Chapter Text
Of all the things that happened to Draco after the fall of the Dark Lord, it was hard to say what was the worst.
He couldn’t decide if it was watching his father being carted off to Azkaban in chains, or if it was sitting through his own trial and having to suffer the Chosen One’s impassioned speech about how Draco was Innocent and Deserved to be Pardoned which resulted in the Wizengamot actually pardoning him… or if it was that over the summer he came into his creature heritage.
The last in a long line of Malfoy men who had avoided the curse thanks to their sex, and of course he presented as Veela. It wasn’t an overnight transformation—a change in his demeanor, at first, where he felt like he couldn’t help but make himself pleasant, and the house elves were so much nicer to him, and then his hair started looking brighter and more brilliant like starlight. He would wake up with silver-white feathers in his bed and a hot yearning in his stomach. And his senses were so much sharper.
Everything had a scent, a distinct smell, a tell-tale sound, a special feeling that he couldn’t quite put into words—his perception, he supposed, was multiplied in magnitude. Like… his mother was a tall glass of sharp red wine, bitter on the tongue, heady in the back of his throat, warm. His father was all smoke, white and pale yellow, with no substance.
He knew what it was because he remembered what Lucius would say about it in a few clipped words. ‘A curse on our blood,’ he would say, ‘Thanks to Septimus and his creature wife.’ He always spat the word “creature” out of his mouth like the most unpleasant taste. ‘Septimus knew the risks, didn’t he? No—he was beguiled by that beautiful monster he wed.’ The Malfoys were clever, of course, after Septimus’ Veela wife birthed him a human son and a disgusting Veela daughter, Septimus’ son had only one child, a human son, and made his son vow not to allow any girls to be born to the Malfoy name for fear they would be creature.
Everyone always believed that the boys could never be born Veela, after all, Veela were exclusively women.
“We can’t tell your father,” his mother said in a frantic whisper when he told her. He knew she was right, and staying silent would be easy. “We’ll have to hide it,” she said, too. That was easier said than done.
Perhaps even worse than his father, his trial, and his unfortunate heritage, Draco needed to go back to Hogwarts for an eighth year to complete his NEWTs. It was part of his “rehabilitation” into society, but he also knew how important it would be for… his future. He spent so much time fearing for his life, doing the Dark Lord’s bidding, and his father’s, just to keep his family alive, that he didn’t have any time left to consider a life after. It was a strange concept.
He always hoped deep down in his secret heart that the Dark Lord would lose to the Chosen One, but he couldn’t bring himself to fantasize what that would mean for him. Perhaps he thought he wouldn’t make it either way, that he would take his own life or have it taken from him long before the end of the war. Perhaps he assumed that his involvement would have meant the Kiss, or life in Azkaban for certain, once it was over. Then it seemed the Wizengamot couldn’t come to an agreement to throw him in prison as a minor and called on Harry Potter to decide.
Ultimately, Potter made it so that he could be free if he attended Hogwarts and completed his NEWTs, they would consider him rehabilitated for all intents and purposes if he was trying to build a normal life. He somehow beat the odds only to have to suffer another year of school. And, truly, the rest of his life, too. He had no idea how he might use it. Certainly not for good.
Thankfully, Narcissa was nothing if not resourceful when it came to the protection of her beloved son and so before the summer solstice, she taught Draco the charms and potions he would need to hide his condition and keep his scent neutral, and most of all prevent him going into heat at an inopportune time. Like in front of all his peers in the middle of Scotland. It was awful enough going back as a former Death Eater, but he didn’t think he would survive if his creature blood came to be known because he couldn’t help seeking out a mate.
Pansy knew he had changed immediately, even after not seeing one another since the beginning of the summer. As soon as he sat across from her on the train she said, “your face looks soft.”
He put a month’s frustration into his glare and spit back, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
She flipped her hair, pulled an emery board seemingly out of nowhere and casually filed her nails, not even deigning him with eye contact. “I said what I said.” She examined her nail beds, still not quite looking at him, but he could tell she was waiting for him to admit it.
As if he would ever do that.
A minute passed by, a few minutes, the silence stretched out into a deafening roar. Pansy cleared her throat. “It’s alright, darling, you hardly look changed,” she simpered out. “It’s only because I know you so well that I can tell something’s… different about you.” She popped the emery board back into her hair and reached across the train car and cupped Draco’s chin in her hands. “Plus, I knew about your bloodline,” she added.
“You spoke to Mother,” Draco went to remove her hand from his face, but he held onto it when he realized his own hand was trembling. He couldn’t say anything, he could only look at his friend and hope pathetically that she could simply read his mind.
“Would it be so very bad to have creature blood, I wonder?”
“How should I know,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Yes, of course,” Pansy replied flippantly, pulling her hand away with a flourish. “This is merely speculation, hypothetical. A minor thought experiment.” She waved him off. “Have you decided on your classes? Personally, I’m taking lots of muggle studies.”
Draco’s eyebrows shot up into his perfectly styled hairline. “You? Of all people? Whatever for?”
She tried to give a conspiratorial smirk, but her expression came off much softer than she likely anticipated. If Draco knew one thing about Pansy it was that she would be utterly embarrassed to be seen as kind. “Well, so that I can live among them and… take advantage, naturally.” She lifted the fashion magazine that was tossed carelessly beside her on the seat. “Over the summer I seemed to have developed a fondness for these strange muggle ensembles, I would like to think I could immerse myself in their culture for the sake of fashion. And it couldn’t hurt to… you know, start over somewhere new after everything.”
Draco understood perfectly. Pansy’s role may have been minor, but her family was one of the Sacred 28, and she was the one who spoke the loudest about giving up the Chosen One to the Dark Lord to save herself before the final battle. To speak of Draco’s involvement… It would be an uphill battle, up a steep impossible hill, if he stayed in the wizarding world. The mark that remained on his arm was proof enough that his crimes would not be easily forgotten, let alone forgiven.
“You could come with me,” she offered quietly. “I imagine we would have an easier time together rather than apart; don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, Pans. I wouldn’t know the first thing about muggles, and besides what would my father say if I told him I wanted to live among them? He hasn’t exactly moved on from the old ways, and I don’t think he’d approve of—”
She tutted disapprovingly. “How can he stop you?” What she didn’t say was, “while he’s in Azkaban,” and Draco was inexplicably grateful not to hear her say it. He didn’t want to be reminded yet again that his father was a criminal. That he had been incarcerated for his beliefs, and his role in the war. “Maybe just sign up for some muggle studies classes with me,” she ventured on, “and see how you like it. Muggles are relatively simple, darling, and you were always the smartest of our year—second to Granger, of course.” He tried not to react to the teasing when he caught her wicked little smile. “I don’t doubt it would be a breeze for you.”
Draco cleared his throat and looked away, considering.
“At the very least,” she said, “it would give you an exit strategy if things ever became too much for you here in our world.”
He gave her a half-hearted sneer. “I think you’ve forgotten I’m a Malfoy after all.”
She returned his expression with a wolf-ish grin. “Oh, that’s precisely why I am suggesting it,” she shot back.
At least being alone with Pansy allowed Draco to feel safe in a way he hadn’t in nearly four years. And her smell, too, like a tart cherry ice lolly—something cold and sharp, but with a swirl of sweet safety and comfort throughout. So much so that he was able to sleep openly in the train car, practically crawling into Pansy’s lap, with his head resting on her thighs as she stroked the baby hairs at the back of his neck. She spelled her magazine open in front of her, the sound of the pages flipping the only noise that occupied their space for some time.
It was past dark when the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade and Pansy woke Draco from his nap. “Poor dear,” she cooed, only sounding slightly sarcastic, “I can’t imagine what would be keeping you awake at night.”
He shot her a scathing look as he straightened himself out, still readily accepting the compact mirror she offered so he could fix his hair before they exited the private car.
Draco was not prepared to be thrust into the middle of the chaos that was the entire student body exiting the train at once. From first years all the way to the rest of the eighth years—although in retrospect it wasn’t nearly as many as years past, before the war—but it wasn’t so much the amount of people as it was the amount of… new signatures he could detect on his fellow classmates. It was closer to a smell, although not quite. Clearly a new sense he had developed with his presentation. It bordered on overwhelming, and he had to grip Pansy’s hand just to stay on his feet.
“Draco?” She gently guided him off to the side and out of the path of the others. “What’s going on, darling?”
Something about the way she spoke, her voice low and full of concern, made Draco’s stomach turn a bit and he pulled away in an instant. “I’m fine,” he snapped, and then immediately regretted taking it out on her and tried to convey his apology with his eyes because his throat was too tight to do it in words.
She rolled her eyes right back at him. “Right, then let’s get a carriage, shall we?”
He followed her dutifully, head straight and jaw clenched to try to quell the dizzying sensations surrounding him. He could sense something else in the air now, something much stronger than the rest. It felt like a… warning coming from behind him.
When he turned around it was right into the firm chest of none other than the Chosen One himself. They were eye-to-eye now, Potter having gained a few inches since he last saw him, and quite a bit of girth, too. He certainly filled out, no longer the sickly skinny child he was before. His skin was hot, where his hands gripped Draco’s shoulders was burning through his robes. Draco drew back and fixed a sneer on his face, if only to hide his inability to stop sensing that… scent. It was making him feel unhinged. “Potter,” he tried for a civil tone. It still came out much too nasally.
Potter looked him up and down, eyes wide and pupils dilated so there was only a small ring of emerald green surrounding them, stretching the silence into awkwardness. “Malfoy, I didn’t know you would be here,” he finally spluttered out. Draco could practically taste the disdain dripping from Potter’s words.
He sucked air through his teeth. “Don’t be thick, you were at my trial, weren’t you? Was it not you who damned me to this in the first place?”
Potter scoffed, “I just figured you would have run off. Avoid the whole thing entirely once you got out of going straight to Azkaban.”
“So you still think of me as a criminal? Is that it? You think I would Illegally skip out on my sentence because… what?”
“Oh, shove off, we all know you’re a coward who wouldn’t hesitate to run away,” Potter spat and then abruptly turned and climbed onto the next carriage.
Draco would have boarded if not for Potter cutting the line and stealing his seat. “I was next,” he said helpless and small.
Potter fixed him with a positively devious smirk, looking so self-satisfied and smug. “And I don’t think you’re a criminal,” he said as the carriage pulled away and started on to the castle.
Pansy was behind him then, cooing at him. “Oh, darling, don’t let him rile you up like you were children.”
Draco tried to heed the advice, but something about Potter’s self-satisfied grin brought back every angry thought he’d held onto in the past. That first moment at Madam Malkin’s not being the least of which, the dropped handshake. And the embarrassing knowledge (that Pansy was of course front row witness to) that Draco spent his entire summer pre-Hogwarts gushing about meeting the Chosen One and being his best friend only to be snubbed by him so easily for the country bumpkin Weasleys. Pansy had a good laugh about that one. His jealousy was at full power. Potter should have been his best friend, should have been his savior.
Damn Potter.
Pansy ushered him onto the next carriage and Draco spent the ride up to the castle in an angry haze. They shared with a few first years who couldn’t even look at him, cupping their hands to each other’s ears and saying who-knows-what in harried whispers. Pansy flashed the young kids a pearly smile and their eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets. No doubt a bunch of soon-to-be-Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs.
At the castle, the Great Hall was reconfigured into five tables so that the eighth years could be given their own place. McGonagall dressed the table in rich purple and onyx, the colors of their “house”, different from the four Founders, and a testament to their ephemerae that the colors were not represented elsewhere or given a name. They were only here to study.
Pansy sat them at the end of the bench, nearest the professors, Draco on the very end. Across from them, no one. Next to her, Lavender Brown sat with a wide berth between them, her back decidedly turned their way.
Of the eighth years, the only Slytherins to return were Draco, Pansy, and Theodore Nott. And Theo ingratiated himself with the Hufflepuffs at the other end of the table, incapable of so much as a glance at his former housemates.
No other Slytherins dared return or could return. Blaise absconded to France with his mother. Vincent had passed in the Fyre. Greg was in no shape or form to attend school. Draco did not care about the rest of them, out of sight and out of mind.
So they sat, starchily, and on an island of their own just as they had on the train and in the carriages. Draco could already feel his brain bubbling and hurting, the many quick glances, the long stares, the whispers. Their signatures all around him, suffocating him, despite them wanting nothing to do with him. When he looked, they looked away. He didn’t know if this moment or the gallery in court was worse.
The Sorting Ceremony commenced before the feast proper, with subdued appreciation for those who were sorted into Slytherin. Draco watched them walk by, one by one, on their way to the table dressed in green and silver, as though a noose had been strung around their neck before they sat.
Then the food came, and everyone ate like they were famished, but all Draco could sense was disgust, all he could smell was the stale scent of despair and doubt from the war. And the warning smell from earlier was in his nose, which made him glance briefly at Potter, who was already looking at him. Looking back at his plate, he’d lost his appetite.
“I can’t even eat, Pans,” he moaned.
She shushed him, pushing his plate closer to him and sipping her pumpkin juice. “Just eat, dear, wouldn’t you rather keep your strength up?” Draco watched as Pansy locked eyes with one of Potter’s Gryffindor friends. Pansy didn’t react except to mumble, “who knows what our brave classmates might try.”
“Attention, please, students,” it wasn’t long before McGonagall was at the pulpit, “you will follow your heads of House and prefects to your dormitories. Eighth years, please remain seated so we can cover your house rules for the year once everyone else has left.”
There was a commotion as all but the one table of the student body shuffled out of the Great Hall and into the castle. It took ages for them to leave, taking their noise and energy with them in a huge mass of bodies and signatures and smells. Draco kept his head down into his picked-at plate of desserts. Pansy crowded him on the bench, but if it weren’t for her presence Draco was sure he would have gone mad from all the buzzing and bustling happening around them. Her hand on his elbow was a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Quiet settled into the room like a wet blanket. Along the table were a few mute conversations, but nothing above the level of a respectful study hall.
McGonagall moved down from the pulpit and to the head of the table, standing directly in front of Draco. He couldn’t look up, too afraid to see the look of disappointment on her face at seeing him, or at seeing Pansy. “Now, first I would like to thank you all for coming back to Hogwarts to finish your educations. Last year was… that is to say, the war proved to be quite the interruption to your studies, which no doubt has set each of you back from your prospects, and maybe even changed them for some of you.” Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand as if she were looking directly at him. “Nevertheless, myself and the rest of the professors have all agreed that it would only be fair to give you pupils your fair chance to complete your educations, take your N.E.W.T.s and get your certifications just as any other student would.
“With that being said, you are all of age now, which is to say that there will be no restrictions on your magic such as there would be with underaged witches and wizards. So I ask that you take care not to abuse your status within these walls and act accordingly with your age and maturity. I do not wish to impose curfews and rules upon you as adults, but I will not hesitate to do so if at any point there is ever a question of safety and security for yourselves or others. Is that understood?”
There was a collection of affirmations from the table.
“Good. I expected no less. Now, I do, however, have a set of duties that I will ask of each and every one of you in the coming year. Not least of which is regular visits with the team of Mind Healers we have on the grounds. I stood beside many of you as we defended the castle that night, I saw the things that you did, and I firmly believe that we all could do with a bit of healing after that. Don’t you think?”
She did not wait for an answer before continuing, “in addition,” she said. “I am asking that each of you participate in restoring the castle. I will provide a list of tasks to be completed, and you may choose them at your discretion. These tasks range from basic masonry repair, to banishing residual dark magic, up to breaking leftover curses. It could be dangerous work, but also very practical for the world we are living in today, you will be practicing skills that will most certainly serve you. The Dark Lord may be vanquished, but as you know dark magic still leaves its marks.”
Draco casually put his hand over his sleeve, over the Mark on his own arm. It felt too real, as if McGonagall were speaking directly to him. The things he had done in the name of the Dark Lord still burned into his brain, into his being. His soul was tainted, he knew. No amount of curse-breaking would fix it.
“Now, I’m sure you’re all quite eager to know where you will be staying for the year, and it will not be with your former Housemates. I think you will be very pleased with the dormitories we prepared for you as you will each have your own rooms this year.” An excited whisper erupted among the eighth years. McGonagall chuckled and held up her hand to silence them. “You will have your own Common Room as well, but you will still be allowed to visit your former House’s Common Room as you please.”
McGonagall ushered them out of the Great Hall after that, up to the third floor, which had been painstakingly restored and refurbished into a dormitory for what remained of the eighth years. The Common Room was maybe a bit smaller than the Slytherin Common Room, but it felt cozier with the roaring fireplace and the rich purple furniture.
Pansy held his hand as they made a beeline for the dorm hall, finding first Pansy’s room and then, much further down, nearly at the end of the hall, they found Draco’s room.
By sheer coincidence, Potter was finding his room at the same time. And, by sheer coincidence Draco told himself, Potter’s room was the one directly next to Draco’s.
Potter opened his door and they made eye contact, and then he gave Draco that wolfish lopsided grin before shutting himself inside as quickly as he came.
“Unbelievable,” Draco muttered under his breath, trying to muster up the strength to be indignant about the arrangements, but it was hard to be mad about having his own private room for the year instead of bunking with the younger Slytherins, or Merlin-forbid with the other eighth years. At least he could cry to himself in peace and private, he thought.
Pansy let out a loud annoyed sigh directly in his ear. “Oh, Draco, I know that tone of voice if I knew anything,” she said.
He furrowed his brows and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She eyed him up and down, shoulders strung up like a bow, ready to argue the point, before her whole body sagged. “Of course,” she said, sounding defeated, “I must be mistaken. You would never take issue with being so close to the Chosen One. In fact, I imagine you two will become fast friends before the week is up.”
“I do intend to keep my head down while I’m here,” he said barely above a whisper. He could see her mask cracking, the cool façade slipping away into worry. He hated it, every drop of his blood fighting against having a genuine conversation such as this. Revealing his true feelings, as it were. “I want to live a normal life,” he stuttered.
Pansy couldn’t help but snort. “Oh, darling,” she drawled, “neither of us will be settling for ‘normal’. I intend to make a name for myself among the muggles and attend lavish parties and be courted by many rich and successful men and indulge in them until I’ve had my fill. What about you?”
He rolled his eyes. “How about good night, Pansy,” he answered, slipping into his room. “I love you,” he added, softly.
She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “I love you, too, Draco. Don’t you worry, we’re safe here, I’m sure of it.” And then she started back up to her own room while Draco shut the door.