Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by keppiehed.


Draco stared at the object on the floor before him, immobilized not by wards now, but by his own hesitation. He dimly registered Potter's diminishing footfalls and the eventual slamming of the front door that echoed his exit. The silence hung thick like cobwebs over everything, but Draco didn't have time to spare a thought for loneliness. He was transfixed by the wand—his wand. It called out to him, it sang to his blood, and he could deny it no longer. Nor did he want to.

Draco stooped and finally plucked it gently from the ground where it had been placed. The crackle of magic sizzled through his nerves. Draco closed his eyes and gripped the end, leveraging the weight of it for just a moment. He savoured the feel of its tapered grace between his fingers. Ollivander had first described it as springy, and indeed, when Draco flicked it, there was an answering coil, a little bit of life in the length. Some wands were thick and blunt—they were so clumsy and unresponsive. Not this one; never this one. It had suited Draco right from the beginning: a ten-inch beauty made of hawthorn, the same wood as his birth tree in the Celtic calendar. It was meant to be. The core contained a single unicorn hair, and it was only fitting that he would master a wand that held traces of the very purest magical being. Draco smiled as he realized how much he had missed having his wand. It was a homecoming of sorts; it was back where it belonged, in his hand to command.

Not with some pretender to borrowed glory. Draco's lips curled. He hardly even knew what he meant by that, but his rancor flared when he thought of his mother dying, of this wand tucked away under Potter's arm. A wizard with two wands was as unnecessary as a wizard with two heads—a foolish extravagance that the Malfoys had paid for. In blood.

Draco wouldn't soon forget that. Potter could waltz in here and act the hero all he wanted, but Draco knew him to be significantly less than that. He was nothing but a coward with a complex, and even if no one else could see it, Draco could. And since no one wanted to make Potter play fair, Draco would just have to take on that task for himself.

The rage at the unfairness of it all bubbled up in him. The thought that Potter was universally loved when he was clearly so undeserving—that Draco had been made to pay, was still paying, yet was viewed as a villain—the fury boiled over and he wrathfully threw a curse out at the nearest object— a cloisonné vase. “Expulso!”

Draco waited to hear the shatter. He couldn't relax until the explosion of violence had released, and he stared, a little perplexed, at the untouched and perfectly formed vase before him. It wasn't so much as teetering on the stand.

“Confringo!” he tried again, intent on utter obliteration. Now he didn't just want a shatter, he wanted fire, too—the whole works.

Nothing happened.

Draco frowned and stared at his wand. The pent up frustration began to turn sour in his gut as he examined it. It was, indeed, his wand. This was no joke, nor was the wand an impostor. Perhaps Potter had enchanted it somehow into only casting nonviolent charms? Draco gave it another go. He concentrated on making a duplicate vase. That should be considered harmless. “Geminio!”

Only the dust motes danced in a shaft of sunlight.

Draco's frown deepened. He didn't know what was going on here, but one thing was certain. Harry Potter had fucked up his wand.


*


After Draco had spent the better part of the afternoon and evening trying out every spell he knew with no success, he had to admit that he was stymied. Had he lost his magic? The idea shamed him; Draco instantly discarded the thought. No, this was certainly all Potter's doing. Draco racked his brains to come up with a feasible explanation for why his wand would malfunction, but nothing came to mind. He was at a loss.

Draco didn't want to go to his father and ask for advice on this matter. He knew that Lucius wouldn't belittle him, but he would rather work it out on his own before he had to bring a possible failure to his father's attention. Unfortunately, he was fresh out of ideas. In desperation, he turned to the only contact he had: Pansy.

Scowling, he sent an owl asking for her to come to the Manor at her earliest convenience. He hated feeling backed into a corner. His return to England had been fraught with nothing but problems. Had it really been easier to live as a Muggle? The very thought seemed blasphemous.

The Parkinsons' house owl returned promptly with Pansy's response that she would arrive at the Manor just after breakfast.

Draco didn't know whether to be relieved or wary at her obvious eagerness. He settled on his usual indifference. Pansy was welcome to have her own agenda, as long as it didn't deter him from his own. He couldn't care less what her machinations were, so long as she served his purpose.

Having decided on a course of action, Draco got ready for bed. It didn't matter that he knew less this evening than he had the last, that even though he had his wand he had more questions than ever before. At least he had his wand, and he was going to talk with Pansy tomorrow. And he was going to work on a plan of revenge to cut Potter down to size. It would all work out in the end. It had to.

*

“I've been meaning to ask you if you had considered your employment opportunities,” Lucius said casually over scones the next morning.

Draco choked as a grain lodged in his throat. It took him a few awkward moments and ended with a rude spraying of crumbs before he regained his composure. “I beg your pardon?” he managed.

“A job,” Lucius drawled. “Surely you have been thinking of employment.”

“You want me to... work? Like a common... person?” Draco gasped. He could feel his mouth hanging open, and he tried to close it, but it kept wanting to unhinge.

“Come, now!” Lucius said in irritation. “It isn't as if I am asking you to sully your hands in trade. You are always so melodramatic, for Merlin's sake! I am merely asking you if you had considered all of your options, that's all.”

“But... but...” Draco could only stammer in shock. Malfoys didn't work!

“I can see that you are under the misconception that Malfoys don't work. Malfoys don't work at menial labor, low-paying jobs, Draco,” Lucius clarified helpfully. “We do, however, have a fortune to protect. How do you think the rich keep getting richer?”

“Um. Investments and all that?” Draco guessed.

“Perhaps. I am anxious to hear your theories about what my days were comprised of while I was at the Ministry. Do you care to expound upon that for my edification?” Lucius asked.

Draco pouted. “Now you are just poking fun at me.”

Lucius schooled his features. “What did you think I did all day at work, Draco?”

“Drink brandy and smoke cigars. Play games. Do... whatever,” Draco mumbled.

“What?” Lucius sounded incredulous.

“I thought there was a club there for people like us. To go and do whatever we wanted.” Draco's face was flaming.

“Draco! A special club! At the Ministry! Whatever gave you such an idea?” Lucius sounded strangled.

“I didn't think it for my entire childhood. I just—I thought we were special,” Draco defended himself.

There was a sigh. “Draco, we are special. But we still have to work—At a real job.”

“But we don't need the money!” Draco wailed.

A glint of steel entered Lucius' eyes.

Draco recognized that look, and he inwardly groaned. The argument was over. Now.

“Some things aren't about money, Son. You need a raison d'être, as it were.” Lucius made an offhand gesture as he spoke.

“I already have one—making Potter pay,” Draco muttered.

“What was that?” Lucius asked, a hint of menace creeping into his tone.

“Nothing, Father,” Draco answered darkly. “Go on, I can see that you aren't finished.”

Lucius gave him an assessing look. “You certainly aren't going to find it sitting around here. It's time you pursued a career. Failing that, a job. You will go out today and begin seeing what might appeal to you,” Lucius said calmly. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin and stood up.

“Today? Wait, I—”

The bell rang sonorously and echoed throughout the empty marble halls of the manse. It was one of the things to have recently been restored, so both Lucius and Draco jumped when they heard it.

“Guests at this hour?” Lucius queried.

Draco grinned guiltily. “Sorry, Father, I forgot to mention that I invited Pansy over today.”

Lucius held up a hand. “No need to apologize. I shall finish up here and retire to the South Study for the duration of your guest's visit, should you require privacy. After your company, I can assume you will make the appropriate arrangements, as per our discussion?” Lucius raised an eyebrow meaningfully. It wasn't a suggestion.

“Thanks, Father. I'll remember.” Draco gave a small nod and turned to let Pansy in.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Lucius called.

Draco paused.

“This hardly bears mentioning, but I trust that you will not do anything to cause Potter to review the terms of our exoneration?” Lucius gave him a hard stare.

Draco dropped his gaze. “Of course not, Father.”

“Very well. I will see you this evening.” Lucius turned away in dismissal.

Draco trotted the not inconsiderable distance to the front door, his guilt close behind him like shadow.

Pansy was fidgeting on the other side of the door. “I came as soon as I could! What do you need, Draco? What's wrong, why—”

“Shhh!” Draco glanced behind him to see if his father was within earshot. “Come on, let's go to the Blue Room.”

They made their way to one of the parlor rooms and Draco shut the door. He scowled when he remembered that he had to go to town today. He had to get a job! Damn it!

“What? What is it?” Pansy fluttered around.

Draco snapped back to the problem at hand. “Nothing, I was just thinking of something else,” he grumbled. “I brought you here because I have something to show you.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy breathed. “I'm so glad you finally—”

Draco pulled his wand from his sleeve and held it out before him.

Pansy broke off. “Oh,” she said lamely. “That... um... wand.” She coughed delicately. “ I mean, what can I do for you, Draco?”

He ignored the pained expression on her face. She was lucky that he was using her at all, the ungrateful wench! He could have called anyone else! Like... well, anyone else. Draco brandished it impatiently.

Pansy shrank back.

“No! You don't understand. It isn't working!” Draco had to lower his voice. He felt his temper threatening to rise up and consume him. The mere thought of Potter was like a Muggle hair trigger.

“Wait a minute...” Pansy's eyes turned calculating. “Didn't Potter have your wand? The last time we saw him at the Three Broomsticks? How did you get it back?”

Draco sighed. Pansy hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin for nothing. “Yeah. It's a long story, actually, but it's here now. I would say good as new, but that's obviously not the case, is it?” he said snidely.

Pansy crossed her arms over her chest. “I can't help you if I don't know all the facts, Draco.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He stood up straighter and stepped closer to her. Pansy didn't give an inch. Draco eased into her personal space. He could feel the heat of her body radiating out. Her eyes widened. He could almost hear her heart beating faster. He knew he had her. He was close enough to see the flutter in the delicate vein at her throat, the tremble in her breath—that little hitch that he knew was just for him. He leaned down and said very softly, “It's none of your business, Pansy.” He let his breath ghost softly over her ear, down her neck. She shuddered.

He pulled away. “Besides, it doesn't matter how it came to be in my possession. I have it now.” He let a leer take over his features, as if there were some delightful exploit he had masterminded to trick Potter, or embarrass him out of the wand. He didn't have to say any more than that. He certainly didn't want to have to explain the less-than-glorious truth. He put on his most confident, self-assured expression.

Pansy bought it. “So, why isn't it working? What does that even mean?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Watch and learn. Furnunculus!”

Pansy shrieked. She grabbed her face.

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Draco snapped. “I said it didn't work, didn't I?”

Pansy's piercing scream died off. Her eyes were round with fright. “That's not funny, Draco!” she said shakily. “I thought I'd have boils all over my face!”

“Weren't you listening? I've been trying to tell you. You're starting to bore me. Maybe I should have called Zabini,” Draco bluffed.

Pansy drew in a breath. “Well, good luck on that account,” she huffed.

Draco pressed his lips together. This wasn't going as he had planned. “Listen, I didn't mean to frighten you,” he tried in his best conciliatory tone. “I called you because you have the greatest ideas, Pans. I thought you might know what's going on.”

Pansy stuck her lip out. “Yeah, I don't know. I'll have to think about it, but I have never heard of a wand that doesn't do magic. Maybe I can ask around.”

“No, no!” Draco said, alarmed. The last thing he needed was for word of this to get out. “I only trust you with this information.”

Pansy cracked a small smile. “Really?”

“Of course,” he affirmed. Merlin, she was easy. “Listen, I hate to be a boorish host, but I have some things to do in town. Can I walk you to the Apparition point?”

“Oh, I'll just go with you! I have some errands to run, too!” Pansy had a new spring in her step. “I have to stop by Flourish and Blott's because my new stationery is in, and then...”

Draco tuned her out, but he wasn't pleased to hear that she would be around to see him have to try and sell his soul. He managed to catch the last of what she was saying, “... meet up at the Three Broomsticks by four o'clock? Will that give you enough time to finish up your running around?”

Draco grabbed onto that lifeline. He didn't particularly relish having to spend more time with Pansy, but a few hours scouring for work was more than enough. He could tell his father that he had tried, but then had keep his word to a friend. “Yes, perfect,” he said quickly.

“Great! See you then,” Pansy said.

“See you then,” Draco echoed. He felt a headache starting. It was going to be a long day.


*


Draco rubbed his aching temples. It had been a long day. It wasn't even four yet, but he'd had about all he could take. His pride was hanging in tatters. Looking for a job was the hardest thing he had ever had to do... one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, he amended. Once people realized that the reason he was there was to apply for work, the reactions had ranged from incredulity to amusement to sarcasm to downright malice. Draco couldn't go in one more place, couldn't bear to make one more inquiry. He had never felt so defeated. It was only through muscle memory and years of perfectly maintained posture that he didn't slump his shoulders, but squared them. It sure didn't feel like pride keeping them stiff right now.

Draco wearily made his way to the bar at the Three Broomsticks. He wasn't due to meet Pansy here for a quarter hour or so, but he could do with an extra drink today, anyway. He placed his order, got his drink, and decided to take a seat in the corner. He was tired in mind and body. He felt broken, and he just wanted to disappear.

It was a testament to his distraction that he didn't see them until he stumbled into the chair. “I'm sor—” The apology died on his lips as he saw exactly whom he had sloshed with his Firewhisky.

Ron Weasley.

Draco's brain felt numb. That face hadn't changed much in all these years. It still looked as dumb as pudding, and that shock of miserable red hair didn't help things. Draco made himself look around at the faces he knew would be assembled. It was worse than he thought.

The table looked like a reunion of the Gryffindor glee team, Draco thought sourly. He recognized Hermione, Ginny and Neville instantly. Of course, no gathering could be complete without the king of their tidy little group.

Grey eyes meshed with green.

Draco was on guard instantly to say something nasty when he realized that Potter was looking scattered. Well, more unfocused than usual. What was his problem? Draco looked closer. Was he drunk? At four o'clock in the afternoon? What a sodding idiot! Draco felt the opportunity for unchecked embarrassment spread out before him. What a gift on such a miserable day! All of what he had been through was nearly worth it, as his bitterness now knew no bounds. He was in a fine mood for spite, and he wasn't going to pass this up.

“Oi!” Ron shouted. “Watch what you're doing, you clumsy oaf!” He shook his arm where a drop of whisky had landed. “Can't even eat lunch in peace with out being fallen on by klutzes!” he complained to Ginny.

Hermione looked a little sick. “Ron! Let it go. We don't want a fight,” she said softly.

“No, my apologies,” Draco said pleasantly. “ I'm so sorry to have intruded upon your luncheon, Weasel. But then it looks like there isn't much eating going on here. Quite a bit of drinking for the afternoon, though! You Gryffindors never could hold your liquor worth a damn.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “In fact, it's high time you got your great hero home before someone sees him in this state, Weaselette. You wouldn't want people knowing that he has to get totally smashed in order to stomach the thought of being with you.”

Ginny drew in a sharp breath.

“Malfoy—” Harry growled.

Draco cocked his head. “Ooh, that one sting? Is it true that you can't get it up unless you've had enough alcohol to make Ginny look like her brother, you pathetic drunken louse? Don't think I haven't heard the rumours, and I've only been back a few weeks. Why don't you have another bottle and maybe she'll end up looking like the twins? Then you can shag two for one, you bleary-eyed sot!” Actually, Draco hadn't heard any rumours whatsoever, but throwing in mentions of shagging your best pal and his brothers was about the worst insult he could think of at the moment, and Draco was in it for blood.

There were gasps all around the table. The feel of a punch that landed and hit its mark squarely, like a fist connecting with bone, couldn't have been more satisfying. There was a primal glee in the pit of his stomach. If Draco hadn't been gloating so much over the humiliation of his rival, he might have seen the murderous look on Potter's face. What happened next took him by surprise.

With lightning-fast reflexes, muscles and a physique honed by years of Auror training, Potter was up and out of his chair before Draco could blink. He wouldn't have predicted that Potter could still be so agile while obviously blind drunk. And while Potter was shorter than he was, Draco was powerless to do anything except struggle against the man who held him completely in check, one arm twisted behind his back. The balance of power had shifted in that instant. Draco felt breath on his neck.

“We are taking this outside, once and for all, you sack of shit,” he heard, for his ears only. He didn't have time to shiver at the menace he'd rarely heard in Potter's voice before he felt himself being propelled through the bar and out the front door.

In that moment, it was as if the world fell away and they were the only two left standing there in the aftermath. For the first time in his life, Draco forgot his audience. He didn't care what he looked like or who was watching. He could only feel the other man at his back, in total control. He let the rage burst through him and take over.

It felt good to finally unleash the beast of emotion within. He had always been so carefully controlled. He was always aware of himself, his body, his tremendous responsibility. Now, here, he was alive and there was nothing but him and Potter in the street. He let go of it all and let himself break free.

Potter threw Draco away from him and Draco stumbled out into the street. He whirled, and the two men faced each other. All Draco could see was hate; all he could taste was his fury. He just wanted to beat Potter to a miserable pulp! If he could get his arms around his neck... He lunged for him, but the other man was too quick, and he shifted out of the way.

Potter drew his wand as Draco stumbled after him once again. “Been living the Muggle way too long, eh, Draco? Forgot the way we do things here? But then I was always quicker on the uptake than you were,” he taunted. Potter waved his wand in front of Draco. “This is how a real wizard fights. Or have you forgotten?” He raised it in front of his face in the unmistakable signal for the challenge to a duel.

Draco gritted his teeth. This was where losing control had gotten him! How could he ever possibly win? He searched the faces in the crowd that had started to gather, but no one stepped forward. Not that he needed it. He sniffed and raised his chin defiantly.

“No one here's going to help you, Draco. Fight your own battles, for once!” Harry shouted.

“I always fight my own battles, Potter,” Draco ground out. He drew his wand and saluted. He wouldn't cringe, no matter the curse, he promised himself. He would stand here and take it like a Malfoy.

Time seemed to stop, as it does in those surreal moments before a catastrophic event. Draco raised his own wand in a cursory attempt to look as if he was blocking the spell, but when he heard Potter's “Expulso!” he understood, too late, how far he had pushed. Potter meant business, then. Draco closed his eyes, let his wand fall away, and waited for the explosion to engulf him.

He didn't see Pansy pushing through the assemblage, and in the spell's rush toward him he couldn't hear her cries or the fevered “Protego!” that she cast. It was too little, too late, but it served enough of a purpose to shield him from the severity of the blast.

All Draco felt was a gentle waft of a breeze on his forehead before the kiss of the two spells crushed him. He was dreaming of green, so much green... Was it the Slytherin shade of his house colours, or a brighter hue? That was his last disquieting thought as he fell over in the dirt in front of the Three Broomsticks, never having uttered a word in his own defence.