Draco pulled his robes tighter around himself as he made his way down Diagon Alley. It was meant to be spring soon, at least that was what the calendar said, but the bitter cold of winter still lingered in the air.  He wished he had brought a hat, not just for the warmth, but to hide his hair which always stood out far too much no matter the weather. Draco had to settle for ducking his head down into the collar of his robes, eager to get home.

Before he knew what was happening, the world was pulled out from under Draco's feet. He tried to catch himself, his hands skidding out across the slush, his knees hitting the cobblestones. 

Draco gasped, desperately trying to catch his breath as half-melted snow soaked into his robes. He slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his palms stinging. One wrist suddenly gave out under his weight with a throb of pain, and he barely managed to keep himself up with the other. No one stopped. The crowd flowed around him, like a stone in a stream.

Someone had tripped him. Draco was almost certain of it, with the tip of an umbrella or a jinx he hadn't seen. He looked behind him at the sound of faint laughter, but couldn't see where it was coming from.

Belatedly, his knees began to burn with pain. Draco hissed, slowly sitting back on his heels and looking down at his pale grey slacks. The fabric was torn on one knee his pale skin showing through, blood spotting the fabric around it.

"You're impeding traffic."

Draco looked up.

Potter was standing over him, his auror uniform haloing him in crimson, his hair falling around his face in messy black waves. It would have been attractive if it wasn't for the scowl in the centre of it all.

"You need to move, Malfoy; you're impeding traffic," Potter said brusquely.

"I was tripped," Draco snapped.

"It's slippery with this slush on the ground," Potter said, ignoring Draco's accusation entirely.

"Sod off," Draco muttered under his breath.

 "Watch your step next time," Potter said as he walked away without a backward glance.

And that hurt more than the stab of pain from his wrist as he pushed himself to his feet. After all they had been through, Draco thought he was at least worth an insult or a parting glare. Draco knew he could never wish for more, but a part of him at least wished to be remembered as a rival, some sort of villain, a classmate, anything. But the way Potter treated him, Draco wasn't even a nuisance.

Draco shook the melting snow from his hands and pulled up the collar on his robes, ducking his head down between his shoulders. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets relishing what was left of the weak heating charms drawing the numbness from his fingers.

He slipped into the crowd, doing his best not to get too close to anyone, cutting through the narrow alley leading to Carkitt Market. Before stepping out into the market, he pressed himself into the shadow of Gladrag's awning. He drew his wand, pulling his sleeve down to obscure it as much as possible before casting a basic healing episkey on his knees and hands. It closed the scrapes but left the dull ache of the tender, bruised flesh. The important thing was that it looked good as new.

He followed the episkey with a quick cleaning charm and a reparo on his torn slacks. He ran his hand over the fabric to make sure it took, finding the linen fully patched though it had gotten thinner. Soon there wouldn't be enough fabric left to stretch and they would begin to fray, or unravel entirely. 

Draco shivered and quickly put his wand away before stepping back out onto the street. He followed the edge of the square around to the owl post office and stepped inside to use their public apparition zone. 

He landed on the gravel drive in front of the manor.

"You're late," Narcissa said. She was standing in front of the doors waiting for him. Her face was drawn and pale despite the heavy cloak wrapped around her. "Is everything okay? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mother," Draco said, hurrying over to her.

"You said you'd be home twenty minutes ago," Narcissa said, a shaking hand reaching out to the railing and staring down the steps.

Draco cursed under his breath. He should have kept better track of time. He should have hurried.

Draco quickly picked out a lie that would be believable, "A queue at the potions supply held me up." He took the stairs two at a time, catching her other hand in his before she could take another step. Her skin was cold, shivers making her fingers tremble.

"It's too cold out here," Draco said, tugging Narcissa back up the steps, an arm around her shoulders to support her.

"Next time, use the house elves for the shopping, won't you? You must. It's not safe in Diagon Alley," Narcissa said.

"They do all the shopping other than my potion supplies," Draco said gently. He clenched his jaw to hide the wince of pain as he pulled the door open with his sprained wrist and ushered Narcissa inside.

The door thumped closed behind them, their steps echoing loudly on the cold marble floor. The rugs and tapestries were gone, destroyed during the war, or disposed of not long after. Only a few sconces still had working lighting charms in them, leaving the entry hall in a permanent dusk.

"Send the elves o-or owl order them, you don't have to go. You should stay safe. You need to be safe." Narcissa said, grasping Draco's hand so tightly the tendons showed through her thin skin.

Draco forced a thin smile. "Of course. I'll do that from now on," he lied, taking out his wand and casting a passable warming charm over his mother, rubbing her arms to speed the warmth into her bones. "You shouldn't wait outside, you'll catch sick again."

"You were so late," Narcissa said weakly, her shivers going stronger for a moment before slowly beginning to subside.

"The windows in the drawing room look out onto the drive," Draco suggested.

"I don't like the drawing room," Narcissa said sharply.

"Right, right," he said quickly. There were many rooms one or both them hadn't stepped foot into since the war ended and the Aurors finished their exhaustive sweep of the property. It was hard to keep track of them all. 

"Draco, darling-"

"I won't leave again. I'll stay here," Draco reassured her. He would make sure he only went out when she was resting, then she wouldn't have to worry. He could tell their elves, the two they had left, to fetch him if she woke before he was done. He would go mad if he had to stay in this tomb for the rest of his life.

Narcissa nodded to herself, "good... good."

As her anxiety drained away, so did her strength and she slumped, leaning all of her weight against him.

He held her tighter, "Mother-!"

"I'm fine," Narcissa said faintly.

"You are not," Draco said, guiding her down the hall to the small side room near the kitchens that had been repurposed into a bedroom so she wouldn't have to go up and down the stairs. He shouldered the door open and helped his mother to her bed.

"I will be, I just need to rest, to get my strength back," Narcissa said, letting her cloak fall onto the ground and collapsing onto her bed.

Draco grabbed a heavy throw blanket from the end of the bed and tucked it around her.

"Wake me for dinner," Narcissa said, her eyelids drooping.

"If you feel up to it," Draco said.

"I will," Narcissa said with a weak smile, "Promise that you will. I hardly get to see you otherwise, you're always at your cauldron."

Draco sighed, "Very well. I shall see you for dinner."

Narcissa smiled as her eyes closed and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Draco leaned over and pressed a brief kiss to the top of her hair. He hoped this would not lead to relapse, she had only just recovered from the last illness that had left her bed-bound for weeks.

He collected the empty potion bottles from her nightstand and dropped them in a basket that one of their elves would bring to his brewing room once it was full. He pulled open the drawer took out a fresh bottle of each and lined them up on the edge where they would be easy to grab.

Draco took a quick inventory of the potions left in the drawer. She was nearly out of invigoration draught, so he would make more of that first. The healing potion and draught of peace were equally low but the healing potion was more important so that would come next, followed by the draught of peace, then dreamless sleep and girding potions.

He slid the drawer shut and stood up with a sigh. And Draco needed to find time somewhere to prepare a blood- replenishing potion. He hoped it might provide his mother more strength if administered in smaller doses.  If it didn't, he'd try another potion and another, as many as it took. He couldn't lose her. She was all he had left in the world.

Draco considered calling Libbi, one of the elves, to take his newly acquired brewing ingredients to his lab but decided against it. They had too much to do, taking care of two people and trying to keep the manor from falling apart around them. He wouldn't need the ingredients until he started brewing anyway.

Draco headed to the library, letting his feet guide him by memory. If he thought about the route he would inevitably get lost. The halls were lit only occasionally by guttering lighting spells, and the old family portraits and tapestries that had hung on the walls were scorched or torn, or missing entirely. Anything that had been on display, four-hundred-year-old vases, statues from lost civilizations, art from famous painters across Europe, all of that was gone now. This house was no longer a place he recognized.

One of the double doors to the library was gone, blown to splinters in one of the dark lord's many tantrums. He had summoned most of the books from the shelves as well, gathering them in a pile in the centre and threatening to burn them all. Draco was fairly certain he had only done it to see Lucius beg.

Draco went to the largest table, its wide polished oak surface covered with every potion brewing and healer book Draco had managed to summon from the pile. He shifted the books around, stacking open books on top of one another so he wouldn't lose his place. Looking for a thick volume of healing spells and potions that was used to teach trainee healers at St Mungo's. Or at least it had been a decade ago. 

Draco found it under a book about the evolution of modern brewing techniques. He flipped to the section for specialized soft tissue repair spells, skimming his fingers down the parchment, from spell to spell until he found a simple spell to heal sprains. It took an extremely frustrating quarter of an hour to learn how to cast the spell in his off, uninjured, hand.

When he finally got the spell working he dropped into the nearest high-backed leather chair flexing his wrist absently, waiting for the pain and finding none.

Draco let himself slouch down in the chair, running his hands over the armrest, the dark leather smooth and cool to the touch. Somehow, he had picked his father's favourite chair without noticing. Perhaps because it had been years since he had seen his father in it. Even before being sent to Azkaban for the last time, the war hadn't been the most ideal time for reading.

He sighed, absently pushing the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows and dragging his hands through his hair. His hair fell back around his face in a disorderly mess but Draco couldn't be arsed to fix it. He was too tired, of everything.

Draco looked down at his arms, turning his wrist over to where his dark mark was, had been. Now it was all black. Wizarding tattooists wouldn't work with him, but muggle artists had no such compunction. To Rick, it had just been a cover-up tattoo. There was a muggle style of tattoos called black-out tattoos, bold deep blocks of black ink, sometimes in geometrical designs, sometimes with artwork within the black, sometimes just black.

Draco had opted for two matching cuffs of black on his forearms. The only direction he had given Rick was that he wanted the tops of his forearms to be decorated with flowers, especially the narcissus flower. Rick had done beautiful work, more beautiful than Draco could have ever imagined. He had made a diamond on the top of both cuffs and from that simple bold geometric shape a wild messy bouquet of flowers spilled out of the edges of the diamonds, so realistic they looked almost three-dimensional.

Draco had hoped it would help him move on, and distance himself from that horrible part of his past. But there was no way to move on. Not when no one would even give him a chance.

Draco rubbed his eyes, slumping further down in the chair. He grabbed his wand from the edge of the table and held it up, glaring at the pale unfamiliar wood. He had bought it after the war from a French wand maker of some renown. It worked well for him but it wasn't his old wand, the one he knew, grew up with, learned with.

Bitterly, Draco flicked his newly healed wrist and cast, "Accio a new life."

He hadn't expected anything, much less the sound that followed, the faint rattle of metal.

Draco rose to his feet, following the sound, though he had a feeling he knew where it was coming from. He stopped by a blank patch of wall, touching the cold stones cautiously. He had seen his father do this once but never opened it himself.

Draco removed a pin from his cloak, pricking his thumb and pressing the welling bead of blood against one particular stone, "By my blood, open."

The wall shivered and the stones folded back onto themselves into a mantle above a single shelf of books built into the wall. A large metal bar was locked in front of the books to keep them from being summoned.

Draco raised his wand and cast again, his voice hushed to a whisper, "Accio a new life."

A book in the centre of the shelf shivered and strained against the heavy iron, making it rattle faintly. The leather of its spine was dark, likely bound in thestral leather, and unmarked by either a title or author.

Draco reached out, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of dark magic on his fingertips.

"Master Draco," Libbi called from the doorway, "Dinner is served."

Draco pulled his hand away. "Yes. ...thank you. I shall be there momentarily." 

Libbi bowed and apparated away.

Draco stared at the book for a few seconds longer, then quickly cast a cleaning spell to remove his blood and close the hidden bookshelf once more.

Draco pushed a small pea around his plate with his fork. He had eaten everything served but the peas and carrots. Bisci was otherwise an exemplary house elf chef except when it came to vegetables, which he would only prepare boiled. Sometimes, Bisci might add a little butter if he was feeling fancy. This was not a fancy day.

He looked over at his mother's plate, she had eaten a few bites of the chicken, and most of the rice. He had been dawdling, hoping she might eat a bit more but it seemed unlikely. Narcissa was leaning back in her chair, slowly turning the stem of the still full glass of wine in front of her. She looked distant. Whether from exhaustion or memories, Draco couldn't hazard to guess.

Draco cleared his throat, "Did you happen to look at the papers I left you? From the realtor?"

Narcissa's hand stilled on her wine glass.

"I thought the country estate in Kent looked quite good, it's muggle but quite removed, the nearest neighbor is-"

"We're not leaving," Narcissa said shortly.

Draco stifled a sigh. "...Of course not," he said reassuringly, "it would just be for the summer, a nice summer holiday. The sea air would be good for your health." If he could just get her there, get her away from this place then-

"I'm fine, Draco, perfectly fine," Narcissa said, lifting her chin imperiously and sitting up straighter. "You are needed here, at the Manor. It's where you belong."

"Mother-"

"You are the head of the house now. The reputation of the Malfoy's must be restored-"

"Mother, I don't-"

"I know it will take a great deal of work, Narcissa continued, talking over him without any sign of hearing him speak, "but your Father and I did it after the first war, and we can do it again."

Draco put his fork down and picked up his wine glass, taking a deep swallow as his mother went on and on. About Ministry positions, as if they'd hire him to even clean the floors, making connections, if he could find anyone of influence that would speak to him, marriage and heirs- Draco snorted into his cup, pouring the rest down his throat. That would never happen. He refused to inflict the toxic name of Malfoy on another person.

The only idea his mother had that might work was making charitable donations to popular causes. Because money was all they had left. That would at least get them a few people being willing to tolerate them, to their faces, anyway.

Draco refilled his glass and lifted it to his lips. The wine was filling his mind with a soft hazy feeling that made it easier to swallow all those words that were always just behind his teeth when his mother got into one of these rants. Otherwise, he was afraid he might begin shouting, might shake his mother by the shoulders to try and get some sense into her.

"Mother." Draco interrupted tersely, "You just made me promise not to go out by myself anymore. Remember?"

Narcissa looked at him through narrowed eyes before looking away dismissively. "Working at the Ministry would be different. No one would dare hurt you there."

"Sure," Draco muttered into his glass.

Narcissa delicately folded the napkin in her lap and placed it on her mostly uneaten dinner.  "I'm feeling a bit tired. I think I will retire early tonight."

Draco went to stand.

 Narcissa held up her hand, waving him back into his seat as she stood. "I'm fine to walk on my own."

"Are you-"

"I'm sure," Narcissa said. She smiled tiredly and brushed a kiss across Draco's temple, "We can talk more about this later. I shall see you in the morning."

"Sleep in," Draco said hopefully, "We can have brunch."

"We'll see," Narcissa said as she stepped out into the hall.

Draco reached across the table and picked up his mother's glass of wine, drinking as his mind churned with frustration. It seemed like no matter what he said or did, his mother would not let go of this place, this family, this legacy. He scowled as he finished the glass, grabbed the wine bottle, and poured out the last few swallows. Again, he was unable to leave the past behind. He couldn't even move to the continent because his mother was not allowed to leave the UK as part of her probation.

He picked up the wine bottle and frowned at its emptiness. 

"Libbi!" He called impatiently.

The elf appeared at his elbow, watching him with a distant expression. "Yes. Libbi is here."

"Whiskey, " Draco said.

Libbi snapped her fingers, and a bottle of amber liquid and a tumbler appeared before him. 

"Thank you," Draco said, but Libbi was already gone.

Draco plucked the stopper out of the crystal decanter. He only meant to pour in a splash of whiskey but accidentally filled half the glass. He pressed his fingers into his temples as he took a swallow large enough to make him wince.

"Fuck it," Draco muttered and stood up. The world swam around him, and he grabbed the back of his chair for support. He finished the whiskey with another swallow and wince, putting the glass down. There was a sound of shattering glass as it fell through the wavering edges of the table and shattered on the ground. It was probably an heirloom, some elf crystal or something. 

Draco snorted derisively, steering himself around his chair and out the door. He kept one hand on the wall as he walked down the hallway, knocking over an empty plinth he could have sworn wasn't there before. 

He went back to the library.

Draco pulled the pin from his cloak as he made his way to the stone wall. His hand slipped and cut a large gash across his palm, but he hardly felt it. 

He smeared a streak of blood across the stones, "Open." Nothing happened, and he frowned. "No, it's..." his brow furrowed, "My blood, something... by my blood open?"

Draco stumbled back as the stones unfolded and revealed the hidden bookshelf. The metal bar was held in place by a clever metal latch, something that a spell couldn't open because it wasn't really a lock. His hands were frustratingly clumsy as he twisted and slid the metal pieces until the metal bar came free and swung out on a hinge.

Draco leaned close, squinting at the line of books until he spotted the book from before. He jerked it out of the row, trying not to touch the other books and sending three tumbling to the floor. Draco quickly stepped back from the fallen books in case they were the biting kind.

The book in his hands was cold to the touch and smelled faintly of dried blood. Draco didn't bother reading through it, flipping past pages promising him riches, power, and revenge; none of it was what he wanted.

He wanted to start over.

That's all he wanted.

"Accio a new life."

The pages fluttered past and fell open on a spell called ' Relegati Obliterum'. Draco stared at it for a long time, trying to remember his Latin instruction from the years before Hogwarts. The obliterum was Latin for forget; the same word was used in the obliviate spell. So it had to be some variation of obliviation, but it was based on runes cast from a spell circle. Which meant... meant...

"Fuck, what does that mean again?" Draco rubbed his eyes. "Fucking Hogwarts, and it's fucking limited curi... curicu? classes."

Draco snapped the book closed. "Spell circles cast outward from the centre! So- to to make everyone not in the circle forget, and if they forget what I did, then- then I can start over."

A shiver of excitement ran down his spine. This was it. This was the key. He couldn't cast it here, though. There wasn't enough room. And there would be questions if his mum happened upon it. That was no good.

He went to his suite of rooms, retrieving the decanter of whiskey as he passed the dining room. His new rooms were at the end of the east wing. They were never used when he was young and mostly ignored during the war. Draco had moved into them the day he returned from his trial.

Draco spent most of his days in his potion lab, only returning to his rooms to sleep. The small sitting room had a single ratty armchair by the fireplace, the floo always kept closed. The adjoining bedroom had an old four-poster, the curtains pulled down and vanished, an ancient wardrobe and a threadbare rug on the floor.

Without a glass, Draco drank directly from the heavy crystal bottle, spilling more than a couple of times as he rolled up the rug and shoved it out of the way. The oak floorboards beneath the carpet were lighter than the floor around it.

He conjured a piece of chalk and used a charm to draw the central circle and inner ring. It only took a few couple many tries, but he got it. There were no charms for drawing sigils, at least none he could remember. So, on hands and knees, sweat dripping off his nose and soaking into the wood, Draco sketched the sigils by hand. The cut on his hand kept reopening, blood staining the chalk and markings, making it hard to hold.

His knees were screaming in pain by the time he was done. He stumbled to his feet, legs nearly giving out under him. The whole world spun, and his stomach lurched. Draco grabbed hold of the bedpost for dear life, squeezing his eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Draco went to grab the book sitting on his duvet. His foot hit the whiskey bottle, and he almost fell, catching himself on the bed. Draco gasped, startled and upset. He kicked the bottle across the room. His chest was squeezing so tight it hurt; he felt sick.

Draco took a deep breath and roughly scrubbed the moisture collecting in the corner of his eyes. He grabbed the book and stepped into the circle's centre, careful not to smudge the lines. The instructions said something about saying the incantation unencumbered. Draco couldn't remember what that meant. He wasn't sure he cared. 

His eyes kept blurring as he tried to read the incantation, a mix of latin and something else he didn't recognise.  He traced the words with his finger as he said them, still careful to enunciate even as he was foolish to be casting it at all. The sigils began to glow one by one as he spoke, the glow becoming brighter and brighter until the light became fire and burned him away.

Draco woke slowly, his head pounding with agony. The floor was cold against his bare skin. He was naked. And had been sleeping on the floor. His whole body hurt as he slowly pushed himself up on bruised knees. 

The bitter smell of ash and dark magic hit him at the same time he tasted his own mouth, and bile immediately surged up his throat. Draco ran for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he threw up what little was left in his stomach. He took a hangover potion as soon as he could stand, grimacing through the bitter taste.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, feeling grit; his palm turned grey by ash. He needed a shower badly; he felt disgusting, the slimy feel of black magic clinging to his skin like oil. But first, he pulled on a pair of shorts and returned to his bedroom. 

There was a black scorch mark on the floor in the shape of a spell circle, the inscribed runes blurred into illegibility. A dusting of ash was spreading out from the centre of the circle. Near the edge of the circle was a larger pile of ash, fragments of blackened paper and the shell of a leather book cover. Draco knelt and pushed a finger through the remains of the book, trying to see if he could make out any words, any clues as to what he had done. There were a few partial words he could make out, but nothing that gave him any sort of clue. But he could guess.

His memory from the night before stopped somewhere after dinner, likely from drinking too much, as his hangover had shown. But before... before, he had been in the library and had looked at the hidden shelf of books.

"A new life..." Draco muttered to himself, wishing he had a time-turner so he could go back and slap himself. If the war had taught him anything, it was that dark magic was never worth it. Never.

Draco froze, "...where's my wand?"

A surge of panic shot through him, and Draco stumbled to his feet. He looked around the room, scanning every corner.

"No, no, no, no...."

He picked up the rug and shook it out, sending a plume of ash into the air. Draco coughed, his eyes stinging and watering, and went to his bed, throwing off the pillows and duvet, stripping it down to the mattress. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the bolt of pain from the impact and looked under the bed. And then he spotted it. His wand had rolled underneath, nearly to the middle.

"Thank fuck, thank fuck," Draco laid on his stomach and pulled his wand out.

His wand was scorched black and lined with fine cracks from the heat of the fire. 

Draco's face fell as he sat up. As long as the core was intact, it would cast for a while, but eventually, the force of magic flowing through it would split the wood and destroy the wand entirely.

He pressed his hand against his forehead, dragging it through his hair and pulling it in frustration.

It had taken years and so many bribes just to find a wandmaker willing to be associated with him. And then he had paid a hundred times the price to get a replacement that only worked half as well as his first wand.

"So stupid, so fucking stupid."

This is what he got for fucking around with dark magic. While black-out drunk. He was such an idiot.

Feeling entirely wrung through, Draco trudged back to the bathroom, setting his damaged wand on the small shelf beside the mirror before stepping into the shower. He stayed under the stinging hot water, scrubbing every inch of his skin until it was pink and tender. It got rid of the worst of the clinging, greasy feel of the dark magic, but he still felt the ghost of it. He could clean his skin all he wanted, but it would never fully remove the lingering taint in his blood and magic. It took years for that to fade.

Draco went to grab his wand as he stepped out of the shower but stopped himself. He couldn't risk any unnecessary magic until he got a new wand lined up.  He grabbed one of the fluffy white towels from a neglected shelf and dried himself halfheartedly. He hated using a towel; it was so inefficient. Draco didn't bother with a comb, running his hand through the thin, silky strands. It wouldn't dry straight, but he no longer had the energy to care.

There was no breakfast tray waiting for him by his bed. Though considering the state of his room, he understood the elves giving him a wide berth. He desperately needed some fucking coffee, and not one of Bisci's bitter black drip monstrosities, good coffee. Draco sighed. And he had just promised his mother not to go into town.

Draco usually dressed in the most non-descript robes he owned to avoid notice when he went to Diagon Alley. Which he hated. As a compromise, he liked to wear his favourite pieces under his cloak. He currently had a fondness for styles inspired by the Edwardian era.

Draco picked out a lovely French-tailored long-sleeved white blouse. It had loose sleeves on his upper arms and tightly buttoned cuffs down his forearms, a high-boned collar that went up to his chin and was buttoned all down the back with tiny pearls. Luckily, he didn't have to use his wand to close the buttons; the sewn-in charms did the work for him when he brushed his thumb over the rune mark on the hem.

Draco layered a beautiful green silk waistcoat over the shirt. The intricate filigree pattern was drawn on a deep sage background and highlighted with touches of silver. He wore simple black trousers to complement the look without ruining his outward appearance of blandness.

It was early enough that his mother would still be sleeping, so he was fairly certain he could slip out of the manor, get a latte and a bun, and come back without her being any the wiser. The fireplace grate groaned and stuck several times before he wrenched it open and flooed to the Leaky Cauldron.

-

Draco kept his head ducked as he walked, tensed for stinging jinxes and snarled insults but the people around him kept to themselves. The line at the cafe wound out the door, those waiting kept warm by a halo of warming charms. Draco knew better than to draw his wand in public and hunched in his robes, his breath coming out in steaming clouds.

Warmth settled over him like a blanket.

Draco turned, and the old witch behind him gave him a polite smile, "Best not to catch a chill."

"Thank you," Draco said cautiously.

The old woman nodded her head, and nothing more was said.

The inside of the cafe was loud and almost stiflingly warm compared to the outside. Tiffany, the barista at the counter was, unfortunately, familiar. Draco knew her bitter-cold tone far too well and the way she wrote his name Malfoy, so large it covered half the cup as if to tell the world who he was. As if they needed reminding.

"Good morning! What can get you today?" Tiffany asked.

"Ah- W-well, a large vanilla latte, please," Draco said, placing a galleon on the counter.

Tiffany nodded, grabbing a cup and pen, "Name?"

"Sorry?" Draco said faintly.

"Your name? I write on the cup, and they call it once your drink is ready." Tiffany smiled brightly at him, "Is this your first time in a muggle-style coffee shop?"

Draco shook his head, "It's Draco."

"Draco. I like that," Tiffany passed him his change.

Draco dropped the assortment of sickles and knuts in the tip jar.

"Thank you!" Tiffany called as Draco stepped out of the way to wait.

A five minutes later they called, "Draco!"

Even though the shop was crowded, everyone must have heard his name, noticed he was there, noticed him, Draco Malfoy.

"Vanilla latte for Draco!" the barista called again.

Draco raised a belated hand and got his drink. He was lifting the cup to take a tentative sip when someone bumped into his shoulder. Draco jerked away as coffee splattered onto the floor and over his shoes.

"Sorry!" a familiar voice said, "It's so crowded in here. Let just me-" Potter fumbled out his wand.

Draco froze at the sight of Potter, waiting for the worst.

Potter cast a cleaning charm and looked up from the now clean floor, "There, all- all-" he blinked at Draco owlishly, "Uh, I- Um..."

Potter's eyes drifted over Malfoy as he continued to stutter, and Draco finally snapped out of his frozen panic, excusing himself with a quick, "Pardon me."

Draco hurried down the street until he found a quiet corner. Something wasn't right. People weren't reacting to him like they usually did. It had to be that spell he had cast last night, something happened- something-

He squeezed his eyes shut desperately trying to remember anything from the night before, everything after dinner was blank but before... before he had gone to the library- and there had been a book.

Draco's eyes shot open, "A book from the hidden shelf."

All those books were illegal, dark or blood magic. He would have had to have been mad to even consider using a spell in one of them.

Or drunk. Which was close enough when it came to him.

He had wanted a new life, a second chance... but nothing in those books would come without a cost. There was something...

Draco frowned to himself. He couldn't do anything standing in the street. He needed to go home and see if he could find the damned book.

"Hey! Hello, I..."

Draco looked up to find Potter in front of him once again.

"I'm, uh, glad I was able to find you. I would have kicked myself if I never got to see you again," Potter said. He was shifting his weight nervously and smiling. "I'm- I'm Harry Potter."

"Yes?" Draco said, "I know."

"Oh, right. Err, sorry about earlier," Potter said.

"It's fine," Draco said carefully, "It was an accident."

"What's your name?" Potter asked.

Draco's world went still as he stared at the man in front of him, the one he had known since he was eleven years old. Who hated him. Who just yesterday had used his name. "...Draco. My name is Draco." he said haltingly.

"Draco... like the constellation?" Potter asked.

Draco nodded.

"I've never seen you around before. Did you just move to London?" Potter asked.

Draco mutely shook his head.

"Well," Potter's tongue darted over his lips, "I was wondering if you'd like to get a coffee sometime or lunch or... anything?"

"Coffee?" Draco asked numbly. None of it felt real. Nothing about what was happening could possibly be real. He needed to go home.

Potter nodded, looking more confident, "Yeah! Yeah, that'd be- that'd be great. When would work for you? I'm off tomorrow, or no, that's too soon, probably?"

"Look, I need- I need to go," Draco said.

"Wait-!" Potter said.

Draco stepped around Potter, "I really-"

"Can I owl you?" Potter asked.

"Fine, fine, I have to go," Draco excused himself brusquely, walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run back to the pub. He threw floo powder into the fire and stepped in, calling out the manor. No sooner had he been pulled into the flooways, he was spat right back into the pub, tripping and nearly falling onto the stone floor.

A man in a blue robe caught his arm, "Careful there, lad. Watch your step."

Draco was too close to panicking to thank him, rushing back out into the street and apprarating to the Manor directly. He landed outside the massive wrought iron gates, the house behind it looking stark in the cold winter sun.

Draco hurried up the gravel drive and nearly ran into the gates as they stayed stubbornly closed.

The metal began to twist and change its shape into a face that scowled at him, "State your purpose!"

"What?! It's me! Draco! Draco Malfoy!" Draco said.

"You are not known! State! Your! Purpose!!" the gate shouted.

"To come home! Let me in!" Draco snapped, drawing his wand though he knew it was no good. The gate was connected to the wards, if the gate wasn't letting him in, the wards wouldn't recognise him either.

"Denied!!" The gate boomed.

The face began to change back, metal reforming back into its original shape.

"Wait! Wait!" Draco said frantically, "Let me- Let me talk to- to Libbi!" He couldn't call his mother, he didn't know what the shock might do to her.

"Hmmm," the gate said, its face still fading.

"Libbi the house elf! Tell her to come talk to me!" Draco said, grabbing the cold metal and shaking the gate.

The gate was still and unmoving, sweeping black iron curled and wove around the nameplate in the centre reading Malfoy.

There was a snap of apparition, and Libbi appeared behind the gate, "You ask for Libbi?"

"Libbi!" Draco said with relief, "You know me! Don't you? Let me in!"

Libbi shook her head, "Libbi is afraid she doesn't know you."

"But- you..." Draco's words cracked, "you were my nurse-maid. You helped raise me."

Libbi blinked owlishly at him.

"You- you must remember me? I- The son of Lucius and Narcissa, Draco Malfoy?"

Libbi shook her head, "The Master is dead. The Mistress is alone. She has no children."

"...No ...children?" Draco said.

Libbi shook her head again, "Do you need, Libbi? Because Libbi needs to work now."

"Wait! Wait," Draco grabbed the bars again, "Is- Is- the mistress, is she doing well? How is she? How is her health? Is it well?"

Libbi hesitated, ears drooping.

"Please, I want her to be well," Draco said.

"She is well," Libbi said softly, snapping her fingers and disappearing again.

Draco slowly sank to his knees; his whole body trembling with complete and utter despair.