Chapter 23 The Boy He Once Was September 1st, 1991 King's Cross
Station, London The bustle of Platform 9 3/4 sent Draco's
heart hammering like the persistent woodpeckers against
the trees surrounding his family's grand estate.
Existing students of Hogwarts towered over Draco's slight
frame and he ran a hand over his gelled back hair while fighting
back a slight quiver on his chin.
He watched his father deathly work the crowd of wizarding
parents, passing practised compliments to his allies and
cutting snide glares at the riff raff.
A blare of ginger bled through the busy platform, spreading
like wildfire. Draco, darling.
Narcissa said warmly while he continued to observe the Weasley
clan discolour the grayscale commotion to a Ruddy brown.
Your father was a little brash this morning, but he does have
some valid points. Harry Potter would be a good
friend to make. Be sure to introduce yourself to
him, Draco. To their right, the muggiest of
muggles Draco had ever seen emerged through the red brick
wall, 3 pairs of eyes shining wide in bewilderment and
intrigue. The older male wore a short,
sturdy cloak that comically finished at the hips, while his
wife adorned some odd sort of blue trousers that frayed white
at the bottom and showed off her terracotta ankle socks.
Taking the lead, a girl about his height, with brown hair so
wild you'd think she'd failed to brush it her whole life, strode
ahead, passing a quick, cheerful glance his way.
Her bright manner broke through the dense steam like a
lighthouse on a dark, ominous night.
He hadn't purposefully shaped his expression to be 1 of
unwelcome. However, when she darted her
focus elsewhere, the warmth in her freckly skin turned ashen.
He supposed it was for the best. Just another mudblood.
He imagined his father's sentiment.
Yes, mother. He muttered in response, keening
his neck to watch the bushy haired girl as she confidently
headed toward the Hogwarts Express, her muggle parents
trailing behind. You're a sweet boy Draco, don't
forget that part of yourself. And despite what your father
says, it is important to make your own assertions of people
and their worthiness of your time.
His mother added cautiously. The pipes of the steam train
signalled the last call for embarkation.
Draco took an uncertain step toward the train before catching
sight of Theodore waving energetically out of a carriage
window at the space above Draco's head.
By the time he was seated, his father had rejoined Nassisa,
wrapping a confining arm around her waist, and the pair gave a
controlled goodbye wave at the boy he once was as he journeyed
to his new life. April 3rd, 1994.
The outer grounds, Hogwarts. Draco's mother had thought it
best that he spend the Easter holidays at school with Theo,
especially considering Lucius was still furious with him over
the Hippogriff incident. It hadn't mattered that the
beast had broken his humorous in three places.
The debacle and performance had made the family look weak, and
now his father needed to fix Draco's mess with the pride of
force. Despite his outwardly mocking
demeanour, Draco knew in his soul he would never have been
worthy of the regard of such a creature.
Majestic, ethereal, scrutinizing.
He would never have attempted to approach it, but Potter had
perfect Potter, loved and adored by everyone.
Even those who should be able to see through his fame like Swaty,
know it all. Granger.
So when the same maddingly superior Hermione Granger
stormed towards him as he, crab and Goyle peeked down at
Hagrid's Hut to the execution and lamped him across her face
with a force that could have knocked out an arumpent, Draco
felt it. And something else that she left
behind, a piece of her flame scorching across his skin like a
brand. December 25th, 1994, The Yule
Ball. Hogwarts, aren't you going to
remark on my dress? Draco Parkinson whined in his
ear while draping herself over him from the edge of the Great
Hall, and the Weird Sisters played a sickly romantic ballad
from the stage. The Raven haired Slytherin with
her blunt cut Bob and black matte lipstick traced a
seductive line with the tip of 1, sharp as a tack and magically
manicured nail down his cheek to his sternum.
Draco extricated himself from her clutches with a sidestep.
If you're looking for easy compliments and a fanciful
flirtation, you should have invited Theodore not to the
ball. He intoned sullenly, eyes locked
on the brunette being twirled around the dance floor.
Granger spun circles around everyone, a grace and poise
hitherto unseen exuding from her, while her small hand was
LED brutishly by the internationally renowned
Quidditch player Victor Crum. Draco's own hand twitched with a
melancholic longing. Not I've had him 10 times
already. It's time for a new challenge.
She drawled, crossing her thin arms and sulking.
The band struck up a more upbeat song and Granger paused to
gather her breath, unaware that he'd been watching her for the
better half of an hour. So are you going to ask me to
dance? Are you just going to stare at
the mudblood all night? Darkness engulfed his tone.
Don't call her that. But that's all she is, Draco.
He did not design to respond. Ah, fine, if you're going to be
like that, I'll go find not. He's always up for some fun.
Call me if you want to join us later.
She said slyly with a wink before disappearing into the
seat of dancers to hook an easier catch.
He knew Pansy was right, she was just a mudblood.
He couldn't fathom what it was about her that made his breath
catch, his heart flutter, his cock twitch when he was alone at
night. But whatever it was needed to
cease, and soon. November 22nd, 1996.
Castle corridor, Hogwarts. Fucking Gryffindors, he cursed
to himself as the swell of song from the castle corridor
threatened to flood his ear canals.
After their miraculous win, they were going to be even more
insufferable. Weasley is our king.
They always succeeded in turning his jibes into something
positive, eventually making his efforts for a fair back and
forth utterly futile. Weasley can save anything.
He never leaves a single ring. That's why Griffin doors all
sing. At this point, he might as well
have pushed Granger into Weasley's open and desperate
arms. It had been clear to Draco that
the lanky redhead held a huge torch for her, but what he
couldn't discern was whether Granger felt the same.
Not that it should concern him at all.
Why should he? Bloody WellCare he didn't, No,
not at all. Draco had buried that strange
longing with the rest of his hopes for the future.
In any case, he would most likely be dead within the year,
certain that he would eventually disappoint Voldemort.
Then, at least the suffering would be over.
Instead of heading to the dungeons, where he was sure to
readily receive a pity blowjob from Parkinson, Draco threw
himself into a broom closet for a single moment's piece.
The second he was fully alone and not being tracked by the
intrusive eyes of the school portraits, the muscles in his
body all but melted, the cool facade solid as an ice glacier
liquidizing to a gelatinous puddle of failure and
loneliness. He could not win in classes.
Despite all his efforts. She bested him every time.
The fact she couldn't fly for shit would have been a triumph,
but her entourage managed to overpower Draco in that
department too. And his secret work on the
Vanishing Cabinet was going at a purposefully languid pace.
You are failing this family. That was what his father's
letter had said, had it not? The Dark Lord requires better.
Do not disappoint me, it had gone on to say.
Drago had a task, a very important one, one that would
secure his family's place in the New World.
Yet he had been stalling, and it had not gone unnoticed, the
pressure in his father's letters bleeding the parchment to a
sinister, sanguine red. Soon they would begin howling at
him, and that would be very dangerous indeed.
After the roar in his ears dulled to a low throb, he took
to opening the cupboard door, stopping suddenly at the
baffling sight of Grainger sitting on the steps leading up
to Gryffindor Tower. She held her head in her hands,
silent sobs pouring between her delicate fingers, alone except
for a flock of sweet little golden birds circling her, which
she must have just conjured. He held his breath, frozen as if
under immobilis, stuck between action and inaction in the same
infinitesimal moment that he decided to exit and check on her
paragon of good. Harry Potter took a seat by her
side, and Draco quickly closed the door once more, squinting
through a gap in the wood to watch on silently.
Oh, hello, Harry, she said in a quiet voice.
I was just practising. He couldn't hear Potter's
response above his own heartbeat, yet girlish laughter
bounced off key from the Castlestone, drowning out both
sounds. Oh.
A fourth voice joined, halting at the sight of Potter and
Grainger. Oops, looks like this room's
taken. A female voice, which Draco now
identified as belonging to the Lavender Brown, giggled.
Harry wondered where you got to. Weasley added breathlessly.
Could he seriously be ascertaining the events
correctly? Weasley had dropped Grainger for
that God's awful brown girl. What?
Now he's finally saved a Quaffle, he suddenly thinks he
can do better. What the fuck?
Hermione rose from the stone steps, her eyes blazing with a
fire that seemed ready to scorch everything in its path.
The little golden birds morphed into fiery orbs, still
twittering as they circled her, making her look like a strange
infernal model of the solar system.
A pug, No Granger pointed her wand, her expression a great
void of emotion. The blazing birds speed like a
hail of fat golden bombs towards Weasley, who yelped from
somewhere Draco couldn't see. Salazar, how he wished she had
an invisibility cloak or some sort of disillusionment spell to
see Weasley cower against Hermione's seething might.
That's my girl. May 2nd, 1998, The Battle of
Hogwarts. It couldn't be real.
Potter. St.
Potter, perfect paragon of good. Potter.
He was supposed to win, and he was dead.
Draco had expected, had wished, had stalled the Dark Lord at
every turn, all in the hopes that Harry would eventually
triumph and Draco could be free. But Harry Potter lay on the
broken pavings of the Clock Tower courtyard, lifeless, Gone
along with all hope Draco had for a future.
The gut wrenching cry that came from Hermione pressed against
the pulp inside his chest that would have once been called a
heart. He would do anything to make
sure she never cried like that again.
Neceser recognized the devastation on Draco's face from
across the yard, anguish he had refused to reveal since he left
to Hogwarts all those years ago and had hid beneath the resolve
of ice and stone. She knew, in that instance,
where her son's heart lay and the direction it would take them
in. Many things happened at once.
A sword slicing through the air, the great snake's head flopping
sloppily to the ground. Shouts, cries, blasts of curses.
The battle began anew. His mother rushed to his side,
and together they unleashed their own curses toward a swarm
of dark Wizards, their intended targets lost in the chaos.
But no one trusted them anymore. They had to defend against the
relentless barrage of spells from the Order and his fellow
students too. Amidst the cacophony of cries
and curses, an eerie clarity washed over him as his gaze fell
upon Potter's body. The Order wouldn't win this
battle, the force against them too great.
And Hermione? The Order would never trust him
unless he gave them a reason to. In that moment, Draco knew what
had to be done. May 6th, 1998.
Folkestone Beach. What do you expect in return for
this? Kingsley asked him with dark
eyes, the fresh wind whipping around the three of them.
Professor Mcgonigal looked a decade older, and her eyes, dry
and red, barely left the carefully wrapped mound at their
feet. The orders fallen hero.
They stood on a grassy hill overlooking the English Channel,
the Muggle Prime Minister already a mile out to sea on the
Sanctimonia, the yacht his family had vacationed on since
he were a young boy. You require her new man on the
inside? Draco let the wind catch his
words and swirl it around, giving them a moment to consider
them. And I require a trusted liaison.
Kingsley and Mcgonigal both studied him as he delivered the
final stipulation. I need Hermione Grainger.