Prologue: No Rest For The Wicked
The sky that watched over the city of London, already dim and gray, began to rain. Numerous people walking the streets quickly brought out umbrellas, and hurried to get out of the water by walking – or even running, in some cases – hurriedly to wherever their destination may be.
Draco Malfoy glared up at the murky clouds as their tears quickly soaked through his hair and pelted his exposed neck mercilessly. His pale blonde hair – longer than he usually had it, hanging in shaggy layers to his ears – was soon slicked against his head, strands plastered against his cheeks and forehead. Of course, it just had to rain the one time Draco forgot to bring his umbrella. Not that Draco was very surprised. Life in general seemed to be giving him the finger lately, why not add in a bit of lousy weather to top it off?
The young man growled under his breath, and bowed his head against the rain as he briskly walked down the street, away from the bakery he had been planning to go to. His appetite had been ruined by the letters that had been sent to him just minutes before. They had appeared to him briefly, the Disillusionment Charm fading slightly before becoming invisible again. Draco had glanced around, but the street was crowded enough so that everyone was too busy going about their business to notice him reach out briefly. Draco grabbed blindly in the general direction of the letters, and the moment his hand touched the bundle it had become visible.
Draco’s mouth tightened at the memory. He couldn’t believe that he had even bothered to send in five job applications to the Ministry; for the Portkey Office, Broom Regulation, Apparition Test Centre, and (for his own personal amusement and not for any real ambition) the Auror Office.
The only reason he had even bothered to apply to the Minstry was because no one else would even consider hiring him. The Minsitry was his last resort, which was pretty depressing, considering the much lower caliber of all the other magical establishments. Hell, even bloody Honeydukes – the magical candy shop in Hogsmeade – turned him down! Honestly, how much knowledge do you need, or more specifically “lack of academic achievement” as that old bat running the place so eloquently put it when dismissing his application, do you need to work at a candy shop?
Working in a Muggle place was simply out of the question. Nothing short of starvation would make him turn to that, and even then it would be dicey. Not only was there the uncontrollably vivid memory of Voldemort torturing Muggle children and their mother to make an example of them that sprung up at the thought, but also the idea of not being able to use magic frightened him…unnerved him, really.
The letters had been three crisply polite responses, all stating at some point that “although we appreciated your application, we feel that you would have better luck elsewhere”. The other two letters were absent, but Draco didn’t doubt that they said the same thing. Those smug bastards were probably taking their time before turning him down, savoring the feeling of power they had over him.
Draco had been enraged at the swiftness of the rejection. How could they have possibly appreciated it when Draco had sent the applications that very morning? How could they possibly know if he was suitable after just two hours (at the most) to consider him as an employee?
It wasn’t as if Draco had expected everyone to just forget the wrongdoings of both himself and his family, or the loyalty the Malfoy family showed Voldemort through the years in which he gained power once more. But he had at least hoped that they would give him a chance.
Draco wished that everyone would forget, but he knew better than to entertain the idea. Even to entertain the idea was a stretch; these were the good guys being talked about – the devoted followers of Potter and the Weasel – and in ways they were even nastier than the bad guys.
Sure, the bad guys ruled by fear and hate – the memory of living among them made Draco’s stomach churn – but at least they were honest about what their intentions were. Gain power, kill, destroy…it was all black and white. No gray areas. They never trusted anyone, so there was no chance for real betrayal because you always had suspicions.
On the other hand, the good guys were all shades of gray. They strove to be honorable, but what was honor, really? Was killing someone honorable as long as it was for some personal reason? Death is considered a sin, and yet the people on the Light did it too, and yet they’re still considered good people. They trusted without question, and they had more people betray and manipulate them as a result. If you took advantage of their trust, even once, they turned their backs on you. No chance of redemption.
Draco remembered sitting with his family after Potter defeated Voldemort, remembered feeling the sudden realization that they no longer had to be afraid. His mother was too busy hugging Draco and kissing his forehead to notice, but his father did. The two Malfoy men had glanced at each other, and both of them had smiled slightly.
It’s finally over, Lucius Malfoy’s eyes seemed to say, his gaunt face softening in relief, his silvery gray eyes closing as he put his hand on his son’s shoulder.
For the rest of the castle, that was true.
If only it had been true for Draco, too.
***
“We should leave.” Lucius murmured, his eyes still shining in relief as the family stood in the entrance hall; students, professors, and Aurors alike all bustling about, laughing and cheering. Potter, Weasley, and Granger had just returned from wherever they had been, and Draco spotted that annoying Weasley girl – she was pretty enough, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name – as she jumped up and ran towards the three Gryffindors. Draco scowled as the red-head said something angrily, and then leapt into Potter’s arms, throwing her arms around his neck and…ugh…
Draco had kissed plenty of girls in his time at Hogwarts, and as he witnessed the Weasley girl doing the same act with Potter –Draco couldn’t understand what the girl saw in the idiot – he desperately hoped that his kisses didn’t look like that. It was bloody disgusting; they were practically sticking their tongues down each other’s throats. Weasley looked nauseated at the sight, and for the first – and probably the only – time in history, Draco shared his sentiment.
In response to her husband’s suggestion, Narcissa, her long blonde hair uncharacteristically unkempt, nodded slowly. She moved closer to Lucius, and her hand slipped comfortably into the crook of his elbow.
It was in that moment that Draco realized how much his father and mother loved each other. Of course, as a child, he had never really been looking for it. He had just assumed that like most of his relatives, his parents had married in order to preserve the pure blood line. There might have been some respect shared between the two of them, but true love? In an arranged marriage? It was extremely rare, almost non-existent nowadays.
It was true, that his father and mother had married partially for blood reasons. It might even be true that they hadn’t been in love when they said their wedding vows. But whatever may have been the case, now, in that moment, their love shone through even their reserved demeanors and unforgiving personalities.
Draco knew that his family was known for their resentment of muggleborns and blood traitors, and it was plain that his parents were no exception. But did that make them bad people? Did their lack of a normal upbringing make them evil? They had been trying to do what was best for their loved ones; whether it be protection, social standing, or even financial status.
Beneath all of the harsh expectations and arrogance, it was plain his parents loved him. His mother had knowingly lied to Voldemort in order to have a chance to be with her son again, and his father had tried so hard to keep Voldemort from branding Draco with the Dark Mark.
“My Lord, are you sure that he’s ready? He’s been much too…uncompromising lately, such a kind of Death Eater would be–”
Draco glared at his father, angry that he was trying to prevent the ceremony. Hadn’t his father been so smug when others joined Voldemort’s ranks, hadn’t he himself pledged loyalty to those very ranks? Why was he being such a coward now?
“You dare question my decision, Lucius? You, who is most likely being sentenced to a considerable sentence in Azkaban because of your stupidity?”
The voice curled and hissed like a powerful snake, and Draco couldn’t help but shiver in anticipation, breathing in deep as if to intake the intoxicating power of the magic swirling around them. Voldemort’s chilling gaze locked on Draco, and his bone-pale lips twitched upwards.
“Your son seems to think differently, Lucius.” The wizard moved silently across the black marble floor of the Malfoy Manor, his robes whispering on the pristinely polished surface. Lucius’s face paled, and it seemed as if it physically pained him to bow before rejoining his wife at the edges of the circle. Narcissa stared soundlessly at her son, her eyes dark and impenetrable, but her hands clenched into anquished fists. Draco disregarded their reactions, turning to where Voldemort was approaching him.
“I hope that you will serve me better than your father, boy.”
Draco held his head as high as he dared in Voldemort’s presence, and nodded curtly. Voldemort’s eyes gleamed, and with a hiss his wand came down onto the skin of Draco’s left inner arm, sealing his fate and his soul into the Dark Lord’s service.
Draco sighed, and ran a hand through his singed hair. He cringed to think of what their family would have to go through in returning to the world once more, but pushed it aside at the sight of his parents walking slowly ahead of him.
If it was one thing that he had learned from Harry Potter (and it was indeed one thing), it was that in the end, money didn’t matter. In the end, it wasn’t how many people you could bribe, it was how many people stood behind you and accepted you for who you were. Draco had seen it, in Potter’s face, when he had looked at his friends when discussing the battle. Potter wasn’t rich in gold or jewels, but he was rich in friendship.
It was a foreign concept to Draco, and he didn’t particularly want to think about it at the moment. So he settled for taking a deep breath, and sending one last cool glance around at the entrance hall, his mind swimming back to the day of his Sorting. This was where he and Potter had become enemies.
Instead of feeling smug or even indifferent, Draco felt a strange sinking in his chest. The reluctant question filled his mind: What would have happened if Potter had accepted his invitation to become friends? Would Draco’s fate have been any different? Would anything have changed?
Draco shook his head fiercely.
Why was he asking himself this? Potter was an idiot, plain and simple, and there hadn’t been even a chance of a chance for friendship because Potter was a true Gryffindor: stupidly honorable, foolish, and weak.
Draco squared his shoulders, and was about to speed up to join his parents when a low voice suddenly hissed from his right.
“You miserable scum!”
Draco flinched, and looked to his right to see a Death Eater – Draco couldn’t recognize him under the blood and cuts marring his face – leering at him, an Auror holding him by his arm and glaring darkly at the man for speaking. Some of the celebrators hesitated, but most moved along with their business, confident that the Death Eater was in no position to pose a threat.
Lucius was striding towards Draco in an instant, Narcissa right behind him, and it was then that everything shattered. If only Draco hadn’t been dragging behind, if only he hadn’t been foolishly reminiscing on events of the past. He should have, would have, could have done something different. But he didn’t.
Suddenly, somehow, the Death Eater got loose from his bonds, and, quick as a snake, punched the Auror square in the nose. He then grabbed the dropped wand and pointed it at Narcissa.
“You traitors! How come you aint in chains, huh? I’ll kill you!” There was only time for a glance at those insane bloodshot eyes before a flash of green light sped at the family.
It was too fast, so fast, and Draco felt as though his chest was freezing up from the inside as he watched his father push his mother out of the way. The light was inches away from Lucius’s chest, and the man seemed to know what was coming in the brief seconds before it hit. Gray eyes met those of his son, and a burning emotion flared in them before he was blown backward by the spell.
“NO!” Draco screamed, uncaring that everyone in the hall was watching, uncaring that his voice cracked and screeched unpleasantly. Narcissa screamed even more shrilly than Draco, and ran blindly over to where her husband was limp and unmoving on the ground, blood trickling from where his head had collided with the stone walls of the entrance hallway. She cradled his broken form in her trembling arms, and stared down at him, her tears creating pearls on his ashen forehead. She began rocking back and forth, her mouth moving as she mouthed words, but no sound ever being emitted.
Aurors were already restraining the Death Eater, but the deed was done. Narcissa sobbed uncontrollably, and Draco found that he couldn’t move from the spot he had been standing in just moments before that green light hit. His feet were frozen, his heart was frozen…his eyes stared at the body of his father, and he wanted to scream to the heavens.
It was supposed to be over! How could you let this happen?
But no one answered. Draco knew that no one would, but even so, the lack of a response made his heart sink even lower into the icy numbness.
Draco felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, and looked to see Potter standing there, his eyes strangely old as they stared at Draco’s stricken face. Those bright green eyes were bereft of hate as they gazed into Draco’s gray ones, and the empathy in their emerald depths made Draco instantly recoil.
The boy shoved Potter away, his breath leaving him in a gust, and felt his feet taking him out of the castle, away from those terrifying green eyes…away from the body of…of…
His father.
Dead.
Like so many countless innocents Voldemort had slaughtered with Draco present, like that poor and innocent Muggle Studies teacher who had been devoured by Nagini. The memory of that incident still haunted his dreams, and every time he saw a snake he would remember the sight of the woman’s head disappearing down the scaly throat of Voldemort’s snake, the jeers and coos Bellatrix voiced when the woman hit the table, and the cold, merciless crimson gaze of Voldemort as he watched his creature consume the woman.
Draco felt bile rising in his throat, but swallowed it back as he almost slipped in the damp grass, awkwardly staggering to regain his balance. After righting himself, he resumed his running, ignoring the looks the centaurs gave him from their position just outside the destroyed eastern wall and arrangement of windows of the Great Hall.
What was he running from?
Draco was too stricken to consider the answer to that question, and so he pushed it away, and kept running until the cramp in his side was too painful to continue, and by that time he was so deep inside the Forbidden Forest that everything looked the same. The trees were larger; their dark trunks ominous and cracked with age as they stood, silent sentinels. Draco couldn’t help but shudder at the feeling that swept through him at the sight, and briskly began walking, weaving between the trees, trying to hold back the wetness in his eyes.
Walking to where, Draco was not certain. His pain wrenched deeper and deeper each time his foot touched the earth, as did the knowledge that his father would never walk again. His feet would never press against the earth, defying gravity…moving forward.
Lucius Malfoy was frozen in time.
Dead.
Twigs snapped to Draco’s right, and his hand leapt into his robe to pull out his…oh yes, he had lost his wand in the battle. Draco’s hand closed on air, and he stared widely at the creature standing before him.
It was…something large – much larger than a horse – with shiny black skin and a eerie, seemingly emaciated frame that was sheer muscle. A thick mane of black hair stuck up messily, and its tail swished slowly behind its awkwardly angled hind legs. Thick leathery wings were folded loosely at its sides, and Draco grimaced at the sight of the creatures milky white eyes that were so startling against the darkness of its skin. The creature didn’t make a move towards him, and Draco saw that it had a dead deer hanging from its jaws.
After a moment of staring, the animal moved to begin feeding off to the side, and the sound of teeth ripping into flesh brought a flash of recognition to Draco’s mind. It had been in his fifth year, when that oaf Hagrid had brought them out into the forest for a class. There had been creatures that ate flesh, and while Draco hadn’t been able to see them, Potter and some others could. They were…thestrals, and only those who had witnessed death could see them.
Only those who had witnessed death…
Draco watched silently as the thestral ate, and suddenly his composure shattered. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he abandoned all sense of control as he sobbed into the night, burying his head into his knees and screaming his grief.
The thestral's ears perked up at the sound of Draco’s sobs, and after a moment it picked up its prey and disappeared into the brush, probably to find a quieter place to enjoy its meal.
***
Draco hunched his shoulders against the rain, his scowl becoming more pronounced as he pushed away those painful memories. What was it about the rain that made those parts of his past so vivid?
Instead of answering that question, Draco focused on the sound of his shoes scraping against the sidewalk in a wet gravelly sound, and the sound of the rain plinking gently against the windows of stores lining the busy streets. His flat was only a block away from where he was now…it shouldn’t take more than five minutes or so if he hurried.
Draco had moved to London only a few months ago, and was beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. What was there for him but bitter resentment and disappointment?
But part of him couldn’t think of returning to the Malfoy Manor in Wilshire. As much as he loved his mother, he didn’t want to live in that place, where so many people had been tortured or worse. Painful flashes of his father hanging up his coat and sitting down to eat dinner repeated themselves before Draco’s eyes whenever he walked through the doorway. He wanted to start anew, so to speak. He wanted to try actually working for a change – it was a foreign concept, and Draco was aware enough to be slightly embarrassed at the thought – and in what better way to do it than getting a job?
His mother had, after a year of coping with Lucius’s death, gotten a job in a popular witch’s tea shop, where she worked as the receptionist. It was slow work, and didn’t pay much but it helped Narcissa move on from her depression, and it gave her a sense of purpose, having something important to do.
She had been reluctant to let Draco leave the Manor, and it had taken Draco nearly six months to convince her to let him go. Draco’s face twisted at the memory of her crying face as he packed his bags, and her sobs as she reluctantly handed him the hefty bag of coins that held his inheritance.
Draco wrote to her every two weeks, and fervently hoped that she was doing alright without him. It made Draco incredibly guilty to leave her all alone, but part of him knew that he couldn’t stay with her forever. He loved her, but she needed to let him live his life.
The rain continued to fall as Draco reached his apartment building, and he punched in the code with cold fingers, shaking the water from his hair as the clicker buzzed, and the door opened to admit him into the narrow hallway. The shivering young man turned to ascend the stairs, his hand tracing along the metal railing. When he reached the second floor, he stepped away from the stairs that continued upward and trudged down the hall to room 206. It was on the right side, and Draco rummaged around for his key, growling when he had to empty his pockets for it. Finally, a few moments later, Draco found it at the very bottom of his jacket pocket, and jammed it into the lock, twisting it firmly and pushing the door open.
The flat was spacious and comfortable, but most of that was a result of the magic. Pale oak floorboards were clean and clear, with a dark green couch was situated to the right of the living room, a bookshelf to the side as well as a fireplace. It was a building owned by a family of wizards, and as a result a fireplace was possible, seeing as the owner did a simple spell in order for the smoke to exit through the top of the building, even though there were several floors above the room.
There was a small marble-topped counter that stretched in a semicircle, like an island of sorts, and a small fridge and stove were settled on the far wall opposite the counter. Cooking was something that Draco had been forced to learn over the years since the war, because of their lack of a substantial income; they hadn’t been able to keep any servants.
Draco draped his jacket over the couch as he slipped off his shoes, and sighed as he slumped on the couch, staring blankly at the shelf of books that was settled against the wall. The clock on the small table near his elbow read, in dim green shapes that flickered slightly: 7:30 AM.
He barely had any time to formulate a thought when suddenly, two letters appeared before him, both addressed to Draco. The young man’s already sour mood only worsened at the sight, but he dutifully picked the two letters up, recognizing them to be from the Ministry of Magic.
Draco was tempted to burn both of them, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he opened one with a quick tearing of the seal. It was from the Auror Office, and he raised an eyebrow, shocked that they – they being Potter, since he was the head of the department – hadn’t just rejected him at the same time as the others.
Mr. Malfoy,
We appreciated your application, but unfortunately you do not qualify–
Draco crumpled that one up in his hands, dismissively tossing it over his shoulder. Not much of a surprise there. He moved on to the next one, and stared at it for a moment. Did he really want to read yet another rejection? The wizard huffed, and quickly opened it, this time it was from Broom Regulation.
Mr. Malfoy,
We have reviewed your application, and formally extend a position in our department. Please report to–
Draco, so blinded, almost threw the letter away, but after a moment gaped at the letter. Was he dreaming? Had the Ministry really just given him a job?
If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was a Malfoy – who were raised to be level-headed in all situations, not blindly displaying their feelings for everyone to see – Draco would given a shout of triumph. But since he was indeed a Malfoy – the name may have been mud to the rest of the wizarding world, but it still held value to the Malfoy’s themselves – Draco settled for a smug smirk instead as he carefully read the rest of the letter.
Broom Regulation, huh? Draco didn’t know the first thing about brooms – he only cared about how fast they could go.
But no one needed to know that.
Little Cracks They Escalate by Crimson Lily
Chapter Notes: Hello! This is my first EVER Harry Potter fanfiction, and I worked really hard on making this first part good! So even if you dont like it, I'd appreciate some feedback. I LOVE when people give good criticism (constructive, please), because it helps me improve my writing skills and ideas.
So, again, please leave a few words telling me what you think!
I hope you all like it!
:D