Chapter Text
Draco
For the first few days after returning from Hogwarts, Draco listened for the Floo constantly. He knew it was foolish. Theo would not simply step out of the drawing-room fireplace with soot on his robes and some awful joke already forming on his tongue. Cantankerus Nott would not allow it. Theo had told him as much without ever quite saying the words.
Still, Draco listened.
At breakfast, he glanced towards the hall whenever Mippy appeared with the post. In the library, he found himself looking up whenever the fire shifted from orange to green, but the call was never for him.
At night, when the Manor settled around him in long, polished silence, he lay awake and wondered whether Theo was doing the same at Nott Abbey.
Then, after a while, he stopped. Or rather, he learned not to begin.
Whenever the thought of Theo rose too sharply, Draco pushed it somewhere quiet. He imagined it behind a door in the back of his mind, shut firmly enough that he could no longer hear whatever waited on the other side. It was not gone. He knew that. If he opened it, the panic came back at once.
So he did not open it.
Summer at Malfoy Manor was not unpleasant. It had never been so. The rooms were cool, the gardens immaculate and his mother seemed determined to restore him after what she continued to call his ‘difficult end to term’.
For nearly a week, Narcissa watched him with a quiet intensity that made Draco wish he could vanish beneath the breakfast table.
“You are pale,” she said one morning, lowering her teacup.
“I am always pale.”
“Paler than usual.”
“I expect it is my charming complexion.”
His mother’s mouth twitched. “Your charming complexion does not usually come with dark circles under your eyes.”
Draco reached for the toast. “Perhaps I am becoming mysterious.”
Across the table, Lucius looked up from his letter. “Mystery is only useful when paired with discretion.”
Draco paused with the toast halfway to his plate. “Yes, Father.”
Narcissa gave her husband a faintly reproachful look, though there was affection in it. “He is twelve, Lucius.”
“All the more reason to begin early.”
Draco buttered his toast with great care. “Begin what?”
Lucius folded the letter neatly along its original crease. “Nothing you need concern yourself with at breakfast.”
That was often how his father spoke now. Nothing to concern himself with, ministry business, old acquaintances, meetings that ran later than expected.
Draco accepted each answer as it came, because that was what sons did when their fathers offered explanations. Still, he had begun to notice the same shadows beneath Lucius’s eyes and the way his mother watched the doorway long after he had left a room.
By the second week of the holidays, Narcissa found a solution to Draco’s restlessness.
Or rather, Lucius did.
The Quidditch pitch appeared beyond the eastern gardens on a bright July morning, tucked far enough from the house that it could not be seen from the drawing-room windows. Narcissa had been quite firm on that point.
“I will not have hoops looming over my roses,” she had said.
Lucius, who had clearly expected the objection, had merely inclined his head. “Naturally.”
It was full-sized, perfectly marked and smoother than any pitch Draco had ever flown over. Three silver hoops stood at either end, gleaming in the summer sun, and a small pavilion had been built along one side with changing rooms, broom racks and shaded seats for spectators.
Draco stood at the edge of the grass, staring.
His father watched him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Well?”
Draco turned slowly. “It is mine?”
“For practice,” Lucius said.
Narcissa slipped a hand through her husband’s arm. “And for practice only. I have no wish to find half of Slytherin House trampling mud through the hall every evening.”
Draco looked back at the pitch. For the first time in weeks, the tightness beneath his ribs loosened. “Thank you.” He breathed out reverently.
Lucius’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You are old enough to try for the team this year.”
Draco’s head snapped round.
His father looked mildly amused. “Marcus Flint, captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. I have been in conversation with his father.”
“About me?”
“Among other things.”
Draco tried very hard not to smile too widely. “What did he say?”
“That you will be given the opportunity to show what you can do.”
It was not a promise. Draco understood that. His father rarely promised anything unless he was entirely certain of the outcome. But it was close.
That evening, Draco flew until his hands ached. The pitch changed everything. His days found shape again. Mornings were divided between private tutors and independent study. French, Latin and piano each claimed their allotted hours before his mother insisted he spend the afternoon either in the library or beneath the shade of the terrace, where she maintained fresh air was restorative even when one was reading.
Afternoons belonged to flying. He practised dives until the wind stung his eyes and sharp turns until his shoulders burned. He chased charmed silver balls that darted like Snitches, though his father insisted they were slower and less erratic than the real thing.
“You are anticipating too early,” Lucius called from the pavilion one afternoon.
Draco pulled out of a dive and hovered above the grass. “I caught it.”
“You caught it because it allowed itself to be caught.”
“It is charmed metal, Father. I doubt it allowed anything.”
Lucius raised one brow. Draco sighed and released the ball again.
His father was not always there. In fact, as July stretched on, he was absent more often than not. When he did appear, he watched closely, offered precise corrections and vanished before dinner with Floo powder still clinging to the hem of his robes.
Narcissa never asked where he had been in front of Draco. That worried him more than if she had.
Blaise arrived with his mother at the beginning of August and stayed for a week. The Manor brightened almost at once. Valeria Zabini swept through the entrance hall in gold silk and a cloud of perfume, kissed Narcissa on both cheeks and declared the English summer a personal insult.
Narcissa laughed more in the first hour of her visit than she had in the previous fortnight.
Blaise followed behind with the air of someone who had endured an arduous Portkey journey and wished everyone to know it.
“You have a pitch,” he said when Draco showed him.
Draco nodded excitedly, unable to disguise his gleeful expression.
“A full pitch.” Blaise deadpanned.
Blaise stared across the grass. “That is revolting. You must be richer than Merlin himself.”
Draco smiled. “Jealousy does not suit you.”
“No, it suits me beautifully. Everything does.” Blaise gestured to himself with a grin.
They played most afternoons, sometimes with charmed opponents, sometimes with house-elves reluctantly serving as Keepers until Narcissa discovered it and put an immediate stop to the practice.
“Mippy was not designed to block Quaffles,” she said severely.
“Mippy was very enthusiastic,” Draco protested.
“Mippy is enthusiastic about polishing banisters. That does not mean I throw her down the staircase.”
Blaise choked on his pumpkin juice. Draco thought it was the happiest his mother had looked all summer. Still, even with Blaise there, something remained missing.
Theo would have liked the pitch. He would have pretended not to at first, of course. He would have stood with his hands in his pockets and made some dry comment about Draco needing an entire field to feel adequate. Then he would have asked for a broom and refused to come down until someone threatened him with dinner.
Draco thought of writing again. But the first two letters had gone unanswered. He was certain Nott senior was blocking them.
By the third week of August, the practice match was arranged.
Marcus Flint arrived with his father on a hot, still afternoon, his broad shoulders already filling out his school robes and his expression set in the permanent scowl Draco remembered from the Slytherin table. Most of the Slytherin team had accompanied him, broomsticks slung over shoulders as they spilled onto the pitch in a chorus of easy laughter and shouted insults. Adrian Pucey was among them, already tossing a Quaffle from hand to hand as though he couldn’t bear to stand still. Vincent Crabbe lumbered across the grass with a Beater’s bat clutched in one hand and a look of deep concentration on his face.
Draco blinked. “Vince?”
Crabbe shrugged. “Flint said I should try.”
Marcus grunted. “He hits hard.”
That, Draco supposed, was difficult to argue with. Vincent was already nearly the size of some sixth years and had once broken a chair by sitting down too quickly.
Lucius greeted Mr Flint with smooth courtesy, while Narcissa remained beneath the pavilion, elegant in pale blue and very clearly pretending not to be concerned.
“Fly as you usually do,” she told Draco quietly as he mounted his broom. “And do not attempt anything foolish merely because people are watching.”
Draco looked outraged. “I never do anything foolish.”
His mother looked at him pointedly.
Draco adjusted his gloves. “Not deliberately.”
The match was not really a match. There were not enough players for that. Instead, Flint set drills, barked orders and watched Draco with small, suspicious eyes. Draco flew until his lungs burned. He looped, dived, rolled and pulled out of a feint so close to the ground that Narcissa made a sound from the pavilion which caused Lucius to glance at her.
Draco caught the charmed Snitch in just under nine minutes.
Flint said nothing, just released it again.
Draco caught it in seven.
By the third attempt, sweat clung to the back of his neck and his fingers ached around the handle of his broom. The Snitch shot towards the far hoops, vanished beneath the lowest ring and doubled back towards the pavilion.
Draco followed.
The world narrowed to the shining sphere. Wind tore at his eyes. Someone shouted. The grass rushed beneath him in a green blur.
His fingers closed around fluttering wings.
He pulled up sharply, hovering inches above the ground.
For a moment, no one spoke. Draco just panted, his chest heaving as he stared at Flint.
Then Marcus folded his arms. “You’ll do.”
Draco tried not to grin. He failed miserably.
Pucey glanced towards the Snitch still fluttering in Draco’s hand. “You chase it with your eyes too long,” he said. “Trust your instinct sooner.”
Flint grunted. “He’s right.”
Crabbe was accepted less dramatically after striking a Bludger hard enough to split one of the practice dummies cleanly down the middle. Flint looked at the ruined dummy, then at Vincent, and nodded once. “Beater.”
Vincent beamed and slapped Draco on the back, effectively driving all the air from his lungs.
Lucius, who had watched the whole thing with quiet satisfaction, invited the Flints to remain for refreshments. By the time they departed, Draco’s place on the team had been settled as neatly as one of his father’s contracts.
It was only later, after a long shower and several pointed reminders from his mother that arriving at dinner with damp hair was not a sign of athletic dedication, that Draco was allowed to join his parents in the dining room.
The candles had already been lit. Silver gleamed against white linen and the windows stood open to the warm evening air. Somewhere beyond the terrace, peacocks called to one another across the lawn.
Draco slid into his chair, still feeling the ghost of flight in his bones.
“You flew well,” Lucius said.
Draco looked up. Praise from his father was never careless. It was measured, precise and therefore worth more than compliments from anyone else. “Thank you, Father.”
“Flint made the correct decision.”
Narcissa smiled. “Of course he did.”
Lucius reached for his wine. “I have also arranged for the team to receive new brooms.”
Draco stilled. “New brooms?”
“Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones.”
For a moment, Draco could only stare. His mother’s smile deepened. “Close your mouth, darling, you’ll catch flies.”
Draco closed it. Then opened it again. “For the whole team?”
“Naturally,” Lucius said. “A Seeker is of little use if the rest of the team cannot keep up.”
Draco looked down at his plate, trying to arrange his face into something dignified. “That is very generous.”
“It is an investment in Slytherin’s success.”
“And in yours,” Narcissa added softly.
Warmth rose in Draco’s chest.
He knew what some people would say. Gryffindors, mostly. They would sneer and mutter and act as though his father’s generosity somehow lessened what Draco had done in the air that afternoon.
Let them.
His father had not caught the Snitch for him. He had not flown the dives. He had not earned Flint’s nod. Draco had.
Lucius set down his glass. “There is another matter.”
Draco looked up again unsure he could take any more revelations.
“Severus will be joining us tomorrow evening.”
At once, Draco brightened. “Godfather is coming?”
Narcissa’s expression softened. “Yes.”
“How long is he staying?”
“That depends on his patience,” Lucius said dryly.
Draco frowned. “Why?”
His parents exchanged the briefest glance.
Narcissa folded her hands neatly in her lap. “He is going to begin instructing you in Occlumency.”
The word settled over the table with unexpected weight. Draco had heard it before, though only in passing. Adults lowered their voices around it. Old families treated it as they treated most useful things, which meant they discussed it rarely and expected their children to understand its importance without being told.
“Occlumency,” Draco repeated.
Lucius nodded. “The discipline of protecting the mind.”
“From Legilimency?”
“Among other things.”
Draco sat a little straighter. “Why now?”
His father’s expression did not change, but something in the room seemed to cool. “Because there are people who will take whatever they can if you leave it unguarded.”
Narcissa’s eyes moved to Lucius.
He continued quietly, “Some memories are worth protecting.”
Draco thought of a locked door in the back of his mind. He thought of Theo disappearing into green flames. His fingers curled around the edge of his napkin.
Narcissa noticed. Of course she did. “It is not a punishment, Draco. It is a gift,” she said. “A difficult one, but a gift.”
Draco nodded slowly. “Will it hurt?”
Lucius gave a faint smile. “Probably.”
“Lucius.” She chided her husband.
“What? It is better he knows.”
Narcissa sighed, but there was no real sharpness in it. Draco found himself smiling despite the unease beneath his ribs.
“Theodore will be joining you.” She added, glancing at her husband.
Lucius adjusted the stem of his wine glass between two fingers. “Young Mr Nott has already begun his lessons.”
Draco stared at him. “Already started? With my Godfather?”
Something hot and unpleasant flickered through Draco before he could stop it. Theo had seen his godfather and Draco had not known. Theo had been learning something important, something old and difficult and secret, while Draco had been left waiting for letters that never came.
Draco’s throat tightened. “Why?”
Neither parent answered at once. Narcissa looked down at her hands.
Lucius’s voice, when it came, was careful. “Theodore’s circumstances required an earlier start.”
Draco understood enough. He looked towards the unlit fireplace at the far end of the dining room and, for one sharp moment, he was back in the drawing room watching green flames die around the place where his friend had been.
“Will he come here?” Draco asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Narcissa said.
Draco turned to her. Her smile was gentle, though something sad moved beneath it. “Severus thought it best that you learn together.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
The answer struck him with such force that he forgot to be dignified. “Tomorrow?” He squeaked.
Lucius’s mouth twitched. “That is generally what follows today.”
Draco ignored him. “Theo is coming tomorrow?”
“For the lesson,” Narcissa said, “and dinner, if Mr Nott permits it.”
Narcissa reached across and rested her fingers lightly over his. “You will see him tomorrow, I’m sure.”
For the first time since the platform, the door in Draco’s mind shifted. He felt the panic and the questions that lay behind it. He felt the memory of Theo’s practised smile and Cantankerus Nott’s hand at the back of his neck.
Carefully, Draco pushed the door shut again.
Then he looked at his mother and nodded. “Good,” he said.
Narcissa’s fingers tightened around his. Lucius lifted his glass once more, his face calm in the candlelight.
Outside, beyond the open windows, the summer evening stretched golden and still across the lawns. Somewhere in the distance, hidden beyond the roses, the new Quidditch hoops caught the last of the sun.
Draco should have been thinking of the team. Of Flint and the Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. Instead, he sat very still at the dining table and counted the hours until tomorrow.
Until Theo.