Chapter Text
Bill says, voice calm as anything, “You can sit down, you know, Draco.”
“I don’t think I can.” On one side of the table are people he’s personally wronged. On the other side are people he’s never met in his life, who are staring at him as though they want to eat him. “I’m scared.”
That makes Bill laugh, holding court at the very end of the table like a scarred and decadent king. “You’re funny.”
There’s something veiled in there Draco’s not interested in examining, so he takes his seat on the side of the table with strangers. But it already seems like a mistake when he looks up into the glare of Sirius Black.
Fuck.
Fleur comes out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine and thirteen glasses floating in front of her, which deposit themselves in front of the guests. Her Veela cousins, all seated next to Draco, take theirs with purrs of thanks. The more English guests opposite Draco are all genial smiles for a moment before their stares harden again, fixed on him.
He’s the elephant in the room. He prays Bill doesn’t plan on calling him out for it. Not for the first time he wonders what he’s doing here.
Bill hadn’t specified on the guest list, so he’d shown up (a homemade trifle in hand) and knocked on the door only to have it opened by Remus Lupin, mid-laugh, looking cozy in a sweater patterned by dark greens, reds, and blues.
The laugh had been quite cut off. He’d taken in the sight of Draco, white-faced and clutching his pie, sorely wishing he’d climbed through the window or something.
“Er,” Draco said. “I’ll just, um.”
He had turned to leave but Bill had appeared over Lupin’s shoulder and, wordless, reached past Lupin to drag Draco inside by the elbow. He and Fleur had beamed over Draco’s pie and deposited it in the kitchen with a cheery pronouncement that they’d have it for dessert. Then Bill, quite without sympathy, had pushed him back into the living room and gone into the kitchen to chop carrots with Fleur.
He’d never felt so awkward in his life, red-faced, staring at a room of people who were very much old members of the Order of the Phoenix and Fleur’s family members: Veela cousins swanning through to bestow compliments on guests, Ron and Hermione Granger chatting with Oliver Wood by the fireplace, Sirius Black eyeing Draco by the door and muttering comments to a pink-cheeked witch out of the corner of his mouth, a few of Bill’s cursebreaking colleagues in confused conversation with Lupin, sending occasional glances over their shoulders at Draco.
He had become a stone in the shoe of the entire dinner party.
The Slytherin in him was considering making a break for it when Bill announced they’d all better load up their plates and troop into the dining room and Draco found himself squashed at the front of the line by Granger, who wasn’t smiling.
But Bill didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with the situation so Draco decided not to, either. He was here for Bill and Fleur, after all, who had decided Draco was worth having over at dinner parties. He wasn’t about to argue otherwise.
Bill makes a toast— “To good times,”— and they all laugh and clink their glasses together. Draco tries not to drink his too quickly, but he’s still done before half the table has put theirs down.
While they eat, the table makes chitchat about Gringotts work and the analytical side to cursebreaking, which is interesting enough that most of the room is able to participate. Draco doesn’t dare say anything, though, too worried about breaking the flow of conversation. He’s polishing off his third glass of wine when the Veela cousin next to him takes notice.
“You are thirsty?” She’s as beautiful as Fleur, with curly pale hair held back by a couple of pins, huge brown eyes turned amber by the yellow light of the room. Her robes are flowy and ruffled as the rest of her.
“Yes, a bit.”
She smiles. “I am Anais. Eet ees a pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. Are you, er, enjoying the duck?”
She doesn’t even look down at her plate. “You are one of us, yes?”
“Well, a bit, yes,” Draco says, cottoning on to her meaning. He takes a long sip of wine. “I’ve got some Veela blood through my father. He never wanted to talk about it, though, pureblood ideals and all that, so it was kept quiet most of my life. Didn’t know about it.”
“‘Ow did you know?”
“Through Fleur. She tested my blood. Turns out we’re related.”
Her huge eyes get even bigger. “You are one of ours?”
“Well, technically, yes—”
She turns and begins to jabber in rapid French with the woman next to her, hair of an equal white shimmer, eyes like another set of lakes. Soon those two, and the Veela on Draco’s other side, are leaning in towards him and asking eager questions.
“I was born in Wiltshire— yes, in England. My parents— siblings? No I’m an only child, but— yes, I can speak French, I learned it before Hogwarts, and— well, n’est pas parfait, mais— my hair? Yes, my father’s quite blond, and— that’s an old scar, don’t worry about it, don’t poke it though either, please— er, my dimples? Yes, I have dimples.”
“‘E ‘as your mouth, Celine,” one of the Veela pronounces, poking at the edge of Draco’s. “Zis shape.”
Another Veela smiles, and Draco sees it on her too— that faint, asymmetrical slant giving her smile a mischievous light. He knows how well that smirk can sharpen into cruelty, like it was made for it. He wonders if she ever uses it in that manner like he did, once.
“What do you do, cousin?” says another Veela, resting her chin on her hand. “You were in ze Azkaban, yes?”
“Erm. Yes.” He can feel himself reddening, the curious stares of the Veela— as well as a couple of others— painting him embarrassed. “I work in Potions. Train, more. Er. Experimental healing for Transfigured cases. I’ve been Transfigured myself a few times, so some knowledge in the area helps.”
“Like a ferret?” says Ron. Draco startles. He hadn’t known Weasley was listening.
“Yes. I’m working to be…” But he lets himself trail off when he glances at Sirius, and pushes the rest of that sentence aside.
“Ees interesting,” says Anais, and he’s dragged back into their conversation. “Per’aps you can tell us, what one of your cases was?”
“Well, I’m still a trainee in the Experimental field, but there was this one case…”
The rest of dinner passes in a more relaxed way than it began. The Veelas are all charming, pleasant, curious people happy to fill him in on their lives in France. He finds himself wishing his father had taken him more as a child, introduced him to his wider family and allowed him to know everyone.
Perhaps they would have sent him to Beauxbatons, if Draco had been entrenched in this world? He lets himself picture it, wearing periwinkle-blue robes and pacing through the halls of some charming French castle, in a countryside studded by flowers and skies blue all the way to the horizon.
Maybe he would have been better. Maybe he could have avoided the war altogether. Grown up into a gentler person touched by empathy. Learned to cast aside his father’s aspirations for his future and melt into a huddle of good people. He probably wouldn’t have ever had to meet Potter, even.
At that the image seems less pleasant.
After dinner, Bill passes around slices of pie and they all retreat from the table back to the living room, to stand around chattering and playing board games by the fire. Draco stays with the Veela cousins, casting an occasional eye at other members of the dinner party: Hestia Jones with Granger laughing over an odd-looking plant, Oliver Wood cursing Ron out mid chess match, Fleur swanning around with a tray of chocolates.
He doesn’t realize how close he’s standing to the kitchen before he hears the low murmurs of Bill and Lupin’s voices.
“You had to realize it’d be strange.”
“I didn’t give it all that much thought.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah,” Bill says, unconcerned. His tone is light and guileless in a way that spells out the potential for trouble. Draco’s heard him sound like that before. “Honestly.”
There’s a pause, then Lupin says, “Look, I’m all for… reconciliation.”
“That’s good of you.”
“Doesn’t mean I want it staring me in the face. Is this pity, Bill?”
Draco feels his face redden. He does his best to refocus on what Marion is saying to him, moving away from the kitchen door. But it’s as though the words are stabbing him in the ears.
“No,” Bill says, his light tone growing lighter. “I’m not so kind as that, Remus.”
“Like hell—”
“My brothers wouldn’t shut up about him, is all. Three of them. I got to know him and they were right.”
“You haven’t said a word to him all evening.”
“I don’t feel the need to prove my friendliness to a group of people I’ve long counted as friends.”
“It would make this feel less strange for everyone else.”
“Everyone else?” Bill murmurs. The lightness has softened into something much cooler. “Is it strange because it’s strange, or because you’ve decided it is?”
“None of us know him.”
“You don’t know Thad, Alphard or Newton either, but you’ve talked to them all night.”
“That’s different, and you know it.” Lupin doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but his voice is very measured.
“Is it? Alphard fled to Turkey during the war. Thad and Newton went into hiding, even though they’re two of the most able-bodied wizards I know. No amount of cajoling from me could change their minds. Does that change your opinions of them?”
“Cowardice and self-preservation being dominating traits are easy pills to swallow.”
“Good, then your opinion of Draco should be much the same as your opinion of them.”
There’s silence for a long beat, before Lupin says, “I don’t question your judgment, Bill, but I have to wonder what makes you defend him like this.”
“Call it trying on Dumbledore’s longest-standing philosophy for size,” Bill says. “Second chances. And my proof of purchase standing in the living room making my wife’s family laugh. I could do worse than a Malfoy under my roof and to be honest, after getting to know him, I wouldn’t be keen to try. What about you, Remus?”
If Remus says something Draco doesn’t catch it. Bill’s footsteps announce his entry into the living room. He glances sideways at Draco and the knot of Veelas and their position beside the wall of the kitchen. Draco knows he catches the reddened tips of his ears, the way he keeps his eyes fixed on Marion’s cheerful expression.
But Bill doesn’t comment, just stands there and waits until Draco, feeling so embarrassed he might explode, sends him a sideways glance.
They make eye contact, hazel on gray. Bill’s eyebrow jerks up, just once, and Draco looks away again, flushing. He’s not sure what to make of the conversation. He doubts he deserves much of it.
Remus comes out a moment later, face a mask, and heads over to where Granger’s standing with Hestia Jones. A couple of Veelas follow him, drifting after the bottle of wine in his hand.
When everyone’s had a bit too much to drink and the cottage has begun to feel too warm, Fleur and Bill shoo them outside to a delightful little garden with fairy lights floating overhead, the breaths of the ocean rustling to the left of them and a small ring of couches, fire blazing in the center, towards the back of the garden.
Draco takes his time getting over there, meandering through and marveling at the shrubs and flower bushes and vegetables Bill and Fleur have planted. They’re all in perfect condition. He bets Neville Longbottom would love it.
He goes past the couches and to the gate to lean against it, watching the push and pull of the ocean, brushing the land in perfect sync with itself. He closes his eyes, lets the wind drag fingers through his hair, lets the salt-smell of the garden soothe him. It’s different, somehow, from Azkaban. There, the sea had smelled like iron and fish, a scent so strong and salty he would wake up tasting it in the back of his throat.
At the reminder he has to open his eyes again, stare at the waves until he remembers the difference between lapping water and the harsh-edged ocean that used to throw itself against the windows. There had been a beauty in that, too, but a savage one, and its charms had faded after a few months of angry water slicking the walls with sweat, bloodthirsty plunge of waves outside.
The gray of his cot an echo of the sky, its floor and walls the tense edge of iron-colored.
“Do you still think about it?”
He doesn’t startle at the voice, though he turns. Sirius Black comes and leans against the gate with him. Draco studies him for a moment— longish black hair, sharp face, silver studs in his ears and loose black shirt under green robes. He doesn’t have to ask what he means.
“Yes.”
“That’ll pass,” says Sirius. “The world feels like itself again eventually.”
“I don’t know about that,” Draco says. “How can it when I know that place is still out there?”
“It won’t hurt you forever.”
“Eh,” says Draco, flapping a hand. “They could very well put me back in if they please.”
Sirius doesn’t say anything for a moment. “So are you going to think about it and let it take you early?”
“I didn’t come over here to be consoled.”
“I saw your eyes shutter. I know what that look means.”
“And you cared?” Draco asks, annoyed. “You wanted to goad me into feeling awful. Revenge for me being here in the first place. But fine, since you brought it up— no, I won’t let it take me back early. I make sure I take a step away from that place everyday. I think about it everyday, too. Sometimes I wake up and I’m back on that cot. Sometimes I see people and wonder if they’ll try to attack me. That doesn’t mean I’m afraid of it. It just means I remember. And that’s why they sent me there, to make sure I’d remember it forever, so I’m not going to complain about it.”
Sirius’s face stays impassive, staring out at the sea. “It sounds as though you feel appropriately punished.”
“I’m not going to beg your forgiveness by declaring that I should’ve had a longer sentence,” Draco says. “I feel like listening to my father die was more than punishment enough. Why do you people always forget I had parents when the day of judgment comes?”
He does turn at that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean they were my parents. They were my only family. At their whim I had friends. When they were angry it was just the three of us for months. I went to Hogwarts and got a letter every other day. My mother let me cry on her shoulder and my father taught me to fly a broom. I couldn’t stomach the idea of living without them. Doing the right bloody thing… I thought I was being braver, being on his side, undertaking terrible tasks so they wouldn’t get hurt. I’m sorry it— it was the bad thing, but.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m just sorry.” For a lot of things, he doesn’t say. Sirius knows.
“D’you miss it?”
“What?”
“The cell,” Sirius says, and it’s as though the air itself has been broken down the middle. “I used to miss it.”
“It’d be,” he whispers, something ragged rasping through his chest, “it would be nonsensical.”
Sirius shrugs. “To someone else, sure. But I wouldn’t judge. And neither do you.”
There’s silence except for people laughing behind them and the sea dragging its tongue over the sand and the fairies giggling to each other. A whole world of movement and pulse and push and pull, and Draco terribly out of sync with all of it.
“I miss it,” he admits, in a very quiet voice. “In some weird way I miss the simplicity of a single room and every day being about survival. It felt like I mattered to myself.”
“Protecting your own skin becomes a power move.”
“I could suffer, but it would just be flesh and blood that was wounded. So I suppose… well, I’d never go back, but there was something to it, being forced to take care of yourself every day or else just wither.”
“You can have that here, too,” Sirius says. “I think Bill would help you if you asked.”
“You’re not going to demand I leave him and the other Weasleys alone?”
“You’ll do that yourself if you choose. Your actions can be good or awful, it’s all up to you. Terrifying for someone who’s spent the past several years being terrible, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps not,” Draco says, surprised to find that he means it. “What other direction to go than up?”
Sirius grins. It’s wolfish, sharp at the edges, his eyes twinkling. “You might be alright, Malfoy.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Draco reassures him, making him laugh, and then they leave to rejoin the others.
…
The conversation goes till midnight. Draco, more relaxed now, participates and no one seems to question it. He gets into an argument with Fleur about custard that has Bill cracking up, has his palm read by a very drunk Hestia Jones, argues with Wood about the Wimbourine Wasps until Ron joins in, and follows the scraggling trail of remaining guests back inside once Marion gets cold.
By twelve it’s just him, Bill, and Fleur with a record spinning in the corner, Remus and Sirius waving their way out the front door. He decides it’s time to make an elegant retreat after them and has the excuse on his tongue when Bill cracks a bottle of wine and holds out another glass for him.
“I shan’t,” Draco says. “I’ll puke.”
“Puke, whatever, I don’t care,” Bill says, and Fleur cackles.
They make lazy conversation for another half-hour about cursebreaking tactics and French versus English and Draco’s study to become an Animagus— “You’ll be a panther, of course,” Bill says, which makes Draco flip him off— and Fleur’s own work at Gringotts, how she’s thinking of leaving it when they start a family.
“My cousins will come, of course,” she says. “And ze will ‘elp. I still think, though, zat I should like to be at home for ze children.”
When Draco finally excuses himself, full of warmth and wine, Bill walks him to the front door.
“Thank you for this,” Draco says, turning. “It was lovely.”
He nods. In the low light his scarred face is intimidating— or would be, if Draco didn’t know the person behind it, Bill, serious and funny by turn, with a wisdom akin to Dumbledore’s and a streak of mischief hiding in the glint of his eyes. There’s a solemnity to the way Bill shakes his hand, a warmth to the way he says, “I’ll see you, Draco,” before the door shuts and the light of the house is lost.
Draco doesn’t Apparate right away. Instead, he watches through the window as Bill steps inside to greet Fleur with a kiss on her cheek and a hand on her waist. The record switches to a twining, lively piece and they both make sounds of delight. He dips her and she laughs, her curtain of silver hair catching the light.
He smiles through the envy and thinks of Potter, not for the first time tonight. Potter who’d been invited but hadn’t been able to make it. Potter would love this sort of rosy image. It’s the kind of thing that always makes his face soften, tiny moments Draco feels lucky to catch.
He pictures dipping Potter, making him laugh like that. Curling up on a couch after hosting their own dinner party. Flipping their fingers through each other’s like the pages to some wonderful book where only the two of them know the ending. Wine drizzled like honey, and upside-down kisses.
It’s a tempting image but far from reality. He feels like Tartarus, starved for luxury.
The sight of Bill and Fleur is beautiful but hurts a little more than it did a moment ago. Stepping away, he pulls his hood up and walks into the night.