Current mood:

tired

up for a challenge?
And here is my challenge-fic for the HP Gen Ficathon!

Written for Kristin (I didn't get an lj name), for prompt number one: Draco Malfoy watches his father murdered, by none other than his mother. Terrified, he flees, and runs into someone he doesn't expect to help him; Remus Lupin.

Ah, Draco, I tried not to make you all fanon. I hope it worked in some measure.



Domestic





At five years of age, Draco snuck into one of his mother's teaparties. They were having his favorite biscuits, and-

"...well, you remember what happened to her, don't you? Bless The Memory of The Dark Lord and May He Rise Again, but he always was something of a misogynist."

"Darling, you don't have to tell me. It took me a fortnight to grow back the skin on my neck, and you know I'm usually a very fast healer. Bless The Memory of The Dark Lord and May He Rise Again, but you'd think such a powerful wizard would have been less petty. How many wives did Macnair get through, do you remember?"

"Dear me, I'm sure I lost count, Bless The Memory of The Dark Lord and May He Rise Again. I think Walden must have gotten a real kick out of watching them blunder and then get punished for it. The last one had to cook her own tongue in an omelette, if I'm remembering correctly."

"Oh, that's right- I was there that night. It wasn't very good. Then again, the kitchen at the Lair was always woefully understocked, and the cookware was a nightmare. Bless The Memory of The Dark Lord and May He Rise Again, but I'm fairly certain he could have afforded some new pots and pans."

"Oh, you're too much. But I will say this- for someone who was so disdainful of domestic arts, he certainly was particular about his food. Bless His Memory and May He Rise Again."

Draco tiptoed from the room without ever being noticed, and went off to find biscuits somewhere else. His mother had taught him everything he needed to know about choosing memories, and he thought eating himself sick would be a good one to have.

---

Draco could feel his skin humming with anticipation as the carriage pulled up to Malfoy Manor. He thought of the Triwizard Tournament and smiled, just a bit, because pitting wizards against one another for sport was the last bit of practice they would get before the real thing started. He remembered Potter's terrified bleating and people screaming and Diggory-

He shook his head and started over. The maze. Potter bleeding. No, bleating, he thought, and maybe it was both but that wasn't what he was thinking about.

Perhaps his mother would give him a refresher lesson.

His father was waiting for him in the main hall, a faint smile on his face. "Draco, welcome home. I must go away for a short time, but I have no doubt you will be able to occupy yourself in my absence."

Draco nodded, not sure what to say. He wanted to ask what happened, ask about the ritual, ask what the Dark Lord (Bless His Memory He Has Risen Again) looked like, talked like, how his magic felt-

"Your mother is indisposed, so I hope you will not disturb her, Draco. She needs rest, and cannot tend to you."

Draco wanted to clench his hands, but he kept them relaxed. His fingers were graceful and long. She hadn't been there, he thought swiftly, she wouldn't have been allowed at the summit so then why- "What happened?"

His father looked away. "We were honoured to receive The Dark Lord as a visitor at our home. It is a mark of distinction which extends even to you, Draco."

The next morning, the house elves brought him eggs for breakfast. He didn't hurl them across the room in a rage. He speared them on his fork and put them in his mouth slowly, eggs on his tongue. It was, he thought faintly, just like any other morning.

---

His mother didn't cry when she found him on the Hogwarts Express, hexed beyond
recognition by anyone but her. She thanked the conductor for waiting, told him she would only be a few more moments, and asked him to inform Mesdames Crabbe and Goyle that their sons would be out presently.

She undid the curses one by one, never mistaking one for another, knowing the correct order through some unlikely combination of Dark Arts and maternal instinct. Draco's skin felt raw, his hands refused to unclench, and he couldn't find the strength to walk.

"Try harder," his mother said, aiming into the corridor. "I will not carry you off this train." She turned to Vince and Greg and closed the door behind him.

He crawled until his knees bled, and the wet patches on his robes turned cold on his newly made flesh.

"Get up," he hissed at himself. "Get up."

She didn't carry him. She did allow him to lean on her arm. Oddly enough, it was his mother's first time ever meeting the train. His father had always insisted upon bringing Draco himself, but this year-

"I hope your OWLs went well, darling."

He cleared his throat to tell her about Transfiguration, and she gave him a few suggestions for future examinations. When he fainted from the pain on the carriage ride home, she pretended not to notice.

---

Draco tried to breathe.

His father raised a perfect brow and twitched his hand with impatience. "Is this how you welcome your father home, Draco? I had expected a bit more enthusiasm."

Draco bowed his head in greeting, sneaking a glance at his mother's blank expression. It had only been a few months- certainly he couldn't have gone utterly mad-

"Sit, both of you."

As he took his place beside his mother on the low brocade bench, Draco found himself remembering Hagrid at the Leaving Feast his second year. Giant's blood, an impossibly strong constitution, and the shadows under his eyes had been deep and dark.

Perhaps his father had no memories pleasant enough to steal?

"I have been offered a place of great honour, and both of you would do well to appreciate our family's elevation."

Draco suppressed a sigh of disappointment. School was tiresome in many ways, but he would have been team captain this year, and he had so wanted to squash the other teams for once. Without his father present to criticize, Draco had been practicing all summer, flying until his thighs were raw, catching snitch after snitch until his hands sometimes shook with the beating of imagined wings. He had actually been looking forward to showing all those idiots how quick he had become, and they might have their stupid club where they practiced cursing, but he could fly better than any seeker, including even the wonderful Mr. Potter.

"The Dark Lord has a new plan to defeat that foul boy, and I am to be his most trusted ally."

Draco followed his mother's lead, hearing the words but refusing to absorb the message. If the Death Eaters were out for Potter's blood, it might be enough of a distraction on the pitch to give Slytherin the edge they needed. Fatigue and worry were the greatest enemies of any athlete, and anything that slowed Potter down could only be good for the competition. Grief, rage, and a deadly enemy- yes, it just might work.

"In fact, I shall house him."

The snitch-

"I am not sure I understand you, Lucius."

If their keeper could just slow the chasers down-

"He shall inhabit my body, and use our combined power."

For the first time he could remember in all his life, Draco watched his mother turn away from his father to face him. "Draco, your flying has been much improved of late. Your Quidditch skills have grown by leaps and bounds."

Odd, that she should read his mind.

"It might be time for more practice, darling."

Lucius stood up, his eyes ablaze. "Have you heard a word I've said?"

Narcissa nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. I always listen to you, Lucius. I'm sure the plan must be very important to The Dark Lord, and I am honoured that he thinks me capable of playing the role of his devoted wife. I had not thought him at all impressed with my skills in that area."

Lucius waved a hand. "Our Lord never forgets to take the measure of any of his resources."

Draco jumped slightly as his mother's hand brushed against his wrist. She hadn't touched him since that day on the train, and it seemed odd to start now.

"What will be expected of us, Lucius?"

He smiled slightly at her calm. "You must carry on in the same way- exactly the same. All will be as it was."

Narcissa's eyes flickered over to a bookcase and then back again. "With one addition."

Lucius shrugged. "Of course."

Draco thought about tea the same moment his mother suggested it, and he was relieved to see the house elves come tottering in with trays and china. When his mother transfigured her teacup into a small ceramic dagger, he blinked. By the time his eyes reopened, his father's neck had begun to gush red.

"Mother?"

She was murmuring then, pale wand in hand, and he didn't recognize the words but he watched his father's throat tear open wider, saw his fingers scrabbling at the arms of his chair instead of seizing his wand. Her skirts whispered as she walked over to his jerking body, kneeling to stroke one hand along his sleeve. "Some might accuse me of principles, dear, but you must know me better by now."

Draco saw his father's eyes darken and glare, but his mother only nodded. "That's right. You remember."

"Mother?"

The house elves cleared away the body with the tea things, their large eyes opened wider than ever. Draco remained in his place, absently noting the metallic smell of the blood and trying to remember the last time he had seen his mother do magic in front of his father. "What did you get on your Transfiguration OWL, mother?"

She didn't put her wand away, but she did smile a little. "You already know. And I got the same on my NEWT."

Draco nodded. "Ah."

The house shuddered slightly, and Draco watched his mother begin to sketch shapes in the air. "Now would be a good time to get your broom, darling. They'll be here soon." Her hands were steady as they fluttered in complex spirals.

"Goodbye, Mother."

"Mmm."

---

It was only when he reached London that Draco realized Hogsmeade would have been a safer destination. Any place he could think of in wizarding London suddenly seemed terribly dangerous and likely to get him killed, an idea which he didn't find terribly interesting. The Ministry seemed like the right sort of place, but too many years of his father knowing everything about their activities made him think it less than prudent to put himself in their hands.

Five minutes in the Leaky Cauldron would broadcast his location to Death Eaters and Aurors alike, and he would need magic to get into Diagon Alley. Using magic as an underage wizard would give The Ministry his exact location, and Draco found himself remembering the Muggle Studies course description.

...and while the chances seem slim, every witch and wizard should understand the basic principles of surviving a brief period in the Muggle world. A lost wand, a mistake in apparation, and even the best of us could find himself stranded...

Well. Dammit.

---

Sitting on the ground was not something Malfoys did, but there wasn't a bench, and Draco was too exhausted to think about moving for another few hours at least. His robes got a few second glances, but no one found him interesting enough to stare at, which nettled him slightly. A lifetime of believing Muggles automatically attacked anything out of the ordinary (magic, or good sense), and it turned out that out of the ordinary was rather taken for granted.

Draco had found King's Cross Station after a few hours, which left him rather irritated that Muggle London was so much larger than his own version, but too exhausted to work up much fury over it. After three people refused to show him 9 & 3/4, expressing their apathy with surprised laughter, an eyeroll, and a blank stare, respectively, Draco decided fractions were inexplicably unpopular in the Muggle word and decided to find it himself.

The blank wall was something of a last straw, and Draco had let himself slump against it, having decided that the Malfoy name was no longer an impediment to slovenly behavior. In fact, as he sat on the grimy floor, broom partially hidden by his cloak, Draco realized that defining the characteristics of a Malfoy was now entirely up to his discretion.

More Quidditch, obviously.

Less Dark Magic. It tended to get people killed, for one, but more important was the fact that it seemed positively exhausting.

Less trying to kill Harry Potter, more trying to punch him in the face. It was legal and infinitely more satisfying, Draco was sure.

More running from Death Eaters, unfortunately. Of course, there was always the outside chance that a Malfoy punch would spur Potter on to defeat them all, with the glory going to Draco and his forward-minded thinking. "We never thought about beating some sense into him!" the grateful masses would cry. "Only you could have come up with such an ingenious and personally gratifying plan, Draco!"

"Draco?"

Yes, his name on everyone's lips, and there would be parades and his face would be on the Galleon, and Potter would sulk and wither away somewhere in Hertfordshire...

"Draco Malfoy?"

He froze, heart sinking, cursing himself for choosing such an obvious place to run. He had just hoped, somehow, that the barrier would make one exception and let him through. Instead he was about to be murdered in the middle of a Muggle train station (ugh) and it simply wasn't fair.

"Draco, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Then he noticed the threadbare trousers and worn shoes, looked up into the face of Remus Lupin, and tried to sneer. For old time's sake.

But Professor Lupin was kneeling down and checking his pulse, of all things, loosening his collar and providing a square of chocolate. "Eat this- we've been looking for you. Do you think you can walk? I can take you somewhere safe."

Draco shook off the unwelcome touch, although he did accept the chocolate. "Don't touch me- werewolf."

Draco expected to see Lupin's face tighten, or even freeze into a mask of indifference, and was startled to see him roll his eyes in irritation. "Yes, top marks. You have cut me to the quick, indeed, with your rapier wit. Now get up and start walking- we can't be found here."

"I-"

"You've done very well, Draco." Lupin was suddenly closer, and he was surprisingly strong as he helped Draco stand. "You were very smart to come here and you were very careful about how you did it, but now you need to come with me. Do you understand?"

Draco thought about pushing him away and refusing, but he remembered the shiny pink insides of his father's throat, and was suddenly quite willing to go along with any plan that had been thought up by other people. "Fine. But I'm taking my broom!"

Lupin's lips twitched slightly, and he nodded. "Of course. Shame so many people saw you with it- but they probably assumed you were on the cleaning staff."

Draco frowned. If being made fun of was going to be the cost of protection, he wasn't sure it was worth it.

---

Draco sat gingerly on the worn armchair, wrinkling his nose at his surroundings. "You live here?"

Lupin was putting the kettle on to boil, and didn't turn to look at him. "Yes, that's right."

"But this is Muggle London. And why aren't you using magic to make tea? It would be much faster.”

Lupin walked over to the grate and kneeled down to light a fire. "Yes, Draco. Werewolves have a hard time finding lodgings in the wizarding world, for some strange reason. Furthermore, their wand use is being monitored now, and while most people involved in the Ministry raid have been given commendations, there is quite a bit of suspicion about a Dark Creature being there at all. Just this week, the Ministry questioned my use of some cleaning charms. Said it seemed odd that I should have so much cleaning to do."

Draco frowned. "That makes no sense."

"Yes, well, I've restricted my use for the time being. Rather inconvenient, of course, but there you are. Can you tell me what happened today? If you don't think you can talk about it, I will understand- but any information you have would be useful."

Draco looked down at the threadbare carpet and was viciously glad at how worn everything was. It reminded him that he was here, in a poor ex-professor's flat, and there was nothing to remind him of home. No candleabras or cornices or credenzas, and no house elves trying not to squeak as they struggled with the weight of his father's unmoving arm-

"Could I have my tea in a mug?"

Lupin blinked, then nodded. "Well, of course. I don't have milk, I'm afraid-"

"She killed him with a teacup."

Lupin was very still.

"It sounds ridiculous, saying that."

"Yes, I can see how it might."

"That wallpaper is really hideous." Draco kept his hands on his knees, knowing he might start twisting them together if he didn't pay very close attention and remember how to behave. "Mother didn't care much for wallpaper."

Lupin was coming closer, slowly, and Draco remembered the man's careful treatment of
dangerous creatures in class. "You could do spells with my wand, maybe. Do you think that would work? But maybe not. The Ministry isn't tracking it, but the Death Eaters probably are."

Lupin was on the footstool beside him now. "Draco, you're going to be fine."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, The Dark Lord was going to live in my father's body and so my mother killed him, alright? Where am I going to live? Because I can't stay here- I couldn't possibly."

Lupin put a hand on his arm, but Draco didn't shake him off this time. "There was a lot of blood. It got in his hair."

Lupin nodded. "Yes."

---

Draco had never eaten beans on toast before, and he knew he should turn up his nose, but he really was hungry and that wasn't something he knew how to deal with, not really.

Lupin smiled slightly. "I promise to tell everyone you thought it was disgusting."

Draco nodded, his mouth full.

"I shall have to let Dumbledore know about this, you understand? He'll be able to protect you."

Swallowing hastily, Draco lowered his eyes to his plate. "I suppose. Do you remember the essay we had to write in third year? The one on werewolves?"

Lupin laughed so softly Draco almost didn't hear it. "Yes, I remember."

"I quoted Poppington in that- his book on the feeding habits and social structures. But that's all nonsense, isn't it?"

"Well, yes. Rubbish, actually, but I could hardly give you a lower grade when the book was part of the library collection. I've spoken with Madam Pince, but she refuses to remove any text without definitive proof of its apocryphal nature. I mentioned my own refusal to eat infants, but she remained unimpressed."

"I worked hard on that assignment."

"Yes, I could tell."

Draco swirled his tea around. "I still didn't figure it out. What you were. Are."

Lupin cleared his throat, folding his napkin into quarters. "And will be, so far as I know."

---

Some places were still too secret for Draco to enter, Lupin had said. Galling, really, but he supposed it was true enough. That the meeting took place in Arthur Weasley's office, however, was simply appalling.

"I can't believe Dumbledore is meeting me here," Draco spat, shuddering slightly at all the bizarre devices scattered around his chair.

"Professor Dumbledore," Lupin corrected quietly. "Everything will be fine, Draco."

"Oh, of course. He'll just give me Veritaserum and tell me how evil my parents were and try to persuade me not to defect to the Dark Lord-"

"I'm almost certain he'll offer you sweets, actually. It's how he treats trauma."

Draco sneered. "Like you did me?"

Lupin smiled. "Not particularly. Ah, Albus- here you are at last."

Draco watched them clasp hands and smile and the whole thing was just insupportable, absolutely everything he despised-

Dumbledore kneeled, his face grave. "Draco. I am so sorry for your loss. Have you thought at all about what you plan to do?"

Shooting one furious and baffled look at Lupin, Draco felt his throat tighten. "What? I thought you would be telling me. And aren't you supposed to give me peppermints or some other ridiculous thing?"

Dumbledore nodded. "My reputation precedes me, I think. But you won't accept any sort of food from me, and you don't take very kindly to instruction, if memory serves. You are sixteen, a prefect, top of your class within Slytherin House, and the current Lord of the Malfoy estate. I cannot say whether families like the Crabbes and the Parkinsons will protect you after recent events- you know them better than I, and whether or not seeking them out is safe is something you must determine. I cannot make any decisions for you, Draco."

He nodded, an angry smile twisting his face. "You do for Potter, though."

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, and he curses me for it daily."

Draco stood up and walked over to the desk, running his fingers over strange machines and hideous items of what might be clothing. Muggle trash, all of it, and he hated them, hated them for laughing at magic and pretending it wasn't real, hated them for their stupidity and their ugly buildings and stupid books, hated them for their weakness and vacant expressions and their teacups that stayed teacups and necks that stayed whole.

"My mother was really good at Transfiguration, wasn't she?"

Dumbledore stood, his legs creaking. "I had hoped she would teach for me, someday. I still remember her seventh year final project- it left us all amazed."

There were magazines on Weasley's desk, the pictures frozen and staring. "I'd like some chocolate."

Lupin walked over, pulling a bar out from the pocket of his robes. "You may have more," he murmured, handing it over, "if you like."

---