Chapter Text
The train hissed as it slowed, steam curling past the windows in lazy spirals. Draco stayed in his seat longer than necessary, watching it drift. Truth be told, he wasn’t quite ready for the year to end. Not because he’d particularly enjoyed it—he hadn’t, at least not all of it—but because somewhere along the line, it had become easier to breathe within Hogwarts’ walls than at home.
No matter how much he’d hated it at the start, it had turned bearable. Manageable. Predictable, in ways he hadn’t expected.
Which was more than he could say for what came next.
He stood once the compartment emptied, dragging his trunk into the corridor. The platform outside was loud and familiar—too many voices, too many reunions. Until a few years ago, he’d been one of them. Sad to leave his friends, happy to spot his parents through the crowd.
Now, with the current state of things, he’d be lucky to make it through the summer with his sanity intact.
He stepped down onto the stones, automatically scanning the crowd—and paused.
Lucius Malfoy stood near the usual spot, unmistakable even from a distance. His posture was as perfect as ever, cane resting lightly at his side. Impeccably put together, of course—except maybe for the lines around his mouth which seemed tighter than they’d been last year.
His eyes swept the platform once before settling on Draco with a look as cool and unreadable as glass.
Draco’s grip on his trunk tightened slightly.
A quiet part of him—the one that had learned to prepare for the worst—had half-expected to find no one waiting. A silent message: you’ve embarrassed us, now figure it out yourself. He’d even run through the logistics once—how to discreetly catch a muggle cab, or how long the walk to the Leaky Cauldron would be from Charing Cross.
But no. His father was here. Steady as ever, dressed like the war had never touched him.
Briefly, Draco wondered if that was worse.
“See you next term, I guess.”
Draco turned. Theo had come up beside him, his mouth twisted into a grimace as he glanced across the platform. Thaddeus Nott stood there, tapping his foot like the station itself had offended him.
Draco didn’t answer right away. Theo didn’t usually look uncomfortable. Detached, yes. Irritated, often. But not like this. Not… resigned.
Before he could think better of it, he said, “Or we could meet during the summer. Maybe you could come over. I’ll write.”
Theo blinked, clearly caught off guard. He opened his mouth—but didn’t get the chance.
“Draco.”
His father’s voice cut through the noise like a blade—sharp, precise, inescapable.
“Yes, Father,” Draco answered automatically, offering Theo a brief nod before turning and walking toward him, like he was marching to his own execution.
Lucius didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him approach with cold, impassive eyes before turning on his heel and heading for the apparition zone, his cloak sweeping behind him in a practiced whirl.
Draco hurried to keep pace, maneuvering his trolley carefully through the crowds while trying his best not to clip anyone as he followed.
They stopped just shy of the perimeter where Muggle eyes blurred away, a hush settling over the space like a warning. Lucius extended a hand without looking at him, and Draco, after the slightest hesitation, stepped closer and grasped his arm.
A familiar pull hooked behind his navel—disorienting and cold—and the noise of the station vanished.
The moment his boots touched the marble floor of the Manor’s grand foyer, Draco braced himself.
He was ready for it. The fury. The disdain. The kind of elegant verbal flaying only his Father could deliver—sharp as a dueling curse and twice as precise. He didn’t know what shape it would take, only that it was coming.
So, he straightened his back, took a deep breath and waited.
—But nothing came.
Draco blinked in surprise.
“Father…?”
Lucius didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. He swept across the foyer in the direction of his study, not sparing so much as a glance backward.
Draco stood frozen for a moment, the soft click of his father locking the door still ringing in his ears. The silence pressed in—suffocating, clogging, and thick with the kind of tension that settled in his chest like smoke.
By the time Draco climbed the staircase to his room, his pulse was quick, his palms damp. He had imagined this scene a hundred different ways on the train ride home. He shouldn’t be surprised that his father chose the path that Draco would hate the most. Deliberate disregard.
It left a sore taste in his mouth.
Later, he found his mother in the sitting room. The air smelled faintly of bergamot; the tall windows caught the last streaks of daylight. Narcissa sat perfectly composed, a porcelain cup balanced in one hand, the other resting delicately on the arm of her chair.
Ordinarily, she would have looked up the moment he entered—smiled, perhaps, beckoned him closer with soft insistence. Tell me everything, she always said, as though his stories from school were treasures worth hoarding.
This time she only lifted her eyes briefly. A glance, cool and contemplative, before she returned to her tea.
Draco lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to, then crossed the carpet and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. His mother didn’t protest his presence, but the polite curve of her lips made him shift uncomfortably.
“How have you been, Mother?” he asked carefully, clearing his throat to dispel the awkwardness.
She sipped her tea as if she hadn’t heard him.
For a moment, her fingers tightened—just slightly—around the porcelain cup.
Then she set it back onto its saucer with precise care.
“Well. Thank you for asking, Draco.”
It was the kind of answer meant for strangers at a gathering, neat and finished, designed to leave no room for further inquiry.
That’s how his parents had decided to play this.
He forced his lips into a fake smile. “What about the Greengrass Ball? How is Sir Greengrass doing?”
He’d heard from Daphne that her family had hosted a ball in celebration of her grandfather turning a hundred and fifty.
“He’s doing quite well for his age I’d say. Quite a tough one, Sir Greengrass.”
Her tone was mild, her words precise. No comments on the organisation, the menu or if anyone’s mannerisms had ticked her off like she usually had.
Draco tried not to let the hurt show on his face. He will not give his parents the satisfaction of getting to him.
He pressed on, throat dry. “And—Do you have any plans for the summer?”
Her eyes met his again, steady and contemplative, like she was studying something in him she hadn’t decided how to approach yet. “That,” she said softly, “remains to be seen.”
Draco sat stiffly, heart hammering, waiting for something—anything—that would undo the tension in the room. A smile, a touch to his hand, even a reprimand would have been better than this polite, suffocating distance.
But none came.
In hindsight, it was foolish to expect anything else. He should have known.
Just as he knew his parents like the back of his hand, they knew him just as well. They might not know the reasons he was acting out, the motives behind his defiance of the path they carved for him—but they knew him. They knew his insecurities, his fears, his aching desire to please them.
And they knew how to wield that knowledge like a blade.
This wasn’t the first time his mother had given him the cold shoulder or his father had dismissed him. Granted, it had never been so… cold. And he’d almost always had one of them on his side—Nevertheless, this time… he couldn’t give in.
The first week passed in dread. Every attempt he made to thaw the ice only seemed to tighten it. Narcissa answered him as though he were a guest she barely tolerated; Lucius scarcely tolerated him at all.
It hurt. Of course it hurt.
Every day he woke with the desperate impulse to march into his father’s study and apologize. I’m sorry, Father. I was mistaken. I’ll do better. To kneel at his mother’s chair and beg her for one kind word.
And yet… the indignation and fury rose just as quickly.
Why wouldn’t they let him explain? Why deny him even the chance to justify himself? Perhaps his reasons wouldn’t change their judgment—but he should have at least been heard. Instead, his parents chose this—this unbidden torture.
So, every time that small, aching boy inside him wanted to shrink, pride held him fast.
Dignity.
Fury.
The knowledge that he had put too much effort—came too far—to retreat into the boy he once was.
He wouldn’t grovel. He wouldn’t kneel for approval.
And so he endured it—the silences, the non-answers, the weight of eyes that seemed to look through him instead of at him.
He endured, even though each day it hollowed him out a little more.
━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━
The morning the owl arrived, he was already on edge.
It was early, the summer light still pale, when the tapping at his window drew his attention. He groaned, half-expecting it to be another letter from Pansy regaling him with stories about her trip to Paris, or Theo, making another excuse to avoid coming over. He lay in bed, wondering if it was worth the effort to get it, when another round of tapping urged him to rise.
With a muttered curse, he shoved the covers aside and stalked to the window. A small barn owl swooped in, amber eyes glinting curiously.
“You’re not Pansy’s,” Draco muttered, absently scratching the bird’s head. “Whose are you then, hm?”
The owl preened under the attention, then stuck out its leg with solemn determination. Draco exchanged the letter for some treats and paused at the familiar handwriting on the cover.
Open immediately, or I’ll haunt you.
He scoffed, though couldn’t help his lips from ticking up a bit.
“Drama Queen.” He muttered while breaking the seal, a cool flash of relief engulfing his chest.
Oi, Dodo,
Consider this my official cry for help. Your godawful Ministry has me rotting away in Grimmauld Place like some cursed heirloom. House arrest, they call it — but really, it’s just torture disguised in parchment. Still no trial date, no word from the Wizengamot, nothing. They’re probably still deciding if I’m even worth the effort of them getting up their arses. To be honest, I won’t mind an assassination attempt. At least it would mean SOME action.
My mother’s portrait hasn’t shut up since I got back — shrieking about blood traitors and shame and Merlin knows what else. I swear she shrieks louder than you did that time you saw a lizard in the hideout. We tried covering her up, but she just howls until the drapes fall off. If you’ve any tips for exorcising portraits, do share.
Harry’s here now, which is at least one good thing. The kid’s been a great distraction — though he insists on helping me “redecorate.” (You’ve never seen tragedy until you’ve seen a fifteen-year-old and a deranged convict attempt interior design.) Grimmauld Place is stubborn — it fights back whenever we try to brighten it up. Honestly, you’d laugh yourself sick watching us argue with furniture and wallpapers.
But enough about me. What about you? How’s your palace of gloom? Still alive after the Malfoy family dinner show? I’ll bet you’re being driven mad by your father’s lectures. Merlin knows I’d rather listen to my mother’s portrait shriek for a week straight—(Actually on second thoughts, I’d prefer neither—I’ve already served my time in Azkaban, thank you very much.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I miss having you around (there, I said it, don’t make me repeat it). Your sarcasm and your expertise are both sorely missed. If you ever need a break from the Manor, this wreck of a house is open to you. I would love having you around—Harry too, judging by how frequently he asks about you. (Seriously, what did you do to him? I told him not to expect too much — Merlin knows your ego doesn’t need more feeding.)
Write back before I start composing poetry out of sheer desperation. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.
Yours in captivity,
SnufflesPS: Just don’t expect clean sheets — Kreacher and I are at war.
Draco read the letter once, twice—then a third time, until his chest felt oddly tight.
He let it fall onto the bed beside him, the parchment crinkling softly against the sheets. For a moment, he just stared at it—at the ink smudges, the loops and slants of Sirius’s hurried handwriting. It was impossible not to picture him hunched over a desk, hair a mess, grinning to himself as he wrote something he knew would make Draco roll his eyes.
The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched despite himself. Only Sirius could make house arrest sound like a vacation gone wrong. Only he could turn misery into something that made Draco’s chest ache with reluctant amusement.
And yet—the warmth that rose at reading his name, the teasing, the admission that he was missed—all of it sank quickly under the familiar heaviness.
This was the first letter he’d received since the break began. One month of silence before this—four long, cold weeks of polite dinners and sharper words, of trying not to let the quiet bothered him too much.
He’d tried not to think about it, yet his mind betrayed him all the same. He’d imagined Sirius laughing with Potter — free at last, surrounded by the people he loved. He imagined them together, content, forgetting Draco even existed.
Perhaps it was the silence of the Manor that wrapped around his throat like a noose tightening each day, or perhaps he was simply a rotten, envious person at his core—greedy for attention that wasn’t his to have. Either way, the thought clung to him like frost:
Potter was there. Draco was not.
When he finally set the letter down, the silence of the Manor pressed in heavier than before. Only now it felt different — not just suffocating, but hollow, as if Sirius’s words had cracked open a space inside him his parents had hollowed out over the break.
He hated that it made a difference. That a scrawled page from an ex-convict, a man his father despised, could feel warmer than anything he’d received from his own family all month. Hated more that Sirius, with all his dramatics and irreverence, saw him clearly enough to miss him. To want him.
It stung — because wasn’t that what he’d been waiting for here? For his mother to set aside the polite mask, for his father to acknowledge him as his son? Anything, anything but this silent verdict as if he wasn’t worth the effort.
The noose around his throat tightened until it was hard to breathe. The air itself seemed to vanish, the walls of his too-spacious room closing in. Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to stay another minute in the Manor.
He didn’t think past that thought. Grabbing his wand, he strode through the corridors and out into the crisp morning air, toward the small canopied alcove behind his mother’s garden — to the private apparition zone he wasn’t supposed to know about.
He stood in its center, where the air hummed faintly with warded magic, and rummaged through his pockets. He didn’t know exactly where Grimmauld Place was — but that was easily fixable.
He pulled a soft parchment from his coat and unrolled it over the small wrought-iron tea table his mother had placed there.
Placing the tip of his wand to its center, he murmured under his breath,
“With all due elegance… let the havoc unfold.”
Gold light spilled outward from the wand tip, tracing molten threads across the parchment until Azimuth bloomed in graceful cursive.
He held his breath as he unfolded it, revealing a map of England marked with two faintly glowing names. Draco Malfoy over Wiltshire and Peter Pettigrew over the Ministry holding cells.
Draco stared at Pettigrew’s name for a moment, waiting for the relief he was supposed to feel.
It didn’t come.
He knew he should be glad — ecstatic, even. Pettigrew behind bars meant Sirius could finally get the freedom he deserved — something Draco had wanted more than anything by the end of third year.
But now, isolated at the manor with nothing but time on his hands — anxiety twisted in his gut every time he thought of Pettigrew locked away. Because with Pettigrew in custody, Draco’s knowledge of the future had become unreliable. Murky.
His only advantage, slipping through his fingers.
He didn’t know how removing Pettigrew would change things.
What if Voldemort returned sooner?
What if the Tournament never happened— or happened differently— or ended with someone else dead?
Ended with Potter dead?
Every possibility splintered into something unfamiliar. Unpredictable.
And each time his thoughts spiralled, guilt slammed into him — because he should be happy, shouldn’t he?
But the guilt didn’t stop the fear.
It never did.
Trelawney’s prophecy clung to him like frostbite, creeping cold through his veins whenever he closed his eyes. The fear of what came next—what he had already set in motion—made it hard to breathe some nights. How was he supposed to prevent a war when he couldn’t even convince his parents?
Sometimes, when the anxiety got too loud, his mind drifted—unbidden—back to the silver timeline. To that Potter. The boy who’d faced the darkness with no preparation, no knowledge of what lay ahead, no map to trace futures on. Just instinct, stubbornness, and two friends trying to keep up.
Draco used to scoff at him. Truly.
But now—now that he understood what it meant to hold even a fragment of responsibility for preventing catastrophe—he couldn’t help the shift inside him. A reluctant sort of respect. A quiet, surprising kinship.
He wondered how Potter had done it.
How he hadn’t crumpled under the uncertainty. How he kept going when the world offered him so little kindness in return.
Sometimes Draco imagined what it would be like to speak to him—just once. Not to bicker. Not to posture. But to ask how he survived it. How he bore the weight.
Maybe even… apologize, though Merlin help him, he’d never say that aloud.
Draco blinked, the map’s glow softening around the edges as he pulled himself back. Pettigrew’s name still hovered, locked in place. Unchangeable like the future no longer was.
Shaking his head, Drcao reached into his pocket and retrieved a small vial labeled in neat script:
“Dumbass DNA — Might Be Contagious.”
He’d plucked a few strands of Sirius’s hair back in their hideout, ‘for emergencies.’
Setting his wand to the parchment again, Draco whispered, “Notatio Insigne.”
The Insignia Tracer Matrix flared to life, golden light rippling across the map as the hair dissolved. A moment later, a new dot flickered into being in Central London — right over a townhouse labeled 12 Grimmauld Place.
Draco’s mouth curled, satisfaction breaking through the haze. “Bingo.”