then she hurriedly started dousing the flames on her cloak, the crowd still applauding, and was led away by one of the dragon-tamers to a medic tent, the others charming the Opaleye to sleep and dragging it out of the enclosure again.

Draco watched the gate anxiously for the next dragon, seeing Hermione scrawl something down in a Muggle notebook next to him.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“Keeping track of the Champions,” she answered, showing him where she’d written ‘Colette Renaude, used a Disillusionment Charm. Possibly skilled in Charms?’ “Hopefully it’ll help the boys if - after this.”

Draco didn’t miss her slip up, but nodded anyway, turning back to the judges, who were raising their wands for the scoring.

Crouch gave her a six, Bagman a seven, Dumbledore a seven, Maxime a nine, and Karkaroff a four. Hermione scrawled 33 below Renaude’s name.

Draco watched apprehensively as the dragon trainers dragged out the second dragon. He could tell from the smooth transition from brown to green scales that this must be the Common Welsh Green. Hoping the next one would be Harry, or at least Ron, he watched the tent flap, and sighed when the part Veela girl, Fleur Delacour, glided out to Bagman’s whistle.

She raised her wand as the Welsh Green watched her with narrowed eyes, then, just as she’d started waving it, the dragon lunged and she ducked to the side, taking cover behind a boulder. Many people gasped. Draco leaned forward and watched her carefully, trying to understand what she was doing as she rose again, beginning to wave her wand then leaping across the boulder, landing on a ledge she ended up rolling over and falling off of, causing her to crash to the ground with a crunch worse than Renaude’s.

“Oh, I’m not sure that was wise!” Bagman called to the resounding winces and groans from the crowd, watching Fleur lift herself up worryingly. Swaying slightly, she raised her wand once more, the Welsh Green opening its jaws wide to fire, but as it came closer it seemed to slow down, head nodding, as if off to sleep, and Draco suddenly understood what she was doing.

She lifted her wand, seeming to think her work done as the dragon bended its knees, then she snapped awake and Delacour dodged to the side just in time, sliding under the swishing tail to get behind her and sped away to the edge of the enclosure, though limping as she did so, (“Careful now… good Lord, I thought she had it then!” Bagman was yelling) and Draco understood she was attempting to get as far as possible for optimal time to perform her spell.

For the third time she raised her wand and began to gracefully cut it through the air, her lips moving in a chant they couldn’t hear, and the dragon slowed, slowed, slowed to a halt, laying about the stone and grass floor of the enclosure in a deep slumber.

The crowd fell into a still quiet without prompting, an unspoken understanding rippling over them to keep quiet so the dragon stayed asleep as Delacour, without stopping for breath, carefully tiptoed around the dragon, quiet as a mouse.

Then, just as she was passing her snout, the dragon snorted out a flare of fire from her nostrils and lit the tip of Fleur’s skirt. She shrieked a short, quick scream she just as quickly muffled by clapping a hand to her mouth, then carefully sprayed a stream of water from her wand onto the skirt to douse the flames, continuing her tiptoeing towards the nest of eggs.

Eventually she too was holding a golden egg above her, and once again the Beauxbatons and Ravenclaws erupted in tumultuous applause.

Hermione started scribbling as Delacour was led away, still limping, and the judges raised their wands for the scores. Crouch gave her a six, Bagman a six, Maxime an eight, Dumbledore a seven, and Karkaroff a three.

“That was a little harsh,” Hermione winced to the general booing around them as she wrote down the scores.

“Well she did have a harder time of it then Renaude,” Draco tried to reason, though he understood Karkaroff was a slimeball who would probably give all the Durmstrang kids tens, or at least Krum.

The crowd rose excitedly in their seats from their temporary reprieve; a third dragon was being pulled out, a thick bodied creature with the black, roughened scales and inky wings. A Hebridean Black, no doubt, something Draco could say for certain and whisper to Hermione when she opened her brilliant purple eyes.

“She’s gorgeous!” Lavender Brown squealed a row down, and the soft spot Draco would always hold for dragons couldn’t disagree, but then the Black raised her head and released a jet of greenish blue flames directly at them, causing Brown, Patil, and a couple others nearby to scream, before the fire smacked against a brilliant blue shield and spread, the impact rippling along the edges of the shield showing them the entire enclosure was being magically guarded by a huge shield charm.

“Wow…” Hermione breathed beside him, “that’s some impressive magic.”

“Hm…” Draco hummed, not really paying attention. He had just noticed the badge Finnigan was wearing, seated beside Brown, which read “Hufflepuff is for the Rest, in Gryffindor we take the Best!” followed by a picture of Ron grinning and winking at him.

Reaching forward, he squeezed Justin’s shoulder, who was unfortunately seated next to Finnigan, though a good foot away. He turned and Draco grinned comfortingly up at him, before the two were startled apart by the crowd’s applause; Bagman had just announced Bjørn Bjørkson as the next Champion, and sure enough there he was stepping out of the tent and into the light, looking up at the Black with almost a too calm frown. Turning her direction away from prowling the edge of the enclosure, the Black narrowed her purple eyes upon him, and began to prowl forwards, her bat-like wings flapping dangerously.

But still Bjørkson remained stoic, raising his wand to lift one of the normal eggs from the nest and bringing it towards him. Instantly the dragon roared and hurried in her pursuit, then with a swing back he threw the egg forward through the air, where it smashed onto the rocks.

Many people winced, and Draco heard a roar of, “WHAT’D YA DO THAT FOR?” which he didn’t need to look at the teacher’s box to know had been Hagrid’s. But Bjørkson didn’t seem to care, instead lifting another, even as the dragon panicked and stomped over to her deceased young, and tossed that one too. With that he began a slow pursuit towards the nest, tossing aside eggs as he walked, Hagrid having now leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, shaking his head almost comically.

But halfway there, the dragon seemed to have turned from grieving to vengeful, because with a great roar she released a wave of flames upon Bjørkson, who didn’t seem ready for it, hurriedly yelling out, “Protego!” in a deep voice, but getting some harsh looking burns across his arms and the left side of his face. Calm demeanor gone now, Bjørkson broke into a run towards the nest with the dragon in (literal) hot pursuit, burning a trail behind where he stepped, so that at one point he tumbled forwards and off the ledge the nest sat upon, as Delacour had, to avoid the flames reaching him.

Landing in a fissure, the crowd craned their necks to try and get a good look at him as the dragon clawed at his hiding place, but in the meantime he must’ve been putting out his burns, as he emerged hanging onto one of the claws, having grabbed the dragons arm to get lifted out of the fissure, charred but not aflame. He then took a leap of faith, so to speak, towards the nest, and ended up colliding with the edge of it, holding on by the tips of his fingers.

Lifting up his upper body, he stretched out his wand arm to the dragon, yelling, “Confringo!” and causing it to reel back in pain, its eyes having been sparked. Finally, Bjørkson was able to lift himself up in the momentary distraction of the dragon, and grabbed the egg.

Upon touching the gold surface the Durmstrang crowd roared with pride, and Draco leaned back, having been nearly out of his seat in the excitement of this performance. He clapped dryly, because, admittedly, that had been pretty cool. But then he noticed Hermione scrawling frantically beside him and realized, by her worried frown, that this was actually a bad thing, and meant the boys had big competition. And they hadn’t even seen Viktor Krum yet.

The crowd died down as Bjørkson was led away, and it was time for the scoring.

Crouch gave him an eight, Bagman an eight (it was at this point they realized Bagman had probably shifted to copying Crouch’s scores), Maxime a five (she seemed to be getting angry with Karkaroff’s bias), Dumbledore a seven, and Karkaroff nine.

“I was expecting a ten,” Hermione said.

“Looks a bit disappointed in him, doesn’t he?” Draco commented, squinting at Karkaroff’s sneer as he watched Bjørkson go back into his tent after observing his scores, “Makes me glad I’m not a Durmstrang.”

People shuffled in their seats, leaning forward and watching the next dragon get wheeled out anxiously. This one certainly looked dangerous, but not difficult to name. “Romanian Longhorn” was not a particularly creative name, considering the long, curved golden horns atop the deep green scales of this beast’s head, and Draco was quick to tell Hermione it.

“I wouldn’t want to be within a mile of those horns,” shivered Hermione, “much less a few feet. And look!” He followed her finger down to the Champions tent, where Renaude’s twin, Clovis, was stepping out. He gave the crowd a shy smile and wave, before adjusting his glasses, and narrowing his eyes upon the beast.

Compared to Bjørkson’s show, this one was a bit of a snooze, and Draco was happy to lean back in his seat and count the seconds on his watch as it ticked on, and Renaude applied the same tactics as his twin, rolling and dodging the horns of the Longhorn, as a shimmery, disillusioned form.

For having a harder dragon but using the same tactics as his sister, the twins ended up with the same scores, and Hermione had very little to write compared to Bjørkson. However, the two were both sharply ripped from their boredom by a sudden outburst of applause all around them. It seemed the first Hogwarts Champion had emerged. They both leaned forward, eager, but slumped when they saw it was only Diggory stepping out, looking a little green, but setting his jaw determinedly up at the Swedish Short-Snout before him.

Immediately, meaning the dragon had only taken a few steps away from her nest, Diggory had his wand out and, judging by how it was moving, he was trying to pick something to point at as he backed up towards a boulder. Then, just as the dragon readied herself to fire a stream of flame, and his supporters rose from their seats to scream out warnings, Diggory dodged the flames, missing them by inches, and hid behind a boulder.

When the wave of orange had cleared all the dragon could see was a large labrador dog Diggory had no doubt just transfigured. It would explain the pointing at rocks.

And so Diggory moved to push on towards the dragon, ducking and dodging behind rocks as it chased around the yipping, frantic dog.

He was almost there when the dog skittered up a particularly high stack of boulders, and stopped. Here the dragon seemed to get bored with her slippery prey, and turned around, sniffing briefly then, with a roar, seemingly finding her new quarry.

Diggory, who was climbing up the rocks to the back entrance to the nest, peeked over them and widened his eyes. He had just enough time to let go and fall back down to where he’d started his two minute long ascent, but not enough to avoid getting fierce burns across his handsome face.

Draco hissed through his teeth, wincing, then leaned forward tensely, partially worried Diggory might not be able to get out of this one, trapped between rock and the walls of the enclosure.

But he hesitated for only a moment, beginning his ascent once more while the dragon waited, growing agitated by the second, apparently disappointed she couldn’t see him. And this time, when his singed and seared face popped over the edge and the flames rushed towards him, he was ready, sticking his wand out and crying, “Protego!”

The shield charm protected him long enough that he was able to reach the nest and raise his egg, before dropping to one knee, his shield falling as well.

The Hufflepuff’s and other supporters roared their appreciation and delight, and Draco clapped along with a politeful smile. He was a Hogwartian after all, and he was trying not to participate in this House feud.

“How many more to go?” He asked Hermione anxiously as the scores were shown (totalling 35 points), and the next dragon was dragged out.

“Four more, and if this one’s not them - Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Draco winced and covered his ears at the sudden uproar of high pitched screams all around him. At the very least this, and Hermione’s response, made it very clear that Viktor Krum was next, facing down the Chinese Fireball.

“That’s a more difficult one!” Draco yelled over the still going squeals. “I think they’re increasing in power scaling!”

“Wonderful! So the boys will get the hardest ones then?”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that, except to shut his mouth and stare pointedly down at the enclosure and the face off between Krum and the dragon.

He seemed to be trying to fire a spell at it, as he kept raising his wand and starting an incantation before having to dodge again, but as soon as he was on his feet he was shouting the incantation, missing the dragon’s eyes by inches -

Wait.

Krum was trying to blind the dragon too!

The enclosure became a blur as a flash passed over Draco’s eyes of Hermione stumbling towards them with windswept cheeks, announcing she’d learned the Conjunctivitis Curse. In an hour.

“Hermione…” Draco said slowly, having a sinking suspicion those pink cheeks had nothing to do with the wind. “How exactly did you learn the Conjunctivitis Curse?”

Her eyes widened and she looked around at him wildly. “How did you -” she immediately cupped a hand to her mouth and Draco grinned, snapping his fingers.

“Aha!”

“Oh leave it alone!” She snapped, “he’s always in the library, you’ve seen him, and he saw I was struggling and came over to give me a hand. What’s so bad about that?” She scowled suddenly. “Or are you about to call him the enemy like Ron?”

“No, no, of course not,” said Draco, waving a hand, “I’m just an idle observer.” They turned back to idly observing the task, but Draco made sure to lean close and whisper, “an idle observer whose positive Krum doesn’t come to the library for the books,” before the matter could rest.

Hermione looked a cross between smitten and mortified, and it made Draco have to bite down on his knuckles not to laugh.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Ginny asked inquisitively from beside them.

“Nothing!” They exclaimed in unison, and though she looked suspicious, at least she had the good conscience to let the matter rest.

Krum won forty points for the excellent Conjunctivitis Curse, and would’ve won more, but he was docked points for smashing the dragon’s eggs, as Bjørkson had. As he watched Hermione write this down, Draco recognized his own trepidation mirrored in hers what points Harry would lose for smashing any of his eggs.

A thin, copper colored dragon was dragged out next, and several people shivered and whispered to their neighbors. Draco winced among them. The Peruvian Vipertooth was famous among purebloods for its spread of Dragon Pox, chief cause of the all too recent deterioration of wizard lines. Draco’s grandparents had been claimed by it when he was still quite young. He’d barely known them.

Small, blonde, and a bit of an enigma, Isá Wärnach stepped out. No one knew quite what to make of her before she stepped into the enclosure, and certainly her display didn’t clear up any confusion. Throughout a little more than ten minutes Wärnach bowed to her dragon, acted nonchalantly when it singed the tips of her hair, which she also was the first girl not to bother with tying back, skipped up its spine with the gracefulness of a ballet dancer, and had pressed her wand to its temple and supposedly wiped its memory, so that she was able to glide over to her egg and lift it without the dragon even being slightly upset.

“That was… quite a show…” was all Bagman had to say after that, having not commented at all during the display, the audience being unusually silent as well.

Hermione took her sweet time detailing Wärnach, so that when the Norwegian Ridgeback that would be the penultimate dragon was dropped, she had to be shaken to be alerted of the ginger headed new celebrity stepping out to a thunderous Gryffindor applause.

But for once, Ron didn’t seem eager to soak in his own glory, instead glaring up at the dragon, looking so focused that for one startlingly vivid moment, Draco was eleven, standing on a massive board checkered in black and white, and Ron was staring down the board with the eyes of a strategist.

Now Ron looked around the enclosure with that same expression, before raising his wand high to the sky and calling out, “Accio Broom!”

Draco was ready to hop out of his seat when a minute later he spotted his own Nimbus Two Thousand and One pass smoothly through the barrier and into Ron’s hand.

“Oi!” He called, but Hermione grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down while Ron didn’t even break his focus, instead swinging onto the thing and rising into the air.

“If he breaks so much as a twig on the brush…” He grumbled, while everyone else leaned forward in their seats tensely, desperate to see how the young Champion would do.

Ron began to gently swerve to the right on his broom and the Ridgeback followed him with her steely gaze, then raised a sharp clawed hand as if to bat him from the sky like a fly, and swung. Many people gasped, thinking surely Ron was too close, he was a goner, but at the last second he swerved away, speeding down to the bottom of the enclosure, picking up the chain the dragon was tied by, and speeding back up to toss it over the Ridgebacks scaly hand just in time.

As she tugged and pulled, roaring, clearly confused, he pulled the chain back down, clearly straining from the effort, and spun fast around her wrist three, four, five times, before tugging the knot tight.

Still holding the rest of the chain, he faced the Ridgeback, who now seemed ready to stop treating him like a fly and puffed fire at him. He rose high into the air to avoid the orange flames, and even when they spread out along the barrier, far out of reach of him, he continued to rise until he bounced off the top of the dome. Here he turned and waited for the Ridgeback’s next attack.

Growling, puffing smoke from her nostrils, the Ridgeback reeled her head back and fired another jet of flame, but Ron easily dodged this one two, swaying back and forth to demonstrate she couldn’t reach him from the ground.

Her wings flapped dangerously with the hungry want to fly, but Ron continued to look stoic. Once more, Draco remembered the giant, nightmarish chess set, and how even as more white pawns, bishops, and knights fell Ron refused to cheer or even smile. So worried was he then over Voldemort getting the Philosopher’s Stone, he’d never really appreciated Ron’s chess prowess, or stratagem in general.

Finally, the dragon rose from the enclosure, lifted on her wings, and Ron wasted no time. He dived, chain tight in hand, and swerved over her sideways, so that as she opened her jaws wide to snap on him she caught the chain instead. She let out something like a screech as with a mighty tug Ron pulled the chain all the way back down to the ground, spun it around one of her ankles, and then took the rest of the length of the chain, and tied a knot around the peg that it originated from.

Roaring frantically, the Ridgeback fell to the ground, and though she tried desperately to flap her wings to rise once more, her head, arm, and leg were now tied to the rocks, and it was impossible.

Ron soared over her easily, dodging more angry flames that were badly aimed anyway now that her jaws were chained down, and swiftly slid off her broom on the top of the nest, lifting the golden egg high above him, and finally allowing himself a triumphant grin.

The Gryffindors rose abruptly in their seats, screaming and cheering, and beside them, Ginny even climbed on top of her own to jump up and down, screaming.

Behind them, Fred had climbed on top of George’s shoulders and was hollering, “THAT’S MY BROTHER!”

Draco exchanged an exasperated look with Hermione, but they cheered all the same.

“I had no idea he could fly like that,” Draco mumbled as they all took their seats and Ron walked off, entirely unscathed, still waving to his cheering supporters.

Hermione shushed him, and they watched the skies agitatedly, awaiting his scoring.

Crouch and Bagman awarded him eight points, Maxime seven, Dumbledore nine, and Karkaroff six, for a total of thirty-eight.

After a polite applause, everyone shuffled to the edge of their seats, leaning forward eagerly, Draco rubbing his hands together in anticipation for Harry Potter to step out from the tent and face the final and worst dragon of all; the Hungarian Horntail.

Because of course he got the hardest one. Why would it be any other way for Saint Potter?

Upon being released the Horntail immediately started snapping her jaws at the crowd, and some jumped in their seats, gasping, when she fired fire at them, despite having full knowledge by now that it would just bounce off the barrier. Draco didn’t blame them, the thing had spikes coming out seemingly everywhere, and, most dangerously, her tail, which looked to be worthy of killing a Potter with just one swish.

Still, he felt a hand rest on his own and smiled at Hermione. Worrying wouldn’t do Harry any good.

Instead, when the scruffy head did emerge, they flew to their feet and screamed their support along with the Slytherins, ignoring the glares and eyerolls they got from their neighbors.

Harry ignored it all, of course, and stayed staring up at his dragon, and Draco couldn’t help the way his heart seemed to soar. He just looked so… perfect. In his element, staring down a foe.

He raised his wand, yelled out, “Conjunctivi!” loudly and clearly… and missed.

But it was okay, he ducked behind a boulder and was aiming again, and he and Hermione didn’t lose hope. Krum hadn’t made it the first time, had he?

But he seemed to be losing his focus with each miss, and eventually, tripped.

The Gryffindors and Hufflepuff’s laughed cruelly as the dragon roared and Harry had to roll in hiding like a cornered animal to avoid the flames, but Draco leaned forwards, gripping the back of the seat in front of him, Justin’s.

His boyfriend looked behind him, watching him worriedly, but Draco couldn’t meet his eyes. Harry was going to get hurt - Harry was going to give up -

Come on, Potter. Get up!

And, like the hero he was, he did.

Wincing, Harry climbed over the boulder he was hiding behind and faced the dragon head on, wand raised high.

“Conjunctivi!”

His aim was true, and he was able to leap to the neighboring boulder just in time before the horntail, reeling in pain, could hit him with her wildly swinging tail.

The Slytherin’s roared their support, drowning out the once again hollering Hagrid as the dragon smashed into her own eggs.

Harry jumped from rock to rock towards the nest, not at all graceful like Wärnach, but then again, Draco expected nothing less from him.

He reached the egg, raised it high, and let out a sigh of relief to the glorious applause, not even the faintest sign of a celebratory grin on his tan face. Potter, ever the humble…

He was led off into the medical tent, and Draco turned to beam at Hermione.

“He did it!” She exclaimed, eyes wet, “they both did!” and she leapt at him, hugging him tight. He hugged back, allowing himself a moment to breathe in relief that it was over - at least the first of three was - and his best friends were both still intact, not an ash in sight.

“Come on, let’s go see them -” As soon as she pulled away from him she was grabbing his wrist and leading him out of the stands, so that he could only give Justin a helpless shrug when he stretched out his own hand towards him.

The woods were full of people all moving to try and find their friends or leave, but Hermione shoved through them all to get to the path to the medical tent, and Draco obliged, letting her guide him over to the structure, and as soon as they were inside, she was throwing herself at Ron.

“You two were brilliant!” She exclaimed. “Absolutely brilliant!” She beamed at Harry then grabbed Ron by the collar and glared into his face. “Why didn’t you tell us your plan! You had me worried sick!”

“Hermione -” he winced, face beat red, “could you not kill me? I narrowly missed that with the dragon.”

She let go, hurriedly brushing herself off, and Draco and Harry chuckled.

“Look, I’m sorry you lot, I reckon I should’ve told you… but Moody said -”

“Moody?” Draco’s smile wiped itself clean off his face, his joy replaced with a cold chill. “What were you talking to Moody for?”

“He’s the one who helped me out!” Ron explained brightly, “he asked about my strengths, and I told him I wanted to show people I could fly well. Because, well -”

“You wanted to get on the Quidditch team this year,” Draco finished for him, having known this since the first day of school. “Yeah, I noticed. But why didn’t you tell us? Moody told you to do that too?” He could certainly imagine a world where Moody wanted to turn people against their friends, tell them they couldn’t trust anyone, the paranoid lunatic…

“Well. yeah,” Ron shrugged, “he thought it would make more of a show.”

“Well it certainly did!” Hermione snapped. “You scared us all to death thinking you’d go in there helpless! Do you know -” she pinched the bridge of her nose, then looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. “What has all this been about? Putting your name in without telling us… Coming up with a plan to ‘prove yourself.’ Is that what this is? Some big show for attention?”

“No!” Ron shouted, then widened his eyes, reeling back. “Well… I -” He sighed deeply, turning away. “I shouldn’t expect any of you to understand. Only child’s…”

Draco squinted at him, frowning, but was startled by a sudden shout.

“Ronniekins!”

They all turned in surprise, seeing the twins burst into the tent, beaming, Ginny close behind them.

“Congratulations Ronald!” Fred cheered, clapping him on the back. “Jolly good show!” George echoed.

“Since when did you learn to fly like that? What happened to Ron the apple punching bag?” Harry snorted at this, though he immediately looked horrified with himself, but he’d already done the damage. Ron went beat red for a very different reason than before and shoved his older brother away.

“Shut it!” He grumbled.

“Woah, woah, woah!” mocked Fred.

“The dragon slayer bites!” said George.

“Let’s leave him before he shoots fire at us,” Ginny snickered, grabbing the backs of the twin’s shirts and pulling them away.

“Fare thee well my Champion!” they chorused, and for a moment they thought they were gone, then they poked their heads around the tent flap once more to say, “and good job Harry!” before disappearing. As they traipsed away, they could still hear them from a distance singing a rendition of ‘Oh Captain, My Captain!’ but they’d replaced ‘captain’ with ‘champion.’

“Come on,” Ron grunted, looking as if all the joy had been drained out of him. “Let’s go.”

He exchanged a worried look with Hermione and Harry, but followed, wondering about what he’d said. About how they couldn’t understand. How they were ‘only childs.’ Draco thought on this hard, and all his father’s snide comments on the Weasley family ran through his brain. “Too many children to afford.” “Rabbit-breeding Muggle-loving peasants.” “Only thing they’ve got to spare are boys.”

Draco frowned at Ron a few minutes later, after they’d received Harry’s scoring (tied with Krum) and the Champions had talked to Bagman. He watched closely as he marched forwards and shoved past a waiting Rita Skeeter, hidden behind a tree, with a steely gaze. Perhaps putting his name in the Goblet had hardly anything to do with jealousy of Harry or desire of Hermione at all.

Chapter Text

Friday, November 25th, 1994

Draco lowered his hands from his ears, wincing.

“How, in the name of Merlin, are you supposed to learn a thing from that?!”

The four of them were supposed to be lounging on the beaches of the Black Lake, enjoying their break period, but Hermione had wanted to discuss the Golden Egg clue Ludo Bagman had told the Champions about, so instead they were listening to a screaming egg. Two, actually, Ron and Harry’s.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Harry sighed, dropping his egg on the sand. “But let’s not worry about that, we’ve got ages to solve the clue!”

“Harry’s right,” Ron agreed, reclining back on the sand, “and with us working together it’ll be done in no time.”

Hermione looked very skeptical, but luckily, they were saved by a sudden shout, and she hurried away to make sure Hagrid was alright as he tended to his blasted skrewts.

Now that the First Task was over, the school was swapping badges like mad, changing sides now that they had a clear idea of what the Champions were like, and who they wanted to support.

As it stood, Harry and Krum were in the lead, tied with forty points. Following them was Ron with thirty-eight, Bjørkson thirty-seven, Wärnach thirty-six, Diggory thirty-five, the Renaude twins tied with thirty-three, and Delacour was in last place with thirty. So yes, Beauxbatons was floundering, but the delegates didn’t show it, still walking around primly with their chins high. After all, everyone save Harry and Krum were in the thirties - there was plenty of room for improvement.

Certainly the Ravenclaws weren’t backing down from their support of their fellow blue robed teens, instead adopting similar prim postures, many trying to join the cliques that glided around the school, to little success. The most popular, such as Cho Chang, were welcome, but many were left to the same upturned noses everyone else got from the French.

Regardless, the badges and other merchandise markets were still in high swing, to the point where you had to squeeze through crowds to get to the Great Hall every morning, as people gathered around nine different stands run by various witches and wizards selling their support for a Champion.

At the very least Ron proving himself in the First Task died down his obsession with the support he was receiving, and it was more common to spot him telling someone to “shut it” while dogging on Harry. Everytime he did, Hermione would watch him with a small smile, and Draco would grin cockily to himself.

But, now that the stress of their friends surviving was temporarily passed, their lives moved on. Draco continued to balance his classes in balancing his Time-Turner hourglass, and his relationship with Justin was still going strong. Though Ron and Hermione annoyed him to no end for doing it, whenever they walked to class together and happened to pass a group of Hufflepuff’s the two would always give some sweet thing or other to each other along with a peck on the cheek. Among the fourth years, they were quickly becoming the hit couple of Hogwarts, the only one grumpy about the whole thing being Harry, who Draco supposed was only grumbling because he couldn’t get with Cho.

The whole thing was certainly making him excited for a certain ball in his near future he’d been awaiting anxiously since first hearing of the Tournament, though a different ball was still pecking his brain to no end.

While Harry and Ron could struggle over the egg all they wanted, Draco was left to stare at the prophecy at the end of his bed, propped up on pillows, thinking hard and reaching no conclusions while the other Gryffindors worked on homework below, oblivious to the world-ending problem above (at least that’s how his Future Father had made it appear).

He’d sit and stare every night, and wonder, feeling as if he was grasping at the mist inside the ball, longing for an answer. He’d have to figure out it all soon. It had been months since his future father had come, and yes, he’d thought at first he had time with the disaster he spoke of coming at the end of the next year, but with Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet, the Dark Marks, Igor Karkaroff, a former Death Eater… something just didn’t feel right.

The cold, wintery air blew into Hogwarts, and Draco felt akin to it, drifting through an unforgiving wind.

-*-*-*-

Thursday, December 1st

The news Draco had been anticipating for a while now was officially delivered the week after the Task, when McGonagall announced to the class that the Yule Ball would be held on the 25th of December.

“The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to - er - let our hair down,” she had worded it, an ironic thing for uptight McGonagall to say, something Brown and Patil were quick to notice, giggling like baboons.

“But that does not mean,” Professor McGonagall continued, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behaviour we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way.”

The bell rang, and Draco began to gather his things, making sure his Time-Turner was tucked under his collar safely. Then he heard McGonagall’s voice call, “Weasley - a word, if you please,” and turned in surprise.

Ron got up from his seat and shrugged at him and Hermione and, frowning at each other, they joined the queue headed out the door. Outside they waited for a few minutes, until Ron came slouching out, looking very grumpy.

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” he was mumbling, hitching his bag higher over his shoulder and pushing them forwards down the hall. “Is it too late to withdraw?”

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

He mumbled something incoherently, then at their prodding said more clearly, “I’m supposed to lead the ruddy first dance with the other Champions!” and Draco, picturing Ron in his horrid, lacy dress robes waltzing with some faceless girl while the whole school watched, couldn’t help laughing.

“Shut it!” Ron snapped, sighing, “now I’m supposed to find a partner…” He looked disgusted at the word, but Draco found himself smirking, imagining who’d ask first, he or Justin?

Then he caught sight of Hermione’s slightly disappointed face and felt a horrible churning in his stomach. He seemed to be the only one noticing the tug and pull between the two, and he doubted Ron would ever make the first move without a push. The prophecy would have to wait; there were much more important matters ahead.

-*-*-*-

It seemed the spirit of love had been struck into the hearts of everyone at the castle, as you couldn’t walk to class without passing someone getting asked to the ball or, in Harry’s case (which Draco found both endlessly amusing and infuriating) getting asked yourself. In both his Muggle Studies classes Professor Burbage had even taken advantage of this fact to teach them about Muggle dances and dating customs in Britain, expanding to French and Norwegian customs as well for the fourth years in honor of the delegates (she said it was far too much work to branch to farther countries like Spain or Bulgaria, but she could add it to the curriculum at higher years if they were interested).

Everyone, save the first and second years, and most of the third years (a lucky few had been asked to the ball by fourth and fifth years) was staying for the holidays, intent on a night of fun and dancing.

But Draco, who realistically should have been focusing on asking his own boyfriend to the ball, found himself instead facing the daunting task of making the daft Ron Weasley face the music and ask Hermione Granger on a date.

He started subtly; “Hermione’s changed her hair,” “Hermione’s perfume smells nice, doesn’t it?” But this soon failed when it turned to Ron eyeing him weirdly and over dinner one night, Finnigan leaned across from Longbottom to ask quietly, “What is it, Malfoy? Fancying Hermione? I thought you didn’t swing that way…” and he quickly had to switch tactics.

Now, they sat in the library, studying for a Transfiguration exam the next morning, and Hermione had just stood to excuse herself to the girl’s laboratory, leaving the boys alone (Harry had class). Ron was just rubbing his temple, clearly stuck now that Hermione had left, when Draco took his opportunity.

“Tell me, Ronald, what are you playing at?”

He looked up immediately, startled. “I -”

“C’mon Ron,” he leaned forwards, casually as possible, “if you don’t ask soon someone else is bound to!”

Ron blinked, looking around. “What are you talking about?”

“Hermione!” Draco exclaimed, falling back in his seat. “You think I wouldn’t notice? I mean, the Arithmancy thing, the way you look at her…”

“I do not look at her,” Ron said indignantly, then ran a hand down his face. “And I don’t… like her.”

Draco gave him a very disbelieving look, and he glared at him for good measure before returning to his work. Hermione returned shortly after, and when she had to lean over Ron to point out a mistake on his parchment, both of them got a whiff of the new fruity perfume she was wearing.

As they walked out of the library to lunch, ready for the exam, Draco whispered, “Smells nice, doesn’t she?” in his ear and got a firm elbowing to his ribs.

But the seeds of love had been sewn, all that was left was to watch them grow, and Draco did. Every opportunity he could he looked at Ron knowingly, forced him to partner with Hermione in classes. Anything he could do to convince him of his heart’s desire. Okay, so maybe he was getting obsessed with the whole thing, and probably should’ve asked his own boyfriend to the ball by now, but he knew how Viktor Krum looked at his friend - if he didn’t move fast she really could get taken.

But finally, one night, the three of them were working up in the Gryffindor Common Room, and it happened.

“No, no, no,” Hermione waved a hand, smiling a little at Ron’s daftness. “You’ve swapped out cowbane with wolfsbane, that’s an entirely different ingredient on its own, you should know this!”

“I do!” He protested, “I - look!” He grabbed a parchment to the side and showed it to her; his Herbology essay. “Right here I talk about growing cowbane I just… I got distracted last night.”

“Distracted?” Hermione asked, one eyebrow raised, “with what, food?”

“Very funny… No, with the - er - egg, actually.”

She dropped the parchment, grinning at him. “You were studying the egg?”

“Didn’t make much work of it but -”

“You listened to me, I’m so proud of you!” Draco looked up from his Muggle Studies essay on the history of Father Christmas, and found himself smiling at the stunned look and flushed cheeks on Ron’s face.

“Er… Thanks,” he choked, coughing into his hand and turning stiffly back to his work, “but like I said I didn’t make much progress and -”

They were interrupted by a sudden raucous, and the sounds of excited teens. Turning in their seats to face the Portrait Hole, they saw the twins closing it behind Lee Jordan, who had just strode in holding a bouquet of flowers, approaching a table where Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell all sat, everyone else watching and giggling behind their hands.

“Angelina Johnson,” he began, bending on one knee.

“No,” she said shortly, turning and flipping her braids in his face.

“OK,” he said, jollily getting to his feet and stepping to Spinnet instead, who was laughing so much she stared at him through happy tears. “Alicia, be a doll. Accept this gift as a token of -”

“Sorry Jordan, but no,” she pointed at George, who shrugged over his shoulder, “I’m taken.”

“Traitor,” Jordan bit out before pushing past the girls to reach Bell, blushing furiously. He softened, all trace of humor gone from his face, and some people ‘awed,’ catching on that the others had been an act and in the end he’d come here for her.

“Katie,” he said softly, holding out his hand, “would you do me the gracious honor of going to the Yule Ball with me?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, red faced, and took his hand. He kissed it, handing her the flowers, then turned and spread his arms to the crowd, who applauded obediently.

“Did he really have to put on a whole show?” Hermione rolled her eyes, rubbing her temple as she turned back to her work, but Draco watched Ron, who was gritting his teeth, looking very uncomfortable.

“Better get a move on soon little brother,” Fred laughed, striding over to clap him on the back, “or all the good ones will be gone.”

“Well I do hope Ronald’s not looking for the prettiest girl that’ll take him,” Hermione said, then looked up, watching Ron carefully. “Are you?”

“I -” His eyes flicked between him and her, and Draco recognized a sort of panic growing there. “I -” he swallowed, then turned to glare up at his brothers. “Okay, so you’re taking Alicia,” he nodded to George, “who are you taking then?” he asked Fred.

“Pigwidgeon,” said George, grinning, and Fred elbowed him in the side before declaring, “Angelina.”

“Are you sure about that?” Draco asked, raising one eyebrow, “she didn’t mention you -”

“Such doubt my dear Seeker,” Fred shook his head, raising one finger. “Watch.”

With that he turned around, called out, “Oi! Angelina!” and she turned from her seat.

“What?” she called back.

“Want to come to the ball with me?”

She seemed to consider it, then smiled. “All right, then.”

“There you go,” Fred said, turning back to them, “piece of cake.”

With that they walked off, and Draco smirked, watching Ron’s face of twisted confliction. Snapping his Muggle Studies book shut he stood and gathered his things. As he walked away he patted Ron’s shoulder, whispering, “piece of cake,” before heading up the stairs.

Dropping his things on his trunk, he waited, and only had to wait a few minutes, before the door slammed open and he turned around to face Ron with a shit eating grin.

“Not. One. Word.” He bit out, wagging a finger, then panted for breath, looking around, seemingly thinking a box of chocolates or bouquet of flowers would spring out of thin air. “Now, how do we do this thing?”

Draco’s grin widened.

-*-*-*-

Thursday, December 22nd

The next afternoon they had blown off Harry when he asked if they could go down to visit Hagrid’s during break and instead were preparing outside the library. Draco had finished rubbing Sleakeazy’s into Ron’s hair to give it a nice form and shine, and he was pacing up and down the hall, holding a bundle of flowers they’d plucked from Professor Sprout’s gardens.

“And you’re sure this is enough -”

“I’m sure she’ll just be thrilled you’ve noticed her -”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ron waved a hand then pointed a finger in his face, “reminder; this is not because I like her. This is because she’s pretty enough to take to the ball, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Draco shrugged, then gestured to the door. Sighing, Ron straightened and strode forwards, Draco following close behind, hiding behind a bookshelf a good ten feet from Hermione’s table, where she sat bent over tomes, scribbling, a familiar look of concentration on her face Ron gave an even more familiar fond smile at.

“Go on!” Draco hissed, because for once this wasn’t the time for swooning or he’d chicken out, and he began to stride forwards, planting a crooked grin on his face, raising the flowers when.

“Excuse me?”

He jumped, instinctively hiding behind a bookshelf right next to the table, and there was no wondering why. A boy, burly, strong, and handsome, had crossed Ron’s path and was standing over Hermione’s table, holding out a beautiful, neatly wrapped bouquet of flowers. Fine, exquisite. Perfect compared to their meager collection which Ron was now dropping to the floor.

As Viktor Krum asked Hermione to the Yule Ball, and she beamed and nodded giddily, Draco only heard a garbled mess of words, instead watching Ron, who was watching the whole thing, hate twisting his features.

He stepped towards him and tried to lay a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Ron -” but he stormed right past him.

“Ron!” he went running out of the library, chasing him, but Ron kept pushing him back, and damn it all, Draco was an athlete but Seeker’s were meant to be slim. Where did Ron get all this muscle from?

“Ron, slow down! It’s alright! You’ll get another date you’ll -”

“This is all your fault!” He wheeled around at the top of the marble staircase, glaring down at him. “If you hadn’t messed with my life - NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” And, tears flying out of his eyes, he pushed him hard down the stairs, each one.

Draco hit the railing with a bang and people pouring in from the oak doors or otherwise passing shrieked and gasped. He groaned, scrambling to his feet, and suddenly felt a hand on his arm.

“Draco, are you -?”

“I’m fine!” he yelled, shrugging Justin off - where in Merlin’s name had he come from? - then bounding up the stairs, three at a time.

“RON!”

He reached the Portrait Hole, skidded to a halt, and panted out the password (Fairy Lights, it had changed this morning) before tumbling inside, half out of breath, but not stopping. He instead ran to the first red head he could find, Ginny, and asked, “where’s Ron?”

“Dormitories. Came in in a fuss, what’s the -”

“Later,” he spat, running for the stairs.

Inside he found exactly what he expected; Ron was in a rage, pacing the room and throwing things as he passed. He only acknowledged Draco with an annoyed grunt.

“Ron, are you -”

“Okay?” He barked out a short laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine, just fine! Perfect, even! Nothing wrong with old Ron Weasley, and why should you care anyway?” He picked up the lamp on Draco’s nightstand, threw it to the floor. “Why should anyone care?” He ran a hand over his own nightstand, knocking his possessions to the floor, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief, because a certain object lay with his and - “It’s not like I’d ever compare to handsome Cedric Dickory or Quidditch star Viktor Krum -”

“RON WAIT!”

But it was too late. He’d grabbed a hold of Draco’s nightstand and thrown it to the floor, and the little glass ball Draco had been studying a couple nights ago until his roommates came up unexpectedly and he had to hurriedly hide it came rolling out, intact, but knocking into Ron’s toes as he stared at it, wide eyed, and Draco watched him, a million thoughts flying through his head.

DidherecognizeitwhatwashegoingtodoohMerlin’sbeardeverything’soverthisisithowamIsupposedtotellhim?

And then he slowly bent down, picked it up, and turned to face Draco, still red faced, but suddenly, freakishly, calm.

“What is this?”

And the answer came to him. Really, he’d been dying to tell someone for a while now. He had to get it out, this heavy burden. Why shouldn’t he tell Ron? He was his friend after all, and he seemed to be growing closer to the red headed, impoverished Weasley than he ever expected every year. So, he opened his mouth, and the whole story came tumbling out.

“It’s a prophecy,” he started with, then gestured to his bed. Ron frowned, but, grumpily, he took a seat, still gripping the ball in his hand. Draco sat on Finnagan’s bed, continuing. “Last year, before we left to board the train, I had a… visitor. In here,” he pointed at the ground, “it was… my father. From the future.”

“Your father?” Ron said, eyes wide.

“Yes, from the future,” Draco repeated. “He sent me this,” he stood up, pulling his trunk out from under his bed and shuffling in it before retrieving his letter, and handing it to Ron. “and told me I had to try to stop Riddle - You-Know-Who - from returning at the end of this year, or something disastrous would happen at the end of my fifth year.” He raised his shoulders, sighing. “Beyond that I don’t know much. I know that’s a prophecy, and I know -” he hesitated, as he always did, when about to cross into territory about his father, but plunged through. Ron would have to know to understand it.

“Every Death Eater has a Mark on their arm,” he rolled up his sleeve and ran a finger down his forearm to show Ron what it looked like, “A skull here, and a snake coming out of its mouth. The -”

“The Dark Mark,” Ron nodded, “Yeah, yeah, that’s how they call You-Know-Who right? And vice versa?”

“Right,” Draco nodded. “Well, my father has one, as does every Death Eater, but every time I’ve seen it it’s faded. Pink. Over the summer, it began to burn for the first time in thirteen years.”

“Since Harry beat him,” Ron breathed, eyes wide.

“Yes, and now it’s darker and more clearer than before. Remember the prophecy Trelawney made last year?”

“The servant and master thing? I thought he said she was just crazy?” said Ron.

“But wasn’t Pettigrew a servant to his master, You-Know-Who? And what about Harry’s scar? What about his dream?”

Ron, hand shaking just slightly, dropped the prophecy on the bed beside him to lean back, staring at the ceiling. After a moment he said, quietly, “He’s coming back, isn’t he?”

Draco frowned into the foggy depths of the prophecy. “That’s what it looks like.”

“At the end of the year?”

“Yes.”

“The Third Task.”

Draco looked up, for Ron had just jolted forwards to say this.

“What?”

“The Third Task! That’s the end of the year! That has to be what your future father was talking about!” He leapt to his feet, pacing, hands pressed together like in a prayer. “Think about it; Snuffles said none of this felt right, Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet. It must be some sort of plan. We have to -”

He stopped because Draco had stood and held him in place with two hands on his shoulders. “What?” he said dubiously to his stunned face.

“You believed me,” said Draco sincerely. Ron shrugged.

“Well yeah -” He made a small squeak of surprise at the sudden embrace he was pulled into, but quickly softened when he heard sniffling.

Draco wasn’t crying, or at least not enough to justify the word, but he was getting a little stuffy at the fact that finally, finally, he wouldn’t have to do this alone. He had someone to help him in this, a friend, and he couldn’t have imagined how good that would feel a few minutes ago. How could he ever have doubted telling him?

“Hey, we’ll figure this out, okay?” He heard the Weasley he was supposed to despise whisper in his ear. But wasn’t he supposed to despise all his friends? His boyfriend?

“You got Ron Weasley on your side mate,” he pulled away so now they held each other by the arms, smiling.

“Renowned chess master,” Draco bowed his head but Ron slapped him lightly and laughed.

“Yeah, yeah… so!” He clapped his hands together. “We should probably ignore that thing for a while,” he pointed at the glass orb lying forgotten on the bed, “and focus on who put Harry’s name in that Goblet.”

“Not today,” said Draco with a small smile, “I’m a little put out. Besides, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

Ron shrugged, turning to leave the dorms. “If you say so…”

He paused at the doorway though, and the absence of the sound of the door opening, made Draco turn from cleaning up the mess he’d left.

“Draco?”

“Yeah?’

“Thanks for trying to help me… With Hermione and all. You’re a good friend.”

Draco smiled sincerely, nodding. “You too, Ron.”

Then with a click of the door, he was gone.

-*-*-*-

Friday, December 23rd

Draco blinked at the boy standing on top of the marble steps before him, feeling a smirk grow on his face at the same time as a blush.

“Draco Malfoy!” Justin cawed, one hand cupped to his mouth, instantly getting the attention of a whole crowd of people, when he already had the man in question staring at him, his friends chuckling at his sides.

“Justin what’re you doing?” He muttered through gritted teeth, begging him with his eyes to do this in private and not at the center of the busiest hall in the castle. But Justin’s grin only widened, and he handed Macmillan, standing beside him with his own satisfied smirk, the Muggle music-player in his hands. Macmillan clicked it, and Draco buried his face in his hands as Justin danced down the steps towards him singing horrendously badly along to the music blasting from the thing.

“I see the crystal raindrops fall
And the beauty of it all
Is when the sun comes shining through
To make those rainbows in my mind
When I think of you sometime
And I wanna spend some time with you”

Draco felt his hands being gently pulled away from his face and reluctantly let Justin take them so he could twirl him once then pull away, still holding onto his hand with one, but grabbing a rose Abbott was holding in the crowd with the other. Then he spun Draco back towards him and, giggling like a mad man, Draco took it, trying to ignore the embarrassment of the catcalls and laughter around him.

“Just the two of us”

Justin continued, rocking back and forth with Draco’s hands in his, still grinning widely,

“We can make it if we try
Just the two of us
Just the two of us
Building castles in the sky
Just the two of us
You and I.”

A good deal of the crowd that were Muggle-born and knew the song had joined in at this point, others clapping along, looking around, confused. Draco glanced at the crowd briefly and was particularly amused by Ron’s bewildered expression as Hermione tried to get him to sing along. For a moment, he caught sight of Harry’s expression, which looked… angry? Confused by this, he started to step towards him instinctively before being pulled into a sudden closeness by Justin, who had stopped singing at ‘I,’ and now was leaning in for a kiss.

Draco, grinning, leaned in as well, and they embraced, to a mix of disgusted sounds and ‘awing’ from the crowd.

“Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?” Justin asked once they’d broken apart.

“Of course, Justin,” Draco cooed, and broke off the stem of the rose, tucking the bud behind his ear, “I would be honored.”

With a deep bow he sauntered off, pulling his friends along with him up the marble steps. He could distantly hear Justin calling to the crowd, “He said yes!” and couldn’t suppress a grin.

At dinner that night, he still had trouble holding back a smile, even as Hermione continuously kept glancing at the door for signs of the yet to appear Ron. Everytime he looked at the pair he was reminded of the tension poor Hermione didn’t even know about, so he could only count his blessings that Ron was getting homework done at the moment or something, and couldn’t be here, because it meant a moment’s peace from that tension.

But it occurred to him, as he adjusted the rose behind his ear and waved to Justin over at the Hufflepuff table, that he should probably check that Ron actually had a date. He could hardly dance on his own at the Ball, could he? Maybe that’s where he was, trying to find a date, or wallowing in self pity that he couldn’t in time? Then as he shifted back around in his seat he saw something strange; the seat beside Viktor Krum, usually always taken by Harry, was empty.

Turning back around sharply and rising a little to see more clearly Draco examined the far table, the Slytherin table, up and down, for any signs of his missing friend, but he was certainly not there.

“Hermione,” he said slowly, turning back around, “where are Harry and Ron?”

She frowned, “We said Ron was probably studying and Harry -” she rose in her seat to see too, and Draco watched as her frown deepened, then they locked eyes, worry set in.

A second later they had set off at a run out of the Great Hall, but almost immediately rammed right into the jet black head of hair they’d been looking for.

“Harry!” The two of them gasped, and Draco punched his arm, “You were worrying us!”

“I’m fine,” he responded, though he did so through gritted teeth.

“What is it?” Draco asked, stepping back from him to take in his full disgruntled appearance. Had he overheard something? Did they have a new piece of mystery to add to his already overwhelming mound?

But then Harry muttered, “I just asked Cho to the ball…” and all sense of worry left Draco’s body in a second, leaving him to scowl at him darkly. “She said she was taken. Diggory.”

“Harry…” Hermione groaned, “I’m really sorry but if you wanted to ask someone maybe you should have done it earlier!” She threw her hands up in the air, “now who are you going to go with?”

“Nobody,” Harry bit out, “I’ll skip it. They can’t take me out of the Tournament can they? Believe me, I’ve tried -”

He cut himself off because Draco had suddenly grabbed his arm.

“What’re you doing?” He asked him cautiously.

“Helping you,” Draco bit out, “though I have no clue why.”

With that he turned and marched him into the Great Hall, repeating a mantra in his mind that was half ‘you have a boyfriend and his name is Justin’ and half, ‘you are simply helping a friend,’ as they made their way towards the Slytherin table.

“Hermione,” he called back when he realized she was still there, “go find Ron.” She turned and left, leaving Draco to push Harry forwards even as he, catching on to what he was doing, attempted to drag his feet in protest.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Draco, please -”

“Pansy!”

His childhood friend turned away from her conversation with Daphne to frown at the pair of them.

“Yes Draco, darling?” She simpered.

“Harry here is facing a bit of a predicament,” he plopped the scowling scarhead down on the seat beside her, “you see, he doesn’t yet have a date to the Yule Ball, and seeing as I have abandoned your graciousness,” he exaggerated a bow to which Pansy placed a hand on her heart and smiled appreciatively at, “for my dear boyfriend Justin, I was wondering if you might do Harry a favor.” He leaned forwards and whispered conspiratorially, “And he’s a Champion. You’ll get to open the dance and sit at a table with the other delegates and everything.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, “and Fleur Delacour.”

Pansy sighed dreamily at the prospect, then turned to Harry and eyed him up and down with a skeptical frown. Draco nudged him and with a sigh, he offered a meek grin. Pansy rolled her eyes but nodded.

“He’ll have to do I suppose,” she said and Draco beamed, high fiving Harry, who looked much less thrilled about the deal.

“Thank you so much Pans,” he said, grabbing her face and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Sure, whatever, whatever, just don’t expect any Yule gifts this year!” she called after him, when he had turned and ran before she could change her mind.

One down, one to go, and Draco just had to pray some Gryffindor in the Common Room would be willing to go with his redheaded friend, even if it meant just for the glory of him being a Champion.

“Fairy lights!” He panted stumbling forward and almost slamming into Brown and Patil in the process.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered half-heartedly, then froze, glancing between Ron, who was sitting by the fire, ashen faced, clearly doing his best to ignore Hermione as she talked to him loftily about “waiting until all the good ones were gone,” and Patil, giggling with her friend, twirling her plait around her finger.

“Hey, Parvati, right?” He said, turning to her, and she stopped, frowning at him.

“Yeah…” she said.

“Would you mind going to the Ball with Ron,” he gestured to the sad display and, wincing, added, “He’s a Champion.”

Patil seemed to consider it for a moment, then smiled, nodding. “Okay!” she exclaimed.

“Great!” Draco clapped his hands together, then ran to the fire.

“- and another thing; it’s very sexist of you. I thought better of you Ron Weasley, you were so supportive of House-elf rights, I thought you were coming around -”

“Go to bed, Hermione,” Draco said, pushing her aside, to which she gave an indignant scoff he ignored, shaking Ron’s shoulder so as to get his attention.

“Hey, dunderhead, you’re going with Parvati Patil. Happy? She’s… pretty? I think?”

Ron looked up at him, no emotion behind his eyes, and shrugged, before standing and sulking off to bed.

“What has gotten into him?” Hermione exclaimed, slinging her bag over her shoulder and departing as well.

Draco sighed, trudging off to bed as well with his shoulders slumped, wondering why in Merlin’s name he’d thought it was a good idea to play cupid in the first place.

-*-*-*-

Saturday, December 24th

Draco woke to find the grounds of Hogwarts, which had been enjoying a nice thin sheet of snow, now buried under a thick blanket. The sight immediately gave him a cozy feeling of the Yuletide season being upon them, so much so that when he rolled over in his bed to face a scowling Ronald Weasley, he immediately said, “No.”

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say!” Ron exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

“I don’t need to,” Draco said, turning to stuff his head in his pillow, so his next words came out muffled, “The holidays just started. I’m ready for a week of relaxation. I don’t need your ginger head butting into my peace.”

He felt Ron’s hands grab his shoulders, shaking him, as he whined, “Please…”

“No!” Draco grumbled, slapping his hands away.

For a moment, he thought Ron had given up, as he let out an exasperated sigh. Then the moment passed and he was met with the soft thump of a pillow on his head.

“Hey!” He jumped up, seeing Ron’s wicked grin as he reared back for another strike. “Wait! Wait!”

But Ron had no mercy; we began whipping him relentlessly with his pillows, and only listened to Draco’s pleas and surrenders when it had exploded and feathers had stuffed his gob and he couldn’t plead no more.

“Okay!” Draco wheezed, coughing out the feathers, “What do you want?”

He sat up in bed, hugging his knees and watching Ron, who flopped down on his own bed, suddenly looking very awkward.

“Well I… the thing is… you see…” He kept incoherently muttering, and Draco was on the verge of saying, “Spit it out,” but then he reached under his bed, tugged at something for a second, and pulled out a lace sleeve, followed by -

“Oh…” Draco drawled, eyes widening in realization. Then, he smirked. “Now that he’s got someone to impress, Ron suddenly cares about how he looks at this ball, hm?”

He promptly chucked the hideous thing at him. “Har, har, this isn’t about Hermione. I just proved I wasn’t some daft idiot and could take on a dragon, I’m hardly gonna waste all that by looking like a clown in front of the whole school. So, Malfoy,” he stepped forward, tapping a finger on his chest. “You’re going to buy me dress robes. Proper robes.”

Draco scowled. “Do you think -” he paused, because a sudden thought had occurred to him. Every time he glanced at his own robes, their uniform, pureblood-society-ness disgusted him. The high collar looked suffocating, and the black too dull. He’d been debating buying new ones himself, and if he wanted to make some fun out of having to help Ronald…

“Alright,” Draco rose from the bed, facing Ron, and Merlin damnit, he had to tilt his head to look at him - why was he so tall? “You want new robes, and I want some fun. Sounds like a Hogsmeade shopping spree to me,” he clapped his hands together and gave a greedy smile, to which Ron looked a little put off by.

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that -”

“Nonsense my friend,” he waved a hand, placing it around Ron’s shoulders, “this’ll be good for us. Fun. Trust me.”

Ron seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave him a smile with gritted teeth. “Okay…” He said slowly.

“Excellent!” Draco cheered, clapping his hands together.

-*-*-*-

Hours later, snow whirled and tapped on the glass windows of Gladrags Wizardwear, and students passed by giggling and chatting, enjoying their Christmas Hogsmeade visit.

But Ron and Draco paid them no mind, too wrapped up as they were on their “fun shopping spree.” And Draco meant literally, wrapped up.

“That’s a Kimono Ronald,” Draco said smugly to his friend’s latest fit, a pink and purple wrapping of silks that Ron was currently fidgeting with.

“That explains why I feel like a girl then,” he picked up a bundle on the floor, throwing it at Draco, “Alright, your turn then. Picked this one especially for you.” He smirked even more smugly, and Draco lifted the thing cautiously, ducking behind the changing stand, Ron doing the same.

Taking off the abomination of green, red, and… tinsel? Draco swapped it for the white ensemble he’d been given. Slipping it over his head he adjusted it and stepped out, flattening the creases in the wide skirt. Then he looked into the mirror and immediately scowled, glaring over at Ron peaking out in his underclothes, grinning cheekily.

“Ronald,” he bit out, “these are wedding robes.”

Ron merely shrugged, still grinning, “I bet Justin would love them.”

He was tempted to whip him with one of the discarded dress robes on the floor, but resisted on the basis of not wanting to damage the robes. He’d gladly damage the weasel.

And so they continued to run through the various amalgamations of fashion Gladrags had to offer, poking fun at each other when they came out in some absurd high collared disaster from the 15th century, but soon that fun faded. Soon they were forced to face the reality that there really wasn’t any pair of dress robes that seemed to suit them.

“I get its tradition and all,” Ron said after two hours, by which time the pile had become nearly as tall as him, “But I don’t know… none of this fits. It all feels stuffy and… old.”

Draco frowned over at the pile, feeling the same.

“Let’s just try to find the best of the worst, I guess,” Draco sighed, standing and shuffling around in the pile. As he began to withdraw a pale blue ensemble that went well with his eyes, those eyes drifted to the front windows. Outside of which the snow had stopped and the streets were thinning as students returned to the castle, giving Draco a good view of the shop across from Gladrags; a clothing store selling specifically Muggle clothes. On display was an elegant dress a couple girls were oohing and aahing at, and Draco had to admit it was quite nice. He’d always thought Muggles had fashion right, if nothing else, and was excited for March, when the third years would be starting their fashion -

Wait a minute.

“Ronald,” he said, calling to him over his shoulder as he raised a plain black set of robes, frowning miserably at it. “What say you and I try a different kind of fashion spree?”

“What? What do you -” He turned and caught sight of the shop, and his eyes widened with realization. Exchanging a smirk, the two were out of the shop in a flurry of robes hurriedly placed back on their wracks, and through the doors of Madelaide’s Muggle Menagerie in no time.

Instantly, their spirits were lifted tenfold, and the spree became a proper fashion show. Instead of one boy being embarrassed while the other laughed at them, they grabbed clothes at random, ignoring Ms. Madelaide’s panicked remarks that some were meant for girls, and posed and preened, laughing like schoolchildren.

Which they were, Draco supposed, but as he rocked back and forth, face beat red, watching Ron strut with his hands on his hips in a feather boa, he realized both how he’d never enjoyed his company so much before, nor seen him so happy and free.

“Wish Colin was here,” he remarked as the two admired themselves in a mirror, twinning in bell-bottomed jeans from the 70s, embroidered in flowers. “He could take a picture. This is quite a good look for us.”

“Merlin no!” Ron instantly cried, ripping the boa he’d persistently worn for the past half hour off at the thought, “We’d be the laughing stock of the entire school!”

“And why do you not trust the poor kid to keep a secret?” He turned and asked, eyeing him over his heart shaped sunglasses disapprovingly, then thought about it for a moment, an image flashing through his mind of Colin telling everyone getting off the train last year Harry had fainted, and shrugged. “Good point, actually.”

In the end the two decided on much more modest ensembles that matched them well; Draco a mint green dagger collared dress shirt with a cream suit jacket and pants that made him feel very “mobster” like, a term Professor Burbage had used when explaining the different movie posters she had hung around her room; Ron a black suit jacket and pants over a shimmery gold tee, with matching gold shoes. The shoes had cost quite the galleon, and Ron had begged him not to buy them, but Draco had seen his eyes light up, and couldn’t refuse. He even spotted a black fedora with a yellow ribbon on the way out, and couldn’t resist, throwing that in too.

“Draco,” Ron said as they trekked back up to the castle through the snow, completely alone now that everyone had left for the castle. They’d be late to dinner but Hermione could worry all she wanted, it had been worth it. “You really shouldn’t have done this.”

Draco looked up from where he was counting his remaining galleons, glad he’d be getting an update to his allowance at the turn of the year, to see he was frowning at his ratty sneakers, glancing every now and then at the bag in his hand, carrying his Muggle dress clothes, bought with Draco’s endless supply of gold.

“I didn’t do it out of pity,” he reassured him, “so don’t go all soppy on me; you wanted me to get you new dress robes.”

“Yeah but… both our old ones combined didn’t sell for half of all of this!”

It was true. They’d planned to use the money they spent selling their own robes on new ones, but Muggle clothes, being of a different culture, cost a pretty penny. But Draco didn’t care.

“It’s not about the money,” he shook his head, “It’s about the fact that we had fun,” he placed his arm around his shoulder, grinning up at him, “and admit it, I was right, it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Ron said, smiling almost bashfully.

“And, even more importantly, we are going to shine this weekend.”

“We sure are.”

They grinned and fist bumped, somehow knocking fists below, and on top at the same time, then they were high fiving, then flipping their arms down and high fiving again, then knocking elbows and -

They locked eyes at the gates of Hogsmeade, having paused at the shock of it all.

“Did we just -?”

“Yeah!”

Draco blinked, then burst out laughing, Ron doing the same, and together, the madly laughing, secret hand-shaking friends headed up to the castle, bags swinging with the fruits of a newly built bond.

And all because he tried to get Ron to ask a girl out. He took it back, he’d never regret playing cupid again.

-*-*-*-

Sunday, December 25th

The night of the Yule Ball, the Gryffindor Common Room was bustling with the din of fourth year and up students (and a few lucky third years who managed to get dates, such as Ginny Weasley, though Draco doubted if nailing down Longbottom could be counted as ‘lucky’) all preparing for the ball. Currently, Draco leaned over one of the sinks in the fourth year dorm’s lavatory applying silver, glittery eyeshadow Pansy had lent him, while Finnigan and Thomas fought for the second trying to comb and gel their hair. Two bottles of Sleakeazy’s already lay empty in the trash, though Draco could account for some of that.

Tonight, mostly, he was giving his hair volume, however, as he had gone to bed the night before with his hair in rollers, so he had elegantly coiffed curls in the morning, flattened out enough by night so he looked fashionable, and not like a show poodle.. He fluffed them up for the hundredth time as he stepped back and batted his eyes, admiring his work.

“Tell me, boys,” he turned to them, and they briefly froze in their ‘duel of the combs’ to look at him, “Glitter on the cheekbones or too much?”

“Wow, Malfoy,” Finnigan lowered his comb, watching him with something of an awed expression, “You look good.”

Draco placed a hand on his hip and cocked it, smiling coyly. “Why thank you,” he said, ignoring Thomas’ eyeroll to Finnigan’s clear brief attraction.

He then stepped out of the loo, fluffing his curls once again, to see how Ron was doing, finding him fussily adjusting the tuck of his shirt, muttering incoherently to himself, though by the mentions of “her,” and “she,” Draco had a good guess as to what it was about.

As he passed his friend’s torn down Krum poster - the work of his rampage they had suspiciously not touched on for days - he placed a hand on his arm.

“Relax,” he said calmly, “Look at us,” he gestured to the one standing mirror their dorm provided, beside which Longbottom was hopping on one foot attempting to lace his shoes. “We look absolutely fabulous,” he struck a pose, and Ron huffed a laugh before facing the torn face of Viktor Krum.

“I hope so…” he mumbled.

Draco frowned at him for a moment, then heard a thud and a cry of pain and whipped around and snapped, “For Merlin’s sake Longbottom sit down!”

Ten minutes later they all were content with their appearances, Ron giving his fedora one last adjustment and Draco one last primping to his curls, then they were off.

Ron quickly found Patil waiting for him at the edge of the throng moving for the portrait hole, Brown beside her. Brown quickly ran for Finnigan, Thomas rolling his eyes to the sky, while Patil stood frozen, eyeing her date up and down skeptically.

“Is that… a Muggle suit?” she asked, and Ron flustered for a moment, clearly feeling very self conscious, then Ginny came strolling up in pretty green robes and grinned at him.

“Ooh, très chic!” She exclaimed, nudging his shoulder and joking, “that’ll really get Fleur’s attention,” before taking Longbottom’s arm.

With that Ron set his jaw and tilted his hat, nodding, “Yep, it’s Muggle, and I rather like it. Shall we go?” He raised his own arm, and Patil eyed him one last time, before seemingly coming to a decision as she gave an almost imperceptible shrug and slid her arm under his.

Rolling his eyes, Draco followed them out of the portrait, and down to the Great Hall, heart beating faster with each step as he adjusted his blazer. What would Justin think? Was this some kind of cultural appropriation? He sure hoped not…

They reached the entrance, where the open space never felt tinier, jam packed with students all dressed in their best, laughing with their friends and dates. Draco craned his neck, scanning for any signs of that trio of Hufflepuff’s, then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand slide in his.

“Hullo,” Justin giggled as Draco breathed slowly, trying to calm down and managing to give him a weak smile. Meanwhile, Justin was taking in his outfit, eyes wide. “Oh, my…”

Draco frowned at his clothes, hurriedly reaching for the buttons of his shirt, thinking he’d unbuttoned one or two too many, but his boyfriend stopped him, holding his hand and shaking his head. “No, no, it’s, erm -” his fingers had lingered on his bare chest, and Draco shuddered at his touch, but the next second he’d dropped his hand. “It’s nice.”

“Nice?” Draco scoffed, flipping his curls. “I look freaking fabulous, Finch-Fletchley, and you know it.”

He laughed, and Draco watched him with a soft smile. He truly was adorable, and standing in dress robes he clearly didn’t understand…

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said, lifting his hands to fix the buttons to his date’s cape, “but the clip goes over the right shoulder. Some tradition or whatever…” He flicked a curl falling onto his forehead fondly, placing a peck there, then said, “but it’s adorable, my love.”

When he stepped back Justin’s face was red as a tomato and his eyes wide as saucers. Draco laughed gayly.

“Hey! Draco!”

He turned then, seeing his Slytherin friends emerging from their dungeon, Pansy at the lead, waving.

She twirled towards him, her pink skirt flowing out around her, then landed before him and placed her hands on her hips smartly, grinning up at him. “How do I look?”

“Pansy, darling,” he eyed her bare legs, smirking, “what did you do with your robes?”

“Ripped them,” she shrugged, showing off the torn edges of her skirt. “They were stuffy and horrid. I ditched the cape, too. But look,” she took a step back and tossed her bob. “I look fabulous, don’t I?”

“You look lovely, darling,” Draco consented, exchanging an exasperated glance with Justin, who looked very out of the loop but managed a smile.

“And I’ll be the bell of this ball on a champion’s arm, won’t I Potsy?” She turned to Harry, coming up the stairs, and Draco’s heart did a somersault, because of course it did.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” the reluctant Champion grumbled, flattening a hand over his stubbornly wild hair for what Draco would dare to bet was the millionth time that night. He was dressed in traditional Indian Wizard robes; a tunic that fell down to his knees colored white and embroidered in gold. They looked a little old fashioned, but more classic on Harry. Or maybe that was just Draco’s bloody feelings getting in the way.

Dropping his hand, Harry raised his eyes to meet Draco, and froze in place.

“Wow,” was all he managed to say as he took in his Muggle clothes, and Draco scoffed, stubbornly shaking it off like an insult and ignoring the way his heart soared at the look in Harry’s eyes.

“Please, Potter, even you couldn’t be at a loss for words for this beauty.”

Harry remained staring even as the conversation changed to the returning Ron and Patil, the former of which asked where Hermione was, ignoring Pansy’s gasp and question of, “How in Merlin’s name did you afford those shoes?”

“Haven’t seen her,” Vince shrugged, and Greg shook his head. Both had chosen to go stag, but Draco suspected part of it was Vince only had eyes for Daphne Greengrass, who’d been drooling over her new boyfriend Blaise for far too long to notice his eyes.

Ron swore under his breath and looked around over the crowd, disappearing and dragging a helpless Patil with him, muttering, “Where is she?!”

“And that hat!” Pansy cried, unheard after him, then turned to the rest of them, shaking her head. “Did the Weasley’s win the lottery again and I didn’t hear?”

Draco smiled coyly, turning to look at Harry, who had finally managed to wrench his gaze from him and was instead glaring at something behind him. Draco frowned, turning to see Diggory walking towards the marble steps in velvet black robes with a coat trimmed with gold, extending an arm to -

Of course. Bloody Chang, as stunning as ever in Chinese traditional pearl and blue robes, that clung to her slim figure nicely, because she was just so perfect, wasn’t she?

Scowling, Draco turned back around to stubbornly frown at Harry, still watching them, and only stopped when he felt a light tug on his fingers.

“What?” He turned and asked Justin, instantly softening, but subtly concerned his date looked upset. Had he said something?

“Are you okay?” Justin asked sincerely, glancing over to the steps as if trying to find the source of Draco's fury, “You looked upset…”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, bringing his gaze back on him by placing his fingers on Justin’s chin and turning it, “I’m about to have the best night of my life with my handsome boyfriend.”

Justin smiled, leaning in, but the two were interrupted by a sudden, distinctly Scottish voice calling out across the hustle and bustle.

“Champions over here please!” McGonagall stood by the doors into the Great Hall, and while she hadn’t ‘let her hair down’ so to speak, her robes of festive colored tweed were exactly how Draco had pictured his strict Head of House would define it.

“See you,” Harry said shortly, taking Pansy’s arm, and she instantly grinned greedily as they made their way towards where the other Champions were lining up.

Once they were all ready, the doors were pulled open and the three schools began to fill in, Draco excitedly grabbing Justin’s hand and heading in with his Hufflepuff friends, Vince, and Greg.

The place of dining had been rearranged into a chamber worthy of a party, decorated in its finest Yule colors - no doubt to impress the other schools - with the four tables being replaced with many circular ones, seated for ten, draped in white cloths and decorated with glass utensils and decorations, giving them a frosted look. From the ceiling fell enchanted snow that stopped before it reached them, there for glamor only as it glittered in the candlelight. And of course, the twelve great fir trees, courtesy of Hagrid, stood tall along the walls, draped in tinsel and sorted ornaments.

The students oohed and ahed as they took their seats, Draco leading Justin over to a table where Ginny, Longbottom, the Weasley twins, their dates - Johnson and Spinnet, Lee Jordan, and Bell already sat. They took the two remaining seats, Draco gladly sitting beside Ginny, Justin stuck with Fred, who immediately began interrogating him on his fit for dating his Seeker.

“Come off him, Frederick,” Draco drawled, leaning over his boyfriend, “he’s fine.” He sat back, admiring him, “better than fine, actually.”

Just then all heads turned on a swivel and Draco obliged, watching with everyone else the procession of Champions as they paraded in. To his credit, Draco couldn’t tell her garnered the most attention; Ron, or Hermione.

Hermione, who looked near unrecognizable in her sleek braids done up in a bun on top of her head, her straight toothed smile, and periwinkle blue dress robes. Draco couldn’t help smiling and feeling happy for her; on the arm of Quidditch star Viktor Krum, she was certainly making a statement.

But once you got past the whiplash that the frumpy girl of the past was no more, you saw Ron standing out in his Muggle clothes, and then the whispering really started.

“Is that - our brother?” Fred exclaimed, in a rare case caught flustered.

“Our brother?” George repeated.

Draco’s proud smile grew.

The Champion’s and their dates all took their seats at the teacher’s table up on the dais, and turning around, Draco found a small menu lying in front of him.

“Aw yes,” he grinned, “a proper wizarding dinner party,” he nudged Justin’s shoulder, who was watching everyone exclaim their orders aloud, bewildered, and motioned for him to follow his lead.

Examining the menu for a moment, he said clearly, “Roast beef, escargot, and a glass of butterbeer!”

The food appeared, and his glass filled itself. He turned expectantly.to Justin, who frowned at his menu with uncertainty for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “A salad, please.”

Draco blinked, surprised.

“Appetizer?” He questioned, but Justin shook his head.

“I’m er - a vegetarian actually.”

Draco blinked. He did not… know that. “Good to know,” he said genuinely, then turned to his roast beef and escargot.

As to be expected considering the whole team was at this table, conversation soon turned to Quidditch, and discussing everyone’s team’s chances this year.

“I’m sorry Katie but you simply can’t ignore the facts,” Ginny was saying, “the Holyhead Harpies are doing far better than Puddlemere United.”

“Yes but the Tornadoes only lost that match because they didn’t have their best Chaser - they’re going to obliterate the Harpies next week, I’m telling you.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, but Fred, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, chimed in to say, “I think I’m going to agree with Gin on this one; Puddlemere didn’t win because of some missing players - they’re the superior team, and if you ask me,” he leaned forwards towards his sister conspiratorially, “I can see a Harpies v. United League Cup in the future.”

This caused Ginny to surge in her seat, and the fight went on. Swallowing a mouthful of Kladdkaka (they’d moved on to dessert, and Draco had been practically drooling watching the Durmstrang boy at the neighboring table eat the chocolate cake), Draco nudged Justin and muttered, “You must be so confused right now.”

“Worried, more like,” Justin said honestly, ducking his head as Fred jabbed a finger at his sister, who looked very proud of her latest insult to his team. “Are they always like this?” He turned and asked him.

“Oh yes,” Draco nodded, but he smiled. Ginny through the Chamber, the twins through Quidditch, and his newly forged bond with Ronald… he’d become something of a Weasley magnet, hadn’t he?

However, he frowned over at the teacher’s table, that Prefect-Weasley he’d never understand. He’d taken the place of Mr. Crouch tonight, strangely, and was talking Harry’s ear off. Harry, whose eyes were certainly not on his treacle tart but -

Draco blinked, looking around, but when he looked back, Harry had looked away. Had he really been staring at him though? Not Chang across the table? Not even his other best friends at the table? Surely he’d gotten over the shock of seeing him in Muggle clothes by now… right?

Draco was startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his, and met Justin’s worried gaze. “Seriously, tell me, what is it?” his boyfriend asked, “you seem distracted.”

“Really?” Had been on the tip of his tongue, but he bit down hard and swallowed even harder to force it back so he could instead turn around and squeakily say, “I’m fine,” and keep eating. Though now he was more poking at his food.

A couple of times, as dessert ended, Draco laid his hand on Justin’s or watching him eat just to remind himself of how handsome he was, that he had a date at all, and that watching Harry was not just something he shouldn’t be doing because he shouldn’t have a crush, but that it was disloyal. So, when the food vanished and they all were forced to stand, Draco stared at the floor. He didn’t even applaud for the Weird Sisters, so focused was he on not shifting his eyes to Harry’s feet… Watching his dismal attempt at dancing…

He felt a hand on his at one point, and finally lifted his eyes to see others had joined in on the dancing as well. Weakly smiling, he allowed himself to be dragged forward by Justin’s eager hand. He revolved on the spot, let himself be twirled and dipped, twirled Justin in turn, all moving in a sort of muscle-memory-stasis. He needed a drink, a good strong rush of warm butterbeer to drown out his thoughts, so all he could do was pray for this song to be over soon.

There was applause, and Draco blinked. Justin’s blurry face suddenly became clear, and he was smiling expectantly at him. He had clearly just said something and was waiting for a response, while Draco was staring at him like some open-mouthed codfish.

“Er - let’s get a drink, shall we?” He said, and before he could even see Justin’s face fall - because that would only make the noise in his head worse - he’d led him off the dance floor to the drinks table set up against the wall. Swiping two bottles of butterbeer, he plopped down at the nearest table and popped off the top, gulping it down.

“Draco… you’re acting really weird…” Justin said, slowly sitting down beside him and taking his own bottle. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no, of course not,” said Draco breathlessly, for he’d been gulping down butterbeer without breaks for maybe a couple seconds too long. But at least he felt a sugar rush filling his veins as he turned and grinned at him, cheeks flushed. “Why would a beautiful, handsome, perfect boyfriend do anything wrong?”

Justin blinked at him concernedly, but he blocked his face out with his bottle as he tipped it back and downed the rest of the contents.

“Let’s go, I love this song!” Draco jumped up eagerly and pulled Justin forwards back into the crowd, though this time he seemed to be the reluctant one as Draco spun him maybe a little too forcefully.

“Draco!” Justin threw his hands off him, taking a step back and watching, wide eyed, as his date began to do circles around him, waving his arms and checking his hips exuberantly. “Don’t you think you had a little too much to drink?”

Draco only scoffed, continuing in his undignified jig. As the equally dangerously twirling couple of Fred and Johnson whirled past he heard the older twin yell, “Nice moves, Malfoy!”

“See, Freddie’s got the right idea,” Draco exclaimed, grabbing Justin’s hands and swaying back and forth with him to the beat of the upbeat tune. “C’mon, Justin, liven up a little,” he drew in closer, smirking seductively. “Don’t waste this.”

Justin’s concern started to fade into a similar smirk of intrigue, and he started to sway too, then caught sight of something over Draco’s shoulder and scowled, beginning to lead them backwards through the crowd. “Let’s dance here.”

“What is it?” Draco looked behind him and easily saw, through a parting in the crowd, Harry’s green eyes following him from where he sat sulking with Ron.

Justin must’ve seen -

Must’ve thought -

No, of course not, why would he think that, because there was no reason Harry was looking at him, other than he was perhaps jealous of Draco having a genuine date while he was alone. Not Justin dating he, Draco. That was simply absurd…

“What’s so wrong over there?” Draco attempted to ask nonchalantly, his voice jumping up far too high, and a wince growing at the dark look in Justin’s eyes.

“Nothing just… cold.”

Draco’s brow furrowed as he twirled. Him lying was one thing, he had to lie so not just Justin, but everyone he knew wouldn’t find out about his secret long dead crush, but for Justin to lie to him… It sounded selfish, yes, but he was a Malfoy! He was allowed to be a little selfish sometimes!

They twirled in silence until the song ended, at which time Justin dropped Draco’s hands suddenly, deep sighing.

“What is it?” Draco asked, almost cautiously, recognizing the irony in his own words before Justin spat it out at him.

“So you’re asking me now?” He sighed again, running a hand down his face, making his curly bangs fall forward far too cutely. “I need a drink.”

He slouched off and Draco had no choice but to follow, pushing through couples and muttering emotionless apologies.

He watched Justin fill up a goblet with punch sloppily and start to sip at it with a frown, glancing over the twins, who were giggling with their dates not far off. George flashed Draco a thumbs up and his frown deepened as he turned to watch Justin wince at the taste of the pink, bubbly liquid, pressing two fingers to his temple.

“Er - Justin? I think that bowl is spiked…”

“Who cares,” said Justin dryly, setting it down. “Merlin knows I need it.”

“For what -” He cut himself off at the sounds of yells. Looking around, he instantly slumped at the sight of Ron on his feet, staring down Hermione yelling up at him as well, both red in the face and fists tight at their sides. Harry had been dragged away by Pansy for another dance. There was nothing stopping Ron from making a mistake.

“Sorry, I gotta -” Draco muttered in a rush, before hurrying off, missing whatever worthless jumble Justin cried out to him in return.

“This whole Tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” Hermione had just screamed shrilly.

“No, it isn’t!” Ron shouted back at her. “It’s about winning!”

“Ron, Ron, Ronnie, Ronnie, Ron,” Draco said, quickly stepping in between the pair and giving Hermione a quick smile before turning to the ginger, placing his hands on his shoulders. “Calm down will you,” he dropped his voice, “this won’t make things better -”

“I don’t care about that!” He slapped his hand away, “how many times do I have to tell you?!” He shouted in his face.

Draco put his hands up in surrender. “Ron,” he said slowly, “I get it, you’re angry, but Hermione hasn’t done anything wrong,” he nodded to her helpless, flushed cheeked face, but Ron only glared harder at her.

“She chose him,” he practically growled.

“‘Chose?’” she cried, eyes wide, “what do you mean ‘chose?’”

“None of your fucking business,” Ron spat.

“You’re talking about me! Last I checked, I am my business!”

“Please,” said Ron, staring at the floor, his shoulders slumping, voice soundly only exhaustedly angry now, “just go back to your perfect boyfriend, and your perfect life, and leave me alone.”

Hermione opened her mouth, almost looking like she’d protest, but then she snapped, “Fine!” and turned on her heels to run back into the crowd in a flurry of periwinkle blue.

“Ron -” Draco started to say, reaching out to him, but Ron’s gaze lifted, and suddenly he was staring into a hurt, red eyed face of a friend.

“And that goes for you too! This!” he ripped off his gold fedora, throwing it to the ground, “I will never be this! I’ll never be a Champion, I’ll never be the Boy Who Lived, and I’ll never be bloody fucking perfect like all the rest of you!”

He turned on his heel as well, ramming into Former-Prefect-Weasley, who had pushed through the crowd, drawn by the commotion everyone nearest was whispering about by now, ignoring the music entirely.

“Ron, calm down, you’re making a scene -” Percy started to say but Ron pushed him away too, yelling, “Shut up!” then storming like a bull through the crowd, easily parting it with his aura of rage.

Percy let out a deep sigh, turning to Draco. “I apologize for my brother, he can be -”

“No, no,” said Draco, raising a hand, bending on one knee to pick up the fallen hat and brushing it off. “It’s my fault…”

As he examined the hat, he saw a hand gently grab the rim and trace the gold ribbon with its thumb. He looked up to see Percy examining it thoughtfully, then frown at him.

“You bought this for him, right?” he asked.

Draco nodded.

Percy smiled, standing back and nodding at him, “Thank you.” He turned to examine the crowd, and Draco could tell he was watching for signs of his siblings. “Sometimes I feel our family can become too prideful when it comes to matters of money. My brother would’ve made himself a fool of a Champion in the robes our mother gave him. He’s grateful for it, deep down, I promise you.”

Draco nodded, smiling. “I know he is. And I’m not doing it out of pity,” he waved his hands, “or to show off, or to expect something in return. He… He really wants to prove himself this year and I… I only wanted to help.” His gaze dropped back to the hat and so did his heart.

After a pause he looked up, interested in why the usually very talkative former Prefect had fallen silent. He was still watching his siblings, in particular Ron as he yelled at the twins and Ginny, attempting to push through them to get out of the Great Hall, looking musing and thoughtful.

“What is it?” Draco asked him, and Percy blinked rather fast, looking back at him, as if he’d forgotten he was there.

“Oh! I, er…” He shook his head, giving Draco a forced smile, “Let’s just say I know how it feels to want to be more than a ‘Weasley,’” he glanced one more time at the family before smiling and bowing his head to Draco. “Have a good night, Draco,” he said, then turned and headed off to the other gingers, calling out, “Fred, George! Leave Mr. Bagman alone!”

Draco watched him go with a frown, trying until it made his brain ache to understand whatever conversation that was, before deciding he’d never understand family dynamics as an only child.

He then looked towards the drinks table, thinking he should return to his date, and watched, appalled, as Justin threw back who knows what number spiked drink.

“Oh no…” He muttered, and began to hurry over to him. “Justin!”

Justin blinked at him blurrily over the rim of his cup, setting it down, scowling.

“Don’t worry abou’ me,” he said, waving a hand, his speech slurred, “Just good ol’ Justin. Draco’s got more important things to worry abou’ than Justin…”

Draco frowned at him, catching his hand as he lifted his goblet again and setting it back down.

“Justin, maybe we should get you back to the Hufflepuff -”

“Oh yeah,” he huffed, “gotta get rid of Justin so you can spend time with Harry…”

Draco blinked, his pulse beating rapidly, unfortunately at that moment catching sight of Ron dragging Harry out through the Great Hall doors. He watched him go, then heard a voice in his ear and turned to find Justin had rested his chin on his shoulder, speaking to him.

“There he goes. Why don’t you run after? You love him more after all.”

He turned back to his goblet, and Draco watched him, horrified.

“Justin, it isn’t like that,” he attempted to take his hand, smiling, “You’re my boyfriend, I like you.”

“Yeah right,” Justin slapped his hand away, glaring. “Go solve your mysteries! Go swoon to your Champion! Just leave me be.” And with that he took his goblet and left, disappearing into the crowd.

Draco blinked at him, then started to turn and head back to his table. He stumbled a little before collapsing into a seat, watching the crowd of dancing students with blurred vision, hearing the pound of the music like a buzzing through a thick haze.

He’d been so excited for this night, but now he felt lonely, his head was pending, his suit ruffled. He looked down at his hands, blinking, almost surprised to see he was still holding Ron’s hat.

Ron.

All he wanted to do was help, but it seemed like all that happened when Draco interfered with others’ lives was he made things worse. He’d been so happy to come here, and why was that? Because he had a new friend, he had someone to share the prophecy and letter with, he had had a fun day out and new Muggle clothes to flaunt. What had Ron had?

His heart crushed. A new stress to add on to already having to solve the egg. Getting brand new, expensive clothes paid for him by his laughably rich friend.

And Draco had been blind to it all, only, spoiled child he was.

But not anymore. He had to make it right. He had to make something out of this disaster of a night, which was why he stood up then, fedora tight in his fist, and marched into the crowd.

He had to duck and weave through the flailing dancers to reach them, but eventually he stopped before Hermione and Krum, who were slow dancing, her head on his chest as he patted her back, attempting to comfort her.

“Hermione?”

She turned and scowled at Draco, and he knew he deserved it. “I’m not talking to him,” she said at once, “he can come and talk to me if he wants. Pluck up the courage for once -”

“He did,” Draco cut in, and she stopped, eyes wide. He flicked his own to Krum, a silent understanding passing between him and his friend, and she turned to her date, gesturing away.

“Get us some drinks, will you Viktor? Draco looks exhausted.”

Krum hesitated for only a minute, then smiled, and Draco blinked, taken aback, because he’d never seen him smile.

“Of course, Hermy-own-ninny,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand then turned and slouched away, remarkably duck-footed for a Quidditch star.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione snapped immediately, folding her arms. “And make it quick. Unlike you boys I’m trying to have a fun night tonight.”

Draco’s heart immediately sank; add that to the pile of rubbish he was collecting around himself, he’d ruined Hermione’s chance to make a statement that she wasn’t just book-smart to the whole school with his actions. He could only pray this next idea wasn’t absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I was looking forward to a great night too, but instead I’ve ruined yours and Ron’s, my date’s drunk and hates me -”

“Justin?” Hermione craned her neck, looking around, “he’s drunk? Where is he?!”

“Never mind that,” he gently grabbed her shoulder to pull her attention once more. “The point is I need to at least make one good thing happen tonight. But I need your help. When he said earlier you ‘chose’ Krum, when I stopped you from saying ‘pluck up the courage’ a moment ago… He did Hermione. He was going to ask you to the ball.”

Hermione stared at him, blinking like some animal stunned by light, then finally seemed to find her voice and manage words as she squeaked, “what do you mean was ‘going to?’”

“Krum beat him to it.”

She blinked in surprise once again, glancing over at the drinks table, where Krum was busying himself filling two goblets with punch, squinting at them, no doubt trying to discern if he’d filled them from the spiked bowl half the party was avoiding like the plague at this point, that other half embracing. It wasn’t hard to tell on the dance floor.

“I, I don’t understand…” Hermione shook her head, rubbing at her eyes. “What do you want me to do? It’s over, why is he still being so childish?”

“It’s Ron,” Draco shrugged, and she laughed maddeningly. “All I’m asking,” he put his other hand on her other shoulder, bending down a little to look her in the eyes, “Is for one dance. Just one. He… becoming a Champion, doing all of this,” he gestured down to his own stylish Muggle ensemble, “he wanted to have his big night just as much as you did.”

Her cheeks went pink and she looked down, fidgeting with the tulle of her skirt.

“Just one dance, Hermione,” he said, “please?”

She was silent for a moment, looking up to watch Krum return, grinning like a proud puppy, balancing three drinks.

“Just one,” she said sternly, holding up a finger. “And it won’t mean anything.”

“Of course not,” Draco said, and, smirking like the devilish cupid he was, he plucked his drink out of Krum’s hand, and turned to head off to find her ginger partner.

-*-*-*-

“Are you sure about this?”

Draco grinned, pulling down the brim of the hat over his eyes playfully. “You’ll be fine… trust me.”

“Really? ‘Cuz I feel like her Quidditch Star Boyfriend’s gonna whoop my arse for this,” he said, worryingly watching Krum’s profile on the sidelines, who was watching his date walk over to Ron with the same intensity.

“Relax,” said Draco, laying his hands on his friend’s shoulders one more time before backing away to his own corner, “be yourself!”

He didn’t have time to protest this awful advice before Hermione was before him, offering a wan smile.

Draco didn’t want to admit he was as tense as Ron, but he was. He had little hope this was actually going to turn out well, looking at his current track record, and watched, resisting the urge to bite down on his perfect nails, as Ron raised his hand to Hermione’s waist, holding her hand in the air.

Then they were off, and Draco could only release a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a… complete disaster. Sure he was stepping on her toes, but she laughed it off mostly, and after a minute, their movements became more smooth, and they looked like they were truly having fun. A pureblood in a Muggle suit spinning a Muggle-born in witches robes. Draco felt revolutionary, somehow.

“You really are something, Draco.” He startled, his heart skipping a beat, at the sudden voice, but sighed when he saw it was only Harry, smiling at him, swirling a bottle of butterbeer.

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m the best, aren’t I?” He let Harry laugh as he posed and sunk it in for a moment, briefly watching Harry’s green eyes spark with joy because he could never get tired of seeing that. Then the moment ended, and he frowned, squinting around at the crowd. “Where’s Pansy?”

“Over there,” Harry nodded to a table and Draco smirked at the sight of her, practically falling onto Colette Renaude’s lap as she talked to some older Slytherin boy.

“Always goes for the ones she can’t have,” Draco sighed, shaking his head, then felt eyes burning into him and turned. “What is it?” he startled, for Harry was watching him with the same intensity he seemed to have all night, that had made Justin drink away his sorrows in the first place. Up close it was even harder to piece out.

“Nothing,” said Harry smoothly, blinking and firmly turning back to the dancing, setting his jaw, “nothing at all.”

Draco pursed his lips, not believing that load of dragon shite for a second. He looked back at the dancing, at Ron nearly dropping Hermione on the floor in his clumsy dip and having to catch her around the waist, and grinned, suddenly getting an idea.

Justin was drunk off doing who knows what, and he deserved someone to spend this last song with just as much as Ron. If he could get his single dance - which meant nothing! - then why not him?

“What say you, Potter?” He blurted suddenly, turning to hold a hand to the boy, “care for a dance?”

Harry looked very aghast at the very notion, as if it would kill him, blinking wildly at the crowd around them.

“Won’t - won’t people stare - isn’t that - I mean,” he coughed hard, and Draco was pleased to see he’d made famous Harry Potter red faced and flustered, “we’re boys. Both boys!”

“So?” Draco shook his head, “It doesn’t matter! Harry, I’m a Death Eater, remember? And you’re Harry freakin’ Potter! They’re gonna stare no matter what,” he leaned in, smirking devilishly, “so let’s surprise ‘em.”

Harry seemed to consider it, staring at the crowd, staring at the offered hand, then all the tight, nervousness in his features softened, and he took his hand.

Draco grinned, and pulled him onto the dancefloor.

The song fit the moment a little too well. An underrated Weird Sisters hit, ‘Magic Works’ had never been one of Draco’s favorites, but he supposed it made sense as the song to end the night on. But when a couple was literally having their one chance next to them? Well, it was a little ironic, wasn’t it?

Draco and Harry swayed to the beat, Harry avoiding his eyes as Draco watched him playfully, and though his heart beat rapidly inside his chest he knew this moment would be forgotten in the morning, so he let it.

Believe that magic works
Don’t be afraid, afraid of being hurt

He hummed along with the lyrics and Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “A favorite of yours?” he asked.

“No,” Draco shook his head easily, but nodded to the couple passing them, “but it’s fitting isn’t it?”

Hermione was watching Ron with a new softness now as their movements slowed, nor more twirls or dips, just the two of them swaying. Slowly, very slowly, she leaned forward, and laid her head on his chest. His eyes widened but he, even slower, began to rest his chin on the top of her dark hair.

No, don’t let this magic die
Ooh, the answer’s there
Yeah, just look in her eyes

“Yeah, it is,” Harry nodded, but when Draco looked back it was to find those intense green eyes on him again. He quickly looked away, and it was probably because they were passed under the red shade of the glittering ball revolving overhead, but Draco could’ve sworn there was blush on his cheeks. He felt his lips tilt up a little in a smile.

And don’t believe that magic can die
No, no, no, this magic can’t die

He felt other eyes on him, and looked over to find Justin’s Hufflepuff friends glaring at him. He felt a knot in his throat, but then a squeeze on his hand, and he turned to see Harry was glaring at them as well. “Ignore them,” he whispered, “To tell the truth, I never liked ‘em anyway.”

Draco felt that knot shatter and the urge to laugh. “Me neither,” he choked and, maybe because it was the spirit of the song, or Yule, or love, or anything, he dropped his hands to instead grab Harry around the shoulders and hug him as the final notes rang in his ears.

So dance, your final dance

He felt hands on his back, squeezing him back, and smiled into his dark hair.

‘Cause this is, your final chance

The crowd erupted in applause. The song must’ve stopped, though Draco barely registered it. For a long moment there wasn’t a song, or a crowd, or anything else in the world but he and Harry, holding onto each other tight.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”

“Happy Christmas, Draco.”