By These Truths; or, The Late and Lamentable Tragedy of Draco Malfoy

By these truths.

1. by these truths (or; the late and lamentable tragedy of Draco Malfoy.)

1.

Where he walks, he owns. It's something his father taught him, before his father ended up dead, not that that was any surprise. Draco looks back at the long line of people his father managed to annoy and generally disgust, and sometimes wonders why the Ministry took so long to catch him. After all, Lucius Malfoy captured the attention of others through his wealth, his power and the slight tendency to act vaguely psychotic and therefore scare the living daylights out of others, including Draco himself, but when it came down to it, Lucius foamed at the mouth like any other rabid dog, and had to be put down.

Add that to the fact that he was captured by a group of children, a group that included a Weasley, Longbottom and the inexplicably bizarre Lovegood, and Draco still feels the slight shame of his father's utter incompetence following him down the years.

He doesn't know why he remembers most of his father's lessons - Lucius had a tendency for phrases, words of advice, little bon mots that curled themselves around Draco's ears and always seemed inexplicable - but even now that Lucius has been dead, buried and unlamented for five years, he's still Draco's father, and that means something, even if Draco isn't quite sure what that is.

He takes another step, and feels the floorboard creak ominously under foot. Right. Better not to test it, Draco thinks, he has no wish to fall through the floor - he is directly above the kitchens and it would be laughable to go through all he's gone through and end up dead because he fell into a cooker or something - so he shifts his foot and crushes a leaf underfoot with a wince. His mother would have fallen over in shock at the state of the place, and his father would have merely compressed his lips in that distinctly unimpressed expression Draco knows far too well for his own comfort, so it's probably better they're not here to see it, on account of them both being deceased.

His mother died not too far from here, slumped against the main stairwell, half stunned. They woke her up, of course, woke her up so they could torture her a little more before they finally killed her, and Draco remembers the screams.

He remembers the screams and the night and running out into shadow and darkness and rain and barely noticing because there's a bunch of Death Eaters who just killed his mother and want to take him away, and when they finally caught up with him, he was sick all over their shoes and cried like a baby because there was nothing he could do.

"Are you alright?" Draco looks up, sees a figure that's familiar and loved standing in the doorway, clad in jeans and t-shirt and other Muggle clothes.

Not especially, Draco wants to say, because it's true, but sometimes the truth is inadequate to the telling.

"I'm coping," he says, and manages a smile that's a little bit rakish and more than a little bit smug, just like the Draco Malfoy of old.

"Heaven forbid you merely cope," Harry mutters, offhand, and makes his way carefully across the decaying floor. Strong arms envelope Draco, and strong arms cradle him to Harry's chest, and he rests his head on Harry's shoulder because he can and Harry wants him to.

"You always come here," Harry breathes against his hair, brushing lips over it lightly, and Draco knows what he's going to say next. "Are you sure you should?"

"Of course I should," Draco replies, stung, and it sounds it as well, from the vitriol in his voice. "This is my home."

"This was your home," Harry informs him, and still holds him, albeit at a distance. He's not used to being talked back to, considering he is such a hero, such an idol, saviour to be of the wizarding world, blah blah blah, but then if he wanted someone who just bowed and scraped, he wouldn't be here with Draco now, wouldn't be with Draco at all, and that's a comforting thought. "Now it's just falling apart."

"I know that!" It is after all, hardly something that can be avoided. Most of the windows are broken, the roof is fraught with holes that let the elements and the light in and taken their toll. After years of abandonment, no house elves to maintain and repair, no witch or wizard to keep the protective charms up, Malfoy Manor has stood against the vagaries of time and the weather and quailed at both. Some of the first floor rooms are decidedly unsafe to enter, and some of the floors have given way entirely, leaving gaping holes that stretch from one side of the room to the other. There is dust everywhere, and clutter, and leaves, because the Ministry in its wisdom decided to hide the big old house by force growing the surrounding countryside, and now Draco's childhood is hidden behind a minor forest and a swathe of ivy and creeper and rosebush gone mad.

"It isn't even yours anymore," Harry points out, a tad sullen, and he didn't need to say it, but clearly he wanted to.

"I know that as well," Draco informs him, drawing himself up to his grand height of five feet and five inches, and idly wishes he was taller. Or had platforms. "The Ministry tried to claim it after my father died, and when mother followed him, there was no-one left of legal age and with right to stop them."

"Proceeds of Dark Arts. Your father was a bad bugger," and Draco's head snaps up and he sneers, taking one creaking step backwards. He doesn't need Harry to state the obvious, doesn't need him to list his father's crimes.

Most of them were against his own family, after all.

He looks at Harry, and sighs, and knows that Harry's just as frustrated and fickle and bad tempered as he is, except probably more well-intentioned. He's pouting now, pouting like the schoolboy he still resembles, and Draco resists the impulse to offer to kiss it better. He's coped with Harry's jealousies before, and even if he can't handle them the way he should, Draco handles them the way Draco would, and he won't change that for anyone.

"I don't know why I have to come back here," he says, and it's hard to say, it's hard to admit certain things, "I just know I do," and that is the truth and all the more inadequate for being so. In part it's because it used to be home, in part because he was raised to respect such things, and because he doesn't want to leave here, and doesn't know how. This was his House, is his home, his past and present and probably future.

His father died for Voldemort and his mother died for him, and caught between those examples, all Draco has left is a life he's chosen and a past he did not, and a house that continues to haunt him, hold him in its arms and not let go.

He wants to get it back from the Ministry; hungers for it, and doesn't know what he'll do with it then. Maybe he'll have it demolished, maybe he'll have it rebuilt; he just knows he has to do either, and maybe then he can rebuild or demolish himself.

"It's not 'cause of our flat, is it?" Harry asks, tentative, and steps forward with a small grin, and Draco takes his hand because he knows he's teasing. "I mean, it might be cramped, but at least we don't have rats the size of small dogs."

"No," Draco tells him, fondly, and kisses him softly on the lips. "You have a very nice flat, Harry. I'm glad I can stay there." To Harry, of course, it's home, their home, and to Draco, it's just a temporary convenience. Harry's eyes flash a bit at the reference to his flat, but it's a fight they can have another day and probably will.

"Maybe next year, I'll win you away from this place." Harry tries to sound confident, almost boastful, and slips his arms around Draco again like he means to make good on what he promises, and maybe he does. Next year is many months away yet, and the shadow of war looms on the horizon. There are rumours that Voldemort will return yet again, and considering that they haven't seen a body yet it's probably true. Draco will only believe the Dark Lord is actually dead when he's ten days in the ground, preferably in some kind of cast iron box, because the man has a better deal than Lazarus.

"Maybe next time you will," Draco replies, because he doesn't want to spoil Harry's fun, and lets the other young man lead him from the wreckage of his home, with one, long, last look back at all he was meant to be.

2.

A few days into sixth year, and Draco is already deathly tired. He's tired of the looks he gets from fellow students, unsure as to whether he deserves sympathy or condemnation. His father has been executed by the Ministry, his mother killed by the Death Eaters, and no-one is sure what to make of that. He is Draco Malfoy, son of no-one now, no-one left to care. He is Draco Malfoy, who was hexed into oozing as recently as last July, and yet when he wanders around the castle he keeps his shoulders straight and his head held high, and will not break for anyone.

He is all these things, and more, and if anyone would bother to ask him, he would loudly declaim that he was a contradiction in terms, a work in progress and a paradox wrapped inside an anomaly, and also, bugger off.

He came back to Hogwarts because he had to; he has his instructions, he has his price, and yet this place has stood against everything that ruined his father and killed his mother, so he feels a little comforted by the strength of the stone and the resolve of his schoolmates, many of whom who actually think they're going to win, and dismiss him as someone not worth bothering about anymore - he's been through enough, in their eyes, and has little left to lose.

His housemates are worse, because they know some of the truth, which makes them wary, but not all, which makes them paranoid. No-one talks to him anymore for fear of what he might say, or worse, what he might hear, and so Draco flees the comfort of the Slytherin dorms and takes to wandering the castle late at night. If anyone sees him, he can chalk it up to grief, or solitude, or any other eccentricity, because he is Draco Malfoy, whom no-one gives a rat's about, and besides, he's a Prefect to boot and they can't take that away from him.

He hears voices up ahead, carrying down the corridor, and it's far past curfew and he is a Prefect and his fingers tighten at his sides and his strides quicken and his dick gets a little harder at the thought of using what power remains to him. He turns round the corridor, ready to spring - and finds Harry Potter idly leaning back against the wall, chatting to the young Weasley girl who is also a Prefect this year, and whatever erection he had completely wilts as they both turn to look at him.

"Piss off," Potter tells him, and doesn't even bother to put any rancour in his voice.

"No," Draco tells him, and tries to summon words that have some power. "I am a Prefect. You are nothing. I have every right to be here when you breaking curfew."

"You only have what your father bought for you, and now he's dead, you have no fucking thing left-"

"You don't know anything about me!" Draco yells, because it hurts and he's angry and it might actually be true. "Or my father!"

"I heard he cried like a girl before the Ministry strung him up."

"At least he's not suffering for eternity like that criminal you claimed to care about. Just another person the hero couldn't save, eh, Potter?"

Potter looks at him, shocked and then he's moving forward, slamming into Draco, pushing him against the wall, hard, so hard, and it rattles Draco's bones and makes him see spots for a bit. His head cracks against the stone and joy of joys, he might even have concussion, or maybe that's just the way it feels when the glory and wonder of the wizarding world is pressed up against him, breath hot on his skin and voice dangerous and guttural and silky in his ear.

"Are you wanting me to hurt you?" Potter asks, sounding capable of anything, because Gryffindors are brave and noble and morality has nothing whatsoever to do with either.

Draco realises he's probably come closer to Potter than anyone in several years, and laughs at that, a little light headed, and oh, how the groupies would be so jealous!

The youngest Weasley cries out behind them, but then she is only a Prefect, only a Gryffindor, only a woman, and this particular battle has ignored all rules, regulations, laws, history and consideration, so it's not surprising she gets ignored now, and Draco gets shaken like some kind of limp weed in Potter's hands.

"Get off me," he manages to say, and shoots his hand out to plant it firmly in that hated face, pushing glasses askew and making skin scrunch up as he forces Potter away as best he can, and Potter drops him to the floor and his arse and kicks him in the stomach for good measure when he's down.

He grabs Draco by the arm, pulls at his cuff, tearing it open, and lets out a cry of victory when the Mark is revealed.

"I knew it," he says, soft and calm and ready to explode, and does. "I fucking knew it! You're all the same, all of you, fucking headcases, fucking killers-"

"I didn't get a choice," Draco yells back, and tries very hard not to cry.

"Like hell. You can't tell me you didn't want this, didn't ache for it, the chance to be the little bigot who could and kill some people who you disapproved of. You always get a choice, Malfoy."

"Like the one you gave my father?" Draco snarls in his face, and Potter goes still, and behind them, Ginny curls her hands in her robes and watches.

"He made his own choices," Potter says, finally, and sounds as though he has a heavy heart. Good, Draco thinks, he deserves it. Draco may have had more fear and awe in Lucius than actual love, but he was the only father Draco had.

"My mother wanted me to make my own choices," Draco tells him, and picks himself up off the floor. His body aches and he's probably covered in cuts and scrapes, but there's something lofty about the way he makes himself stand, even if he has to lean back against the wall. "And they killed her and caught me when I ran."

"Stupid Death Eater bitch," Potter shrugs. "Probably deserved it."

Draco's eyes go wide and he makes to push himself off the wall, but there's a loud slap of skin against skin before he can even make his bruised body do little more than lean, and Ginny Weasley stands between them, fury all over her freckled little face and Potter is rubbing his cheek with the faint air of someone who fails to understand why he has offended.

"Why...?"

"Tom told me once what I deserved," she tells him, simply and quietly, with all the authority she can summon, and Potter recoils at the implications of her words. "It doesn't matter what they're like, Harry, we have to be better than them because that's why we're going to win."

She is so eager, so enthusiastic, so hopelessly stupid in her naiveté, that Draco can't help but break into low, shuddering laughter, and his ribs ache even more.

"Don't think this means I like you," she scowls at him, and Draco wants to do something horribly cute, like pinch her cheeks, because that would piss her off even more.

"Of course you don't. You're a Gryffindor. I'd expect nothing else than pure hatred from you." That just makes her scowl deepen, and just when he thinks she might stamp her foot in frustration, poor porcelain doll of a girl that she is, cosseted and protected no matter how she tries, she points out a hand towards him that's more than a little imperious.

"What did you want, anyway?"

Draco pushes himself off the wall because he can, and winces, swaying slightly on his feet before he regains what balance has been left to him. "I want him to win," he sneers, nodding at Potter, who just glowers at all and sundry like it's some kind of source of pride. "Not because I agree with you, or because I want to hold hands or because I've been misunderstood. Because they used my father and killed my mother and I don't want to end up like that. And the only choice I have is to wait and hope that the boy wonder here pulls his finger out and doesn't fuck up the job this time round!"

Potter doesn't look especially impressed, but that that's hardly a surprise. "You just want to save your skin."

"Yes," Draco says, "Yes," and dares Potter to stand there and have a problem with that, like Draco doesn't deserve to live and Draco's hatred isn't letting up any, not now.

"I don't give a fuck about your skin," Potter announces, and turns to leave.

"I don't care if you give a fuck, Potter. Whether you give a fuck or not is completely irrelevant! But you are supposed to be a hero and a saviour and an all round do gooding type and generally nice sort. If you don't even try to save people like me, then you're no better than my father. Nothing more or less than a petty little thug looking for vengeance and seeing as how you ruined my life you might as well give me some bloody options!"

Potter snorts, dry and contemptuous, and the Weasley girl looks at him with wide, shocked eyes, amazed that he could still be capable of so much anger and grief, but passion is the only thing Draco has left at this point, and he'll use it, like he'll use anything.

He does his best to pull his cuff back around his wrist, and strides off quickly in the other direction, so he won't be subjected to the tender mercy of Gryffindors, and they won't have to see him cry.

3.

Draco Malfoy presses himself further against the side of the small hillock and seemingly tries to inhale grass. That's not strictly true, but from the way his cheek is pressed against the earth, it might as well be. The scents of nature fill him, crisp and rich and somewhat sickening, when one considers the cow pats. There's no sign of the cows; they must have had the sense to scarper when they could, and Draco wishes he had the sense to join them.

He's not suited to this, not meant to be here. Not meant to huddle against the glad green ground in furtive terror, hearing magic detonate around him with the sound of thunder, and the screams of people - many of which he knew - fill the air. This isn't how things are supposed to happen, but it's how they're happening none the less. Voldemort has returned, terrible in his fury, raging with power, and the world was right to fear his coming.

The Dark Mark burns on his wrist, persistent and buzzing in his head and in his skin like a crowd of mosquitoes, drawing out his energy and making him break out in a cold sweat, but Draco ignores it. He knows the Dark Lord is displeased with him, and all traitors to the great cause, but there's nothing much he can do about it except die, and he's beginning to wonder if he's left himself with any other choices. The only person who's been able to do a jot of good lies against the hillock a few scant inches away, and when Draco lifts his head oh so gently to look at Harry Potter, he sees that Harry is as terrified and sweaty and trying not to shit himself as Draco, which is not the best of signs.

It's surprising, perhaps, how well he can read him, and maybe Draco flatters himself that he can, and maybe it's true. More surprising is their transformation from wary allies to lovers, and Draco does flatter himself by knowing that's true. Most surprising of all is that Harry thinks he loves him in return, that Draco's touches are welcomed, his affirmation well received, his company enjoyed. Right now, Draco looks at Harry and watches him flinch as another bolt tears a hole out of the countryside ten feet across and three feet deep, and sends who knows how many former friends and comrades up into the sky, only to return as limp, lifeless pounds of flesh.

"Harry," Draco speaks, soft and efficient, wasting neither time nor volume, and wide eyes turn to meet his. "You have to get moving. We can't afford to lose any more people."

"I can't," Harry breathes, and quakes at the idea. "I can't face that. He's too powerful. We had no idea, Draco, no idea and now everyone's dying and it's all my fault-"

Draco tells him to shush, comforts him with nonsense words and hollow reassurances, and Harry clings to the soil like it may protect him and finally falls silent. He's seen this happen to Harry before, heard about it. He's frozen, caught between what will happen if he doesn't act, and what will happen if he does act and fails, and right now failure seems to be the only option. It's a lonely life, Draco supposes, when you come to realise an entire world is resting on your shoulders, and you're just one person, and how can one person carry a world? When it comes down to it, Voldemort is old and cunning and no longer human; Harry, who is young and mortal and terrified out of his wits, who hears his friends being torn apart around him, cannot imagine that he is capable of facing such a threat, let alone beating it.

Harry needs to forget himself; to forget his limitations, to be shocked by something so terrible that it drives away all other considerations and leaves victory as an inescapable conclusion.

With a sudden clarity, Draco remembers his capacity for terrible purposes, and knows what he must do. It seems as though his entire life has carried him to this point, has put him here just for this reason. After all, he was inadequate to all other tasks, except it seems, to get Harry to think he loves him, not that that will last. Draco will always be Draco and Harry will always be Harry, and Draco was a fool to think that any amount of kisses will make up for that first, fatal time when Draco offered his hand and Harry refused it, as was his wont. Draco doesn't want to hang around for the day when Harry wakes up and looks at this man lying next to him, sharing his life, and wonders why the hell he's sharing it with the little bigot that could. Because Draco is the little bigot that could, and he won't change, not for anyone, not even Harry. Harry may even love him for real, not just lust and loneliess, but it doesn't matter. Harry doesn't like him, and Draco isn't so stupid as to not realise that. Bound together by war and a common foe, they do not talk, they have nothing in common, and privately and publicly Draco does not hide his contempt for Harry's ideology or his goals. He is a blood traitor because he wishes to survive, and terrifyingly, ironically, if he is to win it seems as though survival is no longer a possibility.

Harry needs a reason to win, and so Draco will give him one. He was never good enough for Harry, never good enough for his father, and certainly not good enough for Voldemort, but he can do this. Afterwards, it will be over, blessedly done with and Harry can move onto someone far more suitable - someone like one of the Weasleys, perhaps, who although not being nice are certainly good, and Draco has never counted himself as good, not by anyone's standards and especially his own. He knows Harry deserves better, really; someone who wasn't just not smart enough to beat Granger, just not brave enough to impress Harry, just not enough of a hero to require him not to be needed.

He always was jealous of Harry and Granger and Weasley, jealous of their easy charm, jealous of the way everyone liked them, or even if they didn't like them, how they were noticed.

He sees the shape of history stretch out before him like a vision. If he doesn't act now, and Harry wins, as well he might, then all Draco will do is lose him, as he was always meant to, as Draco was always going to be second best in everything, the perpetual runner up, and oh, oh, how that has grated. He'll be a footnote in the textbooks; the ex-boyfriend of Harry Potter, obsessive, ridiculed, hopeless inadequate and pathological stalker, and if there's any consistency in the world, the historians will comment on his limitations as a stalker and the unfortunate size of his prick, as well.

But there is another option. Not for him the fate of the Blacks, resigned to history, dust and decay. Not for him the ignominious destiny of the Malfoys, puppet and fable and pawn, forgotten son of a fallen House. This is a chance for Draco to make his own destiny, his own choices: to be remembered.

He grabs Harry's wrist, hard, hard enough to bruise perhaps, and demands his attention. Harry turns eyes bleary with shock and tears to him, and Draco snarls, snarls in a whisper because he doesn't want to do this and yet this is all he can do.

"Don't you forget me," he pleads, begs and commands, "don't you dare fucking forget me, Potter."

"How could I?" Harry murmurs, and seems almost fond despite the tears, reaching to brush his knuckles over Draco's cheek, and oh, how Draco wishes he could stay, but there's nothing left for him here except loss and failure and defeat, the late and lamentable tragedy of Draco Malfoy. "You've only been stalking me since I was eleven."

"Won't have to worry about that anymore," Draco breathes, and kisses his nose. It's a bit of a tawdry romantic gesture, horribly clichéd, but then all the best stories are, and Draco wants to make sure he has the most memorable finale possible.

Harry looks at him, confused, and awareness dawns in his eyes as Draco pulls out his wand, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to stand.

Eyes red and cruel gaze into his for a few second, momentarily shocked at the very possibility of his defiance, and Draco is filled with a sudden, savage rage for the fact he won't get to even see what happens after.

He realises it now: where he walks, he owns. His father wanted to teach him that to do a thing was to make a statement; to do was to render it from impossible to possible, to make it likely, to make it a fact of life. To demonstrate once and for all that the restrictions and boundaries and mores of others would not be something that he or his would kowtow to; they would make their own rules, and others expectations be damned.

"This is for my father," he says, angry and sad and terrified and not afraid to show it. "This is for my mother."

And this is for me, he adds, to himself. Where he walks, he owns, and what greater demonstration of his power than this?

Harry's hand is pulling at his robes, he's screaming, crying for Draco to come back, but Draco can barely hear him. He's shaking and out of breath, hopelessly unfit in a way the tales will never record, but that's part of the point.

Draco Malfoy clambers over that hillock and runs into history.

4.

He won, of course.

A year later, and everyone talks about it like it was fated, like it was destiny, like he couldn't have lost, but Harry knows better because he was there. He remembers the feel of earth against his skin, the smell of a storm on the air, and the screams of the dead and dying. He remembers the rage that filled him, the fury, and the terror, and how he could simply ignore all of it when Draco ran off to die, and Harry had no choice but to follow.

Draco was already dead when Harry came charging over the hill, wand outstretched, and that pale, broken body broke something in him, and words came pouring out of his mouth, drawing power that he never realised he had, and magics primal and savage and arcane swept from him to tear Voldemort limb from limb, to rend his soul and cast the remnants to the four winds. He didn't stop until Voldemort was a mass of blood and guts and bone, a stain on the English countryside, and then he transfigured all the bits into slugs and then he burned the slugs and then he stomped on their remains.

He's fairly sure Voldemort is gone this time, and knows that this is probably what Draco had in mind.

It's why he's here, on the edge of an overgrown estate, seeking a ruined house. He owns it now; the Ministry could hardly refuse his request, and he did request it so very persistently. He walks across soil made his by name and deed; bound to him by time and memory and death, and pauses on the threshold.

The door is hanging from one hinge, wide open, and the inside is gloomy with spots of light. It's decayed in the time since Draco and he were here last, but it seems less mournful, less empty. The House is at rest now, perhaps with the family it once contained, and slumbers through the years until its own eventual death.

He never really explored the House when he was here with Draco; he found Draco's own interest to be more than a little creepy, but then you ignore a lot of things when you're in love. Besides, this was Malfoy Manor; Harry had no wish to humanise Lucius or Narcissa, to think of them as people, with lives, loves, needs, desires, a conservatory and a ballroom. Now, he can't think of them as anything but; because their son is dead, and they are dead, and all that's left is this House and all the joy and sadness it saw.

He takes a step into the gloom, and winces when his foot makes a creak. Far ahead of him, past the entrance area and stairwell, he sees a figure cross into the hallway, and his breath catches. It might be oh, twenty yards or so away, and he might be mistaken - his glasses need a clean - but he doesn't think he is, and he'd know that height and shape and pale brilliant form anywhere, and he knows it's not the first example in wizarding history of a house being haunted by a former owner.

The figure glows dimly, darkly, silver in the moonlight, except there is no moonlight - it's broad day outside, and it might be smiling at him, or smirking, or not. Harry is too far away to tell, and he knows in his bones that if he takes one more step inside, he'll never want to leave.

So he forces himself outside, one pained step after the other, and is sick to his stomach at the foot of a tree in the bright midday sun, falling dappled through the leaves. Harry is alive, and there are too many dead in his life as it is to add one more to haunt him.

Malfoy Manor is dangerous in more ways than one, and as he walks away with brisk, worried steps, he thinks it might have it demolished.

He doesn't.