Chapter Text
Chapter One
Cupere
to long for; to desire
Draco Malfoy is used to wanting things.
He is used to wanting things and not being good enough to have them. To seeing the things that he yearns for be given to other people, doled out like rewards for existence. He's grown accustomed to coveting what others possess and punishing them for it. He dons his envy like a suit around his heart, cloaking himself in arrogance so no one can see the way he wears his loneliness like a second skin.
Draco believes that the fates haven't deigned to give him the things he wants because he simply doesn't deserve them.
“The last thing you're gonna want to do is put it in her drink, Poe. That's cliché.”
Draco looks up from his novel. His grey eyes dart back and forth between the two Seventh Years that sit on a couch adjacent to the armchair he’s currently seated in. One of the boys leans back with a leg curled beneath him, running his hand through his shaggy brown hair in continuous motions. The other boy relaxes with his pinkish-white fingers interwoven behind his shaved head, his expression somehow both haughty and smug.
"Then what, Richter? We put it in her food?” says Poe, the one with the shorn head. His nasally voice is toned with the hint of amusement and there’s a rosy flush to his ivory cheeks that betrays his eagerness. “Surely she’ll taste it.”
"She will, but it's not the same. See, it's like Amortentia." Richter's dark eyes are bright with excitement. "In drinks, it's too noticeable. But in food, it blends together with the whole situation. Adds to the flavor, yeah?"
"How'd you even find the recipe for this?"
Richter's lips curve up into a smirk that only a Slytherin could conjure up. "I bought a vial off a bloke in Knockturn Alley.”
“Yeah, when?”
“When I went home for my gram's funeral."
"You went home for a funeral and went shopping?" Poe barks a laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"
Draco pushes his fingers through his own hair, scraping the unruly white-blond strands back. He'd give anything to have a family again. To have anyone besides a father in prison and a mother more focused on repairing her social status than the well-being of her own son.
To go back to before everything got so fucked up
In any case, he doesn’t know who they’re talking about dosing, and he isn’t going to ask them to tell him her name. Amortentia is illegal, so the two idiots are likely talking about one of those Weaselbee brews. He’s survived the year so far by keeping his nose inside of books and out of other wizards’ business. He has no desire to rile anyone up over a harmless love potion the night before Valentine's Day.
He has no desire to rile anyone up at all.
After pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he attempts to return his focus to the book in his hand. Turning a page, he shifts his position in the chair, crossing his right ankle over his left.
"Funerals bore me, so I went to Knockturn Alley," Richter says, his baritone voice an octave or so above the crackling embers of the dying fire. "Ran into a wizard selling potions. He said he had one that was perfect for Valentine's—called it Cupere. Said ancient Roman wizards used it on witches to make it simpler to get what they wanted, if you catch what I'm saying."
“Cupere?” Poe raises a charcoal-black eyebrow. "You said it's like Amortentia?"
"That's what the wizard who sold it to me said. He also told me what the side effect is, and you're gonna go mental when you hear it."
"Speak to me, mate."
"Three drops of it in a witch's food, and she's got a bloody good twenty-four hours ahead of her. Once it kicks in, all you've got to do is touch her skin and she'll be screaming like a banshee, coming in her knickers within seconds." Richter's grin is one of wicked glee. "It only works on witches, the bloke said, and it gains power as the hours go by. Come nightfall, she'll be ready to throw herself off of the Astronomy Tower or fuck all of Slytherin house at the same time—whichever comes first."
Okay, not a harmless love potion. Not harmless at all.
One thing that Draco has always prided himself on, even during the war, is the fact that he's been raised as a gentleman. Gentlemen do not slip love potions that void consent into witches' food and drink.
This "Cupere" potion is little more than a bottled Imperius curse.
Unfortunately, he understands why they’re talking about this within earshot of him. Poe and Richter's families hadn't fought in the war, but they'd made their chosen side clear when they donated thousands of galleons to the Dark Lord's cause. They likely think that Draco would condone their sinister plan.
It sickens him almost as much as he sickens himself for having presented himself as someone they could trust.
Poe says, "So, what happens after we dose her food?"
"We watch her make a complete idiot of herself." Richter snorts. "That chavvy little Mudblood's about to get what's coming to her. And the second we get her alone, it'll be worth every galleon the potion cost."
Draco drums his fingertips along the top of the pages of his book. Who are they talking about? Which Muggle-born? There’s got to be at least fifty Muggle-borns in the Hogwarts student body.
"She's probably never been fucked in her life, the frigid golem," Poe says, and the sneer can be heard in his voice. "And just for the record, I'm not fucking her, if that's what you're wanting it to come to. I'd rather not sully the line."
No, Draco thinks, his dread growing . No, no, no. Absolutely not.
"Then you can hold her down while I do it,” Richter replies. “She should have thought about these sorts of consequences before she gave us a month's worth of detention."
Oh, fuck.
“Yeah,” Poe says with a scowl. “Isn’t the Head Girl supposed to be smart?”
Draco knows exactly who they’re talking about.
Richter snaps his fingers. "I've got it. Let's do it at lunch."
"Instead of breakfast?" Poe replies.
"There's no way we'd get down there before her for breakfast, and that swot would never leave class early. If we leave class early, we can get to the Great Hall before anyone else even shows up. She always sits in the same spot, mate. I'm telling you—if we dress it up a little bit, we can make it look like someone set her plate out for her."
"Like a secret admirer?"
"Exactly," Richter says with a grin. "And no matter how smart a witch is, they all get stupid where wizards are involved. Granger will be too busy wondering who could possibly find her attractive to notice that her food tastes different.”
Draco’s blood runs cold.
Granger is a fucking saint. She and Potter are the only reason why Draco is not in a dark, damp, musty cell in Azkaban. Without their help, the Wizengamot never would have granted him parole.
These shit-pieces wanted to drug her? Rape her?
Over his dead fucking body.
Draco contemplates the risks of hurling his book down, drawing his wand, and casting Unforgivables. He wonders if Azkaban is nice at this time of the year, and if they'd let him bring a blanket. He’s a Slytherin, and Slytherins—the right sort—were fiercely protective of the people who did them favors. Granger did him more than a favor. She gave him a gift he didn't deserve.
His freedom.
He doesn’t want to go to Azkaban. He’s not going to take Granger's favor and stomp all over it. However, he is going to get involved. So, he has two options.
Headmistress McGonagall. She’s the only person at Hogwarts who sees him as a human being. McGonagall might believe him. He doubts she'd let him hex Richter and curse Poe, but things could be handled before Granger gets hurt.
The other option? Dealing with it himself. There would be the chance of something going wrong, but the knowledge that his debt to her would be repaid in full tempts him. And the longer he sits there imagining what it might feel like to be the one to solve the problem, the more he likes the idea of it.
The selfish decision would be the one that benefits both him and Granger. While she is a saint, Draco is not. He doesn’t want to toss the problem to McGonagall and wash his hands of it. Without McGonagall involved, Draco has the freedom to find a way to fuck these tossers up.
He'd much rather see what it feels like to wash his hands in blood.
No, he’ll deal with this himself. He will not be letting Richter rape her. If he tried, on Salazar, Draco would be going to Azkaban.
Satisfied with his decision, Draco closes his novel with casual hands. It was a silly book with frivolous things like fey, singing, and a happy ending. He has more important things to worry about now. Standing up, he tucks the book underneath his arm.
Richter and Poe's narrow-eyed gazes snap over to him. They stare at him in silence. Waiting.
Draco debates.
He could take care of it right now, couldn’t he? Before anything happens. He’d surely go to Azkaban and the boys would deny having plotted right in front of him, but at least Draco would get to hurt them.
He looks at Poe, with his stout form and thick muscles. At Richter, nearly as tall as Draco at over six foot, with lithe muscles of his own. In the face of the two of them, Granger is nothing. He can just see it now—her trapped between them, fearful eyes dancing from left to right as she backs away. Her wand taken, broken into pieces and her body slammed against a wall. He can almost hear her screams, her helplessness as she calls for her brainless wonder friends that won’t come. Richter beating her about the head. Poe tearing her clothes. The Golden Girl who won a war, reduced to a victim because of a lust potion.
No.
He won’t let it happen.
Draco clenches his jaw to keep himself from flinching at the horrible hypothetical visions. He needs Richter and Poe to think he’s harmless. To not see him as a threat.
"Gentlemen," Draco says in a voice as icy as the Arctic. “Evening.”
"Malfoy," Richter says while Poe offers Draco a curt nod. “Do you have something you want to say?"
"No,” Draco replies to his loaded question. “Have a pleasant night."
He turns and crosses the stone floor, headed for his dorm room. He fights the urge to turn back around and handle the situation the Muggle way, muttering his password to the portrait of Salazar Slytherin on the wall beside one of the fireplaces. It swings open and he steps into the small room that leads to the other Slytherin Eighth Year dorm rooms.
He thinks about knocking on Theo's door, if only to have someone to talk about this with, but he decides against it. It’s better that nobody knows about this. He doesn’t want anyone knowing he fancies her just because that intelligent mind and quick tongue had kept him out of prison. He can’t think of anything worse than her storming up to him and telling him she wouldn't fancy him if he were the last wizard on Earth.
For the first time, he can acknowledge that he has a weakness.
As he closes himself in his room, he suffers the familiar twisting in his gut that he feels whenever he thinks of his worth.
What would a witch like her want to do with a wizard like him? She'd saved the wizarding world from a madman with a demon’s heart. Draco’s just the poor sap who'd been given an impossible choice between failure and death. He’s got nothing to offer anyone except for proof of the horrible things he'd done during the war.
He wants her, and since he would never have her, he has chosen the course that makes him feel like a hero.
That is why he’s going to take care of this himself.
Draco finishes his shower and steps out to look at himself in the mirror.
The mottled scar that bisects his pale flesh is the only thing that disgusts him more than his past choices do. Running his fingers along it, he suppresses the revolted shudder that wants to ripple through his body. Sometimes, it terrifies him how much he despises himself. It gets overwhelming.
He’s scared of what he might do to himself if he ever loses the will to keep pretending.
Turning away, Draco goes to get dressed. He puts on a pair of black trousers and a white long-sleeved Oxford, choosing to wear a black vest instead of a blazer that day. He’s just finishing up his tie when a knock comes at his door. As he always does, he bottles up his destructive emotions and masks them behind a smirk.
"Theo," Draco greets, leaning against the wooden doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. "Shouldn't you be wooing your strumpet?"
Theo pushes his wavy brown hair away from his forehead, looking up at Draco with a smile. "It's Valentine's Day, not our anniversary. She can manage breakfast without me. Are you coming?"
"Yeah."
Draco walks over to his desk to retrieve his satchel and wand, and then they head out through the Slytherin common room, into the cold corridors of the castle.
"No robes today?" Theo asks as they walk to breakfast.
"You know I hate those sodding things. They’re hideous."
"Why don’t you just go buy some ones you do like? You could probably get away with frilly old dress robes. Hell, you could walk to Hogsmeade right now if you wanted to."
"And brave the cold and winter sun? My perfect alabaster skin, Theo. Please."
Theo throws his head back and laughs. "Fuck me if I forget how precious your complexion is."
As they step onto the moving staircase upward, he senses Theo's mood changing. After the two of them lean against the banister side-by-side, Draco slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He watches his friend to see if he can deduce what’s wrong.
"Heard from your parents, then?" Theo asks.
“No.” Draco glances at the walls and other staircases full of students. "They don't write much."
"Ah. Well, I'm sure your mum's got you on her mind."
"Yeah. Maybe."
An awkward silence stretches between them that lasts entirely too long.
"How's your father?" Draco asks.
Theo shrugs. "Same as yours, I suppose. The cells are all the same in Azkaban, I fear."
"Thought I'd ask."
It’s difficult speaking with Theo these days. They’re still friends and have been since they were in their nappies, but things have gotten more distant between them since the war ended. The trials took the entire summer, and Draco had been held on strict house arrest at the manor by himself for three months straight. No owls, no Floo, no contact with anyone.
To top that off, Draco’s the only one of his friends who took the Dark Mark. He’s the one who attended the Dark Lord's Revels. The one who'd felt Voldemort slithering through his mind, filling it with poison. None of his friends understand what it was like to feel the Dark Lord's Cruciatus tearing through both flesh and psyche. Theo can’t possibly understand that.
Draco feels like he can’t talk to anyone about anything anymore. He hasn’t had any real friends since Sixth Year, and he's come to terms with it.
At least, he’s trying to.
"I'm off to Pansy," Theo says when they enter the Great Hall. "I'll see you in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Cheers!"
He traipses away to join Pansy at the far end of the Slytherin table, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the cheek. Draco looks at Richter and Poe, who are sitting near the middle of the table. They’re talking to one another, but they don’t look more or less suspicious than anyone else does.
Draco will keep an eye on them until lunch. He has time.
His gaze bounces about, taking in the Valentine's decorations that have been strewn all over the room. Glittering, non-corporeal hearts rain down from the ceiling, disappearing before they reach the students’ heads. Pink confetti decorates the tables, and each House has bright pink-and-red place settings. The Great Hall smells faintly of sugar.
How Muggle.
Granger’s standing in the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables, talking to Luna Lovegood. She’s dressed differently today. Festive, in a pastel pink dress that flatters her body in a way that draws Draco’s eyes to all the right places. It’s made of some airy material he doesn’t know the name of, has long sleeves and a tight bodice, and it possesses a flowing skirt that stops above her knees. Her gold shoes are simple, sensible one-inch heels, and her waist-length curls are pinned back with gold clips at her temples.
Fuck. He’s staring. He’s just standing in the entryway and staring at her like a fool.
She says something to Lovegood, smiling one of those smiles that makes her brown eyes glitter like stars. Evidently, she must have been inviting the Ravenclaw to eat with her because they both sit down to eat at the Gryffindor table. As Granger tucks into a plate of food, Draco wonders why it took him so fucking long to realize how stunning she was.
He sits down at the Slytherin table before he draws any attention for his leering.
While he eats his green apple, Draco alternates between watching her and casting quick, surreptitious glances down the table to Richter and Poe. The boys are barely sparing her a second glance. In fact, they leave the Great Hall before Draco’s finished eating. As far as he can see, Granger is carrying on as normal, chatting in an amiable fashion with Seamus Finnegan, Lovegood, and a few Sixth Years.
Suddenly, Granger drops her fork onto the floor.
She lifts up a finger to her friends for pause. She leans down to retrieve the dropped utensil, her hand pressing to the tabletop. As she straightens her back, Draco sees the side of her hand brush against Finnegan's.
Draco stiffens, his fork frozen in midair.
What if Richter and Poe changed their minds? What if they'd forced themselves to wake up early so they could make this morning a horrible one to remember? What if—
Nothing happens.
She smiles and continues her conversation.
Draco exhales his relief as inaudibly as he can, refusing to allow himself to relax. Reminding himself to stay vigilant. They have Charms together followed by one class apart. Then, lunch.
The day has only just begun.
