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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I don’t own the boys, they belong to Ms Rowling. The story title is taken from Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’, and refers to Prospero’s line: ‘My library was dukedom large enough’. The chapter title is taken from the poem ‘You'd Entertain the Universe...' by Charles Baudelaire. Done for fun, not profit!

My Dear Draco,

Thank you so much for your last letter. You have no idea how much our correspondences cheer me up these days. I was especially amused by the somewhat acerbic account of your encounters with the goblins who sold you those rune charts for the library. Your sarcasm is truly cutting at times – it makes me feel that I must have done something right when raising you. I actually had to perform a Muffliato Charm upon myself at one point because I did not want to disturb anyone with my laughing! I hope that you won’t be angry with me for finding amusement in your various tales of hardship. I can’t help but think that you intend me to be entertained.

Honestly, my darling, your letter could not have come at a better time. I confess I have been feeling rather low of late. We were honoured with a visit from your Aunt Clementine last week. Well, she considered it to be an honour, at least. I suppose I should be grateful. She has helped us a lot in the past – we would never have got this little cottage without her, and she was the one who found a doctor for your father who wouldn’t be biased by the name of Malfoy. Yes, I should be grateful. I am grateful. I do all I can to suppress the urge to inform Clementine that she can take her condescension and her snide remarks and… but I digress. I know that she hates coming here and only does it out of a sense of duty. I wish she wouldn’t. She makes her contempt about the way our house is run perfectly clear, but then with only one elderly house-elf left, what could she expect? Ugh, in-laws!

The visit ended rather badly, I’m afraid. She upset your father by bringing up the war and he got very distressed. I had to sedate him and put him to bed. Oh, it makes me so angry! I really do believe that he is starting to improve, but the slightest thing can cause a setback. I’m afraid the whole affair has left me rather upset, so I was glad to have a bit of a giggle over your letter. You mustn’t resent me for it.

I am so glad that you are in higher spirits about this year. I think that this promotion is a wonderful thing for you – do try to enjoy it as much as possible. If I think that you are happy, I feel more at ease. It hasn’t been easy, knowing how your father and I have let you down. You will try to be nice to the other staff members, won’t you? And don’t tyrannise the children too much (I know it will be hard). Forgive my interference, but I hate to think of you cutting yourself off from humanity completely. You never know, you may find someone whose company you enjoy. Now, I can picture you rolling your eyes as you read this, so I shall stop my lecturing. You know I only do it because I love you; nagging is a mother’s prerogative. Work hard, make sure you eat properly and write whenever you can. Don’t worry about us, we’re holding up.

All my love,

Your Mother.

Draco wanted to savour the moment. He ran a hand over the thick mahogany door, enjoying the feeling of its smooth, cold surface under his skin. Then, with a small intake of breath, he pushed. The door creaked painfully and resisted his efforts, but he was not to be put off. He made a large enough gap to get through, and then slipped inside. The door fell shut behind him with an ominous boom. Several oil lamps immediately flickered into life and Draco found himself in a huge, high-ceilinged room filled with shelves upon shelves of books. There were so many books, they even lined the walls from floor to ceiling, leaving gaps only for the odd little winding staircases which led to other floors. A long row of large desks, topped with green leather, ran down the centre of the room.

Draco felt the familiar prickling at the back of his neck, and allowed the soft whispers of magic to wash over him. The sensation never disturbed him; it made him feel somehow that he was being accepted, that he was granted knowledge of a great secret. His eyes roamed over the cavernous room, empty apart from himself and the books, and permitted himself a rare smile. Hogwarts library.

Mine.

Draco had come to work at the library three years ago. For three years he had slaved away under the tyrannical eye of Madam Pince. He had borne her insults without a single retort. He had bitten his tongue and resisted the urge to protest when she had granted him only the most menial, boring tasks which were well below his capability. He had tolerated her abysmal filing system and her antiquated and impractical methods. Draco had taught himself patience over the past three years, making it though each day by repeating the mantra that it would pay off in the end.

And now, finally, it had. At the end of last year, Madam Pince had announced her retirement and Draco had been appointed as the new Hogwarts librarian. No longer would he have to be subservient. No longer would he have to put up with other people’s inefficiency. No longer would he have to bite back his rage at having to obey people whom he was sure didn’t even care about the books. Never again. Finally, he could put into practice all the plans he had made to revolutionalize the way the library was run. At long last, it would be organised according to his standards, and woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Draco took a couple more steps into the room, tingling with barely contained glee. He had to fight the urge to run the length of the library, whooping with joy.

Draco had always gained a certain amount of satisfaction from studying, but he hadn’t developed the passion for books he now possessed until he was eighteen, during that first year in France. Draco had not been able to sit his N.E.W.T.s that summer because of the events which had taken place at Hogwarts, and had had to repeat his final year at Beauxbatons. He had been infinitely grateful for the excuse to get away. The atmosphere in the little cottage the Malfoys now inhabited had become increasingly oppressive and, although he had felt bad about leaving his mother, he had thought that if he did not escape for a bit he might go mad.

He had liked Beauxbatons. The name of Malfoy was not as notorious there as it was in England. Therefore, although nobody made any effort to befriend Draco, he had found that if he kept his head down people generally left him alone. He hadn’t minded the solitude; he thought it was probably better that way. You couldn’t trust other people.

Having so much time to himself, Draco had become a ferocious reader. Through books he could forget his solitude. Through books he could escape his unhappiness and enter into a whole other world. He would find a secluded corner of the school, or fly his broom up into the Pyrenees, gazing down upon the grand chateau of Beauxbatons Academy, and find an alm or mountain ledge where he could sit with his book of choice.

He had developed a passion for the literature of the great nineteenth-century French wizards, Gautier and Baudelaire, whose works were also known to Muggles. Somewhat surprisingly, to no one more than himself, Draco had also come to love certain Muggle authors. He devoured novels by Henry James and Virginia Woolf, poetry by Donne and Milton, plays by Ibsen and Wilde. He had wondered whether these beloved works of literature would have been available to him at Hogwarts, but Draco would never have dreamed of looking for them back then. He had quickly become obsessed with the acquirement of knowledge. He had begun to study ancient languages and rune charts; he had read books on art and history. It had given him a sense of self-worth. It was a source of pleasure which did not rely on money, or on the kindness of others. And now he could be with them all day every day, and get paid for the pleasure. It was like being employed to receive massages and eat ice cream.

Ah, those books! Each one a tiny universe, each one under his control. At that moment, Draco felt like the most powerful man in the world. He crossed over to the large oak desk, and ran his hand over it covetously. He stepped behind it and sat cautiously in the high-backed chair reserved for him alone, irrationally afraid that someone would tell him to move. It was a new chair and the cost had been taken out of his pay-packet, but Draco didn’t mind. He hadn’t enjoyed the thought of perching in the considerable dent in the old chair, made by Pince’s arse over the many decades she had sat there. No, the new chair was Draco’s way of marking his territory, of signifying that the library was now his.

Draco remembered how he had felt upon returning to England, all those years ago. Back then, he had thought he would be lucky to get a job at all, let alone one he would love. Of course, it hadn’t been easy. With his distinctive looks and even more distinctive name, no respectable employer would even consider Draco. The only thing making him persevere through one cold rejection after another, was the knowledge that to return to his parents in exile would be so much worse. Nevertheless, he had started to panic. He had almost used up his meagre savings, and if he didn’t get a job soon he would have had no choice but to go back to France.

After several fruitless weeks, Draco had resorted to a little light deception. Using his mother’s maiden name as his own, he had finally managed to secure a job, albeit as a bank clerk at Gringotts which hardly set his soul on fire. Still, it was a job and he had needed the money. The work was tedious but it was low profile, which was exactly what Draco had wanted. Consigned to a small office in the backrooms, he rarely had to worry about meeting someone he might recognise from the wizarding world. The goblins didn’t seem to care about his past, which had suited him as well. Resigning himself to the belief that he would never get anything better, he had stayed there for almost four years until, one rainy July afternoon, he had seen the advertisement. He had been flicking idly through the Daily Prophet, not paying much attention to what he was doing, when a small notice at the back had caught his eye.

Draco had tried to quash the excitement he had felt upon reading the advertisement. He had had a glorious vision of himself back at Hogwarts, surrounded by all those wonderful books. The school was the closest thing to a home he had now. Yes, he had made mistakes there, but he could return now as a man and erase his former identity. Oh, to be able to work with books! He had closed his eyes and felt what it would be like to walk into the wonderful library once more. He had recalled the rich smell of the books, the way it felt to walk between the stacks, looking at the volumes, some of which were centuries old, and knowing that each one could teach him something completely new. To be with them every day!

But it was stupid. Draco had caused so much trouble at that school. He had tried to kill Albus Dumbledore, for Merlin’s sake! And he had almost killed two other students in the process, not to mention all his other transgressions. No, they would take one look at his application and throw it away in disgust. Even so…

Draco had been so distracted for the rest of the day that he had miscounted three moneybags, causing his boss, Vladbak, to threaten him with suspension. He had agonized over the job all evening. He had wanted it so badly, and he couldn’t stand the thought of the inevitable rejection. Even so, he would never know if he didn’t try. Not giving himself time to back out, he had sent off a letter to McGonagall, using his real name, as any pretence would have been pointless with her. Then he had steeled himself for the disappointment he would feel if she even bothered to reply.

Draco had been astonished to get a letter from the headmistress just two days later, and even more astonished to find her asking him to an interview the following week. What on earth did McGonagall want? Did she just want to satisfy her curiosity about him? It didn’t seem like the kind of thing she would do. No; impossible as it seemed, she must be genuine. Draco had approached the day of the interview in a frenzy of excitement and apprehension. If there was a chance, if there really was a chance…

Draco had been very grateful that it was the summer holidays. At least that way he would only have to see a couple of people at the most. Ease himself in gently. He had underestimated how deeply it would affect him to return to Hogwarts. He was glad that he had Apparated earlier than needed because he had spent a good ten minutes standing outside the gates, trying to slow his pulse and control his breathing. The flood of memories had been almost overwhelming. You’re not that person any more, he had told himself. You can do things differently this time. He had walked briskly up the long drive, attempting to defy the voice in his head which told him it was all pointless, that he should turn back and not make a fool of himself.

To his great surprise, Headmistress McGonagall had met him at the front doors of the castle. She had surveyed him coolly as he approached, and Draco had felt his already tentative courage slip a further notch.

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy,” she had said. “I saw you waiting by the gate from my office window, and thought I would come and meet you.” She had given Draco a small smile, which was sincere nonetheless, and motioned him to follow her inside.

McGonagall had looked almost exactly as Draco remembered, except that now her hair was streaked with grey. Draco suspected that she was the type of woman who would always look pretty much the same throughout life. He had followed meekly behind her, desperately trying to think of some small-talk with which to engage her so that she wouldn’t think him too much of an idiot. He had never been brilliant at social niceties, and now he was worse than ever. It had suddenly occurred to Draco that the last time he remembered seeing the professor, she had been leading a troupe of stampeding desks, and had had to bite back a fit of nervous laughter.

He had expected the headmistress to lead him to her office, but instead they had ended up in the library. He had been infinitely grateful for this. As soon as the heavy doors closed behind him, he had felt himself relax a little. Home. Row upon row of books. Draco had been able to sense their power, had felt them calling to him, almost. He was so close. How wonderful it would be to work there every day! McGonagall had led him into the small office behind the librarian’s desk, somewhere Draco had never been before. The office had smelt strongly of mothballs and lavender oil, and Draco had sat down in a wooden chair, politely leaving the comfier one for the headmistress.

He had smiled at her nervously and clasped his hands over his knees. “I wasn’t expecting to be interviewed by the headmistress,” he had said, then immediately cursed his inanity.

McGonagall, however, had not seemed to think it a stupid thing to say. She had pursed her lips. “Nor would you be, under normal circumstances. The task of finding assistants would normally fall to the acting librarian. However, I have had to take matters into my own hands. We held some interviews earlier this summer, but I’m afraid that Madam Pince’s methods of interrogation ended up frightening all the hopefuls away. One was even driven into hysterics and had to be given several Soothing Draughts before he could return home. I decided that it would be easier on the whole if I relieved our esteemed librarian of the responsibility. However, whomever I deem suitable will have to work for the time being alongside Madam Pince – hence the call in the advertisement for applicants with nerves of steel.”

Draco had raised an eyebrow. “And you think I have the constitution to cope with it?”

She had viewed him evenly. “I imagine you’ve survived worse.”

Draco had flushed and looked away. He hadn’t wanted to talk about any of that, and had been grateful when McGonagall didn’t pursue the issue.

The rest of the interview had gone smoothly. They had discussed Draco’s education, his literary interests, his work ethic. He had been able to tell that the headmistress was impressed. He had known that he would get good references from Gringotts to testify for his efficiency and ability to put things in order.

“Well,” McGonagall had said at last, “I think I’ve heard enough. You are by far the most qualified candidate I have seen. A little too qualified for the task at hand perhaps, but you seem to really want it.”

“I do,” Draco had replied, willing her to feel his sincerity. No, he didn’t just want it, he needed it.

She had given him another small smile. “In that case, the job is yours.”

Draco had been stunned, unable to quite believe his luck. “You… you mean it?” he had stuttered.

She had raised her eyebrows. “Of course I mean it. I meant what I said though; it will be difficult. Our last library assistant had to be retired after suffering a complete nervous collapse. I hope that you are made of sterner stuff.”

Draco had smiled bitterly. “Like you said, I’ve survived worse.”

She had leaned in towards him conspiratorially. “Mr Malfoy, I should tell you that Madam Pince will most likely be retiring in the next couple of years. It would be natural that her assistant should succeed her. I think that you would do the job admirably. Just a little incentive for you to hang on in there.”

Draco had looked up at her with starry eyes. The whole library, his? Oh, that was too good to be true; he would endure anything for that.

He had followed her to the Entrance Hall feeling as if he was walking on air. For the first time in years, Draco had felt the stirrings of hope in his heart. Finally, something had gone right.

McGonagall had been about to bid him farewell when he blurted out, “Why? Why me?”

She had looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Well, the obvious reason of your capability aside, I have to confess that I made up my mind as soon as I saw the look on your face when you walked into the library. You looked at the books as if they were made of solid gold, as if they were treasure. Which, of course, they are. You looked like you belonged. That is the attitude that will see you through.”

“You’re right,” Draco had said softly. “To work with books, to care for them, to guard them… would be wonderful. They have given me so much and I suppose I want to return the favour. If… if I could only have books, I’d be all right, I know it. That wasn’t why I asked, though. What I meant was, um…”

This was awkward. Draco hadn’t wanted to bring up the past, but he needed to know. He had taken a deep breath and forced himself to look the headmistress in the eye. “What I meant was, why would you invite me, of all people, back to the school after all I’ve done? Why associate yourself with the name of Malfoy?”

If McGonagall had felt any surprise, her face hadn’t registered it. She had viewed him silently for a few seconds, Draco making a conscious effort not to look away. Finally, “Everybody deserves a second chance, Mr Malfoy. I think you have been made to suffer enough. Besides,” she had added, “you’re applying for the role of an assistant librarian. Hardly the actions of an evil overlord in the making.”

Draco smiled at the memory. It was nice, he thought, to know that there were some decent people in the world. People who would give you a chance to redeem yourself. McGonagall wasn’t the warmest of individuals, she wasn’t someone whom Draco felt he could confide in, but he felt that she would always give him a fair chance. At any rate, Draco did not want anyone to confide in. The thought of developing a close friendship with another person was frankly laughable to him, and he barely even yearned for intimacy any more. No, as long as he knew there were a couple of people like McGonagall out there, people who would judge him for his ability to do his job, not for the person he had once been, that was all he needed. And now McGonagall had come through for him. She had kept her promise and rewarded Draco for his dedication. Hogwarts library was his.

He was too jittery. There was an excited giggle bubbling inside Draco’s chest and threatening to burst into the open. He had to calm himself – he had learnt over the years that life was far easier if he made a conscious effort not to feel anything too excessively. He took a deep, steadying breath and pulled his mother’s letter out from the pocket of his robes. That was sure to sober him up.

Sure enough, as he re-read Narcissa’s words a small frown puckered Draco’s brow. Guilt gnawed at his insides. He knew his mother wanted him to go and make a life for himself, but the old sense of family duty told him that he should be there with them, helping them out, keeping his mother company. He wasn’t fooled by Narcissa’s bravado; he knew his mother well enough to be able to tell when she was miserable. God, why was he such a coward? Both he and his mother somehow kept up the pretence that Draco had left because it was the right thing to do, because it was his duty to restore some dignity to the family name. In his correspondences with Narcissa, full of quips, trivialities and banter, both managed to completely ignore the elephant in the room. The pachyderm in question being that the Malfoys’ lives were miserable, and Draco had fled because he was cowardly and couldn’t bear it. He knew he should go back – his mother clearly needed him – but the thought was too horrific. He knew that Narcissa’s love for him meant that she would always put his happiness first, and would never dream of admitting that she secretly wanted him to come back to France. Draco took full advantage of this, and hated himself bitterly for it.

He looked down at the cheap parchment his mother was now forced to use. She had never asked him for a thing. All she ever told him was that she wanted him to make the best life for himself that he could, that she could cope without him. The awful thing was that he knew she was just being brave. He knew that what Narcissa secretly longed for was for him to return to her and keep her company, help her out with Lucius. But she would never say as much, and Draco was never going to push the issue was he – not when it was so much more pleasant for him to just do as she said.

Draco threw the letter onto the desk with a small noise of disgust. He wished at times that he could be like he was as a child: only thinking of his own immediate comforts, and never even considering the needs or feelings of others. The trouble was, he believed, that harsh experience had taught him consideration and empathy, but had not endowed him with the courage or strength to act on his better instincts. He was still the same selfish little brat he had always been.

Draco did not want to remember any more. He had so few memories that were not painful; even the memories of that time before the war, the time when his family was respectable and he was so sure of his own wealth and power, were tainted by the retrospective knowledge of what was to come. And the knowledge that the life he had led back then was to blame for everything that had happened. He did not want to remember. Still, there was some masochistic part of him which would not allow him to forget. It nagged at him, nudging him towards that door in his mind that he always tried to keep closed. He didn’t seem to be able to control it. The memories hit him like a beam of light which refused to be blotted out.

Oh, he had been so relieved to get away from his parents. That had been the worst part. If only there was a part of him that felt a desire to return to them, he wouldn’t feel quite so guilty. But he was relieved. He could still recall as if it were yesterday that feeling of lightness, of being able to breathe again, when he had come back to England.

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed them with the heel of his palms, hoping in vain to distract himself. He could remember his mother. He could still see her face, what she was wearing, how she had sounded, that day she had set him free. The day she had put her own needs aside and given Draco the chance to escape. The day he had taken full advantage of her kindness.

Unsurprisingly, Draco had graduated top in his year from Beauxbatons. It should have been a cause for celebration. If he had been anyone else, he would have been able to choose any career he wanted… but who was ever going to hire a Malfoy? He had returned to his parents’ cottage with a heavy heart. Was this really it for him? Was he trapped there forever now with no opportunity to do something with his life? He had hated being around his father. Whenever Lucius had had a bad turn, Draco would sit in his room with his head in his hands, listening to his mother trying to calm her husband, knowing that he should go and help her but unable to bear it, and loathing himself for his own cowardice. He had felt as if he was suffocating, drowning, going mad himself. His chest would become tight and he had found it increasingly difficult to sleep. He had wished that he could be strong for his mother. He had wished that he could stay and take care of his father as a dutiful son should. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t bear to. But how on earth would he get away? How could he look his mother in the eye and tell her that he was leaving her alone when she needed him most?

However, he had reckoned without Narcissa. She, in her infinite understanding, had observed her son’s silent struggle and had beaten him to the punch.

They had been eating breakfast together one morning, Topsy the elf rushing about in the background preparing a tray to take to Lucius. Draco had been silent and pensive, brooding once more over his dilemma. The sound of his mother’s voice had startled him.

“Darling, I was thinking,” she had started. “It’s getting a little difficult to have the three of us under one roof, what with money being so tight. And considering you have done so brilliantly in your exams, I think you should do something about getting a job. Maybe back in England.”

Draco had stared at her in astonishment.

“Don’t gape, dearest, it doesn’t become you. Now, hear me out. I know that you took the Dark Mark and were technically a Death Eater, but it isn’t as if you really did anything terribly wrong. Nobody died at your hands. And besides, you were so young you could hardly be held accountable for your actions. Draco, if anyone is going to bring some redemption to the family it’s you. You could go back to England and get a respectable job. It’s a terrible waste of your education to just loll about at home all your life. You could really be something. You could show the world that the Malfoys won’t be beaten so easily. You could be happy.”

Draco had felt numb. He had looked into his mother’s eyes and knew exactly what she was doing. She was offering him an escape route. She had seen what he had been so afraid to ask, and had put her own need for him aside in order to give him that chance of freedom. He had swallowed. “Mother, I… What about you? I couldn’t just leave you on your own,” he had protested feebly, feeling his hypocrisy keenly.

She had waved her hand in feigned irritation. “What, you think I can’t cope without you? Goodness knows, I’ve got more than enough to keep me entertained. I have a house to run, I have an elf to organise, I have my crosswords, my sister has started writing to me, and I have your father. He can still be very good company – we had a most interesting conversation about ants the other day. All that to do, and you think I need you moping about the place and getting underfoot? Nonsense!”

“But I couldn’t just go back to England!”

“Yes, you can,” she had said gently. “Draco, you amaze me. You have so much potential, and I am so proud of you. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t make you go out into the world and use that potential? Your father and I made a lot of mistakes. We should never have lived the sort of life that would lead you into such danger. What has happened to us is our own fault and we deserve it, I know this. However, there is no reason for you to suffer for it. They were our choices, your father’s and mine, and you were just led blindly along. Now, don’t argue. Draco, I would do anything to protect you and I hate that I made you suffer. Please, help me with my guilt. Go and live your life; try to be happy. It would make me feel so much better if you would.”

Draco had felt the tears prickling his eyes. “Mother, I--”

“Now, none of that,” she had interrupted. “Hush. Eat your porridge before it gets cold.”

Draco had looked at her, willing her to know that he was sorry for his weakness, for wanting to leave her. She had looked back and told him silently that it was all right.

The floodgate was opened. Against his will, Draco was being dragged back though his past, made to re-live all those experiences he had tried to block out. That awful letter from the Ministry, just weeks after the end of the war, telling the Malfoys that all their assets were being seized in order to compensate for their crimes against the wizarding world. Oh, and they had been so relieved when they found that they had escaped Azkaban! Of course, it had been too much to expect that they would get off scot free. They should have seen it coming.

It was like some macabre picture show. Each memory overwhelmed Draco, horrible in its vividness, staying just long enough to cause him a nasty pang before being pushed aside by the next one. The horrible look on his father’s face when he had read that they would have to give up the manor, the family seat for centuries past. The way he had shut himself up in his study, refused to talk, refused to eat. The time Narcissa had wept, with bitter sobs that shook her whole body, by the fire in the Green Room, not realising that Draco was there. All those frantic and humiliating letters to former friends appealing for help, begging for charity. The way it had felt when each appeal was rejected or ignored. Looking up at Lucius as the great doors of Malfoy Manor banged shut behind them for the last time, seeing his father’s face completely white, spasming with horrible convulsions…

The frightful barrage of recollections forced Draco further back into the past. Another white face, crueller that his fathers, laughing at him as he cowered in fear. A woman suspended above a table, begging for help before she was murdered. A great enchanted fire, coming for him. The smoke burning his eyes, searing into his lungs, before he was rescued. A lonely tower. A frail old man facing him fearlessly, telling him that—STOP!

Draco slammed his palm down on the desk, jolting himself back into the present. He was not going to think about that. He wasn’t going to think about any of it. His chest was tight, and he breathed in slowly through his nose, wiping the beads of perspiration from his brow with the sleeves of his robes. Why would he be so stupid? Why would he let himself remember like that, when he knew what it would do to him? He focussed his eyes on the ceiling of the library, trying to think of something to distract himself. An alphabet game, perhaps? He thought. Yes, good idea. Something outside yourself. Now, why not start with something simple like Potions ingredients? An ingredient for every letter of the alphabet. Right: aconite, belladonna, crested newt tail…

Draco realised that he had been sitting there for a good half-an-hour, staring into space. It was ridiculous – here he was, the new Hogwarts librarian, supposedly renowned for his efficiency, dreaming a perfectly good evening away playing a silly alphabet game. And all because he couldn’t control himself and had started thinking about the past. He shook his head and put his mother’s letter back in his pocket. He decided to send Narcissa some money as soon as he got his first paycheque. Draco had been given a rise in salary with his promotion, and it wasn’t as if he needed to pay rent. He had permission to keep his small rooms at Hogwarts throughout the year, and his needs were not great. Yes, he would send his mother something to help her out. She might be able to buy something nice for Lucius. He wasn’t sure that he believed her protests that his father really was getting better, but he wanted to do all he could to help.

That’s not true though, is it? said a nasty voice in his head. If you really wanted to help them, you’d go and be with them. But no, you’re just going to throw money at the problem and hope it goes away. Draco shook his head again and sighed fretfully. He didn’t want to think about that tonight. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion, something he had been working towards for years. Surely he could give the guilt a rest for just one night?

Draco was brought sharply out of his reverie by the unwelcome sound of the library doors being pushed open. A wave of outrage washed over him. Couldn’t he just be left alone, have the place to himself for just this short time? It was bad enough that in a week’s time the rows of large, leather-topped desks would be occupied by ghastly, whispering children, trying to hide sweets under their robes and hoping he wouldn’t notice, wanting to borrow his precious books, taking them back to their dorms where he was sure they wouldn’t be cared for properly. Couldn’t he have just these few short nights in his precious kingdom, just him and the books?

The unwanted visitor turned out to be Hagrid. Draco took a deep breath and forced his annoyance down. Ever since he had returned to the school, he and the groundskeeper had treated each other with marked politeness. Draco wished to dispel their former animosity and start anew, but at the same time he didn’t want to be too friendly. It was best to keep other people at a distance.

Hagrid lumbered over to his desk, labouring under the weight of a huge wooden crate. Draco suddenly had an irrational fear that Hagrid had brought him a Blast-Ended Skrewt, before dismissing the thought. Surely not. He shaped his face into a mask of polite enquiry. Whatever the man wanted, Draco wished to get it out of the way as quickly as possible.

Hagrid nodded at him in greeting. “Evenin’, Malfoy. Hoped I’d find yeh here. Yeh’ve had a delivery. Seems teh be from Italy.”

Draco leapt up from his chair, all his irritation promptly forgotten. “The manuscripts! Wonderful! Here, bring them through to the office.” He ran round to open the door for Hagrid, trying to hide his excitement. He had been in negotiations all summer with a retired Venetian Auror in order to buy the manuscripts. They had been handed down through the elderly gentleman’s family for generations, and comprised of contemporary accounts of the great seventeenth-century wizard, Mario de Francesca, poet, libertine and alchemist. Draco had found out about the heirloom by accident. The elderly Auror was an old friend of McGonagall’s and had paid a visit to the school at the beginning of the summer, making a mistake of casually mentioning the manuscripts in Draco’s presence. He hadn’t even known the full value of what he had. With the headmistress’s help, Draco had managed to persuade him to sell the manuscripts to the school. And now they were actually here!

Hagrid placed the heavy crate on the floor of Draco’s office with a bang. Draco winced, hoping that this rough treatment had not damaged the precious cargo. He pulled out his wand and broke the crate’s magical seals, before kneeling beside it and lifting the lid. There they were! At least twenty thick, calfskin-bound volumes. Draco was unable to hold back a small noise of rapture.

“Anythin’ interestin’?” Hagrid asked from behind him.

Draco had forgotten the groundskeeper was there. “Yes,” he breathed. “Very valuable historical records. They’ll have to be request only, of course. I’ll have to personally assess the student in question, make sure that they’re worthy of the privilege. They’d have to wear gloves. In fact, I’d better supervise the manuscripts while they’re being read. Wouldn’t do to let anything happen to them.”

“Righ’…” Hagrid said awkwardly behind him. “Glad yer pleased.”

Draco thought that Hagrid would leave but, to his surprise, he didn’t. He tore his eyes away from the crate and looked around in enquiry.

Hagrid smiled at him self-consciously. “Wha’ do yer think of the news, then?”

“What news?” Draco replied, before he could help himself. He didn’t care about whatever idle gossip the half-giant might have heard! Why was he encouraging him?

“The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Hagrid said.

“Oh.” Draco hadn’t heard. Although the position seemed to have lost its one-year expiry date since Voldemort’s death, the job was still considered an unlucky one. The last professor, Jennifer Gray, had managed to last four years before being fired for coming to class blind drunk and accidentally setting fire to her desk. Draco sighed wearily. “What poor schlub have they managed to rope in this time?”

Hagrid grinned broadly. Really, Draco should have realised that anything that made Hagrid look so happy could hardly be good for him. Sure enough, the groundskeeper’s reply made Draco freeze in horror, all his excitement over the manuscripts completely dispelled.

“Harry Potter.”

Dear Mother,

Sorry to hear about Aunt Clementine. As soon as I am able, I will take care of you and Dad and you’ll never have to ask the old hag for anything again. And there’s no need to be polite about her for my benefit; I know you dislike her as much as I do. Sorry Father got upset; I hope he’s all right now. I’ll send you some money as soon as I get paid, then maybe the two of you could go out somewhere nice. He might like to see the sea.

I’m still very happy about the new job. Those Italian manuscripts arrived tonight and promise to be fascinating. I’m actually having serious doubts about making them available to the students. However, I think our esteemed headmistress may not approve if I keep them all to myself.

Right, now I’ve got the preliminaries out of the way, I can tell you the reason I’m replying to you so promptly. Something awful has happened. Seriously, if you thought the thing with the goblins was funny, this will leave you in hysterics. Oh, Mother, the worst thing has happened. The worst possible thing! I suppose it was too much to hope that things would go right for me. Evidently, I am not allowed any peace or satisfaction in life. Oh, hell! Hell and fire and brimstone! It’s too awful! I was so sure that this year was going to be good, and now this happens. They’ve only gone and hired Harry sodding Potter as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher!

What the hell is his problem? Was it not enough for him to be a celebrated Auror? Was it not enough to have the entire wizarding world fawning over him? Was he just not satisfied with fame, fortune and adoration? This is my turf! I thought I would be happy here, and now Saint Potter’s going to come swanking in and ruin it all. I am so angry I could spit. With any luck, he won’t stay long. When he’s had to go without his adoring fans and all those demands for him to appear at public functions kissing babies and smiling for the crowds, I can’t see that he’d find much to motivate him. Arrogant, self-righteous prick. Oh, what shall I do? Everything’s been spoilt now.

All my love,

Draco.