The Heart of the Matter (Harry/Draco)

Chapter One

The last epithet Draco Malfoy had ever imagined would apply to him was that of 'blood traitor'.

Malfoys were purebloods in every sense of the word, his family unwaveringly loyal to the Dark Lord and his cause; it was the ideology he'd been born into, the way he had been raised, trained, and tailored into a man. Draco accepted without question that he was better than the rest of the world simply because of his heritage, his father's wealth and political power collateral factors.

Even from Azkaban, Lucius' reputation commanded high respect and granted him power; he wove threads of blackmail and threat enough to turn the Ministry inside-out without so much as lifting a finger. His son supplemented his presence where required, a position Draco considered a compliment; acting as the representative of such a man was an honour not to be taken lightly.

He would make his father proud, even if he had all but soiled himself standing in the presence of the Dark Lord at barely sixteen, enervated, terrified at the task he had been given to make up for his father's failure. To earn his father's right to live, to protect his mother, to uphold everything that gave his life meaning. Malfoys were not blood traitors, even in the face of annihilation. Draco would acquiesce to the Dark Lord's command, even if it meant forfeiting the rest of his life for a cause he trusted and believed in but had never quite understood.

He would make his father proud, he told himself again. He would protect his mother. He had to. No Malfoy in history had earned the title of blood traitor. Draco did not intend to be the first.

He didn't realise at the time that this moment would become the fork in the road of his life. This was the moment he had to decide; was he a murderer, or a traitor?

'Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.'

To kill in cold blood-

'No harm has been done...'

-or to betray those he loved.

'...you have hurt nobody.'

This was not a decision any sixteen-year-old should ever have had to make. But, no, he would not give in. He could not cave. He couldn't take the easy way out. He'd got this far... he was the one with the wand. His grip on it tightened; he stood up straighter, holding his chin higher. 'You're at my mercy...'

'No, Draco,' Dumbledore said calmly. Much too calmly for a weak, injured, unarmed old wizard held at wand point. Blue eyes watched Draco from behind their half-moon spectacles, as serene and pastel as the afternoon summer sky. 'It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now.'

At these words, Draco was overwhelmed with a blinding haze of fury at everything; at Dumbledore, for being so fucking calm and benevolent all the time, even in the face of his own demise; his father, for failing and expecting Draco to pick up the pieces; the Dark Lord, for being the biggest hypocrite of them all, and for forcing him to make this decision; at the whole war, for stealing his life away before he knew what the hell had happened.

He was sixteen. He should have been worrying about where to spend his summer holidays, hoping he'd get that new Firebolt prototype for his birthday, wondering whether he'd ever get his hands up Pansy's skirt, or if the Headmaster had enough brains to make him Head Boy in seventh year...

And with a sudden jolt, looking down the smooth, dark wood of his wand to his target, Draco realised how very unlikely his having a seventh year was anymore; how very unlikely even having a seventeenth birthday had just become. He fought the strong urge that gripped his insides to flee to his dormitory and close the curtains and disappear under the covers. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to make this decision.