If Lucius and Narcissa believed their son would sit quietly at Malfoy Manor for two months and submissively endure their nagging and attempts at persuasion, they were sorely mistaken.
Draco Malfoy had never intended to waste an entire precious summer on pointless arguments.
He was observing, waiting, and planning before making his move.
He was simply studying his parents' strategy before countering it—learning their preferred placement of pieces before deciding on his own.
Temporary restraint is not the same as surrender.
On his very first night home—after that first argument—Draco spent the sleepless hours productively.
While Dobby was away delivering Rita Skeeter home, perhaps only Joan—the beautiful eagle owl in the otherwise sleeping Manor—knew what else he had set in motion.
At first light, he carefully wrapped the small black vial Professor Snape had given him, layer upon layer, and placed it in an elegant box fitted with a Cushioning Charm. He then entrusted it to Joan and sent her across the English Channel to deliver it to his grandfather, Abraxas, who was visiting friends on the Continent.
Merlin bless Professor Snape.
Although the Potions Master remained silent and pointedly detached from Draco and Hermione's unconventional romance, he had still taken the practical step of pressing this precious gift into Draco's hands before term ended—a means of winning over his grandfather.
Slytherin-style assistance: quiet, considered, and effective.
Sometimes, a priceless elixir paired with a letter full of genuine longing is enough to make Abraxas—who cherishes his grandchildren above all else—cut short his Continental travels and return to Malfoy Manor with all the urgency of a man summoned home.
"Lucius Malfoy—" Abraxas said coldly, settled in his favourite armchair in his private library that evening. "You haven't improved in the slightest over the years, have you?"
The warm, approachable expression he usually wore had vanished entirely, replaced by the cold authority of a patriarch at his limits. He began to scold his son without mercy.
"You foolish child—you have completely misdirected your efforts!"
"Father, I am a grown man," Lucius replied, his expression unreadable. "I am no longer a child."
Abraxas fixed him with a withering stare.
"You may no longer be a child," he said icily, "but that doesn't mean you're incapable of doing something spectacularly stupid. Look at what you've done! How could you let things deteriorate so badly and push my precious grandson away like that?"
He struck the armrest of his chair with one hand, spitting out his fury through pale, compressed lips.
"Such an outstanding heir—such a gifted boy! He has already developed an improved potion for the treatment of Dragon Pox! Did you know that the formulation he refined in collaboration with Severus Snape has already caused quite a stir in professional circles? Have you not even seen the latest issue of Practical Potioneer and its glowing praise for his work?"
"I—I confess I hadn't noticed that—" Lucius said haltingly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.
He had been so preoccupied with the situation at home of late that he had barely attended any social events, let alone read potion journals.
"Of course you hadn't noticed! You never do—always looking at the opening move and never the endgame, always missing the point entirely!" Abraxas sneered. "Lucius, I sometimes wonder if someone has replaced the contents of your skull with flobberworm mucus."
*(Note: Armadillo bile is a known ingredient in Wit-Sharpening Potions.)*
"Father, insulting me doesn't change the fact that my relationship with him is badly strained," Lucius said, his voice tight with frustration.
"You know perfectly well that insults accomplish nothing—yet you still chose to use them on him, provoking him until he turned against you. You short-sighted fool—" Abraxas jabbed a finger in his direction. "Instead of making the most of this holiday to enjoy time with my grandson—instead of fulfilling your duty as his father—you spent nearly a fortnight arguing with him. Over one small, inconsequential Muggle-born girl!"
"Father, you've only just arrived and don't fully understand the situation," Lucius said, his arrogance faltering slightly. "Don't be taken in by appearances. He is not the respectful, deferential boy he once was."
"So what? Whatever his temperament, he is your son, and the future head of the Malfoy family. That is a fact which will never change!" Abraxas's voice dropped to a lower, graver register. "The reason the Malfoy family—small as it is—has endured for centuries is because of family unity, not family discord."
"But Father—his thinking is alarming. It isn't simply a matter of the girl. He has started openly questioning the principle of pureblood superiority, using family history and Muggle commerce as evidence to argue with me every single day—"
Lucius forced down his anger and turned to his stony-faced father. "Narcissa and I are deeply concerned. We believe Dumbledore has been filling his head with dangerous, subversive ideas."
"Dumbledore?" Abraxas's eyes sharpened, his tone shifting to something more cautious.
"Yes—Dumbledore!" Lucius said bitterly. "Draco has even suggested, quite pointedly, that I would be wise to align myself with Dumbledore's camp. He spoke as though he would be perfectly willing to oppose Minister Fudge. I fear the boy's thinking has been thoroughly poisoned."
"Interesting." Abraxas lowered his gaze, his fingers tapping idly on the table as he turned something over in his mind. "Continue."
"He no longer recognises the effort I have put into this family—the years I spent cultivating relationships at the Ministry, building a network of influence that most wizards could only dream of. He has no respect for that. No recognition of it." Lucius's voice carried a note of genuine pain.
"I've said much the same things to you in my time," Abraxas said evenly, "and you couldn't understand my position then, either."
"You never cared about me," Lucius said, a sullenness creeping in beneath the words.
"I never threw a teacup at your face," Abraxas said coldly.
A silence fell.
"That was my mistake." Lucius lowered his proud head and conceded to his father.
"The person who truly deserves your apology is not me—it is my grandson," Abraxas said. "A father must earn his son's genuine respect. It cannot simply be demanded. You complain endlessly that he doesn't respect you enough—but I want to ask you something, Lucius: have you respected him?"
"I—"
"You haven't." Abraxas's voice was like cold water. "You showed him no respect whatsoever. You threw the dignity of a fiercely proud boy onto the floor and tried to grind it to dust. You tried to break him."
His grey eyes held steady, unyielding. "The very last thing the Malfoy family needs is to raise an heir who is subservient and cringing—even before his own father. Remember that. Otherwise, what is passed down is merely bloodline, and not glory."
Lucius stared at his father and felt, for the first time in years, something uncomfortably close to confusion.
"I have great hopes for Little Dragon," the old man said with quiet severity. "His pride is more precious than gold or silver, and far more fragile than porcelain. Once shattered, it cannot be restored—and neither can he. Not everyone is born with that kind of spirit. I will not have anyone break him, and I will not have anyone throw so much as a teacup at him again."
Abraxas's unflinching defence of his grandson made a vein pulse visibly in Lucius's temple.
"Father, you cannot continue to indulge him!" he said urgently. "His thinking has become seriously distorted—he is beginning to violate the family's principles!"
"Lucius, calm yourself. I am well aware that his thinking has drifted somewhat off course," Abraxas said, with measured patience. "Several of my old friends have written to me about it, each hoping for my assessment."
He lifted his glass of warm mead and took a slow sip, his expression regretful. "I originally thought you would manage the situation sensibly, and so I left it to you. I did not expect you to make such a thorough mess of it."
At that, Lucius's expression shifted—a cautious, hopeful look began to surface.
He watched his father straighten in his armchair, his face settling into a look of deliberate authority. At last, it seemed, his father was going to offer some practical guidance.
And then his father went and criticised him again.
"Do you know where your greatest error lies?" Abraxas said. "Little Dragon has grown up. He is sharp, he thinks for himself, and he is precisely not the sort who blindly follows those above him—that is exactly what I admire about him." The old man's tone warmed with undisguised pride. "If he were a dull, pliant boy, I wouldn't care half so much."
"Independent thinking—" Lucius muttered under his breath. "I truly fail to see the merit in it... it only causes his parents grief... he was easier to manage when he was small. He used to listen to everything I said."
Abraxas paid no attention to his son's grumbling.
"He has many exceptional qualities—qualities that are genuinely rare," he continued. "But this also means we can no longer simply force our views into his head as one would with a child. Rigid lecturing won't work on him anymore."
"You used that same rigid approach with me," Lucius said with quiet resentment.
"And weren't you resentful of me for it? I was managing the affairs of the Ministry of Magic, and your mother had passed. I was playing both roles at once. How was I supposed to manage everything perfectly?" Abraxas struck his cane against the carpet twice, sharply. "Do you think I have three heads and six arms?"
Lucius said nothing.
After all these years, he found himself, unexpectedly, understanding a fraction of his father's anger and impatience during those years of raising him alone.
"Although Little Dragon has pride, he is not so arrogant as to be foolish. He reads situations well, and the Malfoy instinct—born noble, interests first—runs deep in his blood," Abraxas said, with purpose behind his words. "What he lacks is only experience."
Meaning—
"Lucius. If you wish to shift his thinking, you cannot simply bludgeon him with conclusions. You need to make him understand—truly understand—what the inheritance of family honour actually means in practice. Not as a slogan, but as a living reality."
Abraxas's expression was grave. "Take him out into the world. Let him observe how the family's affairs operate. Walk him through the mechanics of a negotiation, show him the networks of interest that underpin every significant decision. Let it sink in gradually, through experience."
"You mean—bring him into the family business? He's only just turned fifteen, Father." Lucius looked uncertain.
"I'm not suggesting you hand him the ledgers and step aside. I mean let him observe. Give him a general understanding of how things work—explain the reasoning behind decisions as they happen, in real time. That much you can surely manage?" Abraxas said, with barely concealed impatience.
Lucius nodded, and listened as his father continued in the unhurried tone of a man who has seen a great deal and forgotten very little.
"When he begins to understand the weight of the connections a well-placed pureblood match would bring—the doors it would open, the efficiency it would grant him in everything he undertakes—do you truly think that Muggle girl will hold the same appeal?"
That is a reasonable point. Lucius's eyes sharpened. "How should we handle the matter of the girl herself? What approach do you recommend?"
"The girl?" Abraxas waved his hand dismissively. "If I were you, I wouldn't mention her at all. Silence and disregard are a far greater contempt than any argument."
"How could a girl of no standing whatsoever shake a family as deeply rooted as ours?" His gaze held the settled composure of someone who has watched many storms pass. "Besides—how long does a young man's passion last? The fiercer the fire, the sooner it burns out. Your open opposition may well be doing nothing more than feeding the flame."
"He does have something of a rebellious streak," Lucius conceded.
"He was young and impulsive. Weren't you, once? How different from him were you at that age?" Abraxas tapped his empty glass on the table—a quiet signal.
Amid the soft sound of wine being poured, the old man said lightly, "And didn't you end up quite obediently marrying Narcissa of the Black family, in the end?"
"Narcissa is remarkable. When I met her, I understood how shallow I had been before." Lucius refilled his father's glass with impeccable attention—all traces of his customary arrogance dissolving into something closer to a well-trained maître d' in a fine French restaurant. "It is precisely because I know how immature his feelings are—how untested, how unprepared for the realities that would follow—that I am so alarmed. Those kinds of attachments cannot withstand the weight of real life. They break."
He sighed and said to his father, "Tell me—what is wrong with giving him a clear warning before he walks off a cliff? He refuses to hear any of it. Instead he behaves like a sulking child, naive and infuriating..."
"Ten thousand books cannot substitute for ten thousand miles. He needs to experience the world himself before he can understand what we are talking about. That is simply how young people learn." The old man's expression was serene, unmoved by his son's complaints. "He is still young. Still impetuous."
"Young and infuriating," Lucius said indignantly. "I'm not even sure whether he's genuinely angry with me or simply trying to provoke me."
"Lucius—why are you arguing with a fifteen-year-old boy?" Abraxas said, with a pointed look. "You need to bear in mind that however quickly Little Dragon is growing, he still has the emotional immaturity of a child. He is intelligent and he has opinions—but he is not yet a grown wizard. He is at exactly the age when the opposite sex becomes enormously interesting."
He took a sip of his drink. "In this respect, I will say that Narcissa raised him well. He is not a frivolous boy who chases after anyone who smiles at him. Given how reserved he is in matters of the heart, I suspect he has barely spoken properly to a girl before—which is precisely why one ordinary Muggle girl managed to make such an impression on him."
"That's not impossible," Lucius said slowly. "He seems to have spent a great deal of time studying with this girl in the library. That's not exactly the setting one associates with a serious attachment. Perhaps he's simply confused proximity with feeling."
"Quite possibly. He may not even be certain what being in a relationship truly means. In my estimation, there is nothing remotely surprising about this situation."
Lucius nodded, and felt something in his chest loosen slightly—as though a fog had lifted to reveal a path he had overlooked entirely.
"You should act as though you are unconcerned—willing to listen, willing to understand. Play the sympathetic ear if necessary. I think Narcissa does this considerably better than you do," Abraxas said.
"Narcissa is calmer than I am. She intercepted his post to prevent those Gryffindors from influencing him over the summer," Lucius said. "Our plan was to give him time at the Manor, free from outside interference, to think clearly—while we work steadily to correct his values over these two months."
"Merlin's beard, Lucius—you're wrong again!" Abraxas rolled his eyes at his son with unrestrained exasperation. "Keeping him shut in at Malfoy Manor while you argue with him daily is the worst possible approach. If you want him to stop thinking about that girl, there is a far better way."
"And what is that?"
"Keep him busy. Take him out to see the world—fill his days until he has no time left over for brooding on a schoolboy romance. A man's ambitions should extend beyond the courtyard!" Abraxas pointed his cane at his son for emphasis. "I will say it again: let him see how society actually works. Let him feel the warmth and coldness of real human dealings."
"He cannot be kept in the comfortable bubble you two have built around him—growing increasingly rebellious because he has nothing to think about but his feelings—while remaining entirely ignorant of the responsibilities that will one day fall to the head of this family! I gave you this advice years ago, and you refused to listen. Always saying he was too young. If you had listened to me sooner, he would not have been left so naive about certain things."
Lucius touched his nose awkwardly, finding no comfortable rebuttal to offer.
"Isn't London's social season upon us? Let us make some arrangements—take him to balls, salons, gatherings—widen his social circle considerably." Abraxas swirled his glass, watching the amber wine catch the light.
"Let him move in the right company for a while," he said, with calm authority, "and he will discover soon enough that girls from established pureblood families have rather more in common with him."
"You are right." A flicker of genuine optimism appeared in Lucius's eyes. "Once his world is wider—once he has met more people, more suitable people—a Muggle girl with no connections and no understanding of his world may begin to seem far less extraordinary."
"Choose wisely and early," Abraxas continued. "Create the right opportunities. If someone suitable presents herself—someone he finds agreeable and who meets the family's expectations—cultivate that connection. An engagement after graduation would fall into place most naturally..."
Lucius looked at his father and felt, with a jolt, the uncomfortable recognition of a familiar pattern. Was this not precisely what Abraxas had once done to him?
Though he had eventually come round—and come to be grateful for it—he still felt a faint warmth in his cheeks when his father used his own history as an example. He cleared his throat and redirected the conversation toward his son.
"I'm not sure it will be quite so simple now. He's very guarded with us at the moment. He will not cooperate easily."
"You should have taken a more conciliatory approach from the beginning—a strategy of retreating in order to advance, moving gradually and patiently. You are perfectly capable of this with Ministry officials and business rivals—why does all of that skill desert you the moment you deal with your own son?" Abraxas fixed him with a look of weary mockery. "You made an unnecessary mistake early on. You damaged something that was perfectly manageable—and then had the audacity to talk back to me?"
Lucius lowered his head and said nothing.
"The two of you need a period of separation—to let the tension dissipate and allow things to settle." Abraxas took a slow sip and then assumed a more measured, almost benign expression. "I will take him away for a while. During that time, you and Narcissa should reflect carefully on how to approach my grandson—how to achieve the outcome we all want."
Lucius nodded and took his leave.
As he walked along the quiet corridor, he looked up at the full moon and was forced to admit his father was right.
In handling his son's reckless romance, he had been too hasty, too hot-headed—he had disregarded every measured tactic Narcissa had consistently urged upon him, and the result was a rift that would not easily close.
He could have managed this so much more effectively.
He should have adopted a posture of understanding—stood in Draco's shoes, taken the time to genuinely comprehend the boy's emotional state, and then, with patience and subtlety, guided him toward recognising the weaknesses in this attachment himself. Step by step. Without pressure, without ultimatums.
That approach might well have led his son to see sense on his own.
Instead, Draco was now so wary of him that everything Lucius said—however gently—was immediately interpreted as a demand to end things with the Muggle girl.
He had nearly forgotten how formidably proud a Malfoy could be.
A proud Malfoy does not yield to direct pressure. He never had, and Lucius had known that once, a long time ago, about himself.
He sighed and made his way to Narcissa's room, wanting to share his father's counsel with his wife before another day was lost.
As he passed Draco's door, he paused.
A great many thoughts moved through him, one after another.
For a moment, he genuinely considered knocking—going in, and saying, solemnly and sincerely: I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Draco. I should never have thrown that teacup.
But then he recalled his son's face during their last confrontation. That calm, measured, utterly composed gaze that had once been full of childlike warmth and was now something else entirely.
Would Draco accept an apology? Would he believe it?
At that moment, something Lucius Malfoy rarely felt moved through him—a quiet, hollow uncertainty.
He hesitated at the door.
What would he do if his son met him with that same composed indifference? Worse—what if Draco simply looked at him and said nothing at all?
The anxious father let out a slow, weary breath and walked on to find his wife—the only person who could still ease the weight he carried home from these encounters.
If the full moon could speak, it might say: joy and sorrow between human beings are never truly shared.
And yet, on the other side of that very door, bathed in the same silver light, Draco was sprawled entirely undignified across his bed—conversing with Hermione through the enchanted ring and laughing freely at the latest gossip about Sirius Black.
"My sincerest respects to Fleur," Draco said to the ring, suppressing a thoroughly wicked grin.
"Hear, hear," Hermione replied warmly, pausing to survey the neatly arranged bottles and jars in the potions room.
"You're leaving tomorrow?" Draco asked.
He knew she was going to France with her parents for some kind of arts festival.
"Yes," Hermione said, a ripple of anticipation in her voice.
She set the last bottle in its place and straightened with a satisfied lift of an eyebrow—rather like the one Draco gave after completing a particularly well-arranged potion bench.
Then, catching her reflection in the gleaming surface of a brand-new pure gold cauldron, she realised she was doing it again. Looking more and more like him.
At that, she remembered what Sirius had said to her the day before.
Something measured, and honest, and rather cold.
But cold and honest truths have a way of being true, rather than the light and pleasant picture Draco was carefully crafting between them at this very moment.
This was the first time Hermione had heard anyone describe Draco as "foolish and cowardly."
But if he truly was bearing all of it in silence—carrying the full weight of his family's pressure without telling her—then it was a little foolish. And not, by any measure, quite as brave as it might sound.
Her silly, endearing boy. Too proud to admit it. The most exasperating, lovable person she knew.
She wanted very much to ask him: are you all right?
But the question felt as small as a pebble dropped into the sea. She couldn't even see him. What good would asking do, except make them both feel the distance more sharply?
She felt the ache of it—equal parts worry and helplessness.
And then there was the other problem she'd discovered:
How far did the connection between the rings actually reach? Would it still work once she left the country?
She had tried to raise this as a practical academic question, but the answer she received was not encouraging—Draco believed that if the two of them were separated by a significant distance, such as the English Channel, the connection might not hold.
"Even so—try to enjoy your holiday," he told her carefully.
On the other side of the ring, the girl fell silent.
Draco felt the quality of that silence—its particular weight—and read it with the precision of someone who has spent months learning to decipher the spaces between her words.
He sighed and let his thoughts settle.
She was only fifteen, after all. Of course she would feel this more acutely than she let on—even he had sunk into a quiet, private melancholy at the thought of losing contact. The ache of missing her, running beneath everything like a slow current.
"You'd do that for me, wouldn't you?" he added, with a deft hint of gentle coaxing.
She still did not reply. The ring lay quiet and cool between his fingers—as though it had gone out entirely.
A small, uncharacteristic unease settled in his chest.
She had a remarkable ability to reach into him. Every word, every pause, every deliberate silence was given weight by the distance between them—each one turned over, examined, interpreted anew.
For Draco, reading Hermione was the most absorbing occupation he had ever found. It was exhausting, and he pursued it willingly.
Was she all right? Was she busy and unable to respond? Had she not yet seen his message? Or had the news simply landed badly?
Were her bright eyes still bright? Did her face still carry that warm, restless vitality he'd spent so much time trying to memorise?
He was, by any reasonable measure, unreasonably invested in her happiness.
Wait just a little longer. Be patient.
Don't rush to sadness. Not yet.
He could try a little harder than this. The boy frowned, his cheekbones looking sharper than usual in the moonlight.
"Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione... Hermione..."
He repeated her name—seven times over—as though he had searched through every last reserve of tenderness Draco Malfoy had accumulated across his lifetime, shaken off the dust, and laid it out for her: "Remember that I will always like you."
He would have preferred to say love.
But every time the word reached his lips, it seemed to slip past them unsaid, as though caught on something he couldn't quite name.
He rubbed his aching temples. He felt like glass on the edge of cracking—and her reply was the only thing that could hold the pieces together.
He could not accept the possibility that she would simply leave him in silence.
If she didn't answer soon, he thought he might fracture entirely—brittle dust scattered across the dark, with nothing to hold him back into a shape.
Hermione had seen every message.
But what was she supposed to say?
"I'll enjoy my holiday to the fullest for your sake"?
"Good luck in your battle against your parents"?
"I'm glad you'll always like me—it makes tomorrow's disappearance slightly more bearable"?
No matter how she arranged the words, they sounded wrong. Too composed. Too distant.
She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the platinum-blond boy.
Every tender, close embrace. Every heart-stopping touch, every kiss that seemed to pull the breath out of her. His voice. The particular cadence of it. His brows, his cheekbones, his mouth.
The one or two small moles along the side of his face. The way his ears went red so easily. His collarbones—just as sensitive as hers. Those grey eyes that could shift between unreadable and devastatingly clear, and the way he looked at her sometimes, earnest and a little helpless, like he'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.
The girl pressed both hands over her warm face and sighed.
"Get back to it, Hermione Granger. Stop daydreaming."
She needed to say something that would make him feel better.
He was the most ridiculous and most lovable boy she'd ever encountered. And while he had quietly arranged everything for her—while she had spent her days happily receiving roses and ice cream and a soft bed at Grimmauld Place—he had been at home, alone, fighting for them without complaint. Swallowing every difficulty in silence. Giving her his warmth without reservation.
She had to say something.
The kind of words he liked to hear.
Something brief enough to carry weight—something that would cut through whatever gloom had settled over him and reach him cleanly.
"Draco... Draco... Draco... Draco... Draco... Draco... Draco..."
The boy who was on the verge of shattering suddenly received her reply—his own name, repeated back to him like an echo, filling the space of the ring completely.
His lips unclenched. The tension across his shoulders released by a fraction.
But she wasn't done.
"Remember you are mine," the girl said, with the tone of someone making an announcement—quiet and absolute. "And I'm yours."
Merlin. She knew exactly where to aim, didn't she? He couldn't help it—his smile widened before he could stop it.
Draco had always been helpless against that particular kind of statement. He had been helpless against it for as long as he could remember, and had long since stopped trying to understand why. The concept of belonging—of being claimed, of claiming—had an effect on him that was immediate and embarrassing and entirely consistent.
Clearly, she had noticed.
It was his possessiveness, he knew. A quality he spent considerable effort concealing from her, because she was someone who valued independence deeply, who would not take well to any suggestion of ownership—
Except that, apparently, she had noticed anyway.
He usually kept it carefully in check—only occasionally allowing a small amount of it to surface, tentatively, like testing unfamiliar ground. If she didn't recoil, he'd take another step. If she seemed uncomfortable, he'd pull back at once and say nothing more of it.
She had never been the one to bring it up.
Until tonight.
Without any prompting from him, she had walked straight into his trap with her eyes open—and handed him exactly what he needed.
Yes. Hermione Granger's words were manna from heaven—precisely targeted, arriving at exactly the right moment.
This was the sustenance that made his current difficulties feel, momentarily, manageable.
And so the cunning Malfoy lay sprawled across his bed, laughing at his ring with the unguarded delight of someone who has just won something he hadn't dared to name—pleased with himself in every way, and not at all apologetic about it.