Slytherin Squad

Chapter 1: Prologue

Draco Malfoy was a miserable wretch. Most people assumed this had begun after the Battle of Hogwarts. His father had been shipped off to Azkaban, Draco had been hauled in front of the Wizengamot, and his feeble, traitorous actions had barely been enough to save his own neck from the chopping block.

No, he was used to being a miserable wretch. In fact, he’d been one for so long that he’d nearly stopped noticing. It took two years of sulking about being a miserable wretch to realize that there might be a better remedy than all-consuming self-pity.

Upon observing the world around him, he discovered that Aurors miraculously generated respect. Having recognized the solution to instant happiness, he applied to the Aurors the same day.

There he was informed that a background check and references were required. Knowing a certain snake-and-skull-shaped tattoo was not looked upon favorably by the current administration, he completed the application as more of a joke than anything else. The reference acquired from Snape was surprisingly honest, and, paraphrased, said, “He’s still a useless wimp, but if he tries, he means it.” Draco thought this was the icing on the cake of his awful application, and submitted it happily. Knowing he had tried, he could then forever more blame his miserable wretchedness on someone else, and thus live the rest of his days in bitter contentedness.

He did not count on the Auror Department having a sense of humor.

He especially did not count on Harry Potter having such a strong delight in irony, and personally waiving the background check.

“Malfoy fought in the Battle of Hogwarts,” The Chosen One managed with only a slight smirk. “If it counted to let me into the Aurors, it shouldn’t count any less for him.”

He neglected to mention that Malfoy had not fired a single spell during the battle. That was for the rest of the Aurors to complain about later.

And so Draco Malfoy was accepted into the Auror Academy.

Oddly enough, every other trainee had violent reactions to his last name and left forearm. Every day, his comrades in arms challenged themselves to be more creative. It would be a shame if they left a single element in his life unexploited. How could they, with such excellent material to pull from? His father was only in Azkaban, mother a social pariah, school House synonymous with evil incarnate, and his unchangeable blood-status forever the brand of the oppressor. And did they mention he was a Death Eater?

Draco did not speak of his family. He did not speak of his blood-status. He never mentioned his House. And more than anything, Draco would never, not once, allow his left arm to be seen in public.

And so of course, every day in training, his fellow would-be-Aurors played a game. The winner was whoever could ‘accidentally’ rip off whatever daily disguise Draco had used to hide his Dark Mark.

One by one, the long days of training crept by. If Draco cried himself to sleep a good number of those nights, he would be the last to ever admit it. For once, he had no father to tell about this. He had no mother whose threatening letters would strike fear. If he failed or succeeded, it would be entirely his own fault. For the rest of his life, he would have no one to blame but the face staring back at him in the mirror. Could he live with that? He wasn’t sure, but was terrified of finding out too late that he couldn’t.

Miraculously, he survived the month of training. Even more miraculously, the endless bullying had forced him to focus on actually training, and he managed decent marks.

Everyone knew a Malfoy would have to get excellent marks for even a junior squad to request him on their roster. Again, this chance for someone else to fail him pleased Draco to no end.

Until Richard Murstow, a gruff, middle-aged Slytherin, asked for Draco to be put on his squad.

This unexpected turn also pleased Draco. If there was anything he liked more than not being held responsible, it was favoritism. And so Draco went to the squad willingly, expecting to skate by as he had for seven years in Potions.

He could not have been more wrong.

Murstow took it as his personal goal to make Draco’s life a living hell. The abuse he had received in training were loving caresses to the torture Murstow put him through. In fact, he exclusively referred to Draco as, ‘The Death Eater’.

This confused and angered Draco to no end. Until one day, he realized that the more insulting Murstow was, the less his squadmates had left to say. After less than a week, the taunts from his teammates ceased entirely. And the more Draco persevered through Murstow’s torture, the more...sympathy his teammates felt for him. For once, they did not scoot away at the team lockers. They encouraged him when he did well. Sparingly, but encouragement all the same. He tried it back on occasion. Foreign as it felt, it hadn’t killed him yet.

Draco took it as a challenge instead of a portent of doom. He did not run. He faced the abuse, he held his temper.

And he won.

While Draco would never like the man who abused him for sport, he respected the man who knew what was needed to become accepted.

As Malfoy and Murstow surveyed the wreckage of the Wizarding World, they saw the specific ruin heaped on Slytherin, the House they had once loved. No one, not even the innocent, the uninvolved, had been spared from its stigma. And so for any Slytherins willing to endure the trials of becoming an Auror, Murstow gave them the same chance he had given Draco. And together, Captain Murstow and Lieutenant Malfoy gave the new Slytherin Aurors a squad to call home afterward.

And then Murstow was murdered.