Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy often dreamt of the past.
He dreamt of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter’s death, subsequent resurrection, then his defeat of the Dark Lord.
He dreamt of his trial, the scornful faces of the wizengamot and the empty seats that had once belonged to dark aligned families. He felt the shame crawling down his spine, the way his mother had trembled, and the feeling of hopelessness during their brief holding in Azkaban. He dreamt of Harry Potter’s defense of Draco and his mother, his proclamation that while Lucius Malfoy was not innocent- his wife and son had no choice but to join under threat of death; how both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had once spared Potter’s life. He was repaying a life debt.
He dreamt of watching his mother fall into depression in the empty halls of their manor. How they had been forced to sell all they owned save for their seat in the Wizengamot as one of the sacred twenty-eight. He re-watched his mother deteriorate to a husk of a woman; her once beautiful face hollowing out like a rotting tree until, like a tree of that kind, she crumbled silently in their run down flat with only Draco to hear her fall.
He dreamt of his wedding with Astoria to reclaim some of his family’s former honor, then, like his mother, he watched her die with his hand in hers until it had gone cold. There was no affection between them, but they had still been partners and allies. So although his eyes had been dry when his mother died, too shocked with too much to get on with to truly allow himself to crumble, he had fallen apart that day at St. Mungoes. He grieved for his mother, he grieved for his wife and best friend, and above all he grieved for his precious child who would now never be born. The room’s windows had shattered in a burst of accidental magic he hadn’t managed since he was a boy. He was forced to relive the ringing in his ears and the tumult that had erupted around him as the staff tried to pry him away from Astoria’s body. He had not let them. He’d lain across her, howling like a wounded animal until his throat was too sore to continue and he couldn’t breathe.
He dreamt of Astoria’s funeral, of the numbness that had followed the earth-shattering grief. He saw his sister-in-law’s eyes, so filled with mourning and sadness that Draco was too shattered to reflect. Daphne had known somehow, though. She’d slipped an arm around him as their shared loved one was lowered into the earth. The memory of Daphne’s solid presence pressing against him, and the pounding rain against his conjured shield were vivid as if it were yesterday.
Each time he awoke after her death, panting and sweating bullets, he rose to his feet and brewed himself a cup of tea. He could have taken a dose of dreamless sleep, spared himself the torture, but some part of him back then felt he deserved it. He deserved the pain and torture because why else would so much have gone wrong in his life but to punish him for his past mistakes? So instead of giving himself relief, most nights he just brewed potions. He studied and worked until he’d achieved his mastery in potions like his Godfather before him. Two years passed in a fog until the day Headmistress McGonagall had sent him a letter offering him a position at Hogwarts. He was aged twenty-three. He’d tried to refuse, but the woman visited him to insist. When he asked her why, why him, and why a former death eater, she’d looked at him with such pity that it made his stomach boil with anger.
“Mister Malfoy… you were only a boy.” She’d said. Then she patted his shoulder, gave him the key to the potions classroom office, and told him she’d see him three weeks before the start of term.
-and so that’s how it was. In three weeks, he’d moved into his private quarters. It felt a bit like he was returning home. The entire place was colored like the Slytherin common room; equipped with a master bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and a living space with a grand hearth. He wasn’t much of a decorator, that had always been Astoria’s strong suit, but he relocated his various potted plants and collected nicknacks as well as photo frames to sensible places in his new space. With his hands on his hips, he'd nodded, then looked at the mountain of boxes he still needed to unpack and got to work.
Draco had prepared the materials for all seven years and thrown himself into work with a sense of purpose that he’d only brushed fingers with once or twice since Astoria’s death. The gaping hole in his chest didn’t close but perhaps began to scab over by the time he attended the beginning of term feast with the rest of the professors. Flitwick, Sinistra, McGonagall, Trelawney, Hagrid, and Vector all remained in their positions. Pomfrey, Sprout, and Babbling had all retired, so theirs and the muggle studies position had since been filled by newer faces. Daphne, to Draco’s surprise, had taken up the role of Hogwarts head nurse. She claimed to have told him, but he had to admit he’d been in a fog and didn’t recall. Instead of getting angry, she’d only rolled her eyes at him and demanded that he meet with her for tea during their prep hours to make it up to her.
A man named Hughie Barrows, older than Draco at thirty-five, had taken up the muggle studies mantle as well as Head of Hufflepuff. Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw in Draco’s year, had taken up Ancient Runes and Neville Longbottom had picked up Herbology. He was also, to Draco’s mild shock, the youngest Head of Gryffindor in centuries. Flitwick was head of Ravenclaw as he always had been, and Sinistra had taken over for Slughorn as Head of Slytherin now that Draco was giving him a chance to retire. Defense Against the Dark Arts, despite the ‘curse' having been lifted on the position, still struggled to keep a teacher for more than a couple years. At the time of Draco’s hiring, it was a retired quidditch keeper who had a mastery in the subject and had been a Ravenclaw in school.
Draco had found out he liked teaching. He emulated his late god-father’s flair for the dramatics, gave impassioned lectures on the art of potion making, then graded and taught with the same no-nonsense attitude. He was much gentler, however, when mistakes were made. No less stern- but not unkind. He knew that he had a reputation and he wanted nothing more than to reform it. Suddenly he saw a future, a legacy, something to make of himself other than the grief stricken widower and former Death Eater. This emboldened him to pour himself into side projects during the next summers, determined to make a name for Malfoy that wasn’t ‘evil’ or ‘Death Eater’.
-and so the looming shadow of grief had faded, but though the sun of ambition now poured down onto him, Draco had always been prone to burning.
With the imprisonment of Fenrir Grayback, a new werewolf had taken leadership of the werewolves that remained after the Dark Lord’s demise: Ridge Bitterwood. Things were even worse for them than before, if they weren’t put in Azkaban then they were shunned and given even less grace by the ministry. When Draco thought of what he could do that would both give him notoriety and move his reputation toward the direction of ‘good’, he thought of the deceased mutt Potter had cared so much for, Remus Lupin. He’d been proof enough that werewolves could be productive members of society, Draco felt; he’d been a good DADA professor at the very least. So, he put aside any murmurs of what his father had instilled in him and got to work. He decided then and there he’d cure lycanthropy altogether.
When he was twenty five, and his ambition had brought him to the point where he would not eat nor sleep unless his body threatened collapse, Daphne had stepped in. She’d begun forcing him to spend time with her and her family, checked on him whenever he’d go silent, and eventually he’d begun to develop a proper balance of work and self-care. He was still a ‘workaholic’ as she liked to say, but at least he wasn’t slowly killing his body.
He was finally beginning to feel happy again.
... and then he’d turned twenty-seven and got the news that none other than Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, was being considered for the vacant DADA position at the beginning of the spring term. Their previous professor, a young lady between jobs, had gotten her dream position in France and packed up faster than anyone could blink.
“Harry Bloody Potter?” He hissed to his sister-in-law, sitting on the stairs watching his twin nieces play with their father; they were engaged in learning to fly on Greg’s old training broom in the grand foyer.
He still wasn’t sure how that had happened- Daphne Greengrass and Gregory Goyle of all men. He’d very much thought she’d prefer a man like Theodore Nott, or Blaise Zabini, but no. After the death of Vince, Greg had changed- mellowed- and once the Dark Lord was gone, and his father had been imprisoned, he had no reason to continue down the path of a dark wizard. Daphne got her well-manicured claws into him, shaped him into a good father and a decent maintenance man for the ministry. A husband that at least wouldn’t embarrass the heir to a gray-aligned family such as the Greengrasses.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy- watch your language- and don’t tell me you’re still holding onto that schoolboy grudge." Daphne replied in a hiss of similar volume. She was currently trying to knit a hat for her unborn child that was due in the summer, and it wasn't going well; she had insisted on doing ‘the muggle way’. When he’d teased her for her efforts, she’d reamed him and dared that ‘he should try it if he thought it looked so easy’ and so he had. He had his own project in his lap, a Slytherin scarf, and if he did say so himself it looked markedly better than Daphne’s.
“Certainly not.” Draco snapped back, angrily returning to his knitting. He moved the needles like the yarn had done him a personal slight. “I owe the man a life debt, of course I don’t hold a grudge, but I still don’t jump for joy having to spend time around him.”
“For saving the wizarding world? If you owe Potter a life debt for that- then I rather think we all owe him, don’t you?” Daphne raised a brow.
“That’s not..." The fire in Draco’s tone deflated, replaced by something deeply uncomfortable. Daphne looked at him expectantly, and he kissed his teeth in his irritation, “Tch. Must you be so nosy?”
“Must you give a secret so tantalizing away and not tell me? Not very Slytherin of you, Draco.”
Draco scrunched his nose in distaste, “I hardly think I’m required to be so careful around family- or do you retract that status from me?”
“Don’t be daft.” Daphne huffed. “Come now Draco.. you’ve shared worse with me before. You know that I shall never utter a word to anyone, not even my husband.”
“Your husband can hardly count to ten.“
“Watch your tongue. He has improved in leaps and bounds! It is not his fault that learning disabilities are not widely recognized in the wizarding world- and don’t you dare change the subject!”
Draco grumbled, sighed, then set down his knitting, “Fine. Potter testified for me, mother, and many others- Gregory included. It wasn’t publicized but… he defended us." he was unable to raise his voice above a low murmur as he added, "He is the only reason that I am not languishing with my father in Azkaban.”
Daphne blinked at him, then slowly glanced toward her husband. They’d ceased trying to fly the broom, and instead the four-year-old girls were climbing Greg like a pair of mischievous monkeys. He allowed it with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face as he did. Draco trained his eyes on them rather than look at Daphne, a hard lump of emotion lodged in his throat the size of a bezoar. It had been a long time since he'd last admitted that truth, and the receiver, his dear Astoria, was gone.
“… No one ever told me.”
“Yes. Well. Dwelling on the past tends to bring up horrible aches… Daph…” Draco sighed.
“Indeed. My Gregory still has nightmares.”
She didn’t need to tell Draco of what. He knew. He too sometimes still thought of that night in the room of requirements- of Vince’s melting face in the Fiendfyre.
“In any case…” he brushed off that horrifying memory, “That is the debt I owe among others. It is not the first time he has saved my life- nor the first he has endangered it- and that is why I have no desire to see nor speak to him. The arrogant prat would probably hold it over my head.”
“That is what you would do. You are projecting.” Daphne pointed out. “Harry Potter is noble and kind if the rumors are to be believed. He’s the hero of the wizarding world, if you’ve forgotten, and I hardly think he’d hold that sort of thing over you.”
“Thank you, Daphne. I adore the sentiment that I am neither noble nor kind.” Draco snarked.
“Apologies, my mistake. What I meant was that your every word is like a warm hug- a delightful cuddle with every syllable- and you truly go out of your way for every suffering soul in your path.”
Draco glared at her, receiving a smug sort of upturn of Daphne’s lips in response.
“In any case-" Daphne returned to her horrible knitting project, “-It might not be so bad. Even if he’s as arrogant as you say, Potter was recently humbled quite fiercely, I heard. At the start of the summer, he was blown up in a skirmish with dragon poachers in Romania. Badly injured, if the stories are to be believed."
Draco’s brows shot up, “Truly?”
“Truly. I imagine that sort of fight would be difficult between the curses being thrown about and the dragon fire.”
“That explains why the great Harry Potter would stoop to a simple teaching position then, rather than grand adventure.” Draco mused. “-but why in Salazar’s name was he in Romania?”
“A favor to the dragon taming Weasley Charlie. At least... that is the rumor.” Daphne shrugged.
“You certainly enjoy that little women’s group Parkinson has started, don’t you?” A small smirk tugged at Draco’s lips.
Daphne eyed him sidelong, then lifted her chin imperiously, “No harm in being informed.”
“It’s gossip.”
“It’s political information gathering.”
“That’s the same-“
“If you say another word, Draco, I will hex your lips together.”
“… any other good gossip?”
A laugh slipped by his lips as Daphne whipped out her wand, but he jumped up and was too quick for her and her poor pregnancy balance and he caught her before she could fall. Draco chuckled while she grumbled at him and he eased her back to her spot on the bottom step. She was claiming to hate him, but he could see the fondness sparkling in her eyes. Draco was still leery about the possibility of becoming Harry Potter’s coworker, but the banter with Daphne had lifted his spirits a bit. At the very least it had been a welcome break from lesson plans and brewing.
After leaving, and making a few stops at various apothecaries for new, fresh supplies, he sequestered himself in his basement potions lab the moment he got home. He lived in one of the Greengrass manors- it was one of the smallest- but still too big for one man on his lonesome. He spent most of his time in his lab, as it was the least lonely portion of the house, then he’d reside there until he was tired and pretend not to notice how silent the halls were or how empty his bed was while he did his nightly routine. Lately he’d been trying to occlude before bed; he’d once been very proficient, but after the tragedies that befell him over the years it was as if his shields and mindscape had shattered and he was left to pick up the pieces. Nightmares broke through more often than not, and now that he was actually healing and no longer felt the need to torture himself with the past each night, he was finally putting in the effort to repair them.
Tenderly within his broken mindscape, he reconstructed rows of shelves, and picked up fallen memory bottles with labels written in a cipher of his own creation. He bundled up memories and feelings he wanted to bury deep inside and carried them down the maze-like shelves until he reached a large chest where he locked them up securely and enchanted the chest to bite anyone who came near it. By then, he was exhausted and gave up the effort for the night.
Draco massaged his temple in front of his bedroom mirror. He didn’t know where he’d thought it was a good idea to attend Daphne’s Yuletide masquerade- was she just convincing? Was he hoping she’d been right in saying he might find someone to go home with? He didn’t know.
Over the years he’d been able to be more honest with himself, becoming aware that the reason he and Astoria hadn’t been in love in the traditional sense was because he, decidedly, wasn’t interested in women sexually. It was vexing, seeing as he still needed to produce an heir, but there were always surrogates and human transfiguration. He didn’t think he’d mind so much- undergoing that sort of transfiguration to have a child- despite how uncomfortable Astoria had looked, she was always glowing when she talked about their…
He shook himself. No. Not the thought he wanted to have just then.
Normally for a masquerade, if he’d have chosen any animal to.. well… masquerade as, it’d have been a black swan. Black looked sinfully good on him, but in attempts to manifest the ‘goodness’ he was attempting to purvey, he’d instead gone with the white swan look. He glared slightly at the glints of silver trim against bone white and the baby’s breath he’d weaved into his braided pale hair; it had grown long, and so he’d pulled it back into an elegant bun with braids on either side. The mask was also that blinding white, which was.. on theme.. since it was a Yuletide ball, but still. It exposed the flush of humiliation on his pale skin, and every little beauty mark and the scar on his lip that he’d earned during one particularly explosive potion experiment.
He felt like a fraud. An angelic fraud- but a fraud, nevertheless.
He didn’t have time to change, and he didn’t dare use a color changing charm on the fine fabric, so he’d have to deal with it. Grabbing his waistcoat, he swept out the door in his white formal robes that clung sensually to his waist and hips. At the very least, even if the angelic persona was a falsity, he might attract attention and get laid for the first time in at least a year.
When he arrived, Daphne greeted him with a hug and an appraising look that said ‘white?’ He narrowed his eyes back and scrunched his nose in a ‘Yeah? What about it?’ look. She rolled her eyes in a way that said to Draco ‘Pompous prat.’ Then he linked their arms and lifted his chin to reply, ‘Judgmental hag.’
He adored the woman, truly. She was the closest thing he’d ever had to a sister.
The ballroom hall was decorated with the expected extravagance: twinkling mason-jar lights suspended with magic, softly falling illusionary snow, people dressed in all varieties of masks that depicted animals to concepts like ‘nature’ and ‘the sun’. Regardless of the style, though, the colors each of them wore were white, blue, or silver. Draco decided he’d chosen well in not going with black- happy not to stick out despite his imposter complex- but as he scanned the crowd his eyes were drawn to a man in a darker outfit.
His mask depicted a tall antlered stag in shades of brown and silver, his shoulders were broad and strong, and he held himself with an outward aura of *power*. At first Draco thought he had one arm behind his back, but on a double take he realized that no- the limb was just outright missing. Mysterious. He’d lingered a little too long, because Daphne squeezed his arm with teasing blue eyes and a smirk.
“See something you like?” She asked him aloud, then plucked a flute of champagne from a house elf walking by and pressed it into his hand. He sipped from the glass in lieu of an answer and dragged his eyes away from the mysterious man.
“Are the girls with your mother tonight?” He asked instead.
Daphne nodded, “It’s already past their bedtime, so I decided it was best. Gregory and I haven’t had a night alone in a while.”
Draco looked pointedly down at her swollen belly to insinuate that they’d definitely had some time alone at some point, because children weren’t delivered by storks. In response she smacked his arm, and he smiled into his champagne flute.
“Your outfit is stunning, Daph.” He complimented as an apology, and she eyed him before giving an approving nod. Apology accepted, the nod said.
The outfit was stunning, though. She wore a blue dress the same shade as her eyes with a sweetheart neckline and bare shoulders. She wore gloves up to her elbows, and the cascading silken fabric of the skirt ended just above the ground. Her baby bump, which had grown over the months, was not hidden but highlighted in a way that only made the woman glow brighter like a winter jewel. She was proud to be having another child, and she would not hide it. That was another thing he adored about his sister-in-law, she was just so unabashedly... Daphne.
He trailed after her for a while, drinking more flutes of champagne than he’d like to admit, and by the time he separated from her to do a bit of dancing with liquid courage, the hour was late. His vision was a little fuzzy around the edges and his skin prickled with warmth and glee you only feel after several drinks at a party. He swung around with a few women, a few men, danced a little too closely when the crowd was thicker with a tall drink of water wearing a snake mask, and then…
-and then his hand was taken by a warm, rough palm, and he was being pulled toward the man in the stag mask he’d spotted earlier. Partner swapping was happening freely of course- so it hadn’t been intentional he was sure- but it certainly felt like fate as he was drawn into a casual swinging rhythm. The lack of a second arm did nothing at all to impede the man’s obvious talent on the dance floor.
“A swan?” The man asked him. His voice was hauntingly familiar, but through the warm tipsy haze Draco couldn’t really place it. As he drew closer, near chest to chest, he could smell champagne on the stranger’s breath and knew he was similarly inebriated.
“A deer?” He raised a brow in return, allowing himself to be spun out, then drawn back in with his back pressed to his dance partner’s chest. Solid and sturdy, just as Draco knew it would be.
“A stag.” The man corrected with a deep chuckle. Draco could have shivered at the sound. “What can I say? I have a favorite animal. I will say though.. I’ve never seen a swan this beautiful before- so I think I’ve got a new close second.”
“Charming- you flatter me.” Draco huffed a laugh, and swayed along with the music until he was once again spun away then pulled back in. The man’s warm hand settled on his waist. “Do you compliment all of your dance partners this way?”
“A bit.” The man replied honestly with a coquettish smile, and Draco praised his own ability to keep a straight face as his heart did a leap up into his throat. He swallowed it down. “Doesn’t make it any less true though.”
“I don’t know, does it? Are you an honest sort of man?” Draco replied, equally coy as he slid his hand from the man’s shoulder to gently brush one of the dark curls on the back of his neck.
With a flicker of satisfaction, he felt the stranger’s fingers flutter on his waist and watched his throat bob.
“Honest enough to tell a man he’s gorgeous when I’ve got the chance.” He replied.
“Gorgeous?” Draco pressed a little closer, and the man’s hold slid down to his hip and tightened. “What other impressive words do you know?”
“Magnificent.” The man replied with ease, “Irresistible.”
Draco hummed, “I do like compliments, you know.”
“Yeah? What else do you like?”
“Is that something you’d like to find out?”
“I would.”
Draco lifted his eyes from the black, charming curls around the stag mask’s ears to meet his gaze. A tantalizing shade of jungle emerald met dove gray. Licking his lips, and not missing how his dance partner tracked the movement, he lowered his voice, “I think… I’d like another drink- and a little fresh air. Do you agree?”
The stranger nodded.
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur, and some things were hazy, but Draco didn’t think he’d ever forget the feeling of the man’s lips bruising his own, or the slide of rough palms on his skin. Hot breath against his neck as he trailed kisses down his jaw, and the electric spike of delicious pain with each red mark left by his teeth. He’d slid down and all but worshipped the man on his knees, and the addicting noises he pulled from him with his hands and mouth were like the sweetest symphony.
Their stumbling feet made it somehow up the stairs into the room Daphne always had prepared for him. They hadn’t bothered with the light; it was all sensation and sound. Robes pooled on the floor, lips met, and bodies crashed into the bed. There was tangible power that he could feel in his bones when his new favorite mystery cast a privacy spell, and wanting had lit his veins like liquid fire before pooling deep in his gut.
His legs had been over his head, wrapped around the stag mask’s waist, and they had straddled those gorgeous hips while he ran his fingers over the hills and valleys of scars across the man’s board, tanned chest. His nails had scratched down that warm, strong back, and he’d tasted the sheen of sweat on his skin. He recalled the overwhelm, the insatiability of it all, and explosions of pleasure and euphoria.
There had been a tender kiss, tangled in the sheets and whispers of praise. He’d helped the man redress, buttoning and smoothing his hands over fabric. Then there had been a lingering, chasing of lips as he’d crossed the door threshold and disappeared down the darkened hallway.
The party was long over.
When he crashed into his bed, he fell right asleep. For once, without having to occlude before he closed his eyes, Draco Malfoy slumbered without a single trace of a nightmare.