Chapter Text

Outside was pouring rain, the wind howling as if it held a grudge against every little thing that occupied its interest. The dark, eerie atmosphere pervaded, adding nothing to diminish the anxiety that was occupying nearly everyone at Malfoy Manor when they heard the ominous clang of the doorbell.

Draco and his mother glanced at each other, a silent commiseration of, at least we know this was going to happen, at least we're in this together, as they heard the tell-tale sign of his father's aristocratic drawl and a thin, reedy voice he didn't recognize.

And a high pitched, chilling voice that he didn't have to recognize in order to know.

His mother stiffened imperceptibly before her stance relaxed into something more calculated, giving nothing away that was incriminating.

Her smile as she beheld the forms of a short, stout man who looked as if he had seen better days, with a baby cradled in his arms, was nothing short of welcoming.

'My lord,' she said, almost reverently, though anyone who knew her well enough could see the flicker of disdain in her eyes, her madness at this thing that was now the Dark Lord, going to cause grief and destruction to her family.

Visions of delusions and grandeur that was too much of a high price to pay, this time.

(One sister succumbed to madness, one sister leaving the family, never to be talked about. Sounds like one of those cautionary tales they tell pureblood children, Draco couldn't help but think, resisting the urge to break into hysterical laughter at the irony.)

The Dark Lord appeared not to notice, gesturing imperiously with his short, chubby hand for his servant to lay him down on a high backed chair, though Draco couldn't help but wonder how he was going to sit upright in his… current state.

'Luciussss,' the sibilant voice hissed, as soon as he settled down. 'My most faithful servant.'

There was an almost feverish glint to his father's eyes that Draco had never seen before, the byproduct of years of zeal and elitism finally coming to light.

Draco looked between his father and his mother as if seeing them for the first time.

His father; all contempt, rage, and dishonesty to those who were beneath him, kneeling to those who he truly believed in. His mother; calm, efficient, calculated, yet without the madness that lay within.

Draco didn't have a doubt that his parents would have both agreed with the Dark Lord's agenda once upon a time. Times, when all Narcissa could think of, was her traitorous sister running away with a mudblood when Lucius was the only thing that was keeping her tethered. Times before she had 13 years of peace for the first time in her life, with family. With Draco.

'My lord,' his father said reverently, kneeling, seemingly uncaring of the fact that the Dark Lord looked a mere shadow of his old self, swathed in blankets, the still-red glint in his eyes the only reflection of his power. Narcissa wordlessly knelt down with him, subtly tugging a still frozen Draco down with her.

The thing was; there was a time when Draco had believed in the Dark Lord's ideals too. That was before he had seen a too smart girl at Hogwarts who had always come on top of all their classes, much to his father's displeasure. It was before he'd seen Potter and Weasley - a half-blood and blood traitor - go up against the Dark Lord, and win.

It was before he had seen the half-crazed Dark Lord in front of him.

And yet - Draco could feel the Dark Lord's power, he really could; it swathed around him in waves, malevolent and foreboding, saying, yield to me, or else.

Voldemort didn't hesitate before casting Crucio, a malignant twist to his mouth and bloodlust that he couldn't hide. The screams of agony, of please forgive me, my lord echoed through the manor, something that had only happened thirteen years ago.

Draco suddenly felt nauseous.

He could feel the walls caving around him, realizing that the threat that the Dark Lord presented was real, that his taunts about the Dark Lord to the Golden Trio weren't suddenly affected airs to make himself look better anymore. They were honest, terrifying, and far darker than he had imagined.

It was all he could do to hold onto his composure.

Voldemort lazily flicked his wand and the curse was suddenly ended. Draco heaved an inaudible sigh of relief.

'My dear, dear, Lucius,' he intoned. 'I suppose you were keeping the minister… influenced?'

'Of course, my lord,' Lucius whispered, still kneeling.

'Good,' a baby's smile was expected to be happy, reassuring; a comfort to everyone surrounding it. This smile was nothing short of chilling, a dichotomy that didn't go unnoticed. 'Then we can commence on our plans to get the Potter boy at last.'

Draco wanted to laugh.

Of course, it was Harry Potter.

It was always Harry fucking Potter.

400 kilometers away, Harry fucking Potter woke up with a start, scar throbbing in pain.

It had been barely a day since he had woken up with his scar flaming, Uncle Vernon's yelling in his ear telling him to shut up if you know what's good for you, boy.

He rubbed absently at his scar, wondering what it meant that it had hurt, especially two days after Ron had owled him saying that they were all going to the Quidditch World Cup. He hoped whatever he had dreamed had no relation - but was enough of a pessimist to know that it probably wasn't.

He simply couldn't remember most of his dream - all he could remember was the hazy form of Pettigrew, Lucius Malfoy, and a boy with pale blond hair that he would recognize anywhere.

And of course, the chilling words of Lord Voldemort.

Crucio.

Harry shivered as the sadistic words of Tom Riddle washed over him. He still didn't know what that curse was, but knowing Voldemort, he was prepared to admit it wasn't anything good.

(Though he supposed he couldn't be called Tom Riddle anymore; this wasn't the charismatic Tom Riddle he knew from the diary, filled with ambition, this was someone, something else.)

And try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking about Draco Malfoy - not the Draco Malfoy he saw in his third year, arrogant in his beliefs - the Malfoy he had seen in Voldemort's vision, if only for a moment; the face of someone who had thought what was right all their life had finally realized they were wrong all along.

Harry felt some amount of sympathy for him, yes - but the other half of his mind couldn't help a twisted sense of delight at the fact that Malfoy was finally getting some of his own medicine, that he had seen what he had taunted Harry about all these years in Hogwarts was tangible and real.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the guilt he felt at the turn his thoughts had taken.

Malfoy had it coming for him, didn't he?

And. Well.

Malfoy was beyond help now, even if he finally realized who - or what - he was following, now.

Harry tried hard not to think about what he would do in Malfoy's situation, at what he would be forced to do, and was horrified to realize the spark of sympathy in his chest was growing stronger and stronger by the minute.

(Harry, though he would never admit it - or even believe it -was above all, a Good Person. He couldn't resist helping people than a teenager could resist skipping stones across the Black Lake.)

(In another life, Hermione would have called it his saving people thing. )

He needed to think. He needed to talk to someone who could understand him wanting to help Malfoy, or at least tolerate it - because apparently even he drew the line at Malfoy getting tortured by Voldemort - and then find out a way to talk Malfoy into joining their side.

Suddenly, he had the perfect candidate.

He really needed to send a letter to Sirius.