Title: Individual Duality

Crossover: Supernatural and Harry Potter

Summary: Draco has sacrificed much more than anyone has given him credit for. With Voldemort gone and the world back to normal, it's time to move on and live his life. But Prophecy has other plans, and everyone knows there's no escaping Him.

Warning: Spoilers for the books.

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-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-June 1983-

The first time he had understood what loneliness was had been on his third birthday. It seemed a tad melodramatic, now that he came to think of it, but he remembered looking down at his birthday feast of buttered peas and carrots in the silence of the dining room. Blaise Zabini's party a month back had been radically different. There had been other children for a start, and cake as well.

Father said that cake was an unnecessary frivolity. There was nothing cake could impart to a growing wizard, except for a tummy ache, so Draco had to do without. He had been allowed half a toffee apple for dessert though, and Father had measured him up against the fireplace for the very first time. That had become a tradition at his birthday, and now the taste of tart apple sweetness on his tongue always made his eyes itch.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-August 1986-

The first time he learned why secrets were so important was when he was six, young enough to have read through Primary Potions just four times, and old enough to have his very own Potions Set. He had set up shop in the shadows of the Manor garden, all his vials neatly arranged according to size and the spoons and measuring cups laid out next to the pewter cauldron. The house-elf who had been watching over him had gone back to the kitchens to fetch him a snack. If he had followed Dobby, or if he had chosen to play in his game room instead, he would have never seen his mother slip out of the side entrance. She was wearing silk, as always, and the floaty effect they had was spell-binding.

Contrary to common knowledge, Draco had not been named after a constellation or a star. His mother had named him after Ladon, the hundred-headed serpent that watched over the golden apples of Hesperides. She called him her little guardian knight, her protector, and he had always stood tall when she introduced him to the other high-born ladies and their sons. He had followed her that day, those proud words running through his mind, and he didn't hesitate even when she went through the Last Gate. No one was supposed to go through the Last Gate, Father had said so, but Draco went in anyway.

And had walked right into his mother's arms. He had expected a scolding, or an admonishing tap on his cheek or arm, but she had just smiled and kissed his forehead. Then she showed him what lay beyond the Last Gate, and the sunlight had picked out sparkles of brown and green in her pale, mercurial eyes. He had understood, finally, why his mother insisted on all the curtains in the Manor being open and why she had put rain chains and wind chimes outside his window. It even explained why they never got sunburn.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-April 1987-

The first time he had ever made his father proud had been when he was seven and struggling through Charms. He distinctly remembered wanting to beat his tutor over the head with his Challenging Charms for Children book. Mr. Leguarda was ancient even by normal wizarding standards, and he had a tendency to repeat himself, slip into Spanish halfway through the lesson and refer to Draco as Antonio. His Foreign Languages tutor, Ms. Tanning, hadn't even gotten him halfway through French yet, so he had tried to tune the quavering, old voice out and concentrate on mastering the Levitating Charm.

At first, he thought that he had been imagining the constant chirps. Then he had looked out of the window of his study room. A small bird, fluffy feathers puffed out, was lolling about on the ground, cheeping its head off. Its wings were still underdeveloped, though it was trying its best to flap them. There was another bird, probably its mother or father, fluttering around it. Baby Bird had looked like it was getting the scolding of a lifetime and Draco had been amused for a moment, but he had felt concern as well. He wasn't an idiot. Primary Potions had a little introduction to death right on the first page.

He had frowned down at his book, then up at his tutor. Mr. Leguarda had still been lost in the mists of time, so there was no chance of help there. His elementary-grade wand had been hefted with purpose, and he had tried the spell, flicking his wrist as the book dictated and saying the words clearly. Nothing.

Again. Nothing.

Again. Still nothing, and now Mr. Leguarda was back to English, telling him about the connection between the Mayan temples and Russian ballet.

He had scowled with irritation, and a strange tingle had started building up in the center of his chest. Again. Nothing.

Now the tingle was running over his shoulders and down his arms, like it usually did when he cast wandless magic. Such magic was hard to control though, and Father disapproved of it and had told him very clearly how dangerous it could be. But he was feeling sorry for the chick, so with a furtive glance at his batty tutor, he pressed his hand against the window and channeled the tingles. Both birds disappeared.

He had smelled old books and silver before the hand came down on his shoulder. His stomach had dropped down to his handmade leather shoes as he looked up warily into steely grey eyes. Father never smiled, never so much as a twitch of the lips all through the years, and if he did, it was just to fool other people who didn't know any better. But Draco would always look back at the appreciative, thoughtful look that he had glimpsed, and cherish it as one of the rare occasions when he had seen who his father really was.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-September 1991-

The first time he learned that appearances were only skin-deep was when he had been Sorted. What Blaise had told him had only been a second had lasted an eternity for him. The Sorting Hat had slipped over his eyes and it had instantly riffled through every single thought he ever had. He could have set it on fire when it had hmm'd at a memory of his mother. It whispered things to him, about umbrella frames and nets and shells and something called a Mobius strip, things he was too young to understand but the Hat had said was important. Draco had been frightened, and the Hat had known, and it said that he would get stronger, learn faster, be better off in Slytherin.

Draco had privately wished that he would be Sorted to Ravenclaw. Even though Father wouldn't have approved, he had known his mother would have liked to see him in the clever Birdhouse. That was one of their secrets. No one liked Slytherins, and the heckling each new Snake got was proof enough of that. Everyone knew that Slytherin was the bad House, the House of the Dark Lord and his minions, where gullible students were turned into sly, sneaky murderers and torturers. Amidst the jeers and taunts, he had obediently taken his seat with the Snakes, but he couldn't help but sneer at his buttered peas. His godfather had nodded in his direction as if the decision had been predetermined by the mere fact of his parentage. He had looked proud too, but Draco hadn't understood just quite why until later.

The Hall had been full of noise and chatter as everybody ate. Only the new Snakes were silent, clumped together on the lower end of the hierarchy, next to the vegetables. Draco hadn't minded that, his mother being what she was, so he had watched with interest as Warrington, a third year, pushed the meatloaf their way. When the time came to go down into the dungeons, Vaisey, their prefect, had bullied the older years into a semblance of order, making them flank the newer years in what was unmistakably the Turtle formation that Draco had read about in Father's war tactic books.

The induction before bed had been eye-opening. There had been a reading of rules with a small explanation after each one, and then Professor Snape had swept in, bringing with him the smell of cauldron polish and bergamot hair oil. Draco took note of the way his hands moved and the protective set of his jaw that was mirrored in the older years' faces. His godfather's words still rang in his head during uncertain times.

Always look your enemy in the face and never bow your head.

Intimidate first before attempting an attack.

Use your cunning to your advantage.

Keep what makes you vulnerable in a defensible place.

A combination of venom is always harder to cure than an isolated strain.

When it gets down to the bone, all real snakes are the same.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-October 1991-

The first time he ever felt real jealousy was a hundred feet in the air, looking down the dizzying height at a figure chasing the Remembrall he'd just thrown. The young Lions had taken the House rivalries to heart, and the damnable Weasley had been egging him on all day. He had taken Longbottom's new present out of spite, and he hadn't even kicked off the ground when the guilt had start itching across his chest. His mother would have never approved.

Father, on the other hand, did not make any secret of the fact that he detested all Gryffindors, and it was a toss-up between the traitorous Weasleys and the detestable Potters. Draco hadn't really understood it, but Father was Father. In the air though, with the Manor far away and the Remembrall warm in his hand, there had been no going back. He remembered angry green eyes glaring at him and the hot defiance overtaking his shame.

Draco had been taking flying lessons ever since he was five, and his instructors had complimented him on his form and style and all that other nonsense that people started spewing when Father was paying them enough. It had been Potter's first time on a broom, he had known that, and still, the infuriating half-blood flew with all the raw talent of a Seeker, instinctively tucking his body close to the shaft and scooting down near the bristles so the weight was evenly distributed. And nothing except impeccable timing could have stopped him from plowing into the ground as soon as he had caught the ball. Draco had been furious about it for weeks, his letters to his mother deeply scored by the quill tip as he complained to her.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-June 1992-

The first time he learned what his Power was, he had cried himself to sleep and had been cold to Father for days afterward. Only his mother knew why, and she couldn't do anything but sit by his side as he tried to control the images running in front of his eyes like an unstoppable train wreck.

He had always had flashes, little flickers of what was going to happen a few days before they came to pass, but nothing as horrifying and realistic as what he had seen just days before his twelfth birthday. He had been lying in bed, his mind on how Potter had looked like a horse had tap-danced on his brain during the Leaving Feast, when a shot of green and red had burst across his vision.

Suddenly he was in a dark room, lit by strange silvery torches. It was a large place, full of shadows and cloaked people and masks. There were other people too, young with no cloaks or masks, and they were vaguely familiar. Different colored lights had flickered to and fro, picking out hair and features that stayed at the very fore of his mind for years, like the last pieces of an incomplete puzzle that you knew had to be under the carpet somewhere. There had been voices raised in anger too, but when he tried to remember them afterwards, all the words sounded jumbled and too husky to be discernible. He had remembered one voice though, a voice he had heard ever since birth, a cool, measured voice that he had always thought meant safety and security.

There had been a falling body, accompanied by a heart-rending scream, but afterwards the body couldn't be found. When Draco had felt he was ready to look at that scene again, and under his mother's supervision with a large glass of ice cream next to the crystal ball, he had scryed for that vanishing form. He had been frustrated again and again by the appearance of fluttering veils and smudged mists, and he had put it out of his mind.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-May 1993-

The first time he understood what friendship was all about had been near the end of his second year. Gregory had gotten pumpkin juice on his tie, and since he was absent-minded enough to regularly forget the way back to the common room, Draco had kindly dragged him back. They had passed by Lockhart's room, where the sound of loud swearing had perked his interest. He had cast a One-way Looking Spell, something at fifth-year level that would have had Granger slavering in jealousy, and had seen Potter and Weasley going completely ape-shit at the cowardly Lockhart. Weasley was at the point where he looked like he wanted to strangle the idiocy out of the pompous professor, and that was understandable, because if anyone had even thought about kidnapping his mother, Draco would have gone ape-shit too. Potter, on the other hand, hadn't had anyone who was related to him stuck in the Chamber of Secrets, so it had been a surprise to see his eyes glowing with fury and disgust.

The little spat had been over in a few moments, and Draco had pushed Gregory into an empty classroom just in time. He had felt smugly satisfied to see Lockhart being forced into the third corridor, and when they had gone, resumed the walk back to the dungeons. It was there that he had heard about a petrified Granger.

He couldn't believe it at first, hadn't even thought that someone could value a friend even to the point of risking their life. He had stayed in the common room after classes were over, nibbling thoughtfully on half a toffee apple that a furtive Dobby had brought him. That had been the last he had seen of his favorite house-elf, and Father had told him all about what happened afterwards. Father had never been overly kind to the house-elves but he had never raised a hand to any one, and he knew there were other families who treated them like slaves, so it had been an outlandish thought that Dobby had wanted to leave them. He had blamed Potter for a long time, just one more inaccuracy in a long line of misunderstandings that had defined their school years.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-August 1993-

The first time he had seen a vampire he had been buying his third-year supplies. He had just gotten his biting book all belted up and stuffed into the very bottom of his knapsack when Father had turned down into Knockturn Alley. It had been one of the rare shopping trips when his mother had elected to stay at home because she had run out of the special drops and his godfather hadn't finished the new batch.

Knockturn Alley, in his mind, was in need of a good sweep and a new paintjob. The buildings were too close together, blocking out the sky with smoke-belching stacks of chimneys. People who lived on Knockturn Alley didn't care about big black rats that skittered over the drains as they chased monster roaches, or hags that peddled severed fingers, or multicolored streaks of vomit that caked the flagstones. Draco had fought back the urge to pinch his nose, hefted his knapsack closer to his body and kept in line with his father as the older man swept fearlessly by the grimy, muttering riffraff.

Draco had never known what his scent was like. His mother had cocooned him in comforting eucalyptus the first time he asked and had laughed for him. It was beguiling, she had said, reassuring, like the rays of the sun after the winter. He was her precious child, one of a kind, and she had warned him that other people would want him if only for that. That warning had been the only reason he had raised his head when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he had looked straight at a man that had materialized out of the shadows.

The vampire hadn't looked like one; there had been the remnants of a ham sandwich in one hand and half a bottle of Firewhisky in the other. His piggy eyes had nearly been lost in thick, uncombed hair and greasy cheeks. But what had made Draco's heart stutter in fear had been his teeth – his fangs.

Father had sensed his stillness and had glared daggers at the piggy man. Then he had taken Draco into the folds of his cloak and walked on. He had breathed deeply of old books and silver to try and still the headache prodding at his eyeballs. The glutinous, smarmy look had stayed with him though, heavy between his shoulder blades, and his bath that night had taken three times longer than usual.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-June 1995-

The first time he was taken into his father's confidence was also the first time his father saw him as a man. He had been in his old study room, sorting out memories from visions in the firelight, when his father had taken a seat. Draco had stood up and bowed. Father had schooled him in the old pureblood customs ever since he was young, and his eyes remained on the rug until he felt the touch on his head. It had also been a custom to impart a family lesson when a pureblood child had reached the age of reason, and for Malfoys that had always been fifteen, so Draco had known this was coming.

What he hadn't known was that his father would also be dropping a secret on him that would rock the very foundations of his belief system. He had kept his 'Wha-wha-wha' to himself though, settling for inclining his head in respect once more. He had seen that rare gleam of approval for just a second, then it disappeared as his father had lain out the plan in full. There had been plenty of secrets after that, and so many more that he was just now uncovering, but that had been the first of two secrets that Father had given him to guard and he held it fastidiously close to his heart through everything that followed.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-November 1995-

The first time he had ever really wanted to hurt someone, he had brewed the incongruously named Puddle Potion. It was light pink in the torchlight, damned appropriate considering the person he had wanted to give it to. It would have been no trouble at all to slip a portion of it into Umbridge's tea during one of her repugnant Inquisitor get-togethers. She was a disgusting, filthy creature, and the way she treated students was inhuman. Slytherins had always been the ones who could bandy around the Dark Lord's name without fear, and when Pansy had made the mistake of mentioning Him in her presence, she had gotten a thousand lines of Voldemort does not exist every day for a week. Pansy had been as stubborn as a bulldog even then, adamant that her father wasn't to hear about it even though everybody knew that Peligro Parkinson would have literally buried Umbridge alive. Always look your enemy in the face, she had said while bandaging up her hand, repeating word for word what Snape had told them long ago, and never bow your head.

The first time Umbridge had pinned his Inquisitorial Badge on and had the audacity to pat his head, he had barely stopped himself from ripping her hand off. He had used up half a bottle of French vanilla shampoo to get rid of the slimy feeling. It hadn't helped Slytherin status at all, with her sitting like a mother toad in a nest of snakes, neck-deep in the belief that a basilisk wouldn't hatch out of them and bite her ass. It was unbearably, naively stupid of her, they had thought, willingly consorting with the very House the Dark Lord had sprung from and accepting their platitudes at face value, but what could you expect from a wart-encrusted amphibian that shrank against the light and crept into the shadows. She was nothing but a pawn in the great game, the dog of a silly, fumbling Minister who shrank away from everything like a deep sea worm.

He had seen Potter's hand in the Library that day, tinged with yellow around the fingertips with dried murtlap essence and the spidery silvery scars courtesy of a Blood Quill. The green eyes were dimmed with emotions and Draco had worked on his empathy enough to know that those emotions were mainly of anger and confusion. It had infuriated him no end, because everyone knew why the Dark Lord had turned out the way that he did and the Wizarding World, and the Ministry in particular, were doing the exact same thing to the orphan child of two of their war heroes. They hadn't learned, and only a handful of people could see the boiling ferocity hidden by Saint Potter's lightning scar. It had been particularly pathetic to note that it had been his own housemates that acknowledged this first. And Umbridge, that loathsome, two-faced, disease-ridden Ministry whore, was making it worse.

The Puddle Potion was classified as a Dark Potion because it had been invented for the sole purpose of torturing someone. It was potent enough to melt skin off bone. Long ago, Ylla Malfoy had mixed it with face lotion and given it to her cousin as a wedding present. The wedding had been canceled, of course, since there was no marrying a woman whose beautiful features had melted off and had screamed herself into a coma. No one had tested it on a drinker yet, but if his ancestor's notes were to be believed, and if the drink had the peppermint Umbridge was so fond of, then it would probably start making its way through her digestive system while keeping her alive to feel every single nerve cell melting in her internal inferno.

A combination of venom is always harder to cure than an isolated strain.

But the rest of the Slytherins, though just as anxious as he to see her suffer, would not had approved of such an obvious plot. Not to mention that Father had specifically told him to watch her, follow her, act like he obeyed her every whim-

It's all going according to plan, Draco.

-so with a hard look and a mental apology to all Umbridge's future victims, he had Vanished the potion, cleaned out the cauldron manually and started on his homework.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-May 1996-

The first time he saw Harry Potter for who he really was had been the day he had understood that first vision all those years ago. Their shoulders had brushed for a second as Potter was leaving the infirmary, and Draco had swiveled around, scathing vitriol on the tip of his tongue.

His sight had darkened instantly and the vision had risen out of the depths of his mind. He saw the figures again, the cloaks and the masks, and the young faces he realized belonged to his year mates. He could hear his father's voice, mingling with Aunt Bella's, almost lost in the zip and zing of spells.

He had met Bellatrix just once before, when she and the rest of the Azkaban escapees had hidden away in the dungeons of the Manor. Without Voldemort, she had been quiet, playing with her tattered clothing in a corner and humming nonsense songs about teapots and peanut butter. Her eyes had been dull back then, the spirit in them nearly quenched. She was mad, he knew that, could see it in every line of her face, but the real her was locked away in her mind for some reason. She had seen him looking at her, and she had cocked her head before giving him a small child's smile.

His mother had never visited the dungeons while the freed Death Eaters were there. It wasn't because she hadn't cared. It was because she couldn't bear to see what her eldest sister had become.

He had recognized the falling man in his vision, if not the room he was falling in, and he had seen the twisted mix of elation and horror in his aunt's face as she cast the spell that sent her cousin tumbling through the veiled arch. The agonized scream had torn itself from Vision-Harry as he dove to the rescue a fraction too late.

Then the light had come back and Draco had blinked away the last of the ghostly figures. Potter was looking at him, and the emotions that were roaring around him made Draco realize just why his mother had empathy shields. Potter had been on the edge of a meltdown, and Draco's own overwhelming guilt wasn't helping. So it had been a surprise for both of them when he had stepped away, mumbled a near-indiscernible apology and gone back to the dungeons.

Father had done what he was supposed to do, and just before the Aurors had knocked on the door to deliver him to Azkaban, Draco had told him to his face that he knew what had happened that night. He had told his father that Potter was nothing more than a regular dropped-in-the-deep-end-and-covered-in-shit teenager who had no idea who or what he was up against. His father had raised his eyebrow in the way that Draco had always been quietly dying to emulate and said nothing. But there had been that proud gleam again.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-July 1996-

The first time he ever saw his mother cry had been in a vision of the house at Spinner's End. She had obviously been pain so far from their Manor, but her tears had been for the fact that Draco had been ordered into killing Dumbledore. Draco had dearly wanted to comfort her, had wanted to tell her it was all in the plan, had wanted to tell her Father's great secret, but he couldn't, just like he couldn't have told Father about hers. It had been oddly fitting to him that he had been the pinch in the hourglass of their family, keeping the two parts together while dividing them at the same time.

His godfather's face had been drawn and gaunt, and he had looked like he was several nourishing potions away from the grave. His Dark Mark must have been an excruciating pain in those days near the end, and Draco had felt sorry for him. Snape had been family and the best Potions Master in his mind, though there were better spies. His mother had brow-beaten the man into a Wizard's Oath, even under the blank eye of the woman who was once her sister and as they spoke their pledges, the smells tickled his nose: freshly turned earth, cauldron polish, eucalyptus, bergamot and pumpkin juice. That last one had been a curious addition, but he forgot about it until much, much later.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-July 1997-

The first time he had been tortured had been at the hands of his aunt. It hadn't been the last time, but it had been the most informative. He had learned it was better to scream than to bust a vein in your head trying to hold it in. Your pride was the first thing any torturer wanted, and it hadn't been worth the extra effort trying to hang on to it. Draco had learned to blank his mind, control his breathing so he wouldn't tear his vocal cords. Aunt Bella hadn't been particularly imaginative, just Crucio after Crucio, and he was grateful to be under her care. His cell had been right next to one of Macnair's experiment rooms, and he had had to close his eyes against the atrocities that had been performed there.

Aunt Bella's body had seemed to bloom under the Dark Lord's presence, and he could almost see the beauty she had been in her school days. She could smile, though it hadn't reached her dark, haunted eyes, and she only did it when someone was screaming. Her mind was still broken though, fractured seemingly beyond repair, and it made her unpredictable, even in front of her master. One minute she was completely deranged, a psychopath bent on inflicting the maximum of pain that a body could take, and in a flip second, she would be lowering her wand, the look on her face utterly lost and so timid she would shrink back from the shadows. Draco had noticed that the personality switch occurred mostly when she saw his eyes in torchlight, so he had made an effort to keep his eyes open and angle his head carefully.

He had called her Aunt Bella very softly once and the change had been instantaneous. He hadn't known that he was dealing with dissociative identity disorder then, couldn't have imagined that after five years he would be dealing with it again, but the pity that had clutched at his heart when she had dropped to her knees and wailed for his mother had been life-changing.

-.-.-.-…-.-.-.-

-June 1998-

The first time he had ever shown his family affection in public, he had also been wishing he could dance on Voldemort's corpse. The final battle had really taken a toll on his body, and he was sure that if his hair hadn't been white it would have become so by the afternoon. Weasley had packed him a mighty wallop, but being tortured by his Aunt Bella had built up a resistance to physical pain. The red-headed moron was lucky that Weasley homicide hadn't been a part of Father's plan.

He had run himself ragged, looking desperately for shadows that were in short supply, belly-crawling alongside corpses, anything to keep the Golden Trio in sight while casting spells to knock his year mates out of the way of stray jinxes and madmen. He had also tried to help where he could, running quickly through his repertoire of healing spells and shield charms that piggy-backed on a person's magical core while they were knocked out. His Black Disillusionment spell, a happy discovery from the Malfoy library, had the added effect of putting anyone he came near to into a stupor.

Trelawney had been yelling her defiance over the banisters, her crystal balls flying around her like Jupiter's moons. She had cracked the hateful Fenrir one on the noggin, but anyone who knew anything about werewolves knew that the only way to really put them down was decapitation. He had relished that action as one of the cleanest things he had ever done in the world.

Then there were spiders, and he wasn't a big fan of the eight-legged freaks, but he had kept himself busy pulling people out of the way and trying to hold up a wall at one point. His robes had gotten absolutely filthy, and he remembered thinking there was no dry-cleaning service in the world that could get both Acromantula blood and werewolf blood out of silk. And then there had been Dementors and, uncaring of decorum and the need for survival at the front of his mind, he had scraped at the ground and stuffed his mouth full of grass and earth.

Visions flashed through his mind, the future mixed up with the past, but he had ignored them, had had to tune them out. Indistinct figures shot forth silvery wisps, and the Dementors dispersed, and he spat out the black loam.

What I wouldn't give for a toothbrush, he remembered thinking, and then he had sworn out loud when a giant had eclipsed his view. Giants were full of Earth magic, so as soon as he had seen the Damn Trio safely vanish, he had fought it with water, the only thing that could penetrate its thick hide.

He had been so tired, so, so tired and so, so annoyed when it had finally toppled over only to have Voldemort's foul sneer reverberate in his ears. He had hated the very tone, had never felt so much hate in his life, but he knew it was nothing next to what Potter was possibly feeling. At least Draco had known his parents were still alive, was at the point where the certainty drove into his brain like a steel spike because he wouldn't allow it to be any different. But for Potter, the saint, the martyr, the person who took every single death to heart and let it weigh down his soul, it must have been unbearable.

The clearing that had held the remaining Death Eaters had felt empty to him, like a breath that had always been there had stopped, like a star had winked out without warning. He had stayed downwind of the crowd, not actively trying to seek out his parents because that would have been distracting, using the time to recuperate instead. He had seen his Aunt, and even though she had been so cruel, his heart still went out to her. Then Potter had appeared in the midst of them all, barmy, unafraid and looking for death. Draco hadn't been surprised; he had seen it in a vision almost a year ago and had altered the plan accordingly. It didn't stop him from wanting to smack the utterly Gryffindor idiot upside the head, especially when he saw Potter crumple to the ground, dead.

The plan, the plan, blazed a trail in his suddenly white mind's eye. Breathe, breathe.

He had dimly heard Bellatrix purring fervidly to the Dark Lord, and he had swallowed his thundering heart. Ironing out his glimpses of the headmaster's convoluted plan had been a pain in the ass, but the madman had also been a tactical genius. Sometimes in the past, when those twinkly blues had lingered on him a bit too long, Draco had suspected the crazy old loon had known about his Power and was using him as a safety net for the Golden Boy just in case. The headmaster had died though, and he was alive, and as he had watched the faintest flush tint Potter's ears, he had thanked every god in creation that Dumbledore's plan had worked. His mother had crept up to the prone body at the Dark Lord's command, and he had seen the proud set of her shoulders even as she bent over the mostly dead Savior.

He is dead!

You see? Crucio!

Draco had cast his own spell a split second before that, bouncing his own Earth magic against the spell his mother had dug into Potter's chest, creating a natural, undetectable shield. Voldemort was as blind to harmonized magic as a hyena was to a cabbage. The Dark Lord had built his entire body around Dark Magic, tainting his skin, his eyes and his core – a madman so close to victory at that point that its red haze had blocked out everything else. It had been pathetically simple to follow along behind them, Draco's own dark cloak masking his hair and features. The centaurs had let him pass, because he was like them, and even now, Bane didn't have the conviction to look him in the eye. His mother's magic was doing its part, keeping Potter as calm as possible; without it, there would have been no way that the Gryffindor could have resisted responding to the plaintive, miserable lamentations that hung thickly in the atmosphere.

There had been a scuffle, but he hadn't paid attention to that, turning away from the crowd and delving deeper into the forest instead as he sought out the only person big enough to make an impressive entrance. Grawp had been sitting amidst a pile of dead Acromantulas, and it had been a job and half to raise him out of his sorrowful stupor, but Draco had managed with a few loud exclamations of Hagrid's waiting for you!. The Thestrals had been chained up by Macnair, and Draco had given up on the Lockpicking Charm because there had been no time, banging away at the thankfully cheap metal with a heavy rock.

He would have happily keeled over from exhaustion right then and there, but Blaise had appeared, his man Friday, fresh from the kitchens and gearing up the house-elves for a fight. Blaise was the only person outside his family that had even known there was a plan. The Black Widow had gone back to Africa, but had left her son with the Zabini blessing, which was a Power not even the Dark Lord wanted. They had done what they could, managed Draco's visions to the very edge, and the end game had loomed so near, Draco could taste it.

The castle had been a ruin, dusty with fallen masonry and the haze of spells. Blaise had peeled away from his side to take care of Macnair permanently, and he had seen Father tuck his mother away in a hidden alcove, covering her shifting form with his cloak. Draco hadn't known just how long she had stayed away from the Manor, but he had been willing to bet that it had taken all of her considerable strength to keep the inevitable change at bay. He had ached to stay by her side, but it was his duty to keep an eye on the Damn Trio.

Bellatrix's high, thin cackle had whiplashed through the air and he had smelled burned oranges and sugar warring with meatloaf and freshly baked bread. He hadn't spared a glance for Voldemort's fight, had ignored the foul miasma of rotting flesh that beat against the sharp clean scents of his Professors, had chosen to duck through the crowd instead, felling any wounded Death Eaters once and for all, casting Confusion Charms and Bruise-be-Gones in the same breath, keeping one eye on the little patch of clear space just a few feet away from both battles. Only over-confident, stupid people still too battle-fogged and weary could have ignored that.

His Aunt laughed again, spewed out venomous words that goaded and taunted the Weasley matriarch. Her eyes had been malicious, her blood-red wand raised like a conductor's and the future had cut itself into two, where both possible outcomes had been just as horrible as the other. Then something had happened.

The next time he had gotten his hands on a crystal ball, he had scryed until his nose had bled, devoted days searching for that exact point when the tide had turned. It was one of his great unsolved mysteries, one that was likely to haunt him 'til his dying day. Something had happened at that very moment, something that had made Bellatrix's other personality surface. Perhaps she had gotten a glimpse of silver hair and forest-flecked eyes, or the child in her had seen something in the Weasley chit, or maybe his Disillusionment Charm had faded just enough in the magical crosswind and she had seen his face. In any case, it had been just for the barest skin of a second, the real Bellatrix looking straight at him with the slightest hint of impish childishness and knowing, and then the world had come screaming back when Molly Weasley struck.

He had seen that in a vision too, and his heart had already broken once when his mother had dissolved into tears at the news. He had kept his tears at bay as finally- finally – the last true battle took place. He hadn't even wanted to watch it, but he had owed Potter that much at least. The very castle was humming with anticipation, the end of an era drawing near, the taste of pumpkin juice thick on his tongue…

Potter spoke the words to the Disarming Spell – he had always had a strange love for it – and everything had happened too fast for normal eyes to follow. Draco hadn't even stayed around long enough to watch Voldemort hit the ground. His Disillusionment spell had lasted a second longer, finally melting off him as he grasped his father around the neck and sobbed thankfully into his shoulder.

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End of Chapter