The drawing room had a fire lit, but even then Draco felt as though his bones were made of ice. He sipped at his tea, burning his tongue. The cup of Earl Grey clacked unpleasantly against the saucer as he relaxed his arm to hold both at a distance. Narcissa was running through scheduling with one of the House Elves, talking about food preparation times and decorations and when the guests would be arriving and how much alcohol did they need to get Kingsley Shacklebolt appropriately inebriated? Draco shook his head to clear it. The gala was tomorrow, wasn’t it?
“Draco,” Narcissa snapped. She must have said his name several times. She looked at him impatiently, a tired look that he had received much in his youth. An exasperated look that a mother gave her son when he wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong, but wasn’t really doing anything right either. A look Draco hadn’t received in a long time. A normal look.
“Yes?”
“Have your robes been delivered yet?” She and the House Elf stared at him with wide, impatient eyes. Draco had a mind that if his mother had been standing, she would have tapped her foot.
“I believe so,” he answered, hoping the dodgy answer would suffice. In truth, Draco hadn’t been able to force himself up to his room for any reason, much less to see if an owl had dropped a package on his bed for him. He’d been focusing hard to avoid the Manor’s magic all day, relying on House Elves to fetch him what he required in order to minimize the amount of doorways he had to walk through. He’d been sitting in the same armchair in front of the same fire for almost four hours now. Narcissa had commandeered the drawing room for her own uses about twenty minutes ago, but Draco had decided not to move. The hours and days had all slipped by similarly, in a monotony of tea and exhaustion. No wonder the gala was tomorrow.
Narcissa raised an eyebrow at his response and turned back to the Elf. “I want every guest to feel perfectly welcome, is that clear? If any of the staff see anyone not being fully engaged in any way I want them immediately showered with offers for food and drink at the very least.”
Draco barely resisting rolling his eyes. It was one thing to hope your guests felt welcome. It was one thing to throw a gala with loads of food and drink all free of charge to the partygoers. It was one thing to spend almost half of your family’s remaining savings on a single party. It was quite another to have a guest list full of enemies and invite them all into your home. But, Draco thought, taking another sip of his tea, at least it was enemies who had strange moral complexes and wouldn’t throw you in Azkaban for your many war crimes because your mother turned the tide of the war out of complete selfishness, trying to save her own family. Giving generous donations and spitting loads of money into the legal system to help clear yourself of said war crimes also helped. At least these enemies could still be paid off, and wouldn’t threaten to kill your parents unless you killed so-and-so.
Draco snorted. There was a memory he should put behind the bathroom mirror.
…What?
Draco shook his head to clear it and took a deep gulp of his tea, letting it burn its way down his oesophagus. The pain made him sit up straighter in the chair, discomfort making his eyes water.
The door to the drawing room slammed open, the wood-on-wood bang of door hitting wall serving as fanfare for Lucius’ entrance. “This!” he exclaimed, wide eyed and waving a piece of parchment around in his hand. It snapped in the artificial breeze his movements created. “What is this?”
Narcissa blinked, looking up at him. She dismissed the House Elf with a wave of her hand, and it disappeared with a hurried crack. “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what that is. Maybe if you held it still I could read it.”
Lucius shoved the parchment at her. She stood and took it calmly from him. Draco sipped his tea.
“This is the bill for the supplies I ordered for the gala,” she explained as if talking to a child.
“Do not presume to talk down to me in my own house, Narcissa. You know we do not have this money to spend at the moment. If I thought for one minute you would throw so extravagant an event—”
“This gala is going to cost us just as much—if not more—than the last one we threw. There will be reporters here; the Minister will be here; Harry Potter will be here. What we cannot afford is to lose this chance to realign ourselves.”
“You mock me,” Lucius snarled. He looked rather like one of his albino peacocks with his pale skin and tangled hair. Draco made an involuntary noise of amusement. Lucius shot a fleeting glare at his son before returning his attention to his wife. “You cannot throw my finances away as if you own me. You forget what I have done for this family—”
“I don’t think you realize that you were the one to single-handedly get us into this mess,” Draco said coolly, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his tea.
Lucius turned slowly, raising his eyebrows and taking a step towards his son. “Excuse me?” he drawled.
“I’m only saying. It’s entirely your fault for trying to kill the Weasley girl, and then mucking that up, and then trying to trap Potter, and then mucking that up, which then forced me to try to kill Dumbledore, and I must have inherited some predisposition from you to muck things up because I really succeeded at that, didn’t I, Father?” Draco’s cool tone had abandoned him. His face was hot and he could only imagine how red and blotchy it must look. “And you have the gall to stand there and tell Mother she isn’t doing what’s right for this family? Honestly, Father, I don’t think you would know what was right for us if it danced naked in front of you at the dinner table—”
Crack! Draco’s face was hot where his father had slapped him, but the pain had yet to sink in. He hadn’t noticed Lucius crossing the room towards him. Abruptly Draco realized that his thighs were cold. He looked down; the front of his robes were wet, presumably from spilled tea. Yes, the cup was now half empty. He must have sloshed it while talking, or when his father hit him.
“You will not talk to me that way in my house,” Lucius hissed, eyes wild. He no longer held the air of authority and power that Draco had associated with his father growing up. “Do not pretend that I was the only one of us caught up in the Dark Lord’s charms.”
Draco choked on a laugh, his hysteria bubbling out between his lips in a strangled noise. “Did you think I wanted this?” he asked, amusement in his voice. He was sounding like an insolent teenager and he knew it. He didn’t care. Draco’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling dramatically as laughter continued to shake his shoulders. “Did you think I asked for any of this?”
Lucius raised his chin. “When you were younger—”
“I WAS A CHILD!” Draco roared, standing abruptly from the chair, making his father take a step back. Something slipped loose from his fingers. The teacup broke on the hardwood floor, the tinkling of fine porcelain making Narcissa gasp. “I was a child who only wanted your approval. Of course I believed whatever you wanted me to! Of course I thought you knew best.”
“Draco, don’t—” Narcissa started, stammering from the other end of the room. Her voice was quiet, subdued. It reminded him of her attitude when the Dark Lord had taken up residence.
“I’m not a child anymore!” Draco said, spreading his arms wide and nailing his father with a glare. He smirked, suddenly, because something made him feel taller than both of his parents in that moment. “And you aren’t, either.” Draco paused, dropping his arms. He took a breath. “I’ll be out late,” he said. He turned and walked through the drawing room door.
He emerged in his bathroom. He spared a glance at the mirror above the sink before Disapparating.
***
Draco appeared with a small pop in an alleyway in Muggle London near the entrance to the Leaky Caldron. It was there that his motivation ran out on him, and he sagged against the dirty brick wall. How had he even Disapparated from inside the manor? There were security charms that ensured all had to enter and leave the manor using the front doors. There used to have been charms that meant you could only Apparate as close as the front gates, but the Ministry had made them remove that one, as they came by so often for unexpected raids for Dark Artifacts. Narcissa had come to making them tea whenever they came by. Draco was sure it was a ploy to make them feel ridiculous.
He must be stronger than he thought, if he could bypass the wards like that. Or maybe, like the rest of the Malfoy family, the wards had simply weakened over time.
He looked out of the alleyway to the busy sidewalk. A Muggle teenager looked at him curiously as she passed, eyebrows drawing together underneath her short fringe. Draco raised an eyebrow himself, then looked down. Shite. He was wearing his robes still. He needed to get out of the Muggles’ district. Without thinking too much about it, Draco quickly exited the alley and walked the short distance to the entrance to the Leaky, ignoring the looks he got.
It was harder to ignore the looks he got inside of the pub as he ordered a Firewhiskey. Tom handed him a glass and Draco tossed his coins on the counter. “Cheers,” he said, downing his drink. Draco grimaced at the taste. Tom glared.
“Malfoy,” a voice from behind him called. Draco turned. Hermione Granger sat at a small table in the corner, a large book open in front of her and a cup of tea in her hand.
“Granger,” he returned, walking over. He didn’t quite care to be polite today. His mood was thoroughly shot and if the Mudblood wanted to start something, he would let her.
“I hear you’re redoing your seventh year at Hogwarts,” she said casually, flipping a page in her book. Draco noticed a diagram comparing a caldron’s composition to the resulting potion’s qualities.
“So?” he drawled. He had no right to be judged, least by the likes of someone like her. He shifted his weight awkwardly. She hadn’t asked him to sit, so he stood awkwardly, towering above her.
“I’m doing the same.” Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, don’t act so surprised,” she continued. “It doesn’t make sense to skip your seventh year. It puts you at a disadvantage in your career. Unless—” she added “—you’re opening a joke shop, I suppose.”
Draco sneered. “Why are you telling me this? What do I care if you and I will both be at Hogwarts next year?”
Granger sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I’m just trying to be polite, Malfoy. Much of Slytherin house has chosen to transfer or withdraw, rather than repeat.”
Draco felt himself go hot. “Are you pitying me?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
The frizzy-haired girl laughed and flipped another page in her book. She wasn’t even looking at it, Draco thought maddeningly. “Far from it,” she said. “We’re no longer eleven. Can we get past pretending there is some advantage to always being at each other’s throats?”
Draco scoffed and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. “I don’t recall you ever being at my throat.”
Granger did something that surprised him, then. She laughed. “Sit down, Malfoy, unless I’m keeping you from some important business.”
Draco raised an eyebrow and was about to respond when a voice from behind him stopped him.
“Hermione?” A small, red-haired girl stepped around him and slid into the seat across from Granger. “I wasn’t able to find any of the books you asked for. Here’s your money back.” Ginny Weasley slid a handful of coins across the table.
Granger slid a look up at Draco, still standing by the table. “Hello,” he said, voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
The Weasley girl didn’t look up at him as she tossed the same greeting back. Draco’s stomach tightened painfully. He was experiencing something entirely unpleasant and similar to déjà vu. “I’ll see you later, then,” he mumbled, turning to the back door of the pub. Neither girl returned the farewell. His mother’s voice rang in his head: “Keep in mind that Memory Charms are dangerous and can be permanently damaging.”
Something had happened. Something important. The knowledge was like a brick sitting inside his stomach. With a sickening feeling much like nausea he realized that he should discover what was behind the mirror over his sink. He had never allowed himself to do that. Draco tapped the bricks on the entrance to Diagon Alley with a frown. He would need a Pensieve.
“Draco,” Narcissa snapped. She must have said his name several times. She looked at him impatiently, a tired look that he had received much in his youth. An exasperated look that a mother gave her son when he wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong, but wasn’t really doing anything right either. A look Draco hadn’t received in a long time. A normal look.
“Yes?”
“Have your robes been delivered yet?” She and the House Elf stared at him with wide, impatient eyes. Draco had a mind that if his mother had been standing, she would have tapped her foot.
“I believe so,” he answered, hoping the dodgy answer would suffice. In truth, Draco hadn’t been able to force himself up to his room for any reason, much less to see if an owl had dropped a package on his bed for him. He’d been focusing hard to avoid the Manor’s magic all day, relying on House Elves to fetch him what he required in order to minimize the amount of doorways he had to walk through. He’d been sitting in the same armchair in front of the same fire for almost four hours now. Narcissa had commandeered the drawing room for her own uses about twenty minutes ago, but Draco had decided not to move. The hours and days had all slipped by similarly, in a monotony of tea and exhaustion. No wonder the gala was tomorrow.
Narcissa raised an eyebrow at his response and turned back to the Elf. “I want every guest to feel perfectly welcome, is that clear? If any of the staff see anyone not being fully engaged in any way I want them immediately showered with offers for food and drink at the very least.”
Draco barely resisting rolling his eyes. It was one thing to hope your guests felt welcome. It was one thing to throw a gala with loads of food and drink all free of charge to the partygoers. It was one thing to spend almost half of your family’s remaining savings on a single party. It was quite another to have a guest list full of enemies and invite them all into your home. But, Draco thought, taking another sip of his tea, at least it was enemies who had strange moral complexes and wouldn’t throw you in Azkaban for your many war crimes because your mother turned the tide of the war out of complete selfishness, trying to save her own family. Giving generous donations and spitting loads of money into the legal system to help clear yourself of said war crimes also helped. At least these enemies could still be paid off, and wouldn’t threaten to kill your parents unless you killed so-and-so.
Draco snorted. There was a memory he should put behind the bathroom mirror.
…What?
Draco shook his head to clear it and took a deep gulp of his tea, letting it burn its way down his oesophagus. The pain made him sit up straighter in the chair, discomfort making his eyes water.
The door to the drawing room slammed open, the wood-on-wood bang of door hitting wall serving as fanfare for Lucius’ entrance. “This!” he exclaimed, wide eyed and waving a piece of parchment around in his hand. It snapped in the artificial breeze his movements created. “What is this?”
Narcissa blinked, looking up at him. She dismissed the House Elf with a wave of her hand, and it disappeared with a hurried crack. “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what that is. Maybe if you held it still I could read it.”
Lucius shoved the parchment at her. She stood and took it calmly from him. Draco sipped his tea.
“This is the bill for the supplies I ordered for the gala,” she explained as if talking to a child.
“Do not presume to talk down to me in my own house, Narcissa. You know we do not have this money to spend at the moment. If I thought for one minute you would throw so extravagant an event—”
“This gala is going to cost us just as much—if not more—than the last one we threw. There will be reporters here; the Minister will be here; Harry Potter will be here. What we cannot afford is to lose this chance to realign ourselves.”
“You mock me,” Lucius snarled. He looked rather like one of his albino peacocks with his pale skin and tangled hair. Draco made an involuntary noise of amusement. Lucius shot a fleeting glare at his son before returning his attention to his wife. “You cannot throw my finances away as if you own me. You forget what I have done for this family—”
“I don’t think you realize that you were the one to single-handedly get us into this mess,” Draco said coolly, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his tea.
Lucius turned slowly, raising his eyebrows and taking a step towards his son. “Excuse me?” he drawled.
“I’m only saying. It’s entirely your fault for trying to kill the Weasley girl, and then mucking that up, and then trying to trap Potter, and then mucking that up, which then forced me to try to kill Dumbledore, and I must have inherited some predisposition from you to muck things up because I really succeeded at that, didn’t I, Father?” Draco’s cool tone had abandoned him. His face was hot and he could only imagine how red and blotchy it must look. “And you have the gall to stand there and tell Mother she isn’t doing what’s right for this family? Honestly, Father, I don’t think you would know what was right for us if it danced naked in front of you at the dinner table—”
Crack! Draco’s face was hot where his father had slapped him, but the pain had yet to sink in. He hadn’t noticed Lucius crossing the room towards him. Abruptly Draco realized that his thighs were cold. He looked down; the front of his robes were wet, presumably from spilled tea. Yes, the cup was now half empty. He must have sloshed it while talking, or when his father hit him.
“You will not talk to me that way in my house,” Lucius hissed, eyes wild. He no longer held the air of authority and power that Draco had associated with his father growing up. “Do not pretend that I was the only one of us caught up in the Dark Lord’s charms.”
Draco choked on a laugh, his hysteria bubbling out between his lips in a strangled noise. “Did you think I wanted this?” he asked, amusement in his voice. He was sounding like an insolent teenager and he knew it. He didn’t care. Draco’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling dramatically as laughter continued to shake his shoulders. “Did you think I asked for any of this?”
Lucius raised his chin. “When you were younger—”
“I WAS A CHILD!” Draco roared, standing abruptly from the chair, making his father take a step back. Something slipped loose from his fingers. The teacup broke on the hardwood floor, the tinkling of fine porcelain making Narcissa gasp. “I was a child who only wanted your approval. Of course I believed whatever you wanted me to! Of course I thought you knew best.”
“Draco, don’t—” Narcissa started, stammering from the other end of the room. Her voice was quiet, subdued. It reminded him of her attitude when the Dark Lord had taken up residence.
“I’m not a child anymore!” Draco said, spreading his arms wide and nailing his father with a glare. He smirked, suddenly, because something made him feel taller than both of his parents in that moment. “And you aren’t, either.” Draco paused, dropping his arms. He took a breath. “I’ll be out late,” he said. He turned and walked through the drawing room door.
He emerged in his bathroom. He spared a glance at the mirror above the sink before Disapparating.
***
Draco appeared with a small pop in an alleyway in Muggle London near the entrance to the Leaky Caldron. It was there that his motivation ran out on him, and he sagged against the dirty brick wall. How had he even Disapparated from inside the manor? There were security charms that ensured all had to enter and leave the manor using the front doors. There used to have been charms that meant you could only Apparate as close as the front gates, but the Ministry had made them remove that one, as they came by so often for unexpected raids for Dark Artifacts. Narcissa had come to making them tea whenever they came by. Draco was sure it was a ploy to make them feel ridiculous.
He must be stronger than he thought, if he could bypass the wards like that. Or maybe, like the rest of the Malfoy family, the wards had simply weakened over time.
He looked out of the alleyway to the busy sidewalk. A Muggle teenager looked at him curiously as she passed, eyebrows drawing together underneath her short fringe. Draco raised an eyebrow himself, then looked down. Shite. He was wearing his robes still. He needed to get out of the Muggles’ district. Without thinking too much about it, Draco quickly exited the alley and walked the short distance to the entrance to the Leaky, ignoring the looks he got.
It was harder to ignore the looks he got inside of the pub as he ordered a Firewhiskey. Tom handed him a glass and Draco tossed his coins on the counter. “Cheers,” he said, downing his drink. Draco grimaced at the taste. Tom glared.
“Malfoy,” a voice from behind him called. Draco turned. Hermione Granger sat at a small table in the corner, a large book open in front of her and a cup of tea in her hand.
“Granger,” he returned, walking over. He didn’t quite care to be polite today. His mood was thoroughly shot and if the Mudblood wanted to start something, he would let her.
“I hear you’re redoing your seventh year at Hogwarts,” she said casually, flipping a page in her book. Draco noticed a diagram comparing a caldron’s composition to the resulting potion’s qualities.
“So?” he drawled. He had no right to be judged, least by the likes of someone like her. He shifted his weight awkwardly. She hadn’t asked him to sit, so he stood awkwardly, towering above her.
“I’m doing the same.” Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, don’t act so surprised,” she continued. “It doesn’t make sense to skip your seventh year. It puts you at a disadvantage in your career. Unless—” she added “—you’re opening a joke shop, I suppose.”
Draco sneered. “Why are you telling me this? What do I care if you and I will both be at Hogwarts next year?”
Granger sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I’m just trying to be polite, Malfoy. Much of Slytherin house has chosen to transfer or withdraw, rather than repeat.”
Draco felt himself go hot. “Are you pitying me?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
The frizzy-haired girl laughed and flipped another page in her book. She wasn’t even looking at it, Draco thought maddeningly. “Far from it,” she said. “We’re no longer eleven. Can we get past pretending there is some advantage to always being at each other’s throats?”
Draco scoffed and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. “I don’t recall you ever being at my throat.”
Granger did something that surprised him, then. She laughed. “Sit down, Malfoy, unless I’m keeping you from some important business.”
Draco raised an eyebrow and was about to respond when a voice from behind him stopped him.
“Hermione?” A small, red-haired girl stepped around him and slid into the seat across from Granger. “I wasn’t able to find any of the books you asked for. Here’s your money back.” Ginny Weasley slid a handful of coins across the table.
Granger slid a look up at Draco, still standing by the table. “Hello,” he said, voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
The Weasley girl didn’t look up at him as she tossed the same greeting back. Draco’s stomach tightened painfully. He was experiencing something entirely unpleasant and similar to déjà vu. “I’ll see you later, then,” he mumbled, turning to the back door of the pub. Neither girl returned the farewell. His mother’s voice rang in his head: “Keep in mind that Memory Charms are dangerous and can be permanently damaging.”
Something had happened. Something important. The knowledge was like a brick sitting inside his stomach. With a sickening feeling much like nausea he realized that he should discover what was behind the mirror over his sink. He had never allowed himself to do that. Draco tapped the bricks on the entrance to Diagon Alley with a frown. He would need a Pensieve.
To Be Continued.
Ginocide is the author of 2 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 12 members. Members who liked The Shattered Psyche also liked 613 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Deteriorating Psyche. The previous story in the series is The Deteriorating Psyche.
This story is a favorite of 12 members. Members who liked The Shattered Psyche also liked 613 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Deteriorating Psyche. The previous story in the series is The Deteriorating Psyche.
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