Chapter Text

as if the world had paused for a moment

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The scent of freshly baked tart clung thick in the air, heavy with cinnamon and caramelized sugar. It was the kind of scent that reminded Draco of childhood winters at the Manor, when the house-elves would bake delicate pastries, filling the halls with warmth. But those days were long gone. The treacle tarts in front of him weren’t served on fine china or arranged on a silver tray. They were stacked inside a small glass case, smudged with fingerprints, at a tiny bakery tucked away in the dimmest corner of Knockturn Alley.

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of sickles, sliding them across the counter without a word. The witch behind the counter, a gaunt woman with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers, swept them up swiftly. She barely looked at him as she wrapped the pastries in parchment, but he could feel her gaze flicker over him in brief, knowing scrutiny. He had seen it too many times before — the momentary hesitation, followed by recognition, and then the way witches and wizards tried to decide whether he was worth acknowledging or simply ignoring.

He met her eyes briefly, daring her to say something, to sneer, or to whisper behind his back. But she did none of that. She simply handed over the wrapped tarts and moved on to the next customer without a second glance. Draco exhaled slowly as he tucked the warm pastries into his satchel. It was a simple thing, buying sweets for the children, but it made something in his chest tighten.

Not long ago, he wouldn’t have spared a thought about such a trivial purchase. Once upon a time, he had the luxury of never thinking about money… of never wondering whether a few extra sickles would make a difference later in the week. Now, he counted every coin, planned every expense, and weighed the worth of everything before handing over what little he had.

Pushing open the bakery door, he stepped back into the cold. A sharp wind sliced through the alley, biting against his skin, and slipping through the gaps in his threadbare coat. The wool was worn, frayed at the edges, and patched in places where he had mended it himself. It was a far cry from the fine, enchanted cloaks he had once owned, the ones that repelled the cold with barely a whisper of magic. Now, he relied on layers and some luck.

With a practiced motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, smoothing it open with half-numb fingers. The ink was slightly smudged from how many times he had read it, but the words were still clear. They were staring back at him as if taunting him.

Mr. Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as an intern at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Please report to the Healer-in-Charge at precisely eight o’clock on Monday morning.

He traced the words with his eyes, as if reading them again would somehow make them feel more real. He had been waiting for this — for something, anything — to give him purpose again. And yet, now that it had arrived, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

St. Mungo’s. A proper job. A second chance.

Draco let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. The idea of Draco Malfoy, an intern at St. Mungo’s, was almost laughable. He wondered how many people had protested his acceptance or how many had scoffed at the notion of him working among the sick and injured. A Malfoy, tending to the wounded. The irony was almost poetic. But it didn’t matter. It was happening. He folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. He buried it deep in his coat pocket as if that would anchor it to reality.

Knockturn Alley was quieter than usual today. The few witches and wizards that lurked in the shadows were keeping their heads low, wrapped in layers of dark robes. The world was changing, but places like this never did. This alley, with its hidden shops and unspoken dealings, would always exist outside the laws that governed the rest of the Wizarding World.

Draco took a left, slipping into a side street where a small, unassuming building stood between two boarded-up shop fronts. The library was old, its wooden door carved with faded runes, the windows clouded with dust. To most, it was invisible, blending into the decay of Knockturn Alley. But he had come here often enough to know its true worth.

Inside, the scent of parchment and aged ink filled the air. It was a comforting contrast to the chill outside. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with books that looked as though they might crumble at the slightest touch. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of a turning page. At the front desk sat Mister Archibald, hunched over a massive tome, his thin fingers tracing the words on the page with careful precision. His robes were as ancient as the books he tended to, and his beard was stained with tea and ink. They were testaments to decades of absentminded sipping and scribbling.

He approached the desk, setting one of the wrapped treacle tarts on top of a precarious stack of books. "Brought you something," he murmured, keeping his voice low out of habit.

Mister Archibald didn’t look up immediately, merely flipping a page with a slow, deliberate motion. "Hmph. ‘Bout time," the old man muttered, but he caught the faintest twitch of his lips. It almost felt like a rare, imperceptible sign of approval. 

Draco didn’t linger. There was no need. This was the quiet understanding they had developed over the past two years. No words of gratitude and no unnecessary conversation. Just a shared space, a silent acknowledgment of existence. With a small nod, he turned and left, stepping back out into the cold. The walk home was short, too short, and for a fleeting moment, he wished it were longer.

Home. The word felt foreign now. Once, it had meant a grand estate, sprawling gardens, luxurious peacocks, and corridors that echoed with his footsteps. Now, it was a cramped space above an abandoned apothecary. Its windows were cracked and its walls were thin enough that he could hear the wind through the gaps. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. 

He hesitated for the briefest of moments before pushing the door open. Inside, four small faces turned toward him immediately.

"You got them?" Finn was the first to speak, his bright green eyes darting toward his satchel with barely contained excitement.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "No, I thought I’d buy something vile instead."

Percy folded his arms, tilting his head. "Wouldn’t be the first time," he remarked dryly.

Before he could fire back a response, Ales darted forward, practically bouncing on her toes. "Tarts! You got tarts!" she squealed, her small hands reaching out impatiently.

The youngest, Daelan, didn’t say anything. He simply stepped forward and clutched onto Draco’s robes, his tiny fingers fisting into the fabric as if letting go wasn’t an option. Something in his chest tightened.

These four children never asked for much. Never demanded anything. They simply existed in this grim space, clinging to the little they had with a quiet, heartbreaking resilience that Draco didn’t know how to handle. They never whined about the cold seeping through the cracks in the walls, never complained when dinner was nothing more than a reheated bowl of soup stretched thin to feed all five of them.

They never looked at him with expectations he couldn’t meet nor made him feel like less of a person for the things he could not give them. It was as if they had already learned, far too young, that asking for too much led only to disappointment. That the world did not give freely to children with cursed last names. That love, warmth, security — things that should have been their right — were luxuries they had no claim to.

And yet, despite all of it, they still found ways to be happy. Ales still twirled around the room when she thought no one was watching. Finn still recited ridiculous stories with all the exaggerated dramatics of a born performer, making them laugh even when the day had been cruel. Percy still argued with stubborn pride over the rules of wizard’s chess, pretending he didn’t care when he lost but secretly grinning whenever he won. And Daelan… little Daelan… still reached for Draco’s hand when he was afraid and still burrowed against his side when nightmares pulled him from sleep. He still believed in the simple truth that Draco would always come back home.

He reached into his satchel, pulling out the tarts and handing them over one by one. "Go on, then. Eat," he said, his voice brighter than before. 

As they tore into their treats with delighted murmurs, he leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t even realized it until now. This was his life now. No vaults of gold. No grand inheritance. No name that carried power. Just a hovel, a job he wasn’t sure he deserved, and four children who looked at him as if he was something more than the Death Eater scum he felt he had become.

The small hovel was filled with the sweet, rich aroma of treacle tarts as the children dug into their treats. The crumbs of the sticky pastries dotted their faces, but it didn’t seem to bother them in the least. It was rare for him to be able to treat them to something so simple yet so indulgent, and he just watched. The atmosphere felt lighter than usual. It was full of innocent chatter, as though the world outside couldn’t touch them in this tiny bubble of their own.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go to a real zoo?” Finn asked suddenly as he wiped a smear of syrup from his cheek. “Like the one in Diagon Alley? With all the creatures? I’ve only ever seen a hippogriff once, but I bet there are more cool animals inside.”

Finnley Graysford, age 12, was the eldest of the four children, and while he wasn't related to the others by blood, he often acted as though he were the older brother… the protector. He was the only child of two low-ranking Death Eaters who had been executed alongside the others, and it was clear that the loss of his parents had shaped him. His mind always seemed to be somewhere else, as if he could see beyond the small, cluttered world they inhabited.

While the others were preoccupied with simple pleasures or mischief, Finn’s thoughts were always a step ahead. There was something in his gaze — a calculating, mature look that made him appear older than he was, as though he could see life for what it truly was, not just what it appeared to be. He was also serious beyond his years, often acting as though the weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders, and not on Draco’s.

Percy, bouncing on his heels, joined the conversation, his dark brown eyes lighting up at the mention of the zoo. “A hippogriff? You saw one? That’s amazing!” he exclaimed, completely forgetting the treacle tart in his hand as he gestured excitedly. “I’ve read about them in a book. Did you know they have the most amazing feathers? They’re really soft… so soft, it’s like they’re made out of clouds! Do you think they’ll let us pet them if we ever go?” 

Percival Kingswell, only a year younger than Finn, was also the only child of a Death Eater couple. Draco could still remember the Kingswells’ association with the likes of Fenrir Greyback, working with the more vicious and volatile parts of the Dark Lord’s forces. The boy had an uncontainable energy, and his imagination seemed to always be running a mile a minute. It was producing ideas and plans faster than anyone could keep up with. Whether it was something as simple as a game of pretend or as wild as “flying” on a broomstick made from old twigs, Percy could always find a way to turn even the dullest moments into an adventure.

However, that same enthusiasm often led Percy to act without thinking. His impulsive nature made him prone to getting into trouble, especially when his curiosity drove him to explore things better left alone. He trusted too easily and often found himself in situations that only Finn or Draco could help him out of. His good intentions, though, never faltered, and he always believed he was doing the right thing, even if his actions didn’t always turn out as planned.

Ales, who had been quiet since she began eating, glanced up from her tart. Her dark brown eyes were narrowed in contemplation. “What if we could bring a creature home?” she asked in a soft, almost distant voice. Her words were always measured, as though she thought deeply before speaking. “A little dragon, maybe. One that fits in a box. You could carry it around with you, Draco. No one would expect it, and it could be our secret.”

Alessana "Ales" Lindenbrook, age 8, was their princess. The daughter of the late Aliana Lindenbrook, once feared for her cunning and fierce loyalty to the Dark Lord, Ales had inherited a grace that seemed to come from another world. Her mother’s untimely death during the war had left a gap in Ales’ life that could never be filled, but Draco had become the constant presence she leaned on in a world that was anything but stable. Ales wasn’t like the others. Where Finn and Percy were outgoing and energetic, Ales was somewhat reserved, almost invisible in a room full of noise. But her dark brown eyes, always watchful, missed nothing. She observed everything with a depth that belied her age, noticing the smallest shifts in mood, in tone, in the way people held themselves.

Though she kept to herself most of the time, Ales had a gift for understanding and for reading the room in ways others couldn’t. She was highly intuitive, often picking up on emotions others thought they had masked. She surprised Draco, too, with her understanding of situations and of things he hadn’t even realized she had noticed. Above all, Ales was his calming presence. She was a silent anchor in their chaotic lives. She also depended on Draco, not just for protection, but for reassurance.

Daelan, always quick to latch onto any new idea, jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over his plate in the process. “A dragon? I want a big one!” he declared, his small face lit up with excitement. “It’ll fly around and burn everything in sight!” He paused dramatically. “But only the bad people. Not me. I’ll be the dragon’s best friend!”

Daelan Bramley, the youngest of the lot at age 7, was always the spark in their otherwise quiet lives. As the baby of the group, his presence often commanded attention, whether it was from his constant chatter, his never-ending stream of antics, or the infectious laughter he left in his wake. While Finn was the responsible one, and Percy often found himself caught up in the whirlwind of his own imagination, Daelan had a more subtle chaos about him. He wasn’t reckless like Percy could be; no, Daelan was clever, scheming in the way only a child could be. Mischief followed him wherever he went, but it was always a well-planned mischief — well, most of the time.

He loved to imitate the adults around him, particularly Draco, with exaggerated gestures and mock seriousness. Watching Daelan was like watching a tiny version of him, complete with the cocked eyebrow and dramatic flair. Sometimes, he even took to mimicking their old neighbors' stiff, posh voices or the way Finn would scold the others when they weren't behaving. His ability to start a little drama into everyday life was uncanny, making the others laugh, even Draco, who couldn’t help but find some comfort in their youngest’s antics.

But beneath all of this mischief was a surprising depth of understanding. Just like Ales, Daelan had a way of knowing when things weren’t right, even when no one else did. He had an uncanny sensitivity to his siblings' moods, often knowing just when to give them an exaggerated hug or say something silly to break the tension. When Draco’s temper flared or when the days were particularly hard, Daelan would climb onto his lap and simply lay his tiny head against his chest, as if reminding him that no matter how heavy the world got, the weight was easier to bear when you had someone to share it with.

His mind wandered to his new job as an intern at St. Mungo’s. He didn’t know what had pushed him to start self-training as a healer exactly a year ago, but he supposed it all began with the children. It started small… Finn catching a fever in the dead of winter, Percy scraping his knee after tripping on the cobbled streets, Ales shivering under too-thin blankets, Daelan crying over a stomach ache he couldn’t explain.

Each time, he had felt helpless, watching them suffer without the means to do anything beyond cooling a forehead with a damp rag or whispering hollow reassurances that they would be fine. And he hated it. He hated powerlessness, the sharp reminder that he had nothing. He had no gold, no connections, not even a single proper healing spell at his disposal. But he had determination, and that had to count for something.

So, he learned. He scoured every old bookshop in Knockturn and Diagon Alley for discarded medical texts, poring over brittle pages by candlelight long after the children had gone to sleep. He memorized the properties of herbs, bartered for worn-out potions manuals, and practiced wandless healing charms on himself when he was certain no one was watching. What started as a desperate attempt to avoid losing the only family he had left soon became something more.

There was a strange satisfaction in seeing the results of his work. Finn’s fever breaking under his careful ministrations, Percy grinning as he tested his freshly healed knee, Ales sleeping soundly without chills wracking her small body, and Daelan’s pained sobs turning into relieved sniffles. Healing, he realized, gave him a sense of purpose. For the first time in years, he felt like he was actually doing something worthwhile.

That was also how he met Mister Archibald and discovered the small, hidden library located between two derelict shops. He had stumbled upon it one evening while searching for a secondhand potions guide and had been surprised to find not only an impressive collection of rare texts but also an old man who seemed to know far more than he let on.

Mister Archibald, with his ink-stained fingers and perpetually arched brow, had watched him pick through the shelves with an amused sort of interest before pushing a thick tome into his hands. He muttered something about “a young man with sharp eyes should have sharp knowledge to match.” Draco had returned the next day, and the next, and the next after that. In time, the library became his refuge, the dimly lit aisles filled with the scent of parchment and dust offering him a kind of solace he hadn’t realized he needed.

Mister Archibald never pried. He never asked about his past, or why a young man with a Malfoy face spent his nights buried in medical texts. He simply let Draco be, offering quiet guidance when necessary, challenging his understanding with questions he wasn’t always prepared to answer. In a way, he supposed, the old man had become the closest thing he had to a mentor.

And now, after months of scraping by, St. Mungo’s had finally accepted him. It wasn’t much — it was an internship, not a permanent position — but it was a start. A chance. And Merlin knew he wouldn’t waste it.

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He was wasting it.

Draco barely suppressed the scowl threatening to form on his face as he hurried down the pristine white halls of St. Mungo’s, clutching a clipboard that had been shoved into his hands not five minutes ago. Madam Montmorency, his supervisor, had made it painfully clear that she had little faith in his capabilities. Instead of assisting with actual medical procedures or even shadowing experienced Healers, he was being sent on menial errands like fetching supplies, delivering messages, and, worst of all, dealing with the hospital’s most irate patients. He had lost count of how many times he’d been forced to endure the complaints of distressed parents, their voices rising in anger the moment they saw his face.

He had expected resentment. It would have been naïve to assume otherwise. But what he hadn’t anticipated was how strategic it all felt. It was as if the hospital administration had deliberately placed him in situations designed to humiliate him. His name was called louder than necessary, drawing attention whenever he entered a room. His tasks were often just enough to be degrading but never significant enough to let him prove himself. They wanted him visible. They wanted him scorned. And from the pointed glares of the staff to the distrustful glances from patients, Draco knew it was working.

He inhaled sharply, steadying himself as he pushed open the door to the waiting area where his next task awaited him. The room was bustling with noise and movement, the sharp scent of antiseptic clashing with the lingering traces of burning incense. It was a futile attempt to mask the distinct sterility of St. Mungo’s. The waiting area, much like every other part of the hospital, was packed with patients and their families.

The air itself felt thick, heavy with worry, anger, and exhaustion. Among the chaos, there stood a woman gripping a small, red-faced boy, her arms wrapped around him as though shielding him from some unseen threat. Draco had dealt with many difficult patients since starting, but something about the rigid line of her shoulders, the barely contained fury in her posture, told him this was going to be particularly unpleasant.

The child, who couldn't have been older than Daelan, whimpered softly, his small hands clenched around his mother’s robes as he burrowed his face into her shoulder. His little frame shook with the occasional hiccupping sob, though his cries had mostly subsided into sniffles. Even from a distance, he could see the angry, jagged gash running down his knee and the torn fabric of his trousers clinging to the drying blood. It wasn’t a life-threatening injury. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but to the boy and his mother, it was clearly a serious matter. The woman’s eyes burned with outrage, her grip tightening possessively around her son, and Draco barely had time to open his mouth before she turned her fury onto him.

"You?" she spat, her voice thick with disdain the moment her gaze locked onto him. "You’re the one they sent?" Her lip curled as if the very sight of him was offensive.

He barely managed to stop himself from sighing. He had seen this reaction before. He had expected it. And yet, the force of her hostility still hit like a curse to the chest. Keeping his posture carefully composed, he offered a professional nod. "I’m a Healer-in-training, Ma’am. If you’ll allow me, I can—"

"I don’t need help from your kind," she snapped, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. It was sharp enough to draw glances from other waiting patients. Her arms curled even more protectively around her child, as if shielding him from something vile. "Merlin’s beard, what is this hospital thinking? Hiring a Malfoy! As if we’d all just forget what your family did!"

Draco’s spine went rigid. Ah. There it was.

The accusation, the disgust, and the deep-seated resentment. He had spent years preparing for moments like these. He even rehearsed every possible response in his mind. But no matter how many times it happened and no matter how much he told himself he didn’t care, the words still stung like an open wound.

"First, your lot tears the world apart, and now we’re supposed to just sit back while you come waltzing in, acting like you’re one of us?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of rage and disbelief. "What, is this some kind of sick joke? Letting a Death Eater scum play Healer, letting you anywhere near our children? Do they honestly expect us to trust you?"

He forced himself to remain still. He wouldn’t flinch. He wouldn’t let her see that her words cut deeper than he’d ever admit. He had long accepted that to some people, it didn’t matter what he did, how much he changed, or how hard he tried. To them, he would always be his father’s son.

"I assure you, Ma’am," he said carefully, keeping his voice even, "my only concern is your son’s well-being. If you’ll allow me, I can have his wound treated in mere seconds. However, if you prefer to wait for another Healer, I’m sure they’ll be available shortly—"

"Oh, so now you’re offering to walk away?" she barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Just like your lot did when the war was lost? Pretending none of it happened, pretending you weren’t part of it. How convenient!" Her glare was scorching, her entire body thrumming with indignation. "You think—" she seethed, voice growing louder, angrier with each breath, "you think you can just throw on a Healer’s robes, patch up a few people, and that erases everything?"

Draco’s grip tightened around his clipboard, his nails pressing into the parchment. He knew this dance too well. He had lived it over and over again since the war ended. If he argued, she would call him arrogant, unrepentant. If he stayed silent, she would take it as an admission of guilt. There was no winning.

"Mum… it hurts."

The little boy peeked up at her with watery eyes, his face scrunched up in discomfort. His tiny hands fisted in her robes, seeking comfort as he sniffled. His mother hesitated, her anger faltering for just a second as she looked down at him, concern flashing across her face. Draco seized the moment.

"Let me heal him," he said softly, the sharp edge of his previous words replaced with quiet resolve. "That’s all I want."

For a long, painful moment, she stared at him. Her jaw was clenched so tight he thought she might shatter her own teeth and her whole body coiled with the tension of someone who desperately didn’t want to give in. He could see the battle raging inside her.

Finally, her shoulders jerked in a stiff nod. With barely concealed resentment, she all but shoved the child forward. "Fine. But if anything happens to him—"

"It won’t," he interrupted, his tone steady. Kneeling down, he carefully examined the injury. The boy flinched and his small frame trembled, but when Draco murmured, "It’s alright, I promise," he hesitated, then gave a timid nod.

He lifted the wand that the hospital let him borrow, moving it with practiced precision. The swelling faded instantly. The jagged tear in his skin knitted itself back together and the dried blood disappeared as if it had never been there. The child’s eyes widened in fascination, watching as the magic worked through him.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

The boy stretched his leg out, testing it. After a moment, he shook his head. "No… it’s all better."

"Good."

The woman grabbed her child roughly, pulling him close as though Draco had done something vile.

"Don’t think this means anything," she said coldly, her voice dripping with contempt. "Fixing a scraped knee doesn’t erase what you are, Malfoy."

He said nothing. He simply watched as she stormed off. Her son glanced back at him with wide eyes before the two of them disappeared into the door. But before he could write something on the clipboard, his eyes caught a very familiar face.

There, standing across the waiting area, clad in dark Auror robes that carried the unmistakable golden crest of the Ministry, was none other than Harry bloody Potter.