I'm so late to the party but I am so happy you're back! I received an email from your ao3 update and I could not believe it! So happy to see you writing again ✨️
thank you!💕 it feels like it’s been a thousand years since i had the desire to write anything, i’m so happy that it came back. I think if I lost my drive to write it would be like loseing a piece of myself. thank you for still reading my stuff😁 it means a lot to me
Tags: Angst, Post war deatheater prejudice, light injuries, chronic illness, post war trauma, dark magic, blood magic, alcohol use/abuse, self destructive behaviors,
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.
xx
Tags below v💜 same as always, leave a message or reblog to get tagged in the next post
@fayerye thank you so much🥰👍 i shall keep on, keeping on
@dewitty1 thank you😁 i couldn’t resist a chance to winge
New podfic series! The Liars Department by DorthyAnn
The fabulous @dorthyanndrarry gave me permission to share a podfic I did last year of the wonderful The LIars Department and the also fabulous @snarkyship allowed me to use their wonderful art - so please join me or go read the fic!!!
Musing on this will follow when completed once I’ve cleared my backlog of to muse on ^.^
Tags: Angst, Post war deatheater prejudice, light injuries, chronic illness, post war trauma, dark magic, blood magic, alcohol use/abuse, self destructive behaviors,
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 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.
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?”
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.
