Title: A Darker Alchemy
Chapter: Prologue
Author: luciademedici
Summary: The summer has given way to the onset of a new school year, echoing with the initial battle cries of the war against Voldemort. Draco Malfoy has returned to Hogwarts, having barely escaped the Death Eaters with his life, only to find that asylum may be more difficult to handle beneath the new power structure of the school.
Pairings: Blaise/Hermione, Draco/Pansy, Theodore/Daphne, Draco/Theodore (implied), Draco/Hermione (unrequited)
Word Count: 1,119 words
Rating: R
Warnings: Tragedy
Author’s Notes: Written for midsummerfest, and based On Shakespeare’s “Othello.” I extend thanks to my beta, Lisa725, for looking this over.


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A Darker Alchemy
Prologue
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“I am sorry, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco ignored the slight pinch of his nails as they dug into the soft pads of flesh on his palms. The sting did little to distract him from the school’s Headmistress. She didn’t appear the slightest bit apologetic.

He forced himself to loosen his fists, to breathe.

“I understand, Professor,” he managed, evenly.

She continued looking at him levelly above her spectacles, her lips pinched into an unforgiving line. Behind her, in his portrait, the former Headmaster beamed at him beatifically.

“I will inform the other members of the staff,” she said as if to conclude their discussion, then turned to straighten the already immaculate assortment of papers on her desk.

“Professor, if I could ask – who will take my place?”

She didn’t look up. “I believe Mr. Zabini is aptly suited to the task,” she said succinctly. “Mr. Nott will be the acting prefect, given the circumstances of your return.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Disinherited, disgraced, and dethroned, he thought bitterly. This year at Hogwarts, though he was at least party grateful for the asylum, he’d lost it all.

But Zabini – what did Zabini have that he didn’t?

“If I may be so bold to ask, Professor –”

“Mr. Zabini has proven himself more than once over the course of this summer, Mr. Malfoy. He has demonstrated his loyalties in ways that have surprised us all. Mr. Nott has declared himself to be non-partisan, along with Ms. Parkinson. The most important thing your housemates can do for this school is to abolish all pretence. A war has begun; those appointed to positions of authority must be prepared to keep their classmates safe at any cost.”

“Have I not declared my support explicitly enough?” Draco ground out.

McGonagall appraised him for a moment, considering.

“What of my proposition?” he pressed, feeling the tightness in his jaw though he worked to keep himself from yelling outright. “You must have had some correspondence with Snape.”

“That I have,” she replied. “He smuggled you from Voldemort at great personal cost.”

Draco flinched.

“His sacrifice demonstrates implicit faith in you, Mr. Malfoy. We, however, have yet to learn why you have returned to us.”

“But I told you already –” he nearly whined. He knew it sounded petulant, but really, if the old battleaxe couldn’t see for herself that he was willing to do anything for amnesty at this point. Anything to keep him from his father and the Death Eaters. They wanted his blood, for Merlin’s sake!

“We will consider it, Mr. Malfoy.” She looked at him then, betraying no hint of the desire to humour him. She knew, just as well as he, that he was a dead man just short of crawling into his grave. Still, he was having trouble accepting the sheer humiliation of having to beg.

Malfoys did not cower and grovel.

Not even dispossessed Malfoys.

“Very well,” he said stiffly, trying to regain regal airs. From a portrait overhead, one of his long-dead relatives muffled a snigger with a cough. Draco ignored him. “If you recall, Pott –” he grimaced, forcing his scowl into an expression of strained cordiality, “Harry is willing to testify on my behalf. He was present the night in question and I’m certain that –”

“I am well aware of the terms between yourself and Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cut him off crisply. “However, I cannot reasonably take your word at face value.”

Draco stiffened.

“Was it not enough that I risked myself and my sanity?” he hissed. “Or perhaps it isn’t proof enough that they near crippled me before I escaped?” As if to demonstrate, Draco pulled up his robe sleeve in one violent snap.

He no longer needed to look at the seared band of skin on his arm to confirm the events of the last three months. At the beginning, when he and Snape had returned to the Dark Lord, the punishment for his failure had wiped out all illusions of living up to their expectations. Indeed, they had been squashed in several successive evenings.

The isolation he could live with, but seeing his father crumpled and bleeding, hearing his mother’s screams – they were worse than his own.

At least, when Draco cried out, the pain of the Cruciatus curse blocked out the sound of his own voice.

This was a reasonable alternative. This was the only alternative, in fact, and looking at his mangled arm reminded him of it daily.

“Severus has informed us, of course.” The Headmistress nodded, glancing at the freshly healed scars lancing through the last traces of black where the Dark Mark had been on Draco’s arm. “He has also mentioned that you attempted to peel that off yourself.”

Draco raised his chin defiantly, unable to control the shape his mouth took as he sneered. “I did.”

“It was a foolish thing to do,” she countered. “You should know better that the magic of his sigil runs deeper than the flesh. It can never be erased.”

Draco faltered, his pride dashed.

“But I can try to forget it,” he muttered bitterly, and covered his arm.

“Speak to your housemates, Mr. Malfoy. I advise you to do so immediately. You will find it may be difficult to renew your alliances, but of this I can assure you, the new Head Boy and Head Girl are your peers. Should you need to discuss any of this, Mr. Zabini and Ms. Granger will provide a willing ear. Mr. Zabini has said as much himself.”

Zabini again, Draco thought while pretending to brush off the imaginary lint from his immaculate school robes.

Last year, Zabini had been a snivelling maggot beneath his thumb. Last year, Zabini had looked to him with admiration.

This year, Zabini was the reigning prince of Slytherin because of some stupidity he’d managed to get away with over the summer – the details of which Draco couldn’t fully be sure.

“Thank you, Headmistress,” he muttered with perfunctory politeness, rising from his seat and striding swiftly to the door without a glance over his shoulder.

This year, Zabini had stolen his glory alongside that vile mudblood bitch, Granger.

Draco paused on the revolving stair, dropping to plant himself on an uncomfortably cold step as it ground into motion, spiralling downwards.

This year, Zabini would pay for his treachery.