Chapter Text
"In my life, why do I give valuable time
To people who don't care if I live or die?"
July 16th, 1996 — Draco
Sweet, balmy summertime air clung around Malfoy Manor like a wet blanket. In the garden, under sheer canopies, partygoers sipped sugared tea and nibbled powdered pastries, gossiping shamelessly, no doubt. Draco’s mother, for all of her most admirable attributes, still craved the veil of normalcy. She’d kept herself busy with hosting these superficial events, especially since the noble Malfoy family did not receive many invitations these days. They were radioactive; no one wanted to attract the attention of the Ministry, and a surefire way to do so would be to associate with them. So, she sent out her own invitations, and went as far to invite the very same lackeys who’d tossed their home thrice after his father was arrested. Still, the turnout was far less impressive than it had been the prior year.
Nonetheless, Draco — who like the other guests, was dressed in ostentatious floral robes — beamed and charmed as he recounted stories of his trip to France last month. This, of course, was a lie. But they were hungry for it all the same, their deceptive empathy. In truth, they were all elated to see the high and mighty Malfoy’s fall from grace. And really, who could blame them? Draco could sympathize with the impulse.
“Darling,” his mother placed her hand on his shoulder. “You look peaked. Do you need a moment?”
Draco smiled gently. “Yes, mother. Thank you.”
Peaked was one word for it; he was still in a constant state of pain, his arm concealed beneath layers of bandages and clothes, and he felt faint. He kissed his mother’s cheek before politely dismissing himself. As soon as he was out of eyesight, past the towering hedges, he shook off his robes and crouched to the ground. He was drenched in sweat. He cursed that he was not yet seventeen; he wished he could be rid of the Trace, so that he was free to freshen up with a wave of his wand. Instead, he picked up his robes and walked through the winding hedges to the service entrance.
Once inside, he summoned Honey, their house-elf, to fetch him a change of clothes and iced pumpkin juice. “Thank you, Honey.”
Honey bowed. “Certainly, sir. Honey will wash these at once,” Honey gathered the discarded robes on the floor. “Is there anything else Honey can do?"
Draco shook his head, downing his juice. “No, thank you.”
Honey vanished without another word. He took the pristinely folded clothes and decided to shower before returning to the festivities. Perhaps he could find a pair of colorful robes that were not so hefty and prone to overheating. Surely something would suffice and not draw too much attention to the fact he was no longer abiding the floral-only dress code. He winced as he got changed. His arm seared underneath his fresh bandages.
As he shook on a lilac robe dotted with silver jewels, he noticed something, or someone rather, outside his window. The briefest glimpse of a midnight robe dragged along the grass. Draco walked forward, moving the curtain to get a better look, but staying out of eyesight. No one lurking in the rose shrubs could be up to any good, especially at the front of the manor when the party was being held out back.
He watched intently as the hooded individual swept away from the bushes. They were certainly not a guest. His mother would rather eat glass than let someone in who had so blatantly not read her invitation about the attire. Draco watched as the trespasser blipped out of sight. Apparition. He opened the curtain fully now, as if they might reappear.
As he whisked down the stairs, clutching the railing with one hand, his other gripping tightly to his wand, he vowed not to tell his mother. If she knew their boundary wards were breached, she would need to be admitted to a long-term stay at St. Mungo’s Hospital; one absent parent was enough for Draco, at the moment. He took a defensive stance, inching down the cobblestone walkway as snow-white peacocks preened around him. As he reached the shrubs, he cursed himself for his frightfulness. He walked into them apprehensively, thorns piercing his hands and legs, to find nothing at all. He huffed and shook his head.
He walked backwards and something crushed under his foot. Looking down, he realized it was a small parcel adorned with purple foil and a blue ribbon. His heart nearly gave out at the sight. What if whatever was inside was a curse that he had set it loose? Or something from the Dark Lord that he had destroyed with his careless clumsiness? He bent down, and gently picked up the box. It looked harmless enough, besides the imprint of his shoe.
Draco, who stayed close to the ground lest someone spot this oddity, unraveled the pretty ribbon. He shoved it into the inside pocket of his robes, along with his wand. Carefully, he opened the lid and inside was a small, folded piece of parchment. His forehead scrunched as he made quick work opening it. At the sight of it, he let out a breathy laugh, and sank into the bushes.
It was a photograph of Hermione Granger kissing his cheek, her freckled hand placed on his jaw. Draco was grinning, seemingly holding the camera with his outstretched arm. The picture did not move. Of course, it was a prank. Pictures were not stationary. One of his mates must have planted it, likely Nott. He was always doing something to make Draco squirm, like that time he gave him Ogden’s Old Firewhisky after a Quidditch Match instead of water. Hell, there were probably more littered around the manor. He would have to scavenge for them after everyone departed. He was about to shove the photo into his pocket — he could dispose of it later, naturally — when he noticed what was dangling around Granger’s neck.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, bringing the photo closer.
Presently, that very necklace was sitting in his room, collecting dust. He knew this because the Ministry had poked and prodded at it for an hour before they relinquished the fact it was not imbued with dark magic. No, it was an heirloom his grandmother passed along before she died.
She croaked out, holding his small hand, “Give it to your eternity, Draco."
She stretched out his palm, and in it, left a dainty silver chain with a small, citrine gem.
Even Draco could admit, it was pretty. Though, he was, admittedly, not versed in the realm of jewelry. His mother, however, had tears in her eyes. Whether that was due to her mother slipping away or the necklace was up in the air. He was all of twelve at the time, and found the scene utterly absurd. All the same, he took the necklace and listened as his mother prattled on about him giving it to Daphne Greengrass. A perfect match, she would insist. But now, as he sat in the rose bushes, four years later, he felt a terrible sense of doom. A symbol of forever, his eternity, was adorned on Granger, of all people. It was laughable.
He turned the photo over, and in his neat script was scrawled, January 13, 1997 — that was seven months from now.