Chapter Text
Malfoy Manor – August 1994
Draco Malfoy was incredibly bored.
The steadily sinking sun was shining over the English countryside, a beautiful summer’s evening painting the sky in shades of orange, gold, and pink. The shrill call of a peacock could occasionally be heard across the lawns of the manor gardens, a gentle breeze tickling the grass.
And there Draco sat. Upon his balcony, propped up amidst a pile of cushions, spellbooks, and unfinished scrolls of homework; whiling the hours away as he spotted shapes in the clouds, drips of condensation sliding down a pitcher of lemonade near his feet.
He was quietly singing the lyrics to David Bowie’s ‘Life on Mars?’, a wonderful song he wouldn’t be able to listen to for another three weeks as it was a song written by a Muggle pop artist, and the only place he could listen to it was the Muggle Studies classroom at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
It was a strange thing, to be yearning for the gusty, dimly-lit halls of the castle in the Highlands. The babble of his peers in the corridors, the thousands of floating candles in the Great Hall, the routine of classes, revision, and homework. He even longed for the view of the murky green depths of the lake from the windows of Slytherin house…
Between attending social functions with his parents, catching up with his Snakes; Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, and Vincent Crabbe, and simply wasting his days away, Draco’s summer holidays were shaping up to be dreadfully dull. There was simply nothing to do! Wasting away in his extravagant bedchambers, longing for the one person’s company he couldn’t have.
He was just preparing to unleash his umpteenth deep sigh of the day when he noticed it. A dark blob forming on the horizon, quickly drawing nearer and nearer.
Draco sat up as he recognised the shape of an owl soaring towards the manor.
It was a smart-looking but unfamiliar barn owl, a rolled up newspaper clutched in its talons. It certainly wasn’t the typical time of day that the paper arrived, and at the speed the owl was flying, it was clearly express mail. For The Daily Prophet to be delivering express owls at this hour, well, that could only mean one thing…
Draco shot to his feet, nearly tripping over his Charms spellbook in his haste to get back inside his bedchambers, bounding over his four-poster bed and flinging the doors to his suite wide open, rushing down the hall, bare feet slapping on the cold marble. The sound of his ancestors barking at him from their golden frames to slow down followed him down the gilded hallway, but he paid them no heed.
He had already reached the end of his wing of the manor when he suddenly remembered just how far away the owlery was from his room. With a great put upon huff, Draco promptly turned and ran all the way back to his bedchambers, his ancestors once again calling out for him to stop running.
As soon as he skidded back into the room, he grabbed the well-polished broomstick – now a Nimbus 2001 that his mother had surprised him with at the start of the holidays – at the end of his bed, and took a running jump off his balcony.
Easily mounting mid-air – as he had been practising for the past week (what else was there to do?) – he flew around the side of the manor, soaring over the gardens before slowing down as he floated up to the open-windowed turret where the owls were kept, landing carefully on the windowsill.
The Malfoy eagle-owls squawked in shock as he jumped down through the top of the tower among them, feathers spraying in all directions. Draco ignored them in favour of propping his broom against the wall and approaching the barn owl that had just arrived, its feathered chest heaving as it panted, exhausted from its frenzied flight.
Draco let out a sharp breath, raising his eyebrows as he addressed the bird. “I believe you have something for me?”
The owl hooted softly, tiredly offering its leg to him. Draco made quick work of untying the newspaper from the string attached to the bird's talon, unrolling the Daily Prophet as quickly as he could.
The triumphant cheer that left him as he laid eyes on the front page startled the owls once more, another cloud of feathers scattering across the floorboards as they hooted and flapped their wings angrily.
EXTRA! EXTRA!
BLACK WINS! PETTIGREW SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN!
At exactly 4.38pm this afternoon, the highly awaited results of the trial between the supposed Muggle murderer Sirius Black, and the once presumed dead Peter Pettigrew finally came to light.
The reopened case has finally been closed once and for all. Reporter for the Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter, writes:
The infamous Sirius Black, who was once thought to have killed thirteen innocent Muggles on the 31st of October 1981, was in fact framed by his once close friend, Peter Pettigrew.
Pettigrew, a hopeless, feeble boy in school, according to the people who knew him well before he turned to You-Know-Who’s aid…
Scoffing, Draco turned his eyes instead to the large, black and white picture that was splashed across the front page.
It was of Sirius Black descending the steps of the Ministry Atrium, smiling, with his arm around the shoulders of a similarly smiling Harry Potter, both of them ducking away from the flashing lights of cameras and the press hounding them.
“Finally,” Draco sighed, grinning like a loon.
He had honestly been quite baffled about what had been taking so long with the trial. It seemed simple enough to him! Pettigrew, who had faked his death and framed Sirius, was suddenly alive again and missing a finger, which was the only thing they could find of his supposed remains in 1981!
But it was more complicated, so it seemed. The Wizengamot had been twiddling their thumbs over the reopened case for the better half of the summer holidays. The Weasleys had even apparently attended one hearing, with the Prefect-Weasley and Ronald both giving their insight on Pettigrew hiding as their pet rat for twelve years.
It was all the wixen world had been able to talk about for weeks, hanging onto every new article about it in The Daily Prophet and even in Witch Weekly. It was the hottest topic of conversation for his mother’s circle of wix when they came for tea, and it was all his Lions could write about in the letters they sent him. Apart from Hermione, who often inquired how Draco was finding their summer homework.
In Harry’s latest letter, received almost a week ago, he'd told Draco all about how fantastic it was living with his godfather. How, in between the court proceedings, they were working on making the Black Ancestral house, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a home.
It made a smug little smirk perch on Draco’s face as he watched the loop of Harry in the black and white picture, beaming away at Sirius before turning his face from the press.
Draco had done that.
If he hadn't caught Pettigrew, he was willing to bet his brand new broomstick that Harry would still be living with his Merlin-awful relatives who treated him like a ruddy house-elf.
And the cherry on top; catching Pettigrew also meant he’d put a stop to the return of Tom Riddle. Yes. He, Draco Malfoy, had done just as his future self had asked all those years ago, and single-handedly stopped the return of the darkest wizard of their time.
He didn’t even need the Journal of Dreadful Things anymore, and he wondered every day if he should tell his Lions about it.
Draco tore his eyes away from Harry’s grinning face, his gaze trailing further down the article. Pettigrew had apparently pleaded guilty, accepting his fate with the evidence stacked against him. It was perhaps the most decent thing he had done in his entire life
His attention was drawn away from the paper as the barn owl, clearly having recovered, hooted again, jangling the money pouch strapped to its other leg at him expectantly. Draco rolled his eyes.
“Our money goes directly to the Prophet’s pockets with our subscription,” he told the bird haughtily, grabbing his broom as he tucked the newspaper in his robe pocket. Flicking his blond hair over his shoulder, he pointed to the twenty-two carat gold water bowl and treat dispenser across the room. The owl’s eyes widened dramatically.
“Feel free to have some refreshments . Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Deciding he was going to do some victory laps around the manor grounds, Draco jumped back on his broom, loop-de-looping into the warm summer sky with a content smile on his face.
***
Later that evening, as Draco sat down at the table for dinner, he shared a surprised look with his mother when familiar footsteps and the clack of a cane against marble echoed down the hall.
His mother quickly schooled her face into one of careful indifference as his father stepped into the warmly lit dining room.
His father showing his face when they dined was something of a rarity these days, in that it never happened.
He'd climbed his way back up to the top of the food chain at the Ministry through generous donations, according to his mother… Though he was working very late most days, coming home well after dinner.
Not that Draco was complaining. He was, in fact, relieved he didn’t have to address the erumpent in the room. That was, of course, that Draco was now rather taken with Muggle culture. It was something he was glad he hadn’t had to discuss. To confess , even, because he knew what his father would say about it. That he was ashamed of him, most likely. That he brought dishonour on the family name, and disgraced his ancestors and everything they ever stood for…
So for now, it was Draco’s little secret.
His father smiled smugly as he approached the long table. He also appeared to be much more like himself again, that haggard, scruffy visage of the last summer replaced with his usual clean shaven self, his silvery blond hair immaculately brushed and his work robes neatly pressed.
However, there was this gleam in his eye that left Draco feeling… odd.
His father cleared his throat as he took his seat at the head of the table. The nearest elf, Mipsy, snapped her fingers, and his place was magically set. His father sniffed as he looked down his nose at the elf with an imperious glare. Bowing her head low, Mipsy disappeared with a small pop!
Draco looked once more to his mother, who had carried on eating her stuffed quail with that same indifferent air. He then looked back to his father, who was swirling his red wine in his glass, the hint of a smirk pulling his lips upwards.
Rather suddenly, Draco felt as though he were eleven years old again, and nothing like soul-leeching diaries or differing beliefs had torn a strange rift between them.
But what was his father up to?
His question was answered at the tail end of the three Malfoys’ awkwardly silent three-course meal. As soon as the pavlova had been served for dessert, the Malfoy Patriarch reached into his robes and withdrew a black envelope with a broken silver wax seal.
“Do you perchance fancy a trip to the Quidditch World Cup, Draco?” he asked simply.
Draco could only blink in astonishment as his father pulled three shining, silver tickets out of the envelope.
Of course he wanted to go. It was the Quidditch World Cup! In England! For the first time in nearly a century! But, his father suggesting they go so out of the blue? When he’d not even deigned to give Draco more than a curt greeting for the entirety of the summer holidays thus far?
Draco only opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to say.
"They’re tickets from the Minister himself," his father carried on, crossing his legs as he leant back in his chair. “Top box. A little thank you after my latest donation to St Mungo’s Hospital…What do you say, dear?" He asked, turning to his wife with an easy smirk. "Shall the Malfoys be in attendance?"
His mother merely regarded him over the rim of her wine glass, a perfectly sharp eyebrow raising as the seconds ticked by.
Draco had no clue what had happened while he was away at school, but the frigid air had still not dispelled between his parents from the previous summer.
His father was visibly beginning to wilt, the smirk slipping from his face. He slid the tickets across the table to her.
"I think it's high time we began acting like a proper family again, wouldn’t you agree?" He prompted.
His mother picked up one ticket, sniffing as she examined it, entirely unimpressed.
"Well,” she said eventually, “If the Minister himself has invited us, I see no reason to decline…”
“Excellent!” His father exclaimed, clapping his hands together as he stood from his seat. “I shall make the arrangements for us immediately!”
When the clacking of his father's cane had faded down the hall, Draco leaned across the table and said, “Mother, that was very odd.”
“I expect it is purely for appearances’ sake, Draco,” his mother replied, eyes narrowed as she glanced towards the doors his father had walked out of. “He would like to appear a perfect family in front of Minister Fudge.”
Draco stared down at his untouched pavlova, frowning.
***
‘There is a Death Eater uprising at the Quidditch World Cup. It is the first warning of the Dark Lord's return to power. Mother and Father both attend it. You will be told to hide in the woods.
His mark will appear in the sky. It means he is coming.’
Draco scoffed a laugh to himself, shaking his head as he shoved the Journal back inside his desk drawer, where it had been gathering dust for three long weeks.
He didn’t need the Journal anymore. He'd already put a stop to Riddle’s return! He'd captured Pettigrew, who was locked away in Azkaban for life.
Riddle wasn’t coming back. Draco didn’t need to worry .
The Minister of Magic had personally invited his father along. That didn't sound like anything to do with Riddle… Draco was worrying for nothing.
Paranoia, his Mind Healer had called it.
And though his mother had said his father only wanted to keep up appearances, maybe… Just maybe … Maybe his father was finally coming around.
Maybe he’d finally realised that family was more important than the Dark Lord, more important than whether one’s blood was pure or not. Perhaps his mother would reconcile with his father, and things could go back to the way they had been before! Just like it had almost felt at the dining table…
Draco retrieved a blank scrap of parchment and uncapped his purple pen with a confident flourish. The set of twenty-four had been a Christmas present from his unlikely friend, Hermione Granger. He was running out of colours, however, and you apparently couldn't refill them…which was not fun.
Draco penned a letter to Harry, firstly congratulating Sirius on winning the trial and then telling Harry his family would be going to the World Cup, asking if he and Sirius would be going along too.
Drifting once more up to the owlery on his broom, Draco sighed to himself as he watched the eagle-owl soar off into the starry night sky, drumming his fingers on the wood of the windowsill.
Yes, the World Cup would be the perfect way to mend things with his father, Draco was sure of it.
***
Malfoy Manor – 16th of August 1994
Draco threw on a simple black tunic, secured with a belt, before pulling on his red hose-tights and shoving on his well polished black dragonhide boots with a cloak to finish his ensemble.
There. Bulgarian team colours.
Draco was incredibly excited. More so than he thought he would be. Twirling around his room as he packed his things, being sure to toss in the flag he'd spelled to have the Bulgarian team colours.
Because of course he would be cheering for Bulgaria.
One word: Krum.
That wasn't to say the Irish team didn't have spectacular players, no, no. They had indeed become regular guest stars in Draco’s dreams, among other players from the Falmouth Falcons and so on…
But Krum was a prodigy. The youngest Seeker in a century, amazingly talented, with such an intense, brooding gaze.
Carefully packing his broomstick just in case they had games where they would be staying, Draco clicked the clasps on his suitcase before rushing down to the entrance hall.
His mother and father were already waiting, both wearing robes suitable for the heat.
Composing himself, Draco strode calmly down the last few steps. “Father, Mother. I'm ready.”
"Very good, Draco,” his father said. “I say, Gobsy, hurry with our things!"
"Yes, Master Malfoy," the wrinkled old elf croaked, levitating their trunks over with shaking arms.
Suddenly, there came the sound of skittering claws on marble and shrill squawks echoing down the corridor as his father's prized white peacocks and peafowls, tethered by harnesses and leads, practically dragged Nipsy the house-elf into the hall.
"Lucius, are you…do you really intend on bringing the peacocks?" Draco’s mother asked in disbelief.
His father pursed his lips, examining the silver serpents head of his cane. "Well, we'll be gone for two days, and I don’t trust the elves to groom them properly. None of them can get near Lady Abigail without getting pecked, and Bartholomew needs to be groomed at least once a –”
“Right, yes, I think I understand,” Draco's mother said briskly, sweeping away to check their luggage.
“Come along, then,” his father said eventually, striding to the middle of the room.
Draco took his mother’s arm, who in turn took his father's.
With a familiar lurching sensation, the world spun in a flurry of colours, and suddenly the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor had turned into a large grassy field filled with at least a thousand tents.
Behind them, a thick forest of trees stood at the top of a sloping hill; vibrant red and yellow signs that said things like ‘Danger: Do Not Enter!’ and ‘Keep Out!’ planted at the bottom.
Gobsy appeared by them not a second later, placing their things down on the grass.
Draco's father clapped his hands, and a trunk opened. A tent magically expanded from the depths of it until it towered over the rest of the small, bog-standard tents around them.
A lavish, extravagant thing the Malfoy tent was: a pavilion made with the finest striped silk spun from acromantulas in India, a flag with the Malfoy family crest flying in the wind at the top.
Draco remembered many occasions in his childhood when they'd holidayed in that tent; whether on foreign hilltops and mountains overlooking spectacular views, or even just in the manor grounds.
It was on one such occasion that his father had attempted to teach him how to fish, which had for some reason ended in Draco running back to the safety of the manor walls, screaming his head off.
"Brings back memories, does it not?" His father laughed, clapping him on the back.
Draco nodded, smiling.
Maybe things really would be all right, after all.
"Oi!" Said an unfamiliar voice.
They turned to find a man approaching them, wearing bright yellow wellies and a floral Muggle dress that reminded Draco of the ones Professor Burbage wore.
"Keep the magic inside the tent, will ya?!” The man exclaimed, scratching at his beard. “This is a Muggle camp!”
"Well, that can't be right," his father drawled, cocking an eyebrow as he peered down his nose at the man. "I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge."
"You really want to take this up with my manager?"
"That's what I said, isn't it? Take me to your manager."
As his father marched away, his mother sighed, shaking her head.
“Come along dear,” she said to Draco, “let's have a spot of tea.”
The inside of the tent was an exact replica of their parlour, only with the marble staircase leading to two hallways, one for his parents chambers, the other for his own. A crystal chandelier dangled from the upward swoop of the tent ceiling, medieval tapestries covering where the windows should've been.
A gilded archway on one side peered into the kitchen, where Gobsy was busy shuffling about, stocking the cupboards for their stay.
"Tea, Gobsy!" His mother called out, practically flopping onto the chaise lounge in a moment of rare inelegance.
Draco sat opposite her on the settee, kicking off his muddy dragonhide boots and wiggling his hose-clad toes as he accepted a teacup and saucer that filled itself with piping hot tea.
***
Over the course of the next two days, the campsite filled up with thousands of tents, so much so that it was like a city of wix from all over the world, all of them arriving to watch the final.
Vince and Greg arrived on the second day of camping with their parents in tow, bringing with them a boatload of Irish and Bulgarian paraphernalia.
Draco had not gotten to spend as much time as he would've liked making amendments with his father, really only having the opportunity to talk at meal times.
Even then the conversations were stilted and strange.
His father seemed to disappear a lot, and the one time Draco had followed him, he found him striding through the camp with Greg's father, Ivan Goyle.
Draco thought it strange, but they had only been talking about the finale of the World Cup; Ivan asking if Draco’s father was prepared.
It didn't sit right with Draco, but he was sure Riddle wasn’t returning. Draco was just being ‘paranoid.’
His mother spent her time reading and embroidering inside the tent, seeming to become more and more at ease with the presence of her husband.
Slowly but surely, things were getting better.
And his father still had yet to bring up the topic of Muggle Studies. Draco saw it as a blessing.
***
Quidditch World Cup Camping Grounds — 18th of August 1994
On the day of the match, Draco decided he was going to go exploring. He didn’t think he could spend another minute cooped up in the tent.
The peacocks had thankfully been tethered outside for their breakfast, not going for Draco’s ankles when he stepped out as they were too preoccupied with pecking their scattered feed from the grass.
For some bizarre reason, they had to abide by the Statute of Secrecy. Something to do with the Muggles owning the camping grounds or whatnot. Many fellow wixen campers were cooking breakfast on an open campfire outside their tiny tents, as opposed to using the stove most wixen tents came with.
The campsite seemed to stretch on for literal miles , with wix from seemingly every culture having shown up.
Draco tromped through the busy grounds, passing all sorts of different tents and hearing all sorts of languages, the smells of different cultural dishes wafting through the air.
There were carts selling Irish and Bulgarian flags, action figures of all the players, trading cards, hats and scarves, and other such paraphernalia. There was even a cart selling Omnioculars. Draco bought himself a pair, also buying a Bulgarian flag for good measure.
It was as he was turning from the cart that a group of burly boys in Bulgarian colours rushed by, one of them knocking shoulders with him.
“Will you watch where you’re –!” Draco’s words died on his tongue as the boy smiled charmingly over his shoulder, raising a hand as he called “Apologies!” in a distinctly Scandinavian accent.
Well. Draco supposed he could forgive him.
Eventually Draco found his feet walking him back to the tent, but he didn't want his adventure to end.
Looking toward the woods, a mischievous thought entered his mind.
His father had told him the stadium was just through the trees, hence why they'd set up camp so close by. Maybe, if he was sneaky enough, he'd be able to catch a glimpse of the teams warming up.
Draco looked about for anyone watching. Thankfully, their tent was tall enough to hide Draco from plain sight as he rushed up the hill and into the trees, finding the path quite easily.
After about ten minutes of walking, Draco's feet were beginning to hurt under the uneven ground, and he found himself wishing he'd gotten his broomstick out of his suitcase to weave leisurely through the trees.
He stopped suddenly when there was a flash of movement and colour up ahead. Stepping over a small bush of brambles, Draco hid, placing a hand over his wand.
He could hear voices – one deep, the other not quite so. They were familiar voices, he realised, as he listened. There was more rustling, followed by a flash of green and orange fabric through the brush.
Bravely venturing forwards, Draco craned his head around the thick trunk of an oak to find…
“Oh. It's just you two.”
Vince, who had adorned a cloak with the colours of the Irish flag and painted shamrocks on his cheeks, turned and said, "Shh!"
Draco placed his hands on his hips, affronted. "Don't tell me to 'shh!'"
“Look!” said Greg, pointing down the hill. “They’re getting the stadium ready!”
Draco looked.
The stadium itself looked like a ginormous, open roofed big-top circus tent. An arena decorated with the colours of both teams that would be playing tonight.
About forty wix on broomsticks were whizzing around the outside of the stadium, flashes of spells bouncing against an invisible force field.
“They’re only checking the security, it's not that exciting,” Draco drawled, though his stomach swooped with anticipation.
***
Draco sighed as his tent came back into view, trudging back down the hill with Vince and Greg at his heels. They broke off to go back to their own tents when they reached the bottom.
“See you at Daff’s garden party next week!” Vince chirped.
“She says she managed to get her dad to hire a circus and everything,” Greg added.
Draco just gave them a half hearted thumbs up, not in the mood to feel excited about Daphne Greengrass’ stupid circus .
Harry had said he would be here, but Draco hadn't managed to fatefully bump into him as he had hoped he would.
He usually did.
But dusk was falling over the campsite, and soon the match would take off.
He slipped into the tent to find his father adjusting the buttons of his pure black robes in the mirror that stood above the mantel.
“Ah, Draco, there you are,” he said lightly, looking at him in his reflection. “I thought I ought to let you know that when we watch the game, you are not to sport the colours of either team.”
Draco frowned. “Whyever not?”
“The managers of each country’s team will be in attendance at the top box, as well as the ambassadors and Ministry officials,” his father drawled. “We are also to attend the celebrations after the match as Fudge’s distinguished guests. We cannot appear to favour either team.”
Draco frowned down at his Bulgarian flag. “Yes, Father.”
Slipping into neutral silvery robes and slippers, Draco rolled his eyes. Now Krum would never know he was a fan.
“All set, darling?” His mother asked when he descended his staircase, fussing with his hair. She had robes of deep jewel blue on, sapphire earrings to match.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed for seven, and the loud, echoing sound of a gong rang through the field, signalling that it was time for the match begin...