One: Dark Arts

On his first day teaching, Draco Malfoy nearly set one of his students on fire. He told himself afterward that he'd been in control the whole time, that his temper had not gotten the best of him. Even if it looked that way.

It was the third class he'd taught that day, second-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. Being back at Hogwarts had been quite tense enough already: people looked at the scars on his face with either pity or revulsion, and he couldn't decide which was worse; he'd only gotten the Defense Against the Dark Arts job in the first place because Potter didn't want it; and he could half-hear the students whispering rumors to each other as he passed. So when he did quite clearly hear the words "killed his own father" from somewhere behind him in that third class, he spun on his heel with a glare worthy of Snape and barked out the first spell that came to mind. The little prat's desk, quill, and parchment blazed up suddenly with sickly, greenish flame, and students scattered from it with shrieks of distress.

Draco watched the fire for a slow count of three before banishing it. The desk seemed mostly unharmed, but the quill and parchment had been reduced to black ash. And the room had gone deadly quiet, as the students stared at him like rabbits facing the fox.

"If you must gossip," Draco growled, "do it outside my class." He took a deep breath. "And just so there is no misunderstanding, let me confirm a few rumors now. Yes, I did kill my father. Knife in the back, which is an unpleasant and messy way to commit murder. I don't recommend it." Pause. "The only reason I managed to get close enough to do so successfully was that he was enjoying applying Cruciatus to my mother so much that he was distracted." Another pause. "The scars I got later; they were a parting gift from my former fiancee, now also sadly deceased. Any questions?" There were none. "Good. Now, what was your name?"

The unfortunate boy squirmed in his seat. "Alexander Penrose, sir."

"Ten points from Hufflepuff, Mr. Penrose, for disrupting the lesson. See that it doesn't happen again."

* * *

Severus Snape raised an eyebrow in what might have been sympathy as Draco sat down to supper, scowling. "Students being difficult?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Draco snapped automatically.

Snape said nothing, but the cold precision with which he began cutting up his food was plenty eloquent for someone raised in a household as passive-aggressive as Draco's.

He really shouldn't be alienating the one civil acquaintance he had. He sighed. "Look, I didn't mean to sound hostile."

"Personally," Snape volunteered, as though the outburst hadn't happened, "I've always found it useful to frighten the living daylights out of them on the first day."

"Yes, well." Draco pushed a slice of turkey around in the gravy on his plate. "I think I covered that bit."

"Oh?"

"Mmm. Little Alexander Penrose is lucky on two counts: first, that I wasn't holding my wand, so my aim wasn't very good, and second, that the first spell that came to mind was Incendio rather than Crucio."

"Well. Sounds like you accomplished plenty today, then. You ought to be congratulated."

Draco found a wry little smile tugging up the corners of his lips, the first since he'd returned to Hogwarts. You always could make me smile when nothing else would. "Thank you. How was your first day back?"

"Tolerable. A few of the new Ravenclaws don't seem so bad. One appears to have the sort of dedication that Miss Granger always displayed, and another showed what might be genuine interest."

"Two good ones out of the whole lot, hmm?"

"About all you can hope for, really. No, that's not true. You might be able to get more out of them, teaching Defense. Potions has always been an unpopular subject."

"If you don't mind my asking, then --" Draco wondered if he really had any right to the question -- "why haven't you ever taken the Defense position? You certainly know more about the Dark Arts than some of the professors I remember having."

A burst of loud Weasley laughter from the other end of the table -- Charlie had replaced Hagrid after the war -- drowned out the beginning of Snape's reply. The two of them paused to glower at what Draco thought of as the Gryffindor end of the table for a moment.

"Albus did try to give me the job once or twice -- and what a favor I'd have done us all if I'd taken it the year that horrible Lockhart creature had the post -- but I never wanted it. The precision and complexity of potion-making have always appealed to me. Besides," and here the older man looked down at his left arm for a moment, "I often wish I could spend less time thinking of the Dark Arts, not more." In that brief, unguarded moment, he looked as bone-weary and scarred as Draco felt.

Mordred, it shouldn't still hurt like this.

* * *

Alone in his quarters, approaching midnight, Draco sipped his third glass of Scotch and stared into the fire. Alcohol wasn't quite as effective as a Dreamless Sleep potion, but was far safer for habitual use, and more importantly could be procured without having to admit to anyone what he needed it for. The nightmares almost always felt just like the real memory. He always thought of it with capital letters: The Night Everything Changed.

* * * * *

His parents fought constantly that year. Mostly, Draco knew, they fought about him: when he should take the Mark, whether they should pull him out of school, what role he should play in the upcoming war. He got so used to it that he simply got up from the dinner table that night when they started in, and stalked off to his own rooms. From there he could hear very little of their arguments, unless one of them -- usually Narcissa -- showed more enthusiasm than usual in the destruction of heirloom china. So he was unprepared when the screaming started.

It was a piercing, horrible noise, high-pitched and inhuman, and Draco's head snapped up out of his book. Yes, that noise was definitely coming from the direction of the dining room. He'd heard screams like that before, had watched his father coax them out of people: Crucio.

"Mother," Draco whispered. He threw the book down on the sofa and ran out of the room. The screams continued, with barely pause for breath, as he sprinted down the hallways toward the scene.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the far end of the room, his back to the door, towering over his wife, who was convulsing on the floor in the grip of Cruciatus. She still screamed, and was starting to claw at her own throat in desperation. Lucius showed no sign of stopping, despite the evidence that Narcissa was near the breaking point.

Mordred's wand, he means to kill her. Almost without thinking, Draco snatched up the carving knife off the table. The next second seemed to stretch out interminably -- his long strides across the room, the instant his father's posture changed in recognition of the threat, the heavy knife slamming into Lucius' back as he tried to turn, the burning pain Draco felt in his knife-hand. He wrenched the knife free and Lucius turned to face him, trying to mouth the words to a spell despite the punctured lung. Draco stabbed him again, watched the shock of recognition and hatred flicker through Lucius' eyes before the man coughed, sputtered blood, and went limp.

Draco dropped the knife and knelt beside Narcissa. "Mother. Can you hear me?" Her breathing was shallow, her pulse erratic. She'd gouged deep scratches in her throat with her nails, and there was blood trickling from her nose.

"Draco." Her eyes fluttered open and regarded him unsteadily. "You make -- me proud. Standing up to him...." Her voice was raspy, and barely audible. She coughed, and pinkish froth appeared on her lips.

"Mother!" As Draco watched, Narcissa slid into unconsciousness. No. He couldn't be too late. He couldn't. She was alive, but barely, and probably suffering from all manner of internal injuries. He glanced over at Lucius, the bloody mess on the carpet. His death had probably triggered all sorts of alarms. The Manor would be crawling with Death Eaters in minutes, none of whom would be likely to show any sympathy for their comrade's killer. Carefully, Draco picked up Narcissa and cradled her to his chest. He took one shaky breath to steady his nerves, and they were gone.

* * *

It wasn't possible to Apparate directly onto Hogwarts' grounds, but Draco got as close as he could. Shaking with the effort, chilled by the misty November night, he started walking toward the castle. It was slow going, carrying Narcissa, and he had to stop to rest frequently. Twice, when he did so, she coughed up more blood, brighter and more concentrated than the first time. The sight motivated him to stagger to his feet and keep moving. Damn the lights of the castle, still so far away!

They hadn't gotten much closer when a crisp, authoritative female voice called, "Halt! Who goes there?"

"It's -- it's Draco Malfoy, Professor. I need help."

"Lumos." Professor McGonagall regarded him and Narcissa cautiously in the cool wand-light. "Explain yourself."

"My mother -- I can't help her. She was under Cruciatus for -- I don't know, for at least three minutes, probably more. She's bleeding inside, and I can't heal that, and she'd have died if we stayed at the Manor, and me too...." He hated the desperation in his voice, the admission of weakness, but made himself go on. "Look, bind me, put me under Imperius, give me Veritaserum, whatever you want, but please help her."

Something shifted in McGonagall's stern expression: sympathy? Draco closed his eyes under that penetrating stare. "Please." His voice cracked, but there would be time enough to die of shame later. "She's the only person who ever loved me. And she doesn't deserve to die for trying to save my life."

The silence lasted for a good dozen heartbeats.

"Follow me."

* * * * *

Draco shook himself. No point in drinking to avoid the dreams, if he was going to dwell on the memories while he was awake. He downed the last of the Scotch and stood up. That night had been the last time he believed that everything would work out alright, the last time he thought he could get through the war unharmed. The last night of his childhood, he thought bitterly.

Author's Note: I owe the idea of pain-maddened suicide under Cruciatus to Ishuca, who makes excellent use of it in her work, Plague of Legends.