68Author note:
I am in the process of updating previously posted chapters with reviewed versions, thanks to my fabulous beta-reader: FjordPrefect (AO3 handle). Wanted to give her a shout out at the top of the story. Enjoy!
Draco Malfoy
Malfoy Manor
July 1996
Draco's hand tensed around nothingness. Seconds prior, he had gripped an ancient, likely priceless, vase, which was now gone. He had chucked it with every ounce of his being out the equally ornate and priceless picture window — currently existing only as shattered glass on his bedroom floor.
Despite their value, he didn't give the destruction a second thought. In the magical world, only death was permanent.
At the edge of his awareness, Draco heard his bedroom door open and close.
"Draco," his mother's voice was hesitant but calm. Her control mocked his unsteady resolve, a resolve normally unshakable.
"I need to be alone," Draco said through clenched teeth. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, the burning sensation of his skin breaking apart a sweet relief.
Entering his line of sight, his mother stood before him. To anyone else, she'd appear just as poised and composed as always, but Draco knew better. The minuscule creases at the edges of her almond eyes gave away her fear.
"We need to talk about how you plan to handle this…" she paused, her regard straying to avoid his gaze, "...task."
He tried so hard to not lash out, but he couldn't help it. Everything was so fucked.
"It's a suicide mission!" Draco cut in, his voice penetrating, thick with emotion.
His mother winced but did not contradict him. She must believe as he did, that he was going to be killed.
An hour ago, his somewhat imminent death did not top the list of his concerns. Ever since his father's failure a year prior at the Ministry, retaliation on the Malfoy family was expected, likely in the form of forcing Draco into taking the mark. It was the inevitable trajectory for the young Malfoy, but the reality of it happening and his lack of choice in the matter still unsettled him. Now, merely being forced into taking the mark felt inconsequential to the more significant existential threat he faced.
Less than an hour ago, Draco was summoned.
He knew something was awry when The Dark Lord commanded his mother to attend the meeting. He didn't seem like the sentimental type, not someone who would request Narcissa to be there to witness her only son's call to a noble cause. But, no, the most powerful dark wizard always had an agenda. This time, it was to inflict punishment on them both.
Upon answering the summons, it was made clear: Draco would become a Death Eater. The ceremony would take place within the week.
In addition to becoming a Death Eater, the Dark Lord explained, Draco would be given a particular task that he must accomplish before the year's end. The Dark Lord had grinned, and Draco stilled his breath. It was then that Draco was ordered to kill Dumbledore.
The youngest Malfoy was practiced at maintaining a stoic disposition, one designed to not betray an ounce of weakness. Even so, he felt his mask waver and flinched at the command. The Dark Lord sneered, letting a glimmer of a smile reveal his satisfaction in Draco's discomfort.
His mother immediately cut in, asking, no, begging to be allowed to assume her son's mission. Draco's whole body tensed. It was the wrong thing to say, and she damn well knew it, but it couldn't be helped. It was a knee-jerk reaction at realizing her only child was just given his death warrant.
The rest of the meeting passed as a blur. Draco buried himself deep in the recesses of his mind, his ability to do so a testimony to his years of study of the challenging practice of Occulemency. He separated himself from the moment as best he could, The Dark Lord's instructions sounding far away.
As soon as he was dismissed, Draco spun on his heel, fleeing the tarnished room that had once been his father's study.
Before he knew it, he was back in his bedroom, door shut, his hand resting on an ancient vase. Every bit of him wanted to rebel and scream, the feeling so strong it itched to the surface. As a compromise, he hurled the ceramic vessel through his window.
"You must seek out Severus for help," his mother said. He wasn't sure how much of her speech he had missed during his recollection. His attention now focused; he noted his mother had repaired and replaced the vase and made the window pane whole again.
Narcissa wouldn't be able to put Draco back together once the Dark Lord murdered him for failing to kill Dumbledore. Or perhaps his death would come at the hand of Dumbledore himself.
An odd ripple twisted through his gut, dread and sorrow mingling together. He hadn't even considered the possibility he could be successful in murdering Dumbledore.
A sixth-year wizard, albeit very skilled for his age, was not likely to best one of the most talented and accomplished wizards of their time. But, odds aside, what if he was able to do it?
The dread and sorrow solidified when reality sank in; the alternative to his death was becoming a murderer.
Draco had keenly observed Death Eaters in his home over the years. Their sad, desperate dispositions were a leading deterrent for the youngest Malfoy to not follow in his father's footsteps anytime soon. But it was how they spoke about murder that deeply chilled him. They regaled one another with stories of their kills as if what they had done was no different than landing a stunner on an opponent. Draco paid close attention to their eyes when they spoke about killing; their pupils looked dull like something was dead behind the curtains.
He knew his father had taken a life at least once. One night, a Death Eater, drunk on Malfoy liquor, taunted young Draco, asking when he'd make his first kill and catch up to his father. Lucius never spoke to Draco about the matter, and Draco never broached the topic, but their eyes met that night, and the son could tell the act had done something gruesome to the father.
The question then became: would he rather die or live to be a miserable murderer?
Not like he had a real choice in the matter. If the latter happened, it would undoubtedly be due to luck.
His mother stood in front of him, tears streaming down her cheeks. It startled him; he had never even seen her close to weeping.
"Mother," Draco breathed. He reached out, touching her shoulder.
"You cannot give up," she pleaded with him. "You can do this. We can ensure you have all the necessary tools to do this."
Draco didn't believe her but didn't want to see her in pain.
The Dark Lord really was a master of punishment, Draco considered drolly. Not only would he be tortured by the looming thought of his premature death, but also by the reminder that his mother was in pain and would die heartbroken at his demise. It was a self-sustaining mechanism of misery.
"I won't give up," Draco assured her, squeezing her arm lightly, doing whatever he could to feign confidence, to put her at ease.
He really didn't have a choice; he had to try. He was intelligent and would likely be the brightest student at Hogwarts if it wasn't for that insufferable mudblood who managed to outperform him every year. He had to have faith, though; Draco knew he could come up with something creative, creative enough that maybe he could survive this curse.
He had no other option, other choice. So he would take the mark and need to attempt and kill Dumbledore.
He was born a Malfoy, and Malfoys did what was necessary to maintain the namesake and status which so many generations had fought and bled for. He would do his part in forwarding the wizarding world and help in doing away with the scum who muddied the pure waters of wizard-kind. Being a Malfoy was a responsibility, not a privilege.
He squeezed his mother's arm once more. "I'll do whatever it takes to accomplish my task."
A year later
Hermione Granger
Granger residence
July 1997
A fresh sob ripped through Hermione's lungs, a hand leaping to her mouth to stifle the sound. The reaction was a reflex; she was in no danger of being discovered. She was utterly alone in so many ways.
Just a minute before, Hermione cast a memory charm on her parents, one that presumably would never be reversed. The difficulty of unwinding what she cast would be near impossible, but more probable, she wouldn't have a chance to try. It wasn't guaranteed she'd return from this fight.
Having made all the arrangements to ensure her parents could travel freely and checking that nothing in the house could remind them of their lost daughter, she left for the Burrow, departing her home for perhaps the last time.
As she shifted her bleary attention, her eye caught a wrapped box on the kitchen table. Her stomach lurched; it was a birthday gift, one her parents had likely planned to give her before she left for the Burrow.
She approached the small box timidly as if it was a wild animal that could lash out and bite her. Hermione didn't think she could handle any more blows to her heart. Seeing a gift from her parents, likely the last one she'd ever receive, threatened to break her.
With a grounding breath, she resolved to unwrap it. She was strong; this Hermione knew to be absolutely true. Her character was under constant attack by her pureblood classmates; she had no choice but to be tough. Not to mention she had battled Death Eaters at the Ministry, established an insurgent army of students in the name of Dumbledore, and faced centaurs, all by the end of her fifth year. She was proven beyond measure.
She stared at the gift like it was more dangerous than all of those things. Fighting foes or standing up for oneself was not the same as saying goodbye to her parents alone in her childhood home.
A sense of deja vu washed over her, making her feel woozy and unsteady. She shook away the feeling that had become a recurring nuisance as of late.
With renewed strength, Hermione took hold of the gift and slowly let one side of the elegant box slide out from under the other.
Laying nestled in black velvet was an ornate oval charm. Hermione plucked it from the box carefully, unsure what to make of such an extravagant gift. It was well beyond what they had ever gifted her before.
Despite the charm's small size, it felt dense and heavy. She discarded the box to free her other hand, wanting to analyze the pendant further.
It was beautiful, Hermione thought, letting the pads of her fingers linger over the textured carvings of the piece. Then, observing closer, she saw gilded designs of ivy and roses.
She flipped it in her hand, and as she did, she saw a hinge on the side. Anticipation rose up in her chest: she was looking at a locket.
Hermione positioned her fingernail on the ridge and pried it open.
A choking cry leaped out of her mouth before she could still herself.
She and her parents stared back at her from the picture in the frame. Hermione was much younger in the photo, perhaps eight. It was the first time they had searched for snow on Christmas day as a family. Her mother had been distraught knowing there would be no white Christmas and insisted they went in search of a solution.
They drove until they finally found an old patch of snow two hours north of their home. Triumphant, the three celebrated with the creation of a mangy-looking snowman.
The picture inside even featured the mangy-looking snowman.
A tear bounced off of the locket, leaving splotches against the glass covering the picture.
The locket warmed to her hand, and a feeling of relief, perhaps even peace, coursed through her.
She would be able to take them with her in this small way. A smile curled on her lips despite the dreary circumstances, and she shut the locket.
What came next was unknown. She and the boys did not know where the other Horcruxes were, and the Death Eaters were positioned to take over the Ministry within days.
The long chain of the locket slithered out of her hand. With care, she slipped the necklace around her head, letting the locket fall directly over her heart.
Pressing the locket against her chest, she let the scent of home wash over her one more time: Earl Grey mixed with coffee. Her parents could never decide.
They would stay with her for as long as she needed them. It hurt that she would never be able to tell them thank you for the gift, that they would never know it meant everything to her.