Chapter Text
Chapter 1. Artefact loss.
Draco Malfoy.
On all accounts, was grateful for a lot of things in his life.
Being born into the prestigious Malfoy family is one of the many things he was grateful for.
Although largely a side effect of being the only child to both his parents, for all his life, he has had wealth, title, and prestige.
He was loved and given all the attention his little heart desired while growing up, and he was even destined to inherit both the noble and ancient house of Black and Malfoy, and all the history and fortunes associated with such a noble house when he was of age.
The bachelor among bachelors, the prince of slythrin a truly prized pearl among the glare of other gems.
Truly, no one was as glad as he.
And, as he got older and the world split into factions too big for his control, he was glad that he didn’t have to choose, because choosing something so consequential would mean disappointing someone eventually, and as he found out, he could not have afforded to be liable for such a mistake.
If his life were a pot, one could say that everything, eventually, flowed out of that great lump of an instrument in spectacular, explosive fashion; and with no physical or mental ability to stop it, a vindictive part of him was glad that others were suffering just as he was suffering.
In the end, when the boiling pot cooled into an unappetizing slop, and their war was won, some part of him was glad that Voldemort didn’t win, that some accountability was demanded from the world this time.
You could even say he was glad that the saviour of the wizarding world, while knowing all his inferiorities and defects, had chosen to testify for him, of being the tipping vote that spared both him and his mother the cruelty of Azkaban, even while his father wasn’t as lucky.
Truly, no one was as glad as he.
You should be wondering then, "Why now, then? If able to escape and leave everything behind, far from Hogwarts, far from Britain, heck, even far from pureblood society, why would anyone voluntarily go back to it?
Why spin and entangle yourself on the web, a place brimming full of people who wouldn’t hesitate to trade their names or put their morals and ideologies above your safety?
Why tread on sand when there is undoubtedly a high road or smoother turf somewhere in this world that you can glide through instead?
This tale, like all tales, starts at the beginning with an artefact — an old and dingy artefact that by all accounts should not be in working order anymore, and should have, by the time of this message, been defunct for the past three centuries at the very least, — and how the subsequent loss of the artefact created a whole new reality for us to fall into.
-‘~o0o~’-
(pov. Draco)
The year was 2004, after the war and their subsequent trials, Draco and his mother left for France, fleeing like they were hares trying to escape a rabies-infested mutt with their tails between their legs.
He was annoyingly certain that if that rat Wormtail was still alive, the vermin would have been positively delighted to witness the Malfoy family’s fall from ‘grace’.
Disgraced though they were, France was pedantic in a refreshing sort of way that Draco hadn’t known to be or experienced in a long time.
With the pressure of school and later the pressures of life piling onto his shoulders, France was ironically a sigh of relief that he didn’t know he had desperately needed.
If he were to compare, France could be described as being an entirely different beast compared to lazy but uptight Britain; laws on magic, creature rights, and liberty were much more lax compared to Britain, and that afforded him a very large population of both sympathy and bygones.
There were malicious people from time to time, but not only were such instances few and far between, but there isn’t any shame in excusing yourself from the conversation; he was, despite everything, a functional member of society.
Draco himself had on occasion stopped and wondered why? Why, perhaps he had limited himself to such a small version of the world when in reality it could be so much brighter and darker than he could give it credit for.
After six years, he could say somewhat confidently that he was glad with how his life was turning out.
Sure, he was no true gentleman of luxury anymore; though by all accounts, a normal person would still say that he lived in abject luxury despite claims contrary, he had stopped exhibiting the hallmarks a gentleman his age was supposed to display in polite society.
He had no secret enigmatic lover to languish in sin with him, nor did he have a graceful heiress from a good family by his side to continue the family name – not that he hadn’t attempted — but he was content, and really, that was something he couldn’t say he was for a long time in his life.
He lived in a comfortable condo in the heart of Paris, with a sizable balcony overflowing with plants that allowed for the curious to glance at the city's many wonders without the sharp glare of judgment to hinder their wonderment.
After gaining his mastery, Draco ran a potionary near the capital, from which nestled a booming market for potions, spells, and remedies he hadn’t known about either due to regional differences or because of sheer unadulterated innovation. Although with its glamorised fashion market being more publicised than its counterpart internationally, it didn’t take a great stretch of the imagination to understand why.
On Saturdays, he would go to Chateau la Perle Noire — his mother's favourite of the Black family properties she inherited — to have tea with his mother.
Telling her the odd encounters he’s had with people purchasing from his shop while his mother gossiped about the politics and juicy scandals she gets from her group of tea friends, he felt like he was in all but spirit, five again.
Mother seemed to be happier in France, so much happier in fact that he wondered why she had ultimately decided to raise him in Britain when he was growing up and not here.
He resented her for it sometimes, at odd intervals, when the patch of dark magic practically branded left of his forearm constantly strained and drained his magic like some corrosive parasite that no amount of money and consultation therapies could fix.
He sometimes resented them for not trying to stop him from taking the mark. Even if survival had depended on it, he was certain that there was something they could have done differently that could have changed the situation.
But he knew that for all his mother's love for him, she had also once loved his father just as deeply, and that like his father, she likely saw his father pracarous situation just as dangerous as his after the dark lords return.
His parents had a beautiful love. If life were a fairy tale, then they were pioneers. Sailing through the uncharted waters that are pureblood marriages and finally joining in union out of true love and not because of fortunes, magical compatibility or bloodlines; although all of the above no doubt being factors that made the marriage possible.
In another tale, they were a demonstration of the deadly outcomes of love. with both parties doing what they thought was best and right to protect the love and family they had built.
Looking back on the golden years of his childhood, it was somewhat comical how much collaborative scheming his parents participated in before the dark lords' return; perhaps the saying of having shared interests being foundational in a happy marriage holds after all.
Closing the novel ‘Wilde Night’ and collecting his notes on the fascinating romance novel written by Yvon Bélanger, an author notable for being a werewolf that recently rose in prominence in France, the read explored how love and difference shape relationships, focused on biological dominance and hierarchy can be explored.
He carefully slid his notes into his dragonhide satchel and bid farewell to the nice lady at reception. He slowly walked out of the library, wondering what to order for dinner, when a loud snap quickly drew his attention to Posy, his mother’s house elf.
Instead of the incessantly cheerful tittering he would usually hear in her presence, she looked so sweaty and distressed that he abruptly wondered if, absurdly, she had fallen into the pool, when a very distressed squeak like wail caught his attention again.
"Mistress is needing you", the house elf said, frantically, barely audible between wails "Mistress is very worried and needs to see Master Draco as soon as possible".
After getting permission and taking his hand, a snap and the familiar twist of apparition, his shoes clicked on the smooth marble floors of the family chateau, and his mother’s gasp and the wrinkling of brocade were heard.
"Draco, darling, I apologise for contacting you so abruptly, but something urgent has happened." Mother turned and guided him by the arm, into one of the drawing rooms located in the east wing, and let himself be directed towards one of the plush couches before taking a seat.
His mother quickly continued, "I had originally thought that someone may have broken into the chateau when the wards around the artefact were disturbed. However, after scouring the halls for intruders, I came to the realisation that the timepiece…
…
…
I think I left it at the manor, Draco." There was a dawning calm to the quality of his mother's voice that prevented him from relaxing on the couch.
After directing the house elf to fetch a calming draught and a pot of chamomile tea, he finally broached the question.
"Mother, what artefact? I wasn’t unaware that we had something of such importance in our possession, Mother."
With what could be described as gulps of chamomile tea, if the action had been done by anyone but his mother, she eventually responded. "We do. You may not have known of it, since it was an inheritance discreetly brought over from my side of the family. Your great aunt Cassopia had actually given it to me in confidence for safekeeping when I married. Not many know, and then few that do … well …"
The word discreetly echoed in the mind. "Safekeeping?"
"Yes, it was a gift passed down from her mother, and the one before her, and so on. It was meant for Cassiopeia’s children, but in the end, Aunt Cassiopeia never gave birth to a child."
A creeping unease settled into his bones. "Mother... What has gotten you so distraught, then? I don't understand? We can find time in a few days to ..."
"No. Draco." The unease solidified, mother never cuts me off for anything.
"You don't understand. The timepiece was designed by my ancestors as a means to travel to different worlds; I was assured by my predecessors that it doesn't work, but the enchantment on it was so strong that it was deemed prudent to guard it." Mother abruptly stood up; he was starting to understand her anguish.
"Oh! I knew we should’ve stored it in Gringotts; what if someone found a method and managed to utilise it?"
Draco himself stood, trying to calm his mother by reaching for her. "So... you think there is a high possibility that whoever is in possession of the artefact now has intentions of travelling back in time? What if it rips our reality apart?"
Narcissa Malfoy stopped her pacing and finally took Draco by the hand. "Draco, I know it is a lot to ask of you, but could you return to Britain and find the artefact in my place?” She handed him what seemed to be a wedding invite of one Pansy Parkinson and Thorian Valens, an old-money socialite as ancient as his riches. “I need to talk to our Gringotts manager to discuss the accommodation for housing an artefact of this magnitude without alerting the Ministry."
"Mother, I don't even know what it looks like." Draco clamped his mouth shut. Smokey and airy tendrils of magic swirled around the air like pearlescent light streaming down into the ocean depths.
"Draco, you and I both know that your magic sensitivity has always been higher than mine. I'm certain you’ll be able to find it like this. Draco, one more thing, if there is anything to take away from this conversation is that you are under no circumstances allowed to touch it. Any container will suffice in housing the artefact, but you must promise me to exercise the highest levels of caution when in possession of the artefact. We never know for certain how such volatile magic will interact when exposed to new environments."
Draco nodded, if a little solemnly, before his mother let go of his hands and drew him into a tight embrace. "I know you’ll do well, but keep safe, Dragon. Promise me you’ll always try to be as safe as you can." He pecked her cheek in silent agreement, and a few minutes later, they drew apart. "I love you, mother; I wish you success."
-‘~o0o~’-
The next morning, Draco stepped out of the international floo gate to a crowd of people that seemed more and more disgusted by his presence as minutes passed. ’Don't fret, the feeling is mutual," he privately thought when he caught sight of an older wizard sneering at him.
Ignoring the murmurs, Draco approached the young lady at reception, approving the visas. " Hello. I’m Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he said, sliding the invitation in her direction and flashing his sigil ring in her direction until she confirmed to have seen it.
The lady at reception grimaced as she looked up – which was to be expected. “Here to report for temporary visitation to the United Kingdom?"
Clicking her tongue, she handed him the necessary forms and documents, which he promptly signed. No need to waste both of their times.
The lady murmured a few shy words of disgust under her breath — a barely noticeable thing — before stamping his form for approval.
Draco gave a quiet “Thank you” before taking off for the floo gates.
Putting on a quiet glamour, he walked himself out of the leaky cauldron, which seemed to have degraded since his last visit with his father.
Departing in the direction of Gringotts, Draco quietly admired the scenery of Diagon Alley. There were a plethora of new shops in the main streets of Hogwarts, it seems, with the only ones familiar to him being Olivanders, Flourish and Blotts, and Madam Malkins, though he privately wondered how that establishment was still open.
Gringotts was another familiar sight, with goblins being consistently the same everywhere. Draco approached an elderly-looking goblin and said, "This is Draco Lucius Malfoy; I would like temporary access to the property key to the Malfoy manor in Wiltshire." He quickly added, ”please” not wanting the goblin to deny him service.
With a sweep of magic, Draco looked at the goblin and handed him his wand when the goblin requested it of him. A few minutes later, the goblin handed Draco a familiar box embossed with Kadupul flowers.
After opening the box and confirming that the silver key was there, Draco thanked the goblin and left for the wedding. He was cutting it slightly close.
Maybe it was because Draco was in a rush and simply forgot about his lack of glamour, or maybe it was a coincidence woven by fate itself, but this encounter very well shaped this destiny as we know it. Maybe in another timeline, Draco had the sense to check the streets or reapply his glamour, but alas, in this timeline, he didn't.
And this lack of foresight led to this happening.
"Malfoy, is that you?"
***