For a long time he was raised to submit to no one and perhaps that is why the sight of Aunt Bella groveling on her knees turns his stomach.

"The sword found on Potter was a false copy, my Lord," she rasps. "He has not entered my vault at Gringotts, the goblin confirmed—"

"The goblin that you let escape from your sights," drawls the Dark Lord. "I see."

Mother clutches the back of his robes between the shoulder blades.

Father's tortured screams are hoarse and nearly silent; Mother's are shrill, like nails on a chalkboard. Aunt Bella sounds almost like she's laughing as she writhes on the floor. It chills his blood.

He stands stiffly like he's been petrified, too afraid to make a sound should the wand turn to him. The dawn creeps in through the windows.

A body lies face down on the cellar stairs. Draco holds the unfamiliar wand out in front of him like someone feeling around in the dark, the light at the tip feeble and flickering.

"Homenum revelio," he whispers.

The spell that always flowed so smoothly drags from him with an unpleasant lurch. When he feels no living presence he wonders whether it's the new wand that's failing him but he doesn't go downstairs any further to make sure. The thought of Pettigrew dead makes him sicker than that of the man alive.

From somewhere above Mother calls to him, saving him. He hurries to her.

Mother sits on the silk Baroque sofa, swathed in her evening robes, slumped a little but presiding over the ruined and empty living room with all the determination that she might have one of her old dinner parties.

"Pettigrew?" she asks.

"Dead," he says. He face crumples in relief. They can breathe now that he is gone, now that Greyback is gone, Aunt Bella, the Dark Lord.

"Come here, Draco," she says, extending a beckoning hand. He sits beside her. She traces her fingers over the cuts on his face.

There is a sudden clattering at the window and they both jump. Someone is banging their fist against the glass. The snatchers outside are beginning to come round; he has forgotten them.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters.

Mother has enough strength to look disapproving.

"Get out," he calls across the courtyard.

The snatcher at the window whips around. "What about the reward, mate?"

"GET OUT!" Draco bellows, reaching in his pocket for his wand and wraps his fingers around the foreign grip of his stolen one. "LEAVE MY HOME!" He advances swiftly, shoulders squared, trying to look intimidating to the skinny snatcher. Around him the others begin to rise at the noise.

"Oi!" calls the snatcher. He is frantically turning out his pockets. "One of you fuckers got my wand!"

"DID YOU HEAR ME?" Draco seizes one of the other snatchers by the collar and drags him to his feet, giving him a rough, impulsive shove for good measure. "LEAVE."

He was bred for this but it feels forced, difficult. He wishes Father were here.

He went to a party once at Goyle's where they'd all drunk themselves stupid and started breaking priceless heirlooms for the fun of it, giggling all over each other when a shattered 18th-century French tureen would fix itself with a wave of someone's wand. As he casts a shaky Reparo over the chandelier he's reminded of that night. Helplessly, absurdly, he laughs.

And he stands there, gasping to catch his breath over the clinking crystal. Potter's face rushes through his mind. The chaos of those last minutes. He ponders this. It has always mystified him how Potter escapes capture after capture, scrape after scrape unscathed. The boy is unintelligent and unprepared and soft.

Everyone who has ever influenced him, taught him to grow up cruel and haughty, clearly had no idea how to get ahead. The Slytherin way does not win against those like Potter. Draco has no queues of friends ready to lay down their lives for him; he does not form those connections.

He loathes his parents then as much as he loves them. There, in the drawing room standing over the fallen chandelier, he resigns himself to failure.

Writing this made me love Draco. Would love feedback.