June 5th, 1986
Draco stood on his tiptoes and looked himself over thoroughly in his bathroom’s ornate mirror. “Tell me if there’s a smudge,” he demanded, turning and straining to see if he could trust its judgement about the state of his trousers.
“Your hands, young Sir,” the mirror reminded. Draco squinted to see if any soil remained under his nails.
Being allowed even a peek into Grandmother Malfoy’s garden was a great honour only granted to the best well-behaved of grandsons. Getting to step inside was even better.
Mother had had strict conditions for allowing him to go outside. With the guests sure to arrive within minutes the old woman’s treat had not been well timed. Turning up downstairs with even a tiny fleck of dirt on him would be a right scandal.
Draco was not a scandal. He’d heard that Millicent had this last Sunday tried to rid herself of a pebble in her shoe right as the cake was served. She hadn’t been invited to the Manor this year, either. Lucius Malfoy’s heir was not going to do anything like that.
Satisfied that Grandmothers’ Scourgify was indeed as effective as its legend promised, he spared one last look into the mirror. Mother would be the final judge before Father’s inspection, but Draco allowed himself a small smile as the mirror sent him off with its verdict: “Young Sir looks impeccable.”
June 5th, 1996
“Draco?” Pansy’s hand shook slightly as she held out her copy of the Daily Prophet to him. Draco didn’t know whether to be grateful or mad that she hadn’t brought it to him first thing.
Nine in the morning and he still didn’t really know what had happened. Remain calm and be careful, had been all Mother had told him in her letter.
Yesterday he’d been on the height of his power, rounding up Potter and his inconsequential squaggle of friends. He’d been affronted enough at Umbridge denying him the chance to see Potter’s punishment through to let Millicent drag them all back to the dungeons. Come midnight, Greg had congratulated him on turning sixteen.
Do your best to have a happy birthday regardless.
There were rumours coming out of Gryffindor, and Draco might have dismissed them, had the same unbelievable tale not also come out of Ravenclaw.
If the rumours were true, then the Dark Lord had truly returned. Draco had known this, of course, but now everybody else would know it, too.
If the rumours were true, then Father was imprisoned.
“Thank you, Pansy,” he allowed as he accepted the offered newspaper. If the rumours were true, then as the acting head of his family Draco simply could not let on how afraid he was to read it.
June 5th, 2006
Draco was reading a book, lazing about in one of the many teacher’s lounges he’d never known existed back when he’d been a student. This particular one was at the top of the eastern tower - not the Astronomy Tower, thankfully – and had been arranged into a terrace.
The rain was starting up again. It had been raining all throughout May and likely would continue for most of June, but someone long ago had put the lounge under a charm that let the water slide harmlessly away and down the castle wall.
After the war, many parts of the castle had had to be rebuilt, but for every destroyed part there had been hidden ones like this one. Neville had asked the Bloody Baron when he’d first found out about it, and the ancient ghost had claimed that the terrace had been a refuge for Hogwarts teachers since the Founders’ time. Draco hardly dared speculate whether Severus had known about it.
It wasn’t as strange anymore to be here, not a teacher, not a student. Not a Quidditch spectator. Not a parent. ‘The Potters are expecting their second brat any day now,’ he recalled. He only cared because Remus and Teddy might have to leave his dinner party early if they got the news.
This was by far his favourite place to wait for Neville to be done overseeing exams, the sound of rain in his ear, The Tale of Jaquobis the Never-Finished hovering above his face. He’d also admit that it was peaceful to spend time at Hogwarts during exam time knowing he’d not have to take a single test himself.
June 5th, 2016
In his office that was currently stuffed full of far too many family trees to count, Draco was pouring over a stack of legal documents. He might be only turning thirty-six, Father might be in fairly good health, but he had advised enough peers who had their inheritance in contest these past few months that he’d resolved to get his own house’s lineage sorted before a patiently waiting Neville would take him out for tea.
They’d mentioned approaching Millicent or Astoria the one time Augusta had brought up the Longbottom succession, but currently he and Neville had no particular desire to raise a child. Sometimes listening to friends talk about their progeny got Draco a vague image of a boy named Scorpius, but…
Teddy Lupin was not a Malfoy. It hardly mattered - Draco strongly doubted that Father would protest if Draco named the boy. Remus might, he guessed, or rather, might have, but: Edward Lupin had in fact turned eighteen this very April. “Even Muggles think he’s an adult,” Neville confirmed, “but you’re still the one who gets to break it to Severus.”
While there were no guarantees that the lad’s relationship with Victoire would last, as it stood now, not-so-distant relations to the Delacours meant the next generation would have Malfoy genes. “I’ll have to go talk with Potter about it. Joy,” Draco said, much to Neville’s amusement. With the boy’s Black heritage – well, Mother had always wanted to truly combine their houses.
“Not to mention,” he added as he wrote down E.L. on the parchment where the intended heir’s initials were required, “I’m reasonably confident that Teddy won’t resent us if one day a child of ours knocks him back to third in line.”