The roses were the worst. They had been his mother’s pride, a labyrinth of white blossoms that scented the summer air with a fragrance so sweet it was almost sharp. Now they were dead. Skeletal, blackened canes clawed at the damp air, their thorns catching on his robes as he worked. The few petals that clung to the dead heads were the colour of old bruises. The whole garden was dying, a slow, creeping rot that had started the day the Dark Lord had made their home his own.

Draco knelt in the mud, a small, rusted trowel in his hand. The damp seeped through the knees of his trousers, a cold that felt permanent. His task for the morning, delivered by Amycus Carrow with a sneer that showed his yellowed teeth, was to clear the overgrown ivy from the base of the cherub fountain. It was house-elf work. It was humiliating. That was the point.

He yanked at a thick vine, the rough bark scraping his bare fingers. He refused to wear gloves. It was a small, stupid rebellion, a way of feeling the sting of it directly instead of the muffled discomfort of compliance. The vine tore free with a wet, ripping sound, taking a chunk of moss-eaten marble with it. He tossed it onto the growing pile beside him, his breath pluming in the chill. Above him, the stone cherub’s face was green with algae, its once-playful expression now a grotesque leer. The fountain hadn’t run in months. The basin held only a shallow pool of black, stagnant water that smelled of decay.

Everything smelled of decay. The house, the grounds, his own life.

He pushed a stray strand of pale hair from his eyes with the back of a dirty hand, leaving a smear of mud on his forehead. He didn’t care. There was no one to see him here but the ragged albino peacocks that still stalked the grounds, their once-immaculate tail feathers now limp and soiled. They were like his family: ornamental, useless, and trapped.

A familiar cold ache pulsed in his left forearm. He didn’t need to look at it. He could feel the Dark Mark through the layers of his shirt and robes, a permanent stain on his skin, on his soul. It was a brand, a shackle. The price of his father’s failure, a debt he was now paying daily. The Death Eaters who stomped through the halls of his home, who drank his father’s finest elf-made wine and stubbed out their cigarettes on the Aubusson rugs, never let him forget it. They delighted in his degradation. Look at the little prince, digging in the dirt. Not so high and mighty now, are you?

He could hear their voices in his head, a constant chorus of contempt. Yaxley, the Carrows, even Greyback, who sometimes watched him with an unnerving hunger in his eyes. They saw him as weak, a failure who couldn’t kill an old man. They were right. But they didn’t see the terror that had frozen the curse on his tongue. They only saw the result: a boy who had failed his one, critical test. And so he was given new ones. Polish my boots, Malfoy. Clear the west path, Malfoy. Stand guard in the rain and tell me if you see anything, Malfoy.

He hated them. He hated them with a pure, quiet intensity that burned in his stomach like acid. But he hated his own cowardice more. He had been given a choice, of a sort, on that tower. He had chosen this. This slow rot. This gilded cage where the bars were his own fear and the gilt was flaking away to reveal the cheap iron beneath.

He dug the trowel into the earth again, hitting a stone with a grating scrape that set his teeth on edge. He paused, his shoulders slumping. His back ached. His hands were raw. He looked at them, at the pale skin chapped and red from the cold, the dirt ground deep into his nailbeds. These were not the hands of a Malfoy. They were the hands of a servant.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the bare branches of the skeletal roses and carried with it the distant cry of one of the peacocks. It was a lonely, desolate sound. Draco lifted his head, his eyes drawn past the crumbling garden walls, towards the dark line of the woods that bordered the estate. The trees stood like silent, grim sentinels against a bruised-grey sky. And as he stared, the memory of the day before rose up, unbidden and sharp.

He had been standing just inside the tree line with Travers, the damp chill of the woods a poor substitute for an Invisibility Charm. The order had been simple: observe. The Snatchers, a mangy pack led by Scabior, were considered unreliable, prone to incompetence. The Dark Lord wanted a report on their methods. Draco was there to be Travers’s witness, his second set of eyes, his silent, breathing notepad.

The clearing had erupted in flashes of light before he’d even fully registered who they had cornered. Then he saw them. Potter, Weasley, and Granger. It was always them. A jolt, ugly and familiar, had shot through him. The Golden Trio, cornered like rats. For a moment, a vicious satisfaction had curled in his gut.

But the feeling had curdled almost immediately. They weren’t panicked. They were fighting.

He watched, his hands clenched into fists inside his robes, as Potter moved. There was none of the swaggering arrogance Draco remembered from the school corridors. This was something else entirely. Every spell, every duck and weave, was economical, desperate. He wasn’t trying to win; he was trying to keep the other two from being hit. He threw up a shield charm that absorbed a Stunning Spell meant for Granger, the impact making him stagger back a step. His face was thin, all sharp angles and dirt, his eyes burning with a furious exhaustion.

And Granger. She was terrifying. Her hair was a wild mess, and there was a long scratch down her cheek, but she fought with a cold, precise rage. Spells flew from her wand in a steady, vicious stream. She and Weasley moved back-to-back, a seamless unit of defense. Weasley, gangly and red-faced, was clumsy but fiercely protective, bellowing curses and physically shoving Granger out of the way of a jet of red light.

They were a unit. A single entity driven by the frantic, powerful will to protect each other.

Draco stood in the shadows, silent and cold, and a feeling he couldn’t name clawed at his throat. It was a bitter, hollow ache. He watched them fight for each other, for their lives, for a cause they so clearly believed in, and he was consumed by a sudden, venomous envy. What did he have? A crumbling manor filled with monsters. Parents who walked like ghosts, their love a suffocating cage of fear. A master who demanded everything and gave nothing but pain.

The Snatchers were brutish and undisciplined. They were being driven back. Scabior snarled an order, and for a second, the chaos cleared. Potter was momentarily exposed, his head turned towards Weasley. His eyes, impossibly green even from a distance, swept the tree line.

For a fraction of a second, they were about to lock onto Draco’s.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. He jerked his head away, staring hard at the bark of an ancient oak, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a wave of nausea so intense he thought he might be sick right there in the mulch at Travers’s feet. He could not let Potter see him. Not like this. Not as a silent observer to a failed ambush. Not as a glorified errand boy. He was Draco Malfoy. He was not… this. This spectator. This coward.

"They're getting away," Travers noted, his voice laced with bored contempt. "Useless curs."

Draco risked a glance back. The trio was already gone, vanished into the woods on the other side of the clearing, leaving behind a few groaning Snatchers and the lingering scent of ozone. He hadn’t even seen them Disapparate. They were just gone.

The bitter feeling hadn’t left. It had settled deep in his bones, a poison he couldn’t sweat out. Seeing Potter fighting with such raw desperation hadn’t been satisfying. It had been a mirror, showing him everything he wasn’t. Potter had friends who would die for him. He had a purpose that drove him through the dirt and the fear.

Draco had nothing but a dying garden and the cold weight of a brand on his arm.

"Draco."

The voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper on the wind, but it cut through his thoughts with the precision of a shard of glass. He didn't startle. He had learned long ago to be aware of every sound, every footstep in this house. He looked up from the muddy ground.

His mother stood at the edge of the blighted rose garden, her silver-grey robes doing little to ward off the damp chill. Her face, once so perfectly composed it seemed carved from alabaster, was now a masterpiece of strain. Fine lines bracketed her mouth, and there was a permanent tension in her brow that even her practiced aristocratic calm could not entirely smooth away. Her eyes, pale blue and sharp, darted from the pile of ripped ivy to the dirt on his face, and a flicker of something—pain, distaste, he couldn't tell—passed through them before being suppressed.

"You should come inside," she said, her voice low and even. "You'll catch a chill."

"Carrow's orders," Draco replied, his own voice flat. He pushed himself to his feet, his knees protesting. He felt the smear of mud on his forehead, a mark of his humiliation, and made no move to wipe it away. Let her see it. Let her see what they were reduced to.

Narcissa’s gaze swept the dead garden, the skeletal trees, the foul water in the fountain. She did not comment on the state of it, or on the nature of his task. To acknowledge it would be to give it power. Instead, she took a few steps closer, her silk slippers sinking slightly into the soft earth. She stopped just out of arm's reach.

"Your father and I were speaking," she began, her eyes fixed on a point just over his shoulder. She rarely made direct eye contact anymore when speaking of difficult things. "The Dark Lord is… displeased."

Draco felt a familiar cold dread coil in his stomach. It was a constant state of being now, but his mother's words gave it a fresh, sharp edge. "With what?"

"With everything," she said, a hint of steel entering her tone. "With the progress of the war. With the Ministry's failures. With the information he is given." Her eyes finally met his, and they were dark with warning. "Our position is not what it once was, Draco. Our loyalty has been questioned. Your father's... missteps at the Ministry have not been forgotten. They have not been forgiven."

She was talking about the prophecy, about Lucius's failure and his subsequent stay in Azkaban. It was the original sin that had led them here, to this garden, to this ruin.

"I am doing what I am told," Draco said, the words tasting like ash. He gestured vaguely with the rusted trowel, a bitter sweep that took in the fountain and the dead flowers. "I am a gardener now. A boot-black. What more can I do?"

"You can be careful," she hissed, her composure cracking for just a second. She took another step, and her hand came up, hovering as if she meant to touch his face, to wipe the mud away, but she stopped herself. Her fingers curled into a fist before she let her hand drop back to her side. "Do not give them any reason to look at you, to think of you. Do what they say, without complaint. Do not draw his attention. Every day we survive in this house is a victory, do you understand me? A quiet victory."

He understood. He understood that his life was now defined by not being noticed. By being so pliant and so broken that the monsters who lived in his home would grow bored of him. He was to be a ghost in his own life.

"He watches everyone, Draco," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper. "He sees weakness like a bloodhound smells fear. Do not show it. Do not show anything."

Her words were meant to be a warning, a mother's desperate plea for her son's survival. But to Draco, they felt like another set of bars being locked into place. Be nothing. Feel nothing. Show nothing. He looked at her, at the fear she was trying so hard to mask with maternal command, and he saw his own future. A life spent in the shadows, terrified of a master's whim. It was no different from the slow rot of the garden around them.

"I understand," he said, the words hollow.

Narcissa held his gaze for a moment longer, her own eyes filled with a desperate, unspoken plea. Then, as if she could bear it no longer, she turned. "Good," she said, her back to him. "Now finish your work and come inside. You are needed."

She walked away without another word, her silver robes gliding over the dead leaves, a spectre of elegance in a world of decay. Draco watched her go, the cold in his stomach tightening into a knot of ice. He was needed. The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, far more chilling than the damp November air. He was needed for what?

Draco dropped the trowel. It landed with a dull thud on the packed earth. He didn’t bother wiping his hands on his trousers as he walked back towards the house, the mud on his face feeling like a brand. The heavy oak door swung open before he reached it, pulled by an unseen house-elf. The air inside the Manor was no warmer than it had been in the garden; it was just a different kind of cold. A still, silent cold that smelled of dust and fear.

He expected to be sent to the drawing room, where Bellatrix and the Carrows often held court, doling out orders and casual cruelties. Instead, a trembling Dobby appeared at the end of the hall, his huge eyes wide with terror. The elf did not speak, only gestured with a shaking finger towards the west wing. Towards his father’s study.

A fresh wave of dread washed over Draco. No one used the study anymore. Not since the Dark Lord had made the Manor his headquarters. The room had been his father’s sanctuary, a place of polished mahogany and dark leather, where Lucius Malfoy had commanded his influence with the stroke of a quill. To be summoned there now felt like being called to a tomb.

He pushed the door open. The room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the weak afternoon light. A single lamp on the desk cast a sickly yellow glow, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The room had been neglected. A thin layer of grey coated every surface, and the familiar scent of old books and expensive brandy had been replaced by something stale and airless.

Lucius was standing by the fireplace, staring into the cold, empty hearth. He wasn’t wearing his fine robes, just simple black trousers and a silk shirt that hung loosely on his diminished frame. His long, white-blond hair was dull, lacking its usual sheen, and when he finally turned, Draco had to suppress a flinch. His father looked like a ghost. His skin was sallow, stretched tight over his sharp cheekbones, and his grey eyes, usually so cold and imperious, were shadowed and restless. They darted around the room, never quite settling on Draco.

"Your mother spoke to you," Lucius said. It was not a question. His voice was a dry rustle, a pale imitation of its former commanding tone.

"Yes," Draco said.

"Then you understand our position." Lucius ran a hand over his face, a gesture of weariness so profound it seemed to pain him. "He is not a forgiving master. Our... past failures have left a stain. One that is not easily washed away."

Draco remained silent, his hands clenching at his sides. He knew what this was. This was the prelude to a demand. A groveling, desperate attempt to regain favour.

"An opportunity has presented itself," Lucius continued, finally forcing his eyes to meet Draco's. The contact was brief, flickering away almost immediately. "An opportunity to demonstrate our renewed commitment. To prove that the Malfoy name is still one of value."

"What opportunity?" Draco asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Lucius straightened his shoulders, a pathetic attempt to reclaim some of his old authority. The movement was stiff, unnatural. "There is a raid tonight. An Order safe house. Bellatrix is leading it." He paused, letting the name hang in the air like a threat. "The Dark Lord has... suggested... that you participate."

The air left Draco’s lungs. The cold dread in his stomach became a knot of pure, sickening terror. A raid. Not observing from the trees. Not polishing boots. A full raid, with Bellatrix. With killing curses and screams and the smell of blood and burning.

"I..." he started, his throat closing up. "I'm not—"

"You are," Lucius snapped, his voice suddenly sharp, cracking like a whip. For a second, a flash of the old Lucius was there—cold, cruel, and absolute. "This is not a request, Draco. It is a command. It is our chance. Your chance. You will go. You will fight. You will show them what you are made of. You will show them you are your father's son and a true servant of the Dark Lord."

The words were hollow, desperate. He was not ordering Draco to be a soldier; he was ordering him to be a sacrifice. A piece to be played in their pathetic game of survival. The life of his son was the only currency Lucius had left to spend.

"They will be watching you," Lucius said, his voice dropping back to that conspiratorial rustle. He took a shuffling step forward, his eyes wild with a feverish desperation. "Every spell you cast, every moment of hesitation. You cannot fail. I will not permit you to fail. The fate of this family rests on you tonight. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Draco looked at the man before him—this broken, terrified stranger who wore his father’s face. He saw the full depth of their fall. They were no longer masters of their own destiny. They were puppets, and their strings were being pulled by madmen.

He could only nod. The word was stuck in his throat, choked by the terror that was now rising, flooding his chest, stealing his breath.

"Good." Lucius looked relieved, as if Draco’s silent acquiescence was a victory. He turned away, dismissing him. "Go to your room. Prepare yourself. You will be summoned after dark."

Draco walked out of the study without being dismissed. He moved like an automaton, his legs carrying him through the silent, cavernous halls of his own home. Every step echoed on the cold marble. The portraits of his ancestors watched him pass, their painted eyes seeming to follow him with a mixture of pity and contempt. They were figures of power, of influence, of pure-blood pride. He was a boy being sent to do a madwoman’s bidding to pay for his father’s mistakes. The gilded frames and opulent tapestries were no longer symbols of his heritage; they were the bars of his cage.

He didn’t stop until he reached the heavy oak door of his own bedroom. For a moment, he simply stood before it, his hand hovering over the cool silver handle. This room had once been his sanctuary, a place where he was master. Now it was just a cell, albeit a well-appointed one. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The click of the latch was deafeningly final. He was alone.

The silence did not bring peace. It was a thick, suffocating thing, amplifying the frantic beat of his own heart. His eyes fell on the large, ornate mirror that hung over his mahogany dresser. He walked towards it, drawn by a morbid curiosity, a need to see the creature his father had just condemned.

The reflection that stared back was almost a stranger’s. The face was his, but it was hollowed out, all sharp angles and pale, translucent skin. His eyes, usually a cool, confident grey, were wide and dark, pupils blown with a terror he could feel in the base of his spine. His lips were bloodless. He saw a tremor in his own hand as he raised it, and he pressed his fingertips against the cold glass, as if to confirm the image was real. The boy in the mirror did the same, his expression one of sheer, naked fear. This was not Draco Malfoy, heir to a proud and powerful line. This was prey.

His gaze dropped to his left forearm, covered by the sleeve of his shirt. He didn’t need to see it to feel it. The Dark Mark was a constant presence, a cold spot on his skin that sometimes burned with a phantom itch, a reminder of who owned him. He was branded cattle. Tonight, he was being led to slaughter, or worse, being forced to become a butcher himself.

He could already hear it. The chaos of a raid. The manic, high-pitched shriek of his aunt’s laughter as she cast her curses. The smell of scorched earth and blood. He imagined her turning to him, her wild eyes pinning him in place, her wand raised. “Do it, Draco! Show the Dark Lord your worth! Crucio!”

A violent shudder wracked his body, and he stumbled back from the mirror, his stomach churning with bile. Could he do it? Could he point his wand at a stranger—a man, a woman, a child—and utter the word? Could he inflict that kind of pain, become that kind of monster, just to survive another day in this house? The thought was more terrifying than any curse that could be aimed at him.

His mind flashed, unbidden, to the day before. To the skirmish in the woods. He saw Potter, his face grim with determination, shielding Granger as he fired off spells. They fought with a desperate, righteous fury. They were fighting for something. For each other. He was being sent to fight for nothing more than the chance to appease a monster, to perhaps keep his mother safe for one more night. Potter’s fight had meaning. His was just a command performance of cruelty.

Draco sank onto the edge of his perfectly made bed, the silk coverlet cold beneath his trembling hands. He stared at the closed door, waiting. The dread was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He was needed. He would be summoned. And when he was, he would go, because he had no other choice. He would walk into the night and become whatever they demanded of him, and he was terrified he wouldn’t recognize himself when the sun rose again. If it rose for him at all.