The House That Cedric Built

January 15, 2018: Dear Mr. Lore

Dear Mr. Lore:

In reply to your letter of January 10, 2018, regarding a time to discuss matters pertaining to Diggory House, I would be amenable to meeting on the 20th for a few hours.

Respectfully,

Draco Malfoy

~~~~~

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

I am delighted that you are considering taking part in this project. I have felt for a long time that the story is not complete without telling the Slytherin side of the tale. I feel that it will be a splendid addition to the history of the revolutionary House that you all created together. Indeed, I was speaking to Ms. Granger the other day and...

Draco groaned quietly as he skimmed over the rest of the letter. He'd known all along that this would come about eventually. Astoria and Hermione did usually have his best interests at heart. But as he put the long parchment away without finishing reading it, he reflected that he'd be lucky to have a single thing to say when they did meet. The man was bombastic and pompous and Draco got the distinct feeling that he was utterly uninterested in truth or accuracy or anything but making himself famous. Like Rita Skeeter, only boring.

*********
January 15, 1999: With our approval

Draco stood at the window and watched Goyle make his way down the hill to his small flat in Hogsmeade, ducking his head against the cold, snowy wind.

"This is wrong," Draco said bitterly. "He shouldn't have to go down there."

"Are you serious?" said Astoria. "You still think they should've allowed him into the dorm?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?" she asked, and rolled her eyes. "No, of course not, it's a Muggle idea. Still, what do you think it'd do to your housemates to see the boy who tortured them in their home space?"

"I don't know, but--"

"I do know. I deal with that kind of thing every day."

"Still. Aren't we supposed to be forgiving and moving forward and all that rot? Bloody hypocrites."

"I don't blame them for Goyle," said Astoria quietly.

"It's not just him," Draco jerked his chin at the snow-covered hill and Goyle's form growing smaller and smaller. "It's... they're... they're bloody insufferable. They expect us all to just bow down to their greater righteousness, say we're sorry a million times, even if they won't forgive us or forget what we did - as if any of them wouldn't have done the same things."

"Such as?"

"Come on, you know they would've done anything, if they'd been in power."

"They were in power, Draco," said Astoria mildly. "For quite a few years. And there were remarkably few instances of Crucio being taught in the school while they were."

"That we know of."

"Precious few reports of Crucio being used now either," she said.

"They're still hypocrites. Last year, everybody cast those curses. I did, you did, most of the students spitting at Slytherins this year did--"

"Ginny Weasley didn't. Nor did Neville, or Luna, or any of Dumbledore's Army except for Zacharias Smith and Amy Compton."

Draco's eyes widened. He'd had no idea. He searched his mind for a comeback. "Well what about their own precious hero, Potter? He used Sectumsempra, which, all right, he didn't know, but he also used Crucio and Imperio, and nobody cares, but suddenly when it comes to forgiving Goyle--"

"Potter admitted to using them, and had a trial," Astoria said evenly. "He was fined a thousand Galleons and paid it, and put on probation for five years. Despite the fact that The Prophet was flooded with owls from readers saying he'd had every right to use both."

"That was a publicity stunt and you know it," Draco sneered. "He has scads of money anyway, what did the fine mean to him? It only made him look like a hero yet again, 'facing his past sins with integrity and courage' and all the other rot the papers said about him. And he was still allowed into the Auror program." Draco blew out his breath angrily. "It comes down to this: we tried to do things differently from them; it didn't work, and now we're doing things their way, but they won't let us put the past behind us because they still resent us for not believing the same things they did--"

"Draco," Astoria interrupted. "They're not just upset at us because of our beliefs. You cannot call sending children to Azkaban a difference in beliefs. You cannot call having people Dementor-kissed because they didn't have magical parents a mere difference in political philosophy."

"We believed they were criminals, stealing--"

"We believed no such thing!" Astoria snapped. "You know as well as I do that the theory of magical theft was a load of bosh, designed to stigmatize people on the basis of racism, pure and simple."

"But if it kept them out of our gene pool, and prevented them from corrupting our ideals and traditions--"

"You honestly believe that?"

"That our traditions and bloodlines are worth protecting? Yes, I do. Don't you?"

"Not that way, no."

Draco blinked. "Look... I know things got out of hand. But the people who made things get out of hand are all dead or in Azkaban now anyway. Why keep punishing the rest of us? Even those who did nothing wrong?"

"Nothing but go along with racism and oppression and murder?"

"All's fair in love and war, Astoria." He glared at her. "Look, I know you're playing devil's advocate here, but--"

"As a matter of fact, I'm not."

Draco blinked. "What?"

"Draco," said Astoria with some impatience, "has it ever occurred to you that we should be saying we were wrong because we were?"

"What?"

"It's not just empty words. I'm not just mouthing what others want to hear, like your father did in the years between one bout of pureblood batshittery and another. I mean it. My family were bloody idiots. I could see, being all of thirteen, that the Dark Lord had more than a few legs missing from his cauldron. It was as plain as the slitty little excuse for a nose on his face. He was terrifying, and I didn't believe a word that came out of his mouth, even though I went along with it. And all right, maybe your family didn't catch on to just how insane he was as quickly as they should have, but bloody hell, Draco. He practically castrated your father. He had that horrid snake of his terrifying your ridiculous peacocks--"

"What does that--"

"And yet we still followed him. Maybe near the end we did it out of fear. But at the beginning it was out of lust for power and sadism and bigotry and hatred, and anybody who denies that is lying to themselves. And frankly, the reason I want to distance myself from all of that isn't all political. It's because it makes me ill to even think about what went on with our approval!"

*********
January 20, 2018: Of whom you speak, with whom you speak

Dear Mother:

Rose is beating me in Muggle Studies, Potions, and Charms, and she's insufferable about it. I'm beating her in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, and History of Magic. She says that her dad told her to beat me but that's not why she's doing it, she says it's just that she wants to be top of her class like her mum was. Her mum is rather nice. Why would Rose's dad want her to beat me in particular?

- Scorpius

~~~~~

Dear Scorpius:

Don't let it bother you. Your dad and Rose's were nasty little boys in school. They're grown-ups now, and should try to act like it.

Grandmother sends her love.

- Mother

~~~~~

Dear Mrs. Malfoy:

Scorpius told me what he wrote to you. My mum says Dad should get over it, but I'm not sure what that means. I'm sorry Scorpius told you, because I didn't want him to. Mum also says I should be more careful with what I say to people. She sent me a poem written by a Muggle a really long time ago, that I thought was very wise:

If wisdom's ways you wisely seek,
Five things observe with care:
With whom you speak,
Of whom you speak,
And how, and when, and where.

Scorpius is a very nice boy. You must be very proud of him.

- Rose Weasley

~~~~~

Dear Rose:

Thank you for your letter. Your mother would be proud of you for writing it, I think. It's difficult to realize you've said something you shouldn't, but I think your mother would be proud of you for apologizing. That's a very good poem, by the way; I may make a copy of it and put it next to my desk in the study.

Scorpius thinks very highly of you too. I'm very glad you've become friends.

- Mrs. Malfoy

*********
January 20, 1999: Firewhisky and Boggarts

Draco stopped short at the doorway of the boys' dorm. His dorm-mates were all sitting in a circle on the floor, Exploding Snap cards sitting in smoking heaps around them, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky steaming in their midst.

"Draco," Neville called out, a mite unsteadily, "come in." He waved a hand vaguely at the floor next to them.

"What is this?" asked Draco cautiously.

"Firewhisky," said Finnigan.

"I gathered that. Here?"

"Why not here? We're all of age, aren't we?" said Macmillan, and downed the contents of his goblet in one gulp, coughing mightily afterwards. "'Snot against any rules," he wheezed out between spasms.

"Why are you all getting drunk?" asked Draco.

"None of your--" Thomas began, but Neville cut him off.

"My parents," said Neville. "They both caught the Floo Flu this year, and my gran doesn't think they'll be around much longer."

Draco swallowed. "Ah. I'm... I'm sorry." He backed up. "I'll leave you to it, then," he began, and Neville shook his head.

"No, come on, join us."

"Him?" said Goldstein.

"Why not? He's part of the dorm, isn't he?" Neville scowled at Goldstein. "Come on, Seamus, deal him in."

Finnigan glanced at the other boys, then shrugged and dealt out a Dragon Deck of cards. Draco sat down cautiously among them, feeling rather surreal. It wasn't that he was deliberately ostracized in this room, but the other five boys did have a lot more in common with each other than with him. While Neville was fairly friendly, the other four hadn't exactly made any efforts to include him in their social group, and he hadn't tried to get close to any of them either.

"What are we playing?" asked Draco.

"Whatever Neville wants, right?" said Thomas, his voice edged. "Here." He plonked a goblet in front of Draco. "Say when." He started to pour the whisky and Draco winced as it hissed into the glass.

"Did you see them a lot?" asked Macmillan quietly after the cards were dealt.

"Not much," said Neville. "I go at Christmastime. My mum always gives me something - used to be wrappers from sweets, but I suppose she noticed I was growing up, because this year she gave me the label from a bottle of Firewhisky, believe it or not. No idea how she got her hands on it."

They played silently for a few hands, and Draco was starting to feel the warmth of the Firewhisky working itself through him, insidiously making him let down his guard, feel like relaxing, feel like he was safe. Like he was almost having fun, despite a dismal hand containing nothing of value but the Sorceress of Horntails. A bit like that day with Astoria at Hogsmeade, but less tense.

"Have they ever been... all right?" asked Goldstein, breaking the companionable silence and discarding a Three of Horntails.

Neville shook his head. "I don't remember them ever being. They went mad when I was less than a year old."

Draco swallowed hard.

"I used to have nightmares about what happened to them," Neville said slowly. "I used to wonder what it would be like to be hurt like that, to hurt for so long that eventually you went mad. Used to wonder, if I was ever in a situation like that, what would I do. Would I break, and betray my friends, or would I just take it, like they did." He gulped down some Firewhisky.

"Guess you know now, then," said Draco quietly. Neville met his eyes, startled.

"I still have nightmares, though," he said after a moment.

"We all have nightmares, Longbottom," said Draco dryly. He'd lost track of the times one of them had woken up the dorm with one of those.

"Yeah," said Thomas. He paused, then looked at Draco. "What are your nightmares about?"

Draco picked up an Apprentice of Ridgebacks. "Death Eaters in our home," he said, his voice low, and then wanted to bite his tongue because Merlin that was such a predictable thing for somebody to say if he was trying to suck up to the side of the blessed Light.

"Yeah?" Neville's face was neutral, but none of the others had scoffed at Draco yet and Neville's quiet voice seemed to invite confidences; seemed to stay the others' desire to mock Draco, too.

When had Neville Longbottom turned into a leader?

Probably around the time he pulled a sword from a burning hat and sliced off a snake's head and helped to finish off a madman.

"What else?" asked Neville, discarding a Ten of Ridgebacks.

Draco studied his cards for a moment, moving around the Ridgebacks. "Torturing people. Having to watch people be tortured." He took a deep breath. "Not killing Dumbledore. Killing Charity Burbage. Yours?"

"Burning," said Neville softly. "Being Cruciated."

"Goyle," said Macmillan, staring at his cards.

"Watching giant spiders come into the Great Hall," said Goldstein, shuddering.

"Running," said Thomas. He took a swallow of Firewhisky, then looked at Draco. "Being in your bloody dungeon."

There was a silence.

"Having you in my bloody dungeon," Draco shot back. Thomas sat back, nodding thoughtfully.

"Screaming," said Finnigan. "Bloody screaming."

"Colin Creevey," said Neville.

"Fred Weasley," said Thomas with a shudder.

"Justin," said Macmillan.

"Fenrir Greyback," said Finnigan.

"Flames," said Draco.

"Green light," said Thomas.

"The scars on Corner's back," said Goldstein. There was another silence, and Thomas dropped a Warlock of Ridgebacks.

"Can you imagine what a Boggart would do in this room?" said Finnigan musingly, and they had all drunk far too much Firewhisky, because all of a sudden it was hilarious, and they all started to laugh uproariously, Draco joining in as helplessly as the others.

"Merlin, I just want to forget," said Neville softly, after they'd all calmed down somewhat.

"Why don't you..." Finnigan cleared his throat and looked oddly hesitant. "I didn't want to remember a lot of stuff about last year. Hannah... she helped, you know?"

Thomas nodded. "It was hard, being on the run. Hannah really... you just forget everything when you're with her."

"I don't want to use her," said Neville.

Finnigan looked away. "I didn't use her. We both wanted - what's so wrong about doing something with a friend, who you like? It's not as though I treated her like a slut afterwards."

"Besides, she wants to," Macmillan said softly. "Wouldn't do it if she didn't."

Neville shrugged uncomfortably. "It's not that I don't want to," he said. "Especially after... you know that night she stayed over with you?" he said to Finnigan, and Draco had a vivid, most probably Firewhisky-enhanced memory of waking up to see Hannah, her shirt half-off and her skirts still in disarray, dragging herself out of Finnigan's bed, pulling her skirt right, glancing over and seeing Draco staring at her, and raising her chin defiantly before walking out of their room as if she'd had every right to be there.

Finnigan blushed and nodded. "I wanted to," said Neville. "Fuck, I wanted to." Draco choked on his Firewhisky a bit, not sure he'd ever heard Neville Longbottom swear before.

"You... you were so bloody tense, before," said Neville. "And then you spent some time with her, and every time I looked over, you were all tangled up with her, and you weren't so scared of things any more, and it's not that I don't want to. She's... she's beautiful. But I can't. I don't want to just... not with her, you know?"

Draco nodded.

"I s'pose you think you're too good for her," said Macmillan, and it took Draco a moment to realize he was being spoken to. The tone wasn't really hostile, though.

"Me? No," said Draco before he'd really thought about it. "She wouldn't want me, for one thing."

"Have you ever?"

"Ever what?"

"Fucked anyone," said Finnigan.

"No," said Draco before he could think that one over either.

"So it's just you and me as the virgins in this room, is it?" said Neville, and the others chuckled.

"I suppose so," said Draco, and smiled as Neville knocked their goblets together in what he supposed was a silent toast to virginity.

"I hadn't either, before Hannah," said Finnigan. "Thought I'd muck it up, to be honest."

"Did you?" said Thomas, laughing.

"Don't think so. She didn't seem to care, if I did." He sighed. "Still think of her a lot."

"Yeah, I hadn't either," said Thomas. "Didn't know what I was missing. Fuck, she was hot."

"She's a cherry-collector, is what she is," said Goldstein in mock dismay. "Got mine too, the tart."

Macmillan was laughing too now, though also blushing darkly. "Mine too."

"Yeah? Where'd she do you first?" asked Goldstein.

"In the Potions storage room, with Slughorn right outside," said Macmillan, and the others guffawed. "Swear to Merlin, she shoved me up against the shrivelfigs and had my - you know, my trousers down, and her knickers out of the way, and all I could think was, I don't know if eighth-years can get demerit points for doing this--" and then they were all laughing too hard for him to finish.

"She sucked my cock right next to the Transfigurations classroom once," said Goldstein. "The school was still empty, but--"

"Oh God!" said Neville. "Can you imagine McGonagall coming across you like that?!"

"I'd never get it up again, sorry," sniggered Thomas.

"Oh yeah, you would, mate," said Goldstein . "If she was doing that thing with her tongue, where she - you know, her, erm--"

"Oh you mean where she - fuck, yeah, I would, then," said Thomas. "You'd have to be dead not to get it up for that. Just about wanked myself raw so fucking many times just to the memory of that..." he shook his head, smiling faintly, then looked down in dismay and put the heel of his hand on his groin, pressing down. "Right. Still gets to me, I guess," he said sheepishly. "Don't tell Susan. Outside of McGonagall's office, though?"

"We did it next to Snape's portrait once," said Finnigan.

"Fuck me!" Goldstein said, spluttering out a mouthful of Firewhisky. "You're joking," he said, wiping his mouth.

"No, mate, I'm serious, if he hadn't been dead already he'd have died. You know he refuses to go into anybody else's portrait, but I swear, I thought his canvas was going to light on fire."

They all broke down again and Draco was gasping with laughter, imagining Snape's sallow face going greenish with dismay. Finnigan smirked but brought his knees up and clasped his arms around them, and Draco could well imagine that despite the Firewhisky, he was also feeling the effects of their conversation. He tried to ignore the effects on himself. Damn it.

"Did he say anything?" asked Draco, more to distract himself than anything else, because if talking about Snape couldn't get rid of an unwanted stiffie, what could?

Finnigan grinned. "Not much, no. He cleared his throat a bunch of times and shouted something like 'Cease this immediately!' but we didn't pay any attention to him. Next time I was able to, you know, look around, he had his head stuck so far down a cauldron all you could see was his skinny arse sticking out. And he was sort of... humming, I guess, because you know how Hannah's kind of loud when she's, you know..."

"Damn. I'm not feeling nearly so noble now," said Neville. "If only to make Snape's portrait go into a tizzy, I should've maybe said yes to her..."

"You said no to her?" asked Thomas, his eyes wide. "To Hannah?"

Neville blinked. "I. Erm. Yeah."

"Why?"

Neville looked away.

"Why, Neville?" asked Draco, realizing that he really did want to know.

Neville shrugged his shoulders, looking for a moment as nervous and tongue-tied as he ever had when they were kids. He discarded a Five of Shortsnouts. "Dunno. I... I want her for real, I guess. I don't just want to have her. I know she probably can't feel like that about anybody, but I don't care."

Draco nodded slowly.

"Probably how you feel about Astoria, yeah?" asked Goldstein quietly, and Draco felt the words like a splash of cold water.

"Pardon me?" he said icily, but Goldstein didn't turn away, and the rest of them were watching him with knowing eyes.

"You've got a thing for our Head Girl," said Thomas. "But she won't give you the time of day, will she?"

"Dean!" snapped Neville.

"What?" said Thomas, startled.

"This is a pity party for me, right? The bloke whose parents are gonna die after having been completely insane for the whole time I've known them? If you're going to be an arse, do it somewhere else."

Thomas sat back. "Sorry, Malfoy."

"That's all right," said Draco automatically, feeling hollow.

Him and Neville Longbottom, the only two virgins in the room. But in Neville's case, he'd declined the opportunity to lose his virginity because he was in love with the girl who'd propositioned him. In Draco's case, she'd not only never asked; she never would. The yearning he felt, the need to be close to another human being, to touch Astoria's hand and kiss her lips and feel the breasts concealed under her school robes, the ache to find the kind of release that Goldstein and Finnigan and Thomas and Macmillan and bloody well everyone but Neville and himself had found this year, would go unrelieved.

Draco put down his winning hand of Ridgebacks and took a large gulp of Firewhisky, feeling it sear him all the way down, and relished the burn.

*********
February 1, 2018: Parole

"May I come in and see him?" Draco asked Officer Cruppkey patiently.

"That would be inadvisable."

What a surprise. Draco went through this with the Azkaban authorities every February, and only four times in the last nineteen years had he been allowed to see Father at all.

"My mother would very much like to see him."

"That would also be inadvisable." The officer hesitated. "He's... not well."

"Physically or mentally?"

"Mr. Malfoy, your father was not a well man when he came here," said the prison's Healer. "I'm sure he was not well before, which in my opinion explains many of his crimes..."

Father was perfectly well and sane, he just liked to torture people, thought Draco impatiently. He didn't say that out loud, though. "It would mean a great deal to my mother to know when he will be coming home. I know the general plan has been that it would happen sometime in the next two years, but--"

"Mr. Malfoy," Cruppkey broke in reluctantly. "I... I'm afraid... I'm afraid there has been a change of plans in that department. We've decided that we probably cannot let him out. He is physically strong enough to do any number of nefarious things, and if his mental status doesn't improve... I'm afraid the only way we can let him out is if he has no magic. I realize that this will be a disappointment to--"

"Do it."

The Healer blinked in confusion. "Do what?"

"If there's a way to remove his magic, and he agrees to it, do it. Please."

The Healer and Officer Cruppkey gaped at him in shock.

"Is there a way?"

"Well, yes, of course," the Healer began. "But it's hardly ever - that is to say, I have never done it myself because of the understandable objections of--"

"He will never use magic again, am I correct?" Draco asked, and the two other men blinked. "He cannot use it while in Azkaban, and you are basically saying that he will have to remain in Azkaban for the rest of his life - or at least as long as he still has magic powers. Is that essentially correct?"

"Well. Yes," said Cruppkey.

"But, Mr. Malfoy," said the Healer, "if we remove his magic for good... he would essentially be crippled."

"I understand that."

"And you would agree to that?"

"Yes."

"He might not, though. And if he did, what would he do once he got home? How would he care for himself?"

"We have a house elf who could care for him," said Draco.

"But... a house elf..." Cruppkey trailed off uneasily.

"They do have certain rights, Mr. Malfoy," said the Healer.

"Yes, they do. And I wouldn't ask her to do this against her wishes, which I'm sure will not be a problem."

"Your father is still fairly strong-willed, though," said the Healer, "and considering his mental instability--"

"We would arrange things so that one of the elf's orders would be to not allow him to take advantage of her, and to report to us any suspicious activity on his part," said Draco. "Besides, she's insane enough herself that she and my father might get along quite well."

The two men glanced at each other, obviously not sure if Draco was speaking seriously or making a joke.

"Erm. Quite." Cruppkey cleared his throat. "However, there is also the question of your father getting in touch with persons who may wish to re-start all of the ugliness of--"

"You've got to be joking," said Draco.

The officer bristled. "You do remember what happened when Stephen Cornfoot was released from prison? He and his colleagues caused quite enough damage before--"

"That was seventeen years ago," Draco pointed out. "My father has been in prison for almost twenty years. He doesn't have it in him to do anything."

"He could still--"

"My father can't do a bloody thing without a wand," said Draco. "He would feel it humiliating to face other wizards wandless. He wouldn't have the guts to try to organize anything with people who might possibly pity him for being crippled."

"You may be right." Cruppkey regarded him for a long time. "Sir, I can see that you've thought about this a fair bit. But I don't want you to take the threat of your father's influence lightly."

"Officer Cruppkey," said Draco, toning down his impatience. "Believe me, I don't. But he will be living with me, without the ability to do magic, and with an elf he has no power over watching his every move. My wife and I have worked too hard to mend the damage he did to allow him to do any more harm. I swear to you - and I will take an Unbreakable Vow if you would like - that I will take the threat he poses very seriously, and that if I suspect in any way that he is trying to stir up any trouble at all, I will personally turn him in."

Cruppkey stared at him.

"I love my father, sir," Draco said simply. "And I want him home, for his sake and for my mother's. But my own wife and son are more important to me. I will not let my father do anything to harm them."

The two men exchanged a glance, then nodded slowly.

*********
February 1, 1999: Bring back the Dementors

Draco suppressed a sigh of boredom and gazed blankly over his notes. Runes, not his favourite subject, but it gave him something to do, anyway. And it beat Muggle Studies.

Goyle sat next to him, the slow scratch of his quill getting on Draco's nerves. Goyle had come back from Azkaban slower, somehow, than before, which Draco would have previously sworn was impossible. Thinner, too, and looking tired all the time. Somehow Draco had forgotten how completely uninteresting and dull Goyle could be. Not that he wasn't glad Goyle was out of Azkaban, but as far as intellectual companionship, Goyle left a great deal to be desired.

Goyle hadn't said anything about Azkaban. It wasn't really something they could talk about, what with Draco's dad - and Goyle's - being set to stay there for the next thirty years.

He still couldn't really reconcile himself to the fact that his housemates had refused to let Goyle join them at Diggory. Goyle, who was so stupid he still had difficulty tying his own shoes, was no threat to them now that he had nobody around to tell him to hurt others. And they all knew that, though Draco supposed that this week they'd had more reason to congratulate themselves for their decision.

He couldn't shake the image of Ernie Macmillan's tear-filled eyes, though, and the way he'd shivered in Hannah's arms.

He glanced at the wall beside him and noticed a group of scrawled designs. He narrowed his eyes - was that Danish Futhark Runic, or... no, it was English, just badly written...

Death Eater spawn die, miserable fuckers said one messy scrawl. Hope your parents die slowly and painfully said a neater piece near that. Bring back the Dementors and Daddy's never coming home again, you stupid bigoted fucks said the last two.

Fuck.

Who would write that? And why right here? So that anybody could read it, including small children, who, even if they agreed with their parents politically, were too young to form their own opinions?

Draco stared down at his parchment, the words swimming in his brain. Hope your parents die slowly and painfully. Father was in Azkaban, and all right, maybe he deserved to not be free any more, but still the idea of Father alone and cold and miserable, Mother alone for the rest of her life, Father dying, in pain... and the amount of hatred that had been behind the scrawled words, and knowing it had been aimed at him, and people like him, knowing too what it was to feel that much hatred because he'd been there before, had felt that hatred, for people like Hermione and Hannah and Dean Thomas and Lisa Turpin, and he'd said things that were hateful before, but this was also aimed at innocents - not that Hermione and Hannah and Thomas weren't innocent, but--

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco started and looked to the front of the classroom. Professor Eddic was frowning at him expectantly.

"Would you care to translate this for us, Mr. Malfoy?" she said, sounding as though she'd said the same thing a few times.

Draco stared at the board behind her. The squiggles meant nothing to him. He made himself focus... still nothing. The letters made sense, and one of the words was "forever" and another was "milk" but other than that...

"Mr. Malfoy! Can you please translate this?" the Professor repeated.

"No, Professor," Draco said.

"It's simple. Follow me through again. This," she pointed to the first word, "Sets up the tense, which is future imperfectable. Can you decode the next symbol?"

"No, Professor," said Draco, his jaw set as a titter broke out in the room.

"Let me guide you through, then. It refers to one of the elements, can you figure it out from there?"

"No, Professor."

"It's fairly simple, Mr. Malfoy. Let me--"

"It's ether, Professor," said Anthony Goldstein, and Draco shot him a grateful glance. "The rune is a Possible Prophesy, referring to future uses for ether."

Eddic blinked, then gave Draco a level stare and returned to the board.

Draco blew out his breath. The words on the wall had been written recently, it seemed on closer inspection. And by three different people, to judge from the forms of the letters. It was probably because of the recent expulsion of Anne Carstairs, a sixth-year Slytherin, and Sally Jones, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, who had ended up hexing one another in the Great Hall under the very nose of the entire faculty and student body. And it hadn't helped that Anne Carstairs was no innocent flower, unfairly attacked just for being a Slytherin: she had been spouting so much anti-Muggle-born hatred that her own housemates had no longer wanted anything to do with her and asked Diggory House to take her in. A perfect case of 'maybe we were wrong'. Plus she'd been suspected in the 'accidental' hexings of many younger students, particularly from Gryffindor House, and you couldn't blame people for being angry about that, but still, targeting this at everybody - even those that deserved it - and showing so much hate and implacable anger and--

Goyle's sharp elbow to the ribs startled him.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Professor Eddic's voice rang out again.

"Yes?"

"This rune, Mr. Malfoy," said the Professor. "Can you do this one for us, at least?"

Draco looked at the scribbles on the board. "No, Professor."

"I'm so sorry for disturbing your sleep, Mr. Malfoy, but let's get some classwork done, shall we?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," said Draco tightly, ignoring the sniggers from the other students.

"Come now, I will lead you through it once more. What does this mean?" she pointed at the board.

Draco crossed his arms. "I don't know, Professor."

"I'm sorry, are we being too mundane for you, Mr. Malfoy? Not intellectually stimulating enough?"

"Sorry, Professor, I wasn't paying attention."

"And why is that?"

"Because somebody wrote 'Death Eater spawn die, miserable fuckers' on the wall and I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of it," he said, and the room froze.

"I... beg your pardon?"

He took out his wand and aimed it at the wall, and muttered "Reducto Hostili." He put his wand down. "I think they made their point, got a Junior Death Eater bothered, let's move on," he said tightly.

There was a moment's awkward silence. "Erm. Very well, then," said the professor, and shakily continued.

*********
February 5, 2018: Interview Questions

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

As per your request, here is a sample of the kinds of questions that may be asked during our interview:

Why did you decide to come back to Hogwarts for eighth year? Would you have done so if it had not been a condition of your parole?

What did you do? You already had seven NEWTs.

What did you think of being forced to take Muggle Studies?

What did you think of the choice of name for the Fifth House? Did you know Cedric Diggory personally?

What did you think of the other choices for names considered at the time?

Were you close to any of the other members of the Fifth House before you became housemates?

What was the atmosphere like in the Fifth House when the year began? Were you accepted by your peers?

What did you think of sharing a dormitory with five boys who had been in Dumbledore's Army?

Was there more tension with some than others?

Did it bother you to be in school or in a House with people who had been victimized by your family during the war?

Did it bother you to be in a House with Muggle-borns?

How did you get along with Dean Thomas?

Did you feel the House was integrating well as the year went on?

What did you think of allowing younger students to come into the House?

What did you think of your peers' rejection of Gregory Goyle?

What did you think of Anne and David Carstairs' eventual expulsion from the school?

What did you think of the continuation of the Fifth House past your year?

Did being in the House change your attitudes towards wizarding society? If so, in what way?

What do you think of the current status of Diggory House?

What was the impact of Diggory House on your life?

What contribution do you think you made to Diggory House?

*********
February 5, 1999: Adjustments

The place was growing. Little Augustine Cornfoot had dropped out of Hogwarts over the Christmas hols, but the extra dormitories had three first-year girls in one room and four first-year boys in another, as well as ten boys and eleven girls from other years who were staying at Diggory mostly permanently. Some were younger family members of people who had become infamous during the war. Some, mostly Slytherins, had been guilty of crimes during the war. Some had merely been guilty of talking at the wrong time and expressing the wrong sentiments. The residents of Diggory House had gone from a preponderance of anti-Dark Lord types to a distinct majority of Slytherins and other like-minded students. And many Slytherins were using the Diggory common room to study in, knowing they wouldn't be attacked there.

It wasn't that simple, though. Two of the new girls were from families pure as the driven snow, friends with Theresa Nott, cousin of Theo Nott. When Theresa had been attacked and decided to move into Diggory House, her friends had asked if they could move with her. And it was possible that they would be joined in the next month by two members of eighth year who had decided to come back and do their NEWTs after all.

It was interesting. They'd all had to make adjustments.

They now even had a second floor. One of the rooms they'd appropriated on the other side of the common room wall had eventually become part of the common room itself, once they'd taken over a seldom-used classroom directly above them and filled it with girls' dormitories and an extra washroom, with a rotating staircase to take the younger girls up, and a pole they could use to slide back down.

Diggory House had even ended up getting Prefects after all - Neville and Hannah - mostly to make sure no funny business was going on among the boys and girls of dating age. The irony of Hannah Abbott acting as chaperone protecting any other girl's virtue was rather hilarious, considering her complete disregard for her own.

Draco wasn't about to judge her, though. He made his way past a group of kids playing Exploding Snap next to the fireplace and a girl sorting new additions to their common room bookshelf, and found a comfortable - though, unfortunately, frill-covered - seat to read his Muggle Studies, plowing through steadily and determined to get to through both his readings and his six-inch assignment so he could look at Astronomy.

Ten minutes into the writing, he put down his parchment with a sigh. He was never going to get the hang of this ballpoint pen thing. It didn't have the same beauty and elegance as a quill, not to mention it was ugly as sin. But he was supposed to write the assignment using it, so...

"Why are you using that?" asked one of the younger boys, maybe thirteen years old.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't like Muggle pens," said the boy, wrinkling his nose. "Why are you using one?"

"I have to write this paper using one," said Draco.

"Muggle Studies?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant, isn't it?" said the boy, revealing a gap-toothed grin. "I didn't know much about Muggles, but their internet is brilliant. Wish we could see it here."

"Electricity is too weak to function around magic," said Draco.

"I know, I know, I just wish it wasn't. Don't you?"

Draco debated the merits of lying versus telling the truth to a very young boy. "Not really," he said finally. "The Muggle things I've seen aren't as familiar to me as the wizarding ones."

The boy nodded.

"They're also not as pretty, some of them," said a little girl, popping her head over Draco's shoulder. "Like ballpoint pens. If you want nice Muggle things, you should try something like this," she said, and took out a blue pen.

"What is that?" asked Draco.

"Muggle fountain pen," she said proudly. "It's ink, just like a quill, but it holds the ink inside."

"Like a self-inking quill?"

"Sort of. Here, try it," she said.

Draco found himself holding the little thing, then bemusedly using it. His eyebrows went up. "That's not bad," he said, surprised. "It's fairly smooth."

"I know. My mum gave it to me." She hesitated, then lifted her chin slightly. "She's Muggle-born, you see. She has lots of brilliant Muggle things at home."

Draco nodded.

"You can use it to write your paper, if you want," the little girl said.

Draco hesitated, then shrugged. "All right. Thanks."

"Give it back when you're done, though. It was from my mum."

"I will."

*********
February 14, 2018: Financial Statement for Malfoy Investments

Dear Mr. Malfoy:

Enclosed please find Malfoy Investments' financial statement summary for February 2018.

Asset	Value, Dec. 2017	Earnings	Losses/ Expenditures	Net Change, Jan. 2018
Anderson's Garden Services Shares	1000	80	0	80
Bones Telecommunications Shares	8500	520	(20)	500
Borgin and Burkes Shares	820	25	0	25
Creevey Photography Shares	900	95	(20)	75
Ellemere Robes for All Occasions Shares	350	50	(55)	(5)
Gladrags Shares	230	43	0	43
Macmillan Magical Matchmakers Shares	700	125	(5)	120
Mortiana Potions Ltd Shares	8900	330	(80)	250
Muggle Fashions Ltd Shares	5300	320	0	320
Nott Notions Ltd Shares	710	15	(5)	10
Ogden's Whiskies Shares	12900	750	0	750
The Leaky Cauldron Shares	2200	120	(20)	100
Transformations Unlimited Shares	9700	330	0	330
Totals	40990	2083	165	1923

Expense	Type	Expenditures, Jan. 2018
DAGM Marketing and Research Salaries and Wages	Business Expense	500
Diggory House Advertising	Charity	20
Diggory House Maintenance	Charity	25
Diggory House Scholarship	Charity	30
Hogsmeade Student Services	Charity	25
Flint Fuels	Loan	120
Habitats Unlimited	Charity	30
Hogsmeade Student Services	Loan	20
Hogwarts Finch-Fletchley Scholarship	Charity	30
St. Mungo's Permanent Resident Fund	Charity	35
Trust fund, Scorpius Malfoy	Personal	50
Widows and Orphans Association	Charity	50
Total		935

*********
February 14, 1999: Slytherin Head Girl

The Valentine's dance was going fairly well, to Draco's surprise. He had ended up asking Millie to dance, and then forcing himself to get past his instinctive revulsion and ask Hermione, and it hadn't gone too badly. And then, to his shock, Hannah Abbott had come up behind him and asked him to dance. He'd been almost frozen with terror, wondering if she was going to try anything funny with him and wondering if he would be able to stomach not just touching a Muggle-born, but having to deal with her sexually in any way, shape, or form, and it crossed his mind that if she did try anything and he turned her down, the other boys in his dorm would quite likely kill him. It hadn't helped at all that at that precise moment he'd looked up and spotted Finnigan, Thomas, and Macmillan all standing at the edge of the dance floor with arms crossed and set expressions on their faces, staring at him as if daring him to make even the slightest misstep with Hannah, and give them a reason to hex him on the spot.

It had been with extreme relief that he'd thanked Hannah for the dance once it had ended with no untoward advances or hexes thrown in his direction. She'd smiled at him quite prettily before skipping off to dance with a seventh-year, and Draco had left the dance floor almost giddy with relief.

And that was probably enough stress on his nerves for one night. He made his way up the stairs, stopping as he spotted Astoria standing by herself on the landing, gazing down at the couples below.

She looked gorgeous. Objectively he knew she wasn't more than just passably pretty, but in the cream-coloured dress she was wearing, which somehow brought out the highlights in her unremarkable brown hair, the skirt flaring a bit and the waist cinched in showing off her shape far more than the severe school uniform did, she looked like everything Draco had ever wanted...

He shook himself. What ridiculous and sentimental drivel.

Draco approached her, stopping a few feet away from her as he took in the tense set of her shoulders, the tired air about her. "Are you all right?" Astoria looked at him, startled. "Why are you here?"

"Because I'm the Head Girl."

"Why aren't you down there dancing?"

"Because I'm the Head Girl," she repeated impatiently.

Draco blinked. "What does that have to do with it?"

"There are two couples who've asked me to act as go-between tonight," she said. "Hannah Abbott is going to get drunk and make a fool of herself if I'm not there to stop her. Two third-year girls just broke up with their boyfriends and they need me to soothe away their heartbreak. And I need to make sure Scott Jones and David Carstairs don't murder each other."

"Why is all of that your problem?" asked Draco.

"Because I'm Head Girl."

"That doesn't mean you have to take on the problems of the entire school."

"I took on this responsibility and I'm going to be the best Head Girl Hogwarts has ever had," she said grimly. "And to do that, I have to be perfect. All the time."

"Who told you that?"

Astoria ignored his question. "Do you know how many Slytherin students have been Head Girl?"

Draco blinked. "I don't know. About as many as have been Headmaster or Headmistress?"

Astoria smiled, unexpectedly. "Ah, not quite. There's only been two Slytherin Headmasters."

"And a lot of people say Snape shouldn't count," said Draco. "So there have been more than two Slytherin Head Girls?"

"In a thousand years, you'd think, what with being so bloody ambitious, more than a fourth of the Head Girls would be Slytherins, right?"

"And were they?"

"No. Try eighteen percent."

Draco shrugged. "Close enough."

"We're ambitious, Draco."

"Well maybe most of them felt there were other things to be ambitious about, and by the time they got to seventh year they were off doing those things, not holding little children's hands."

Astoria glared at him.

"Not that that's all you've done this year," he said, backtracking hastily. "You've had a harder job than most, and you've done it very well. I'm just saying maybe the reason Slytherins aren't appointed is that they're not looking to be. It doesn't have to be prejudice."

"I didn't want this position, you know," said Astoria abruptly.

Draco blinked at the non sequitur. "What?"

"I didn't want the position. I was sick of everything that happened in the school last year, and I wanted to just sail through this year without worrying about anything other than my grades and my friends."

Draco was baffled. "Why on earth did you become Head Girl, then?"

"McGonagall asked me to."

"Why didn't you tell her to sod off?"

"She told me I had to help build bridges. She said she thought I could do it, and Snape thought highly of me..."

Draco tried to remember anything about Astoria Greengrass before this year and came up completely blank. Snape thought highly of what? Being a non-entity?

"I was good at Transfigurations, and Potions," Astoria was saying. "And I kept my head down and didn't get involved in any of the political stuff going on in Slytherin."

Sounded about right. Though why Snape and McGonagall had thought this was a good thing was rather beyond Draco.

"So McGonagall told me she needed me, and the Slytherins needed me. Told me Ginny Weasley had done her bit, and I hadn't."

Draco's eyebrows went up.

"Slughorn didn't think much of me when I was his student, though I was good enough at Potions. He's been a lot friendlier this year, surprise, surprise."

Draco nodded cautiously. Astoria's thought processes were leaving him feeling off-balance and befuddled, but for some reason he was unwilling to just leave her and go spend time with... well, maybe that was why he didn't want to leave her. He had nowhere better to be.

"I felt like I had to do it. And then there were my parents, telling me I had to... and I wanted to do something good."

"You have," said Draco.

"Have I?"

Draco scowled. "Don't give me that. You know you have. Don't you?"

"I've helped some kids stay in school. I've helped the school carry on, I've mended some fences. I've helped Diggory House, and I've been a spokesperson for the Slytherins."

"That's not enough for you?"

"Eighteen kids have left anyway," she said bleakly. "Despite everything I've done. Goyle didn't even last a month. And I'm going to fail my NEWTs, all of them. Even Transfigurations and Potions. And..." she looked over the dancing students. "And I'm here, while I want to be there," she said, her voice dropping to an anguished whisper.

Draco was stunned.

"I don't want to be the responsible Head Girl any more. I want to have fun, gossip with my friends... but I don't have any, not any more," she said, her words tumbling out faster and faster. "I feel like I've lost the last chance I had to be a child. And... it wasn't worth it!"

"Astoria..." Draco felt helpless. Bugger, whenever Pansy got upset, he could joke around and make her feel better, or snog her, or make an excuse to get away from her. With Astoria... he didn't know what to do.

He didn't know this lonely girl. He'd only seen what she wanted him to see of her. He'd seen the calm, controlled, focused, ruthless politician. He'd never guessed that behind that was a young girl who had grown up too fast, just as he had, and now regretted it.

He hung motionless for a long moment, as Astoria looked out at the crowd bleakly, and there was nothing he could do to help. If she hadn't rejected him so logically and thoroughly he might have reached out for her, pulled her close, not because he wanted to feel her warm body against his, but because he wanted to make her feel better. But after what she'd just said, all she'd sacrificed, he could hardly put her family's good name in more trouble by taking her into his arms and risking anybody seeing them together.

He bit his lip and stayed next to her.

"Is there anything I can do?" he finally asked hesitantly.

She glanced at him. "No, you've been very helpful this year," she said, and her voice, though a bit shaky, was closer to her usual calm control.

Draco shook his head. "That's not... I mean right now. Is there anything I can do right now?"

Astoria turned to him, an eyebrow raised, and studied him thoughtfully. "No. But thank you."

"For what?"

"For asking," she said, and put a hand on his arm briefly. "Excuse me, I have to go see Professor Slughorn. I promised him a dance."