Sort of a Homecoming

Malfoys don't grieve.

Father told Draco that once after his grandfather's funeral. Grief is just another word for regret and Malfoys do not regret. Malfoys plot, manipulate, tip the balance of power in their favour, and take revenge when necessary, but they never grieve.

*

It's been two days since the war ended and the acrid smell of spent magic still hangs in the air. Draco blinks at the morning sun glaring through the charred trees. It's almost beautiful, in a perverse sort of way; the way the sun is casting brilliant angles of light across the shattered ruins that surround him. He takes a steadying breath. It's true what they said, then. It's all gone, completely destroyed. Malfoy Manor is now just a black smudge on the landscape. He smiles bitterly. The masses should be pleased.

Several cracks cut through silence jarring Draco from his thoughts. Aurors. He wrinkles his nose distastefully at the group of wizards eyeing him from the distance. They've been dogging him since the war ended.

Draco steps carefully into a pile of rubble that may or may not be the remains of his father's study. It's hard to tell. He can feel the Aurors lurking close by, their eyes boring into his back. Stupid fucks. Sometimes he wonders if the Ministry would take their heads out of their collective arses long enough to know what a criminal was.

Draco viciously kicks a broken antique vase he sees poking out of the debris, sending shards and dust everywhere. It's one Mother was so excited to find during her most recent trip to France. Feeling grimly satisfied he looks up to see Potter studying him from the front lawn where he's been lurking since Draco arrived. Draco sneers at him and contemplates throwing him an obscene gesture, but really, Potter's not worth it.

*

One of first memories Draco has of his father is the sound of his boots going click, click, click on the marble floor announcing his arrival moments before entering a room. He wore riding boots, tall and shiny black, and walked with an aristocratic clip.

Draco remembers once sitting on floor of Father's study. He is a child, not more than six or seven, and Father is sitting in chair by the fire with his long legs stretched in front of him. Father must have caught him watching because he waves Draco over. He gives Draco a rare smile and slowly pulls out a long dagger from inside his boot. It has an intricate serpentine design on the handle and is covered in jewels. It is one of the most beautiful things Draco's ever seen.

In a swift, graceful motion Father throws the dagger across the room where it lands, its point perfectly centred in the middle of the heavy wooden door. The dagger is summoned back where it lands in Father's palm with quiet thump. Draco listens as Father tells him that the dagger belonged to his father and to his father's father before that and so on, backwards through several centuries. The Malfoys are a historic and revered family, their blood beyond reproach and Father's eyes shine as he tells Draco this. Draco sits up tall and puffs out his chest. He is too young to understand matters of blood, but he does understand that Father is telling him that he's special and destined for Great Things.

Father then hands the dagger to Draco and even though his hands are small and he barely has the strength to throw it far, Father smiles at him encouragingly, urging him to try again. Draco beams. Father has shown little interest in him before. Mother then happens upon the two of them with Draco holding the knife and ruins it all.

"Lucius Malfoy! What on earth are you doing with that child?"

She picks Draco up and tries to coddle him in her arms. Draco cries and twists and tries to get away. It's not fair. Draco adores his father and he is just showing Draco something that belongs to him, that will one day be Draco's.

"Put that knife away. He is too young to play with such things," she berates Father as she attempts to kiss away the tears that are streaming down Draco's face. Draco will have none of it and he finally breaks free and runs towards his father.

Draco remembers watching the look of cold fury on Father's face as he stiffly replaced the dagger in his boot and stormed from the room, ignoring Draco's anguished cries behind him. He remembers hating his mother for that and he swore never to forgive her. Draco never does see the dagger again.

*

The Ministry for Magic grants Lucius Malfoy a full pardon in autumn of Draco's sixth year. The new Minster for Magic installed after Fudge's hasty departure is even more corrupt than his predecessor. When news reaches Hogwarts, Draco makes sure to strut past the Gryffindor table with his Slytherin classmates in tow.

"Who's sorry, now?" Draco smirks at a red-faced Potter who stands and hurls obscenities in his wake. Draco smiles and continues on; taking a seat at the Slytherin table where he knows Potter can see him. He does this everyday, this parade past the Gryffindor table: tossing sneers, insults and not-so veiled innuendo toward Potter and his pathetic group of friends.

Draco goes home for the Christmas holidays eager to revel in the reflected glory of being near someone as powerful as his father. His mother, however, has her own ideas about brokering power. Mother never was one put ideals before money and family. She is a true aristocrat; utterly dependent on the lifestyle she was born to and hell-bent on preserving it for her son. When she sees Voldemort's fanaticism compromise her family's social and economic standing, she resolves to fight back.

In the end, two minutes into the New Year, father kills her on Voldemort's order, strangling her in the drawing room. Mother's gentle education in the finer things did not teach her the proper concealment spells to use on the owls she sent to the Ministry and well; the Ministry is corrupt, too. Mother's assignation as a spy was screwed, shortly after it had started.

Draco can still hear her screams as Father drags her from her bedroom.

*

A breathless obituary is published in The Daily Prophet profiling the beautiful socialite and her tragic death, falling from one of her beloved horses. While Witch's Weekly devotes an entire issue to Narcissa's life and death. On its cover is a photograph of a radiant Narcissa posing with her beloved son while her handsome husband looks upon them adoringly. A ministry official is quoted as saying that she was amongst the finest that England has produced and that her charm and beauty will be sorely missed. No one mentions that Narcissa hated riding in the winter.

A private service is held, merely a formality, as appearances must be upheld. Father nods curtly to Draco when it is over and sends him back to Hogwarts. When Draco arrives on Platform 9 and 3/4, Pansy is there to greet him. "Oh, Draco. I'm so sorry," she says, pulling him into a hug. He nods once, his face buried in her hair.

It's a quiet ride back. As Draco sinks heavily into his seat, he feels Pansy slide her hand into his, entwining their fingers. He smiles at her gratefully and closes his eyes, mindless of the dull chatter of his Slytherin classmates around him.

*

"Potter."

"Hm?" Pansy looks up from the dinner she's been poking at for the last half hour.

"He's watching me again." Draco nods in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

Pansy shoots a quick look over her shoulder. "Well, you finally got his undivided attention. Congratulations," she says, smiling wickedly.

Draco scowls. "Was that really necessary?"

"Oh, it was. And satisfying, too." She winks.

Draco gives Pansy a long suffering look of one who has been teased about Potter since he spurned Draco's hand at friendship their first year. Only Pansy is allowed to get away with it, of course.

He looks again at Potter and furrows his brow. Potter is now talking rather animatedly with Granger. They must be talking about him because Granger's eyes keep looking in his direction. Turning back to Pansy, he whispers, "I don't get it. Since when does Potter stalk me? He was lurking outside Snape's door when I left his office last night."

"Your boyfriend giving you trouble?" Nott interrupts, smirking broadly. He elbows Goyle who snickers along with him.

"We could rough him up for you, if you want," Goyle adds conspiratorially. Draco frowns and Goyle's smile begins to falter. "Sorry, Draco," he mumbles, looking chagrined.

Draco narrows his eyes at Nott who still grinning smugly. Theodore Nott is from an old pureblood family that never could hold on to their money. Draco always considered him crude and he only really tolerates him because his father's loyalty to his own father. "No," Draco says acidly. "That won't be necessary."

"Don't worry. They'll get theirs," Pansy says, cocking her head in the direction of the Gryffindor table. "Very soon."

Nobody has to ask what Pansy means. Even the dimmest Hufflepuff couldn't miss the looming sense of foreboding that has pervaded the school. The impending war was the topic du jour during the holiday season even outpacing the usual talk of England's dreadful weather and equally dreadful Quidditch team. It was so bad that Mother banned all talk of it during Christmas dinner.

"I just pray to God I'm the going to be the one who gets to wipe that superior look off that Mudblood's face," Pansy continues, stabbing the air with her fork. "Did you hear her in Potions today? She would not shut-."

"Forget it," Draco interrupts sourly, rising to his feet. "Let's go." Pansy fixates on Granger too much. He spares a quick glance again at Potter while he gathers his things. Potter is watching him again. They stare at each other for a moment until something flickers across Potter's face. Draco allows himself a small grin, just enough to encourage him and Potter smiles back tentatively. Perfect. Draco's smile broadens as he slowly raises his middle finger. Sucker, he thinks, watching Potter storm away with Weasley and Granger following quickly behind.

"C'mon." Pansy yanks at his sleeve. "What are you waiting for?"

Draco drags his eyes away and smiles tightly at Pansy. "Only you, of course."

*

"Draco!"

Pansy's foot jabs him from across the couch.

"What?" he asks irritably, tucking himself further into the corner of the couch.

Pansy looks at him meaningfully. Finally, she shakes her head. "Theodore just asked you a question."

Right, the war. It's all anyone talks about anymore and he could frankly care less about it.

He sighs, "I haven't heard anything from my father. I have no idea what's going on."

He's not sure why his father hasn't written him since his mother's death but he's decided not to dwell on it. Dwelling on it would just lead him to think about his mother and he thinks about his mother enough as it is.

Blaise interjects, "Something's happening soon. The professors are starting to look nervous."

Pansy gives Draco another impatient look and Draco's eyes flicks stubbornly back to the fire. He really would rather not be here discussing this, but Pansy shamed him into it. They had a row earlier after he had skived off their prefects' meeting in order to follow Potter and Finnigan sneaking together to the Quidditch pitch.

"You're a Malfoy," she hissed, cornering him near the common room entrance when he returned. "Those students look up to you. They expect you to lead them."

"Fuck that," he replied lazily.

Pansy looked furious at Draco then, looking at him with that mixture of righteous indignation and disappointment that ironically reminded him of Potter.

"If we're going to win this war," she said after a moment, "you need to step up."

Draco draws his knees up to his chest and turns to watch Pansy. She's talking animatedly about defensive spells and escape routes to a rapt group of Slytherins.

Even now as he tries to follow the thread of conversation, his mind begins to wonder and the increasingly familiar feeling of frustration grows inside him. He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall down to his drawn knees. He can't figure out why he feels so curiously cut off from everybody. He tries to summon back the image of Potter's fingers digging into Finnigan's shoulders as Finnigan sucked him off behind the Quidditch shed. Somehow the emotions he saw flit across Potter's face seemed more real than any talk of war.

Besides the war will be easy and painless. The Slytherins and anyone with half a brain will line up on one side and the rest will be left to suffer the consequences. Potter will go down in flames and all will be right in the world.

That thought brings a rush of emotion that he can't quite recognize and he stands suddenly, nearly stumbling over Pansy's feet. His housemates quickly fall silent and he is suddenly aware of a roomful of eyes watching him curiously.

Draco straightens himself up and fixes them all with a withering glare. "I'm going to bed," he announces, stepping around the gathered chairs.

Pansy tugs at his hand and he whirls around, yanking his hand back. "What?" he asks coldly.

Pansy purses her lips and says nothing.

He has the hysterical urge to run from the room and hide under his bedcovers. Thankfully some of his Slytherin impulses are still intact and he calms himself down and walks away, at least until he reaches the stairs to his room. He collapses on his bed not even bothering to take off his school uniform. It's still several hours before he's finally able to drift off to sleep.

*

Draco hates being called a hero, which surprises him, frankly. Maybe the heroics should have been left to the Gryffindors after all, since they seem enjoy the attention so much.

'The Daily Prophet' prints a special addition celebrating the end of the war. DEATH EATER SPECIAL AGENT EXPOSED, the headline screams. To make matters worse, they publish a photograph of him with Potter posing after their sixth year Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match. Potter is smiling, holding the Golden Snitch triumphantly in his fist.

Creevey keeps leaving extra copies in Draco's room until Draco finally snaps and throws a Jelly-legs Jinx at him. Potter raises an eyebrow, his mouth crinkling into an almost smile and Draco has to hex him, too.

*

Screams tear through the Great Hall during supper a few days later and everything goes white. He remembers very little of the attack on Hogwarts, except the noise. It was unbearably loud and in the chaos he remembers trying to stop Pansy from running toward the Gryffindor table with her wand drawn. After that it's murky. He remembers falling and someone in black reaching under his arms and carrying him to the safety. He looks up to see Professor Snape with his hooknose and determined chin, and he remembers being surprised that Snape is strong enough to carry him.

Draco awakens later in the infirmary and he squints, finally recognizing Professor Snape sitting at his bedside.

"Pansy?" he whispers and Snape shakes his head.

Draco looks at him in disbelief, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

"Why?" he finally croaks.

"Draco."

"No. Just go away."

Snape remains seated, looking at him with a pained expression. Draco shakes his head, feeling his eyes begin to burn and he kicks his bedcovers in frustration. He takes a deep breath and looks levelly at Snape. "Who?"

"In all the chaos, it's hard to say."

"It was one of the Gryffindors, then."

"Draco," Snape replies sharply. "Nothing good can come of that."

Draco looks at him incredulously. "You know what they're like," he hisses.

Snape is silent for a moment. "Draco," he says, his voice level, "did your father warn you of the attack?

Draco looks away. "No, but I knew-"

"Did he do anything to keep you and your friends out of harm's way? His only son, his only blood?" Snape interrupts, his voice starting to rise. "He was here. Did you know that? He will deny it, of course. He'd rather do the Dark Lord's bidding than see to his own son."

Draco feels his face crumple and he suddenly remembers someone, his father probably, telling him that Malfoys don't cry and that Slytherins never look away in defeat. He hastily wipes a hand across his eyes and looks up at Snape.

Snape stands and lays a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Draco, things aren't always what they seem." His voice sounds weary, Draco notes, suddenly feeling very tired himself. Draco nods slightly, there are words that he desperately wants to say but they seem to be caught somewhere in the back of his throat. They look at each other awkwardly for a moment before Snape squeezes his shoulder and walks away.

Draco finds out later that he was hit by a stunning spell and was nearly crushed by a falling wall. Pansy was just one of several casualties that day. In the end the attack was short-lived lasting not more than a few hours. Rogue elements, the Ministry explains, probably orchestrated by Dumbledore himself. Lucius Malfoy stands before the Wizengamot demanding that Dumbledore be arrested and the current staff removed. The Ministry agrees. It's now a siege.

*

Draco finds that the journey from being his father's most ardent admirer to wanting him dead was a surprisingly short one. He realizes this with certain clarity after spending a second night alone in the infirmary recovering from spell damage from the attack.

It's a perfect plan, he thinks as he races down the corridors to a secret exit near the potions classrooms. It's week two of the siege and he figures he would just be doing everyone a favour if he sneaks away and kills the man himself. He might even be called a hero and toss Potter off his beloved pedestal, at least until Potter does something else noteworthy.

He realizes that it was very stupid plan after he collides head-on into Harry Potter and finds Weasley's wand trained on him.

"Oi, Malfoy. Where are you going in such a hurry?" Weasley is scowling down at him in some pathetic attempt at looking fearsome. Draco heart sinks as he sees his wand in Weasley's other hand.

"Fuck off." Draco untangles his legs from Potter's and slowly rises his feet, his head is still spinning from the impact of the collision. "Give me my wand, Weasley. Now."

Potter steps forward with his wand out and Draco sneers back at him. He's not surprised. Potter always has to have his nose in everything. "Not until you tell us what you're doing in these corridors without permission, Malfoy." Potter spits out Draco's last name like he has just eaten spoilt cabbage

"I should ask the same from you, Potter." Draco's back hits the wall, and he scowls realizing that Potter has him cornered, again. Weasley smugly toys with Draco's wand and he barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Dumbledore gave the D.A. permission to patrol the corridors. You would have remembered that if you actually removed your head from your arse." Potter looks pissed, like he's angry that Draco hasn't been paying attention. Like Draco should have better things to do then to worry about Death Eaters, Dark Lords and murderous fathers. "There's a war going on, if you hadn't noticed."

"Yes, I'm quite aware there is a war!" Draco spits back fiercely, and he relishes the fact that Weasley flinches.

"I'm a prefect," Draco continues, his voice rising. "I have every right to be here. Now let me go."

Potter stares at him and wrinkles his brow like he is trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult spell. Weasley suddenly shifts uncomfortably and Draco begins to feel a weird sensation come over him like Potter is inside his head. Draco cringes reflexively, but can't seem to drag his eyes away from Potters. It's almost like he is under a spell.

"You're going after your father, aren't you?" Potter asks softly.

"What?"

"I can help you."

Draco blinks. "I don't know what you're talking about Potter. Just let me go."

"Malfoy, come off it. Nobody was fooled by your mother's accident." Potter looks at him shrewdly. "Your father killed her, didn't he?" he asks softly, so softly that Draco doubts that Weasley was able to hear him.

Draco lets the words sink in and a flare of anger rises inside him and he can feel his face flush. "How dare you," he hisses.

Potter shrugs, looking unconcerned with Draco's outburst. Draco looks away, feeling his stomach drop, and the familiar feeling of defeat washes over him.

"Yes," Draco grinds out, finally answering Potter's question. He looks at Potter beseechingly. "May I go?"

"Yes," Potter says. Weasley gasps and Draco narrows his eyes suspiciously, eyeing the other boy as he moves closer. Potter grabs Draco's chin, pinching it hard, and pinning him against the wall. Draco finds himself staring, point blank, into the hardest, most intense set of green eyes that he's even seen. Draco swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. "But," Potter continues, "you'll have to do things our way.

"You and I both know you'll never go through with it. You'll take one look at your father and run back into his arms and be the little daddy's boy you are. Even though you despise him." Potter sneers when he says this, and, God; Draco hates him right now for it. "Rumour has it, at sunup tomorrow, sympathetic students are going to make a break and join the Death Eaters. Is that true?" Draco nods before he can stop himself.

Potter squeezes Draco's chin harder, breaking his thoughts and he nods again, reflexively. "I want you go with them."

Draco wrenches his face out of Potter's grip and looks at him resentfully. "You want me to join the Death Eaters. So, I can be your spy. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"You're someone who's going half-cocked after his father without any kind of plan. And you call yourself a Slytherin?"

Draco's eyes flash. "What kind of Gryffindor forces someone to spy for them? Some noble saviour, you are. I'll be no better than that rat... What was his name? Pettigrew?" Potter winces at that and Draco sneers triumphantly. "Yeah, I know about him. Father bragged about him. Some Gryffindor he was."

Draco stands up tall and waits for Potter to erupt. Draco expects a broken lip at very least, and at this point, he wants that to happen because at least that would make sense. Let Potter and Weasley hex him into a slug as far as he cares as long as Draco can get one solid fist across Potter's jaw. But Potter doesn't hit him, he just stands there staring at Draco, even Weasley looks confused. An awkward moment passes.

"Draco," Potter says finally, moving closer and laying a hand on Draco's shoulder. Potter's eyes are still burning intensely but they've lost their edge and Draco finds himself unable to look away. Potter's hand on his shoulder feels steady and warm and to Draco's surprise he likes the feel of it, the weight of it. "You have my word," Potter says softly. "You help us and we'll help you. Your father will get what he deserves."

Potter takes a step back and crosses his arms and waits. At this point, Draco realizes why people are so eager to follow Potter, why his friends put up with constant injuries and humiliations. He always wins in the end.

And he remembers his father's words, told to him long ago about grieving being another word for regret and taking revenge when necessary.

"Okay, Harry," he says evenly.