Smoke and Mirrors by JewelBurns
Summary: Sequel to The Choices We Made.

With Voldemort dead and Harry's cancer settling life should be returning to normal for Harry and Snape but things aren't always as they seem. Instead they find themselves challenged in new ways. When dangerous events start after Harry's return to Hogwarts can Snape figure out what's going on before they're torn apart again? HPSS mentor Healing/Coping
Categories: Parental Snape > Guardian Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Draco, Dudley, Hermione, Original Character
Snape Flavour: Snape Comforts, Snape is Depressed, Snape is Desperate, Snape is Kind, Snape is Loving, Out of Character Snape, Overly-protective Snape, Snape is Secretive
Genres: Angst, Drama, Family, General, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Media Type: None
Tags: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Azkaban Character, Hospitalization, Injured!Harry
Takes Place: 7th summer, 7th Year
Warnings: Alcohol Use, Character Death, Out of Character, Romance/Het
Challenges: None
Series: Choices We Made Universe
Chapters: 84 Completed: No Word count: 697412 Read: 514916 Published: 15 Nov 2020 Updated: 30 Sep 2023
Malfoys' Interlude: The Transformation by JewelBurns
Author's Notes:
Just a heads up on this chapter: it goes back in time from the regular story. It starts two days before the Diagon Alley attack and then finishes the day of the attack. Originally, the first section was going to be posted chronologically, but felt it made for a stronger storyline together instead.

Disclaimer: This chapter was written by my beta French_Charlotte and reviewed by me for content and characterization.

Wednesday, 13th August, 1997

Never before had Draco been so excited to read the waterlogged tea leaves plastered in the bottom of his cup. Since the full moon ten days ago - which he was immensely thankful for the weather's docility and having it be a cloudless night - he'd had to get up at sunrise to mutter the Animagus incantation, and do the same routine at night. All the while he waited and prayed and continued to check the projected weather through divination for the needed 'lightning storm' to complete the ritual.

That morning, after innocently brewing his tea with the special divination blend his parents kept tucked in the kitchen, Draco had struggled to contain his excitement at breakfast. The sheer fact that he was sitting at the breakfast table alone was cause for excitement in his parents' eyes; ever since his visit with the Grangers two weeks ago, he'd been more easily coerced out of his bedroom to join his parents in the dining room proper. It was strange how an innocuous visit that turned into an overnight stay had such a grounding impact on him. The small London suburban house was barely big enough to fit the Granger's measly family of three - in his polished opinion - and yet their home was fuller, larger, and warmer than any centimeter of space in the manner. The walls were covered in Muggle still photographs of their family, some candid like the one with a young Hermione laughing after someone smashed a cake and frosting on her face, and others professional, but it was the compelling relaxation that told the house's story. That the walls heard and absorbed years of laughter and happiness, as opposed to the manor sheltering dark secrets and screams of anguish.

When he returned to the manor after spending an awkward night in Mr Granger's study, Draco had tried to see his own home in a similar light. At first, it was easier, still relaxed from the Grangers that made him temporarily forget about the atrocities that occurred in his own home. But as the days passed and his memory of Hermione's quirky parents faded, so too did those tender feelings. A familiar coldness began to set into his bones, but he kept showing up to the dining room for meals in hopes that he could stave it off and rekindle that alien warmheartedness.

In the two weeks that passed, his family continued to attend Cobb's sessions, his mother kept fussing over the renovations and trying to decide the new tea room's upholstery palette, and his father found a strange sport in asking Draco peculiar questions, like when he first started to enjoy quidditch and what his favorite aspect of the sport was. And what was worse - or more? - his father seemed genuinely interested in his response, patiently urging him to continue his thoughts on topics that were mundane in the wake of the battle that occurred only several months ago. And yet, Draco found himself relaxing during the questions. They were a pleasant distraction from the soured thoughts that continued to circle in his head, and he even began to look forward to some of his conversations with his father.

Draco's string of bad luck finally cleared when his father announced at breakfast, minutes after the young Slytherin read the leaves that told him a lightning storm was due that night, that his parents would be traveling to London for dinner at some posh, old restaurant established by Napoleon's chef centuries ago.

Though they once cherished a privileged socialite lifestyle and enjoyed dining at high-brow establishments, his parents hadn't gone out for over a year. Not since before his father was tossed in Azkaban and Voldemort's stifling hatred descended on them. Even in the aftermath of the war, their family was unable to enjoy the freedom and affluent entitlement they once had. They couldn't show their faces in Diagon Alley without being heckled; two thirds of their family bore the Mark, and one of th responsible for kidnapping the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Prophet had a field day coining them a variety of colorful terms, 'Father and Son Death Eater Duo', 'Like Father, Like Son'.

When his father said they were having dinner in London, he didn't mean Wizarding London. He meant Muggle London.

Wearing his Muggle clothes, Draco yet again wondered how different their lives became. Never before would his parents, hailing from the Purest of bloodlines, ever socializing with Muggles. Granted, the variety of Muggles that'd locale the luxurious restaurant were at the same wealthy caliber as his family, but they were mute to magic and deaf to the ways of their world. They were the oppressors, his parents had always lectured into him, people who were created of lesser material and forced to rely on the barbarism of electricity.

And they were going to get dolled up and break bread with them.

His mother had been silent and white-knuckled her satin napkin while his father calmly explained their dinner plans, the smile carved on her face befitting a statue better than a breathing person. Draco had only glanced briefly at her, trying to read her reaction, to know that the dinner plans were his father's idea.

Musing on the strange morning events, Draco impatiently shifted his weight as he listened to the crack of lightning and the rumbling thunder that followed. Where was Hermione? He firecalled the damn Weasley pigpen twenty minutes ago, suffered the awkward introductions with a cold-shouldered Ginny Weasley, and told Hermione that the weather was perfect to complete the Animagus ritual that night and asked her to floo to the manor 'immediately'.

That was twenty minutes ago. Why was it taking her so long?

The floo room was situated conveniently off from the main entrance hall, allowing visitors to still get the full intimidating effect of the manor whether they walked through the front doors or floo'ed in. It was night by the time the storm festered to its height, cords of brilliant lightning sundering the starless sky every minute. And leaning in the doorway to the floo room, Draco split his attention from eyeing the dormant fireplace to the immense windows giving a perfect show of the weather he desperately needed. His left hand cradled a small potion while his right held a thick, ancient tome about the ritual itself. If something foul were to happen, he'd need Hermione to act quickly by either referring to the book, or being able to transport him to St Mungos.

Hopefully within the hour, he'd know what animal he'd become.

Sighing heavily finally did the trick. The roar of the floo made him whip around and watch as a soot-covered Hermione stepped out of it. Taking in her appearance that was sharply different from what he was able to see through the firecall, Draco narrowed his gaze on her curiously.

"Are you wearing… makeup? And what happened to your hair?"

So that's what took her so long.

The question made Hermione freeze and self-consciously run her hand over the uneven bun pinned to the back of her head with magic. A few stray curls - frizzy beyond belief - framed her face into what was probably supposed to be an alluring style. And maybe on anyone but Hermione, who looked incredibly out of her element, awkward, now sheepish, it looked like a clumsy facade painted over a brick wall.

"I…" the witch began inelegantly, staring back at him nervously. She chewed the lipstick off her bottom lip. "It's my first time seeing the manor and I wasn't sure…"

She wanted to make a good impression. The reality of it hit Draco so hard he couldn't help but chuckle and relish the affection that filled his core. "I showed up unannounced at your house looking so rubbish that your father mistaken me for a Weasley." He had promptly got rid of the clothes he wore that day after that judgment. "You don't have to go through all of…" He fought for the word to describe the heavy makeup mess on her face and instead just gestured his hand over her, "all of whatever this is. Just be comfortable, Hermione. Especially for tonight."

The witch let out a long, heavy sigh of relief and yanked out her wand immediately. With a few waves of it, the makeup was vanished off and her hair plopped down from her head in a fantastic wave of frizziness. "Thank god. Ginny did it."

Draco, for his benefit, managed to hold back the insult on the Weasley witch and instead wrapped an arm around Hermione to begin guiding her out of the grand entrance hall into a side corridor. "Yes, well. You don't have to go through all of that. And my parents are out for the night so we shouldn't be disturbed."

The Gryffindor witch tried to look nonchalant as they weaved in and out of corridors, passing by priceless artwork and intriguing friezes. He could tell when one really interested her; she would slow considerably and look like she wanted to stop to appraise the piece more intently, but she didn't let herself get distracted. They were in the manor for a purpose; the weather wouldn't hold out for them. The tour, if Hermione was adventurous enough to ask and Draco was mentally strong enough to provide, would come after.

Assuming he didn't end up as a half-elephant, half-wizard monstrosity.

"I cleared out the ballroom and added a few items in case something happens," Draco explained as he pushed open the heavy ivy-moulded doors that led to the manor's ballroom. They were only one set of the many doors that fed into the regal room lavished in expensive motifs, gold filigree, and a three-story domed ceiling with painted murals of constellations and Roman wizarding battles. One side of the ballroom fed into the manor proper while the other had french windowed doors that led into a side garden with aromatic fountains and perfectly manicured flower beds.

"It's gorgeous," Hermione mumbled in astonishment when they entered, leaning back to stare in awe at the painted ceiling and enchanted chandelier raining down specks of gold dust that dissolved before it reached them. "Do you have many parties here?"

Draco paused for a moment. "Not anymore." He didn't want to think about that life - when they were at the height of society, when he wore his pedigree like a badge of honor, when he treated the world like a slave at his whims, when he thought himself untouchable to foulness when the foulness was embedded in his very existence. "Come on. I set up over here, near the gardens."

A set of french doors were yanked open wide, allowing the storm's wind to careen into the manor. He'd transfigured several items in the room to suit his needs for the ritual: a chair became a full-body mirror and two tables became two huge tanks of water, one fresh and the other salt. Hermione inspected each before leveling a quizzical look at the Slytherin. "Water?"

He shrugged. "In case my animal is a fish or something water-based." Pointing to the rain-drenched gardens, he continued. "And if I get turned into something bloody huge, I can get outside quick. And here," he handed her the book. "I found this in my family's library. It's old and… likely has some questionable content in it, but if anything goes wrong, you can try to find the counterspell in there."

Though Hermione took the book, she gave him a look. "Draco, you're going to be brilliant. I know you are. But… but if anything happens, I'll be right here. And St Mungos is only a floo away." As he took out his wand from his jeans, she stepped back several paces - maybe she also believed an elephant transformation was on the table - and looked him over. "Are you going to wear that?"

Wand out, the Slytherin was about to pop off the top of the potion. "What? Why not? Clothes get transformed with me."

"Once you're trained, they do. It's not uncommon for novices to accidentally forget clothes."

"So where would they end up?" He looked down at his Muggle ensemble. Not that he was particularly attached to them, but losing the clothing would be a bit of a damper.

The question did the impossible and stumped the Gryffindor witch, who stood there with scrunched brows. "I… don't know, actually. If they didn't transform with you initially, they'd either get ripped up or fall off you, depending on what your animal is. And if you manage to transform your clothes with you but don't transform them back when you return to human form, I guess they just… disappear?"

The blonde wizard frowned. "A bit too ambiguous for my taste." He made a mental note to research that later on. After toeing off his shoes, he shed himself of all of his clothes down to his boxers, neatly piling up the garments and then moving to stand in front of the mirror. He wouldn't mind if his underpants were shredded or got tossed into some random realm where all Animagus clothes were banished too. Maybe there was some dimension just filled with garments and wizarding clothes collected through the centuries. Maybe some kind of magical creature collected and resold them.

Bringing himself back to the task at hand, the Slytherin took a woodening breath, uncapped the potion, and tossed the bitter contents into the back of his throat. He didn't think as he moved through the motions, swallowing the acrid liquid before immediately placing the tip of his smooth wand against his heart and muttering the incantation he'd been saying twice a day for the past ten days.

The spell took immediately. The ritual completed itself.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the painful sensation of bones gnawing, skin shriveling, and organs rotating in directions they weren't intended to was not in the forecast. Gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes shut, Draco fought back the sudden urge to vomit as bile began to rise in his core, an unbalancing sensation rushing through him and making him uncoordinated and dizzy. Sensations suddenly blared to life as he collapsed forward, instinctively bringing his hands up in a blind attempt to catch himself. With his eyes closed and vertigo plaguing him, he wasn't sure if it worked or not, but considering his face wasn't in pain, he guessed it did.

Sounds and smells were suddenly heightened to the extent that he felt overwhelmed by them. He could smell the elves prepping the pudding and liver for breakfast, the fish they were salting for lunch, and the wet licorice root in the garden. He could hear so many voices, though muffled and too distant to make out. And it was only when the nauseating sensation and pain in his limbs abruptly ended that he realized the ritual was done and his transformation was complete.

Hermione gasped above him. "Oh, Draco! It worked! You're…"

Above him?

Draco's eyes snapped open immediately, and his vision was filled with the marble ballroom floor only inches from his face. But the ivory and taupe swirled marble didn't look like the colors he knew they should've been. Instead, they were horrifically muted almost to the point of being grey. And the color was blindingly bright. In fact, the sides of his vision were so bright and wide that he felt a headache immediately coming on. Why was the room so bright all of a sudden?

After closing his eyes for a few seconds to give himself more time to acclimate to his weird vision, he tried again. This time, he panned his stare around a little in search of his body and hands, only to find that he had no hands to speak of. He was standing on them.

Looking down further, he stared at two delicate white paws. Panic filled him as he quickly looked up into the mirror he'd placed in front of him.

"Draco… you're…. adorable!"

No. No, this couldn't be right.

In his reflection was the rest of the animal belonging to the two paws. A small, extremely fluffy white Persian kitten with ears pinned back in anger, bushy tail lashing side to side, stared back at him. If it weren't for his own grey eyes perfectly reflected back on the kitten, he wouldn't believe it was him. And yet, he knew it was. A kitten. He went through the painstaking process of holding a mandrake leaf in his mouth for a month, uttered an incantation twice a day, and perfected weather divination all to become a cat.

No. No, this couldn't be right.

McGonagall was a cat. A Gryffindor witch with as many maternal bones as Molly Weasley, brave and strong, was a cat. Slytherins weren't anything like Gryffindors. Why would he be a cat? And not just a cat; he was a kitten. Not even a full-grown cat. The explosion of fur on him was incredibly unruly, soft, and thin, and not the coat that an adult cat had. At seventeen years old, he was legally an adult wizard in their world. Sure, he likely had a few more years before he finished filling out physically, but certainly that didn't equate to being a kitten.

No. No, this couldn't be right.

"Draco," Hermione cautiously began as she watched the kitten's tail continue to seethingly flick. "I know you don't like this." Yes, she guessed that right. "But it worked! And.. and a cat is a perfect animal!"

"Are you kidding me?! This is a bloody embarrassment!" He yelled at her reflection, watching her inch closer and closer, her hands awkwardly opening and closing. "Don't you dare touch me or pick me up."

His anger was completely lost on her. She stopped and laughed nervously. "I can't understand you. You just… meow at me. But there were some growls in there so I think I got the message. Look at it like this - a cat is a lot more casual to see around than something like… an otter! You can fit in perfectly at Hogwarts, or really anywhere. People see stray cats all the time."

He balked at her. A stray? Him? Absolutely not. He might be a kitten, but he was anything but a mangey, flea-infested stray likely found rolling around in the Weasley pigpen.

Deciding to ignore her for the moment, Draco focused on his new body. The overwhelming flood of sounds and smells made sense, and maybe with some training he could learn to hone in on those attributes to twist them to his benefit. But everything else… his diminutive height, stark white fur, and questionable vision all made a mess of a situation. The height and fur he could extrapolate some kind of cunning tool, but the vision?

The only advantage he could currently see was his broadened periphery. He could see so much more on the sides of his small body. But that was as far as the advantage went. Colours were washed out in grey, muted tones that had a hazy layer over them. There were no rich shades. And everything past six meters became so fuzzy and out of focus that it looked like he was trying to see the world through an intense cloud of obscuring smoke. And yet the ground directly in front of him was also out of focus. Did cats really suffer from such horrible visual acuity?

Turning to glance around the ballroom, Draco paused when he looked outside into the dark, stormy garden. And yet, it wasn't really dark at all. The blurriness hindering his vision abruptly cleared up when looking in the inky shadows, and he was suddenly able to make out minute details that he normally wouldn't have been able to; the pebbled texture on the pavilion, a rodent's minuscule movement as it scurried through some ivy, and, the weirdest of all, a strange glow bleeding through the clouds in the sky, reminding him of the northern lights as the radiance pulsed in random areas.

"Can you transform back?"

The question from Hermione made Draco look away from the bizarre glow behind the storm clouds to consider her curiously. He figured he could; all he'd have to do was mutter the incantation again until he trained himself to be proficient enough to do it wandless and wordless.

Where was his wand?

His boxers weren't in a heap around him so they must've survived the transformation, and his wand wasn't on the ground somewhere. Did it get integrated into his kitten body? Sitting back on his haunches, Draco inspected his right front paw, flexing his fingers - toes? - a few times and watching the razor-sharp small claws come out. Those would be handy. Plopping that paw down, he lifted his left with the intent of doing the same examination but a flash of black on his little foreleg made him freeze.

Leaning forward, he didn't even think as he used his nose to nudge the fluff to the side to better see the dark spot hidden under the dense layer of fur. There it was, tattooed onto his bright pink skin and staining a small thatch of fur around it was the Dark Mark.

Any excitement he might've begun to feel for his new Animagus form suddenly dried up as harsh reality set in. He wasn't completing the tedious ritual to triumph over a difficult milestone; he wasn't doing it to prove his prowess as a wizard. He was doing it to hide from society in plain sight, because he was a coward who couldn't face his actions and preferred the guise of a kitten. And yet, in poetic irony, the very symbol he was trying to hide followed him as a cat.

It would always follow him. Even when the blackness faded. The outline would still be there. The nightmare would never go away.

He muttered the incantation in a flat, defeated tone and didn't even flinch when his body suffered the pains of morphing back to a human. The blonde Slytherin was still cradling his left arm, sitting cross-legged on the marble, when he returned to his full, thankfully boxer-clad stature. His wand clattered to the ground beside him.

"It worked!" Hermione gleefully exclaimed as she rushed to his side. She stopped when she saw him staring down at the Mark, expression crushed and defeated and tired. "Oh. Draco, you can't see it when you're in your Animagus form. I certainly couldn't see it! And I doubt anyone else could unless they were really searching."

Draco dropped his arm and snorted. "I'll hex anyone who even tries to touch me. I might look like a cat but I'm absolutely not one. I don't want to be held, pet, touched. And don't call me adorable. I'm not Crookshanks, for Merlin's sake."

The words, though saturated in arrogance, gave away that the Slytherin accepted his form. It might've been unmanly, cute, and small, but it was deceptively useful with a toolbox of potential benefits. He could travel without anyone knowing it was him, listen in on conversations far away, smell and track people and things once he learned how to use it, and could see perfectly in the dark.

"So, what was it like?" Hermione excitedly pressed as Draco began to dress himself.

The wizard shook his head at the memory. "Odd. I need to work on how to separate smells and sounds. It's all so much at once. And… the sky has this weird glow to it. Not continuous but more like… in oscillating rhythms. It's cloudy so I couldn't see which constellations it was around."

Hermione tilted her head to the side to consider the question before nodding once. "We can research it. I'm afraid I don't know too much about the ritual or cats, so research in either area might take some time."

"You cover cats and I cover the ritual?"

"Technically, you're the cat now so you should read up on your own biology."

He sighed as he finished tying his trainers. "As much as I hate to admit the logic in that, I suppose it's true. I'll be going to Diagon Alley in a few days anyways to look at some things, so I'll see if Flourish and Blotts has something about cats."

"My aunt is actually a big fan of cats. She's got dozens of them," Hermione explained, mirroring Draco's disgusted face with one of her own. "Yeah, I know. It's as bad as it sounds. But anyways, I'll ask her to see if she has a book she can lend me."

Reaching her side, the wizard wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in. "So this is my life now? Borrowing books from a crazy cat hag?"

"Hey, watch it." She warned. "Or next time I'm playing with your paws."


Friday, 15th August, 1997

On the best of days, Diagon Alley was decently well-kept. Sanitizing charms were typically cast in the wee morning hours before the swarms and stampedes of shoppers and visitors trampled the narrow, weaving streets. At night, when merchants closed up their shops and restaurants counted their tills, they did the bare minimum to clean the exterior perimeter of their establishments. Most were eager to go home after a long day of work, and none were keen to expend their diminished energy to clean up.

On the worst of days, Diagon Alley was an utter cesspool of dirt, scum, and trash. Which just happened to also be the district's state most of the time. In fact, Draco couldn't remember a time he ever thought Diagon Alley was actually clean. And as he walked briskly through the densely packed streets, threading back and forth between narrow legs and squeezing where no wizard should ever be allowed, he began to think that his Animagus plan was a terrible idea. It was one thing to notice the dirt and debris when he stepped on it with a shoe; it was another nightmare entirely when his paws nakedly walked in muddy puddles of slop and the white fur on his feet was now stained a repulsive brown.

Was this really worse than dealing with stares and angry gossip-mongers that continued to blame him for kidnapping the Chosen One? Was walking around as a dirty kitten in the streets like some feral fleabag the preferable choice to being an undesirable villain to the Wizarding World?

Two days ago, Draco had finished the Animagus ritual with Hermione and had detested being a Persian white kitten. Out of all of the possible animals and insects he could've been, the universe decided to apply a thick coating of divine comedy, as if the shambles of his once perfect life weren't hilarious enough for them, and make him into a fluffy kitten. Not a cat. Not a kneazle. Not a tiger or fierce feline.

A domesticate, long-haired kitten with soft white fur.

A day ago, at breakfast - which Draco forced himself out of bed to attend - he decided to take a leap of faith and tell his parents.

"Are you going to register?" Lucius had asked after staring at his son for several long, uncomfortable seconds. His fork holding a sliced peach continued to hang in mid-air, the fruit forgotten.

"Eventually," Draco had evasively responded, studying the rim of his tea cup. "I want to use it while at-" he caught himself before saying Hogwarts, not quite ready to admit defeat and agree to return to school, "-while out in public when I don't want to gather so much… attention."

His father brows dipped modestly. It was a subtle change on his perfectly poised features, but enough that Draco registered it as disappointment.

"That's lovely, darling," his mother had cut in with a distracted tone and forced smile that didn't reach her eyes, her gaze never leaving the newspaper she was flipping through. "Have you seen the Society Pages today, Lucius? Marcus Flint and Isla MacDougal are engaged! A brilliant match."

And that was that. His mother dove her nose into the false whisperings of what they used to be, of what was familiar to her, and refused to acknowledge her son drowning as he fought the torrential storm of his nightmares and transgressions. Perhaps if she wasn't shattered in her own way, she would've applauded him on completing the wizarding milestone; he was an untrained Animagus, apprenticed to no one, and had meandered his way through the ritual by self-teaching. To accomplish it was no small feat. But what drove him to do it eclipsed any pride his mother could've had for him.

Draco didn't go back to the dining room again. Not for lunch or dinner that day. And not for breakfast on the current day. Whatever familiarity and warmth he thought he could find in the manor was nothing more than an optical illusion. It was wishful thinking after being flooded with the alien warmth and compassion at the Grangers. But his parents weren't like the Grangers. They favored control and autonomy over themselves and their subjects, influence and wealth, but not affection. At least not in the outward, typical sense of the word.

At the very least, that morning Draco had sought out his father and told him about his intended visit to Diagon Alley. The older wizard had looked at him in surprise for a few moments before agreeing that leaving the manor, especially to emerge into wizarding Britain, was a fine idea and wholeheartedly encouraged it. And though Lucius didn't offer to accompany Draco, the teen could see that his father wanted to extend his company and go with him.

It was awkward to watch; his own father didn't know how to word his desire to be with his son on the trip. And so he didn't. And Draco pretended that his father never wanted to come in the first place so he didn't have to torture himself with knowing his own father didn't know how to be one.

After flooing to Diagon Alley, Draco had been quick to dodge around a corner and mutter the quick incantation to shift into his Animagus form. He'd spent the better part of the previous day making the shift back and forth, testing the magic's limits and trying to incite the transformation without having to utter the spell. And while he no longer was pained and felt the uncanny sensation of his organs resizing themselves, he still couldn't do it wordless yet. According to his family's texts, that level of mastery came with better acquaintancing himself with the process, making his body conditioned to the magic, and already know how to funnel the energy to the right channels.

It would also help if he had an actual Animagus teacher. But getting a teacher would mean he'd have to blow his secret and register, and that'd defeat the entire purpose.

Trying to dodge a wizard taking a sudden step backwards didn't pan out as well as Draco had hoped. He was somewhere in Northside, traveling along the curb in what he wrongfully assumed was the safest trail for him, when the heel of a boot knocked him square in his side. Yelping a curse - or howling loudly to everyone else around him - as he was flung into the street, Draco barely managed to twist his body to narrowly avoid the lurch of shoppers stomping towards him, completely unaware of the clumsy kitten.

So much for being agile and light-footed.

His once snow-white fur was now stained with dirt and filth, and a disgusting smell that he wouldn't have been able to detect in his normal, human form clung to him. Hissing lowly, the Slytherin hastily found his balance on his four paws and decided the best option was to get off the main strip.

Just as Draco was about to slink into an inky side alley - bright and welcoming for him with his newfound feline eyesight - a familiar smell hit his nose, making him freeze with one paw in the side alley. He was still getting used to the strange senses, some heightened and others limited, but he was starting to realize that his body had categorized smells and synergized combinations towards certain individuals and things. Without seeing him, he knew his father smelled of clary sage and sandalwood aftershave, Da Hong Pao tea, and a telltale scent that was familiar but indescribable. In parts, the smells meant nothing, but together they created a perfect blend that was decisively 'Lucius Malfoy'. And as a cat, when he caught a whiff of the scent trail, he didn't have to see his father to know it was him. He simply knew.

It was an attribute to being a cat that he was beginning to see great value in.

But the smell he just caught a whiff of off Diagon Alley's main lane… a strange combination of blowfly larvae, the musky odor of unwashed hair, and a faint trace of sulfur and rotten eggs. As a human, he'd been around the aromatic blend hundreds of times, even lived among the wizard they belonged to and didn't find the attributes revolting. They were subtle, so subtle that his normal nose didn't ever detect the individual components. But as a cat, he dissected the aromatic signature and knew immediately who it belonged to.

Stiff and unmoving, he watched as Snape walked down the alley, Harry at his side, newly emerged from the Leaky Cauldron. Great. As if the day couldn't get any worse.

Draco wanted to leave. He had the sudden desire to flee into the collapsing shadows of the side alley in front of him, where he could slip back to the manor and abandon his inaugural trip. But he couldn't move. All he could do was stand stiffly in a mixture of morbid curiosity and burning animosity as he watched the two wizards grab the attention and awe of anyone they passed. While Draco was hidden as a cat, covered in muck and street grime, about to banish himself to the hidden shadows, Snape and Potter gallivanted about with a practically swooning audience watching their every move in sickening admiration.

For everything Draco had sacrificed - his innocence, his remaining childhood years, his family, his life - he was now seen by the world as worse than an afterthought or byline. A byline he could work with; that meant he was at least given credit that was overshadowed. But that's not what happened. All of his sacrifices were superfluous and irrelevant; they did nothing to outshine his decision to kidnap Harry. No one bothered to hear that he did it to save a life.

To say he was angry was an understatement, but who he was angry at and why, he wasn't sure. Could he be angry at himself for letting the cards of life stack against him? Could he be angry at the world for twisting the truth so wretchedly? Could he be angry at Harry for reaping the benefits of his torment?

Was he angry at himself for not being man enough to approach Harry and work their issues out? He was a Slytherin and Malfoy; that wasn't an approach he took. They were renowned for cunning and slyness, not bolded bravery and speaking their emotions.

The only solace he got was seeing how uncomfortable Harry looked with the attention.

Turning his back on his ex-mentor and roommate during his imprisonment, Draco dove into the murky alley, willing the darkness to swallow him whole.

The alley was slender and meager, large enough for a slim trolley and nothing more. For a cat, though, it was no problem walking down the damp, grossly uneven cobblestone that probably hadn't seen a proper cleaning spell since Merlin's days. It was a back alley that was used for quick travels between shops, or where witches and wizards slung their rubbish out the window when they didn't simply vanish it.

He tried not to think about all of the filth under his paws. Strange that he adopted so much of a cat's senses - the sensitive eyesight to brightness, the perfected night vision, a fantastic sense of smell and hearing, whiskers that somehow told him whether he could fit in a crevice or not, a balancing tail that he was still getting the hang of - but he didn't inherit a cat's instincts. He never once considered bringing a paw to his mouth to lick, or rubbing against the edge of a building for comfort. In fact, the sheer possibility of licking his own feet, now covered in centuries worth of dirt, made a sickness roll in his stomach.

Emerging from the side alley back into the main strip, Draco paused to look up and down the street. It was still packed, though less so than near the Leaky Cauldron, and he could finally get his bearings. Originally, his plan for coming to Diagon Alley was to test the efficacy of his Animagus form, whether it proved capable of being a suitable disguise, and to search for cat books to better learn about his newfound biology. The form itself was helpful in getting around undetected, but there was so much more potential to extract from it. Being a kitten, at first, was humiliating and reducing, but he now saw the value in it. No one assumed a small feline with an explosion of pearly white fur, soft delicate paws, and a pink nose was spying on others with an executing arm of cunning and scrutiny.

A cat book. He really didn't want to borrow Hermione's crazy cat hag aunt's book. That also made him wonder what kind of relatives the Muggleborn had. Probably a spinster incapable of holding normal conversation and blamed the failures of her love life on others. What kind of a woman would prefer the company of so many cats?

Looking around, Draco realized he was beside Madam Malkin's and a short trot from Flourish and Blott's. Would the bookstore actually have a book on cats? Animagus and magical creatures, certainly, they kept a steady supply for those subjects. But a mere cat book? He was better off at checking the Magical Menagerie, though that shop meant he'd have to travel further.

Did he need robes? He eyed the shop through his fuzzy, white-washed vision, the colors muted with overlays of greys.

An older wizard opened up the door to leave just as Draco made his decision to slink inside the robe shop, making the wizard give a sharp 'hmfph' at the sudden cat that rudely cut him off.

There were so many memories in the robe shop that Draco felt bombarded by the spirits of the past, most of them happy and exciting, for he'd typically only visit the shop in the days leading up to the start of term at Hogwarts. First year he was with both parents, second year he was with his father, third year both parents, fourth year his father. By the summer before fifth year, his father was too distracted by his Death Eater obligations, leaving his mother to accompany him. And the previous summer before sixth year, the Malfoy patriarch was imprisoned in Azkaban and couldn't make the trip even if he wanted to.

Fourth year. That was the last year his father came with him to Diagon Alley to buy robes and school supplies. Potter was a full-fledged adult, Snape wasn't even his blood or legal parent, and yet the Potion Master went with the Gryffindor undoubtedly for support.

Speak of the devil and he will appear, or something was the saying. For just as Draco was creeping around the Ravenclaw robes, he caught wind of an extremely familiar scent of iron salt and gallnuts pigment, faint traces of sulfur, and, the most overwhelming of all, some kind of sickly aroma that permeated so intensely it overshadowed all the other smells in the shop. That last smell was indescribable beyond simply knowing it originated from some kind of organic ailment, a secretion of odor by the body when something was off. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew it was the odor of disease, a precursor to death.

"There they are! I was wondering when I'd see you this summer! School robes or Weasley wedding?" Madam Malkin's cheery voice exploded.

Merlin, the wedding. As if any of the Weasleys, the actual hosts, would be wearing anything better than their grimmy secondhand robes. Draco watched Harry and Snape talk with the seamstress, unknowingly swatting his tail against the front of the Ravenclaw robes.

"Erm, the wedding. I need a new set of robes," Potter replied. Even if it wasn't the wedding, the raven-haired wizard would need new robes. The sizing charm on his current clothes was unmistakable to the naked eye. It made Draco almost feel sympathetic for his fashion faux pas if he wasn't miffed with the Gryffindor for reasons he couldn't fathom. When had he stopped covering himself in the comforting bliss of numbness?

"I can most certainly see that," came Malkin's words as she urged the two over to her workstation. Though they fell out of view for Draco, he could hear them talking like they were right in front of him, much to his dismay. He just wanted to shop in peace; everywhere he looked and went there was Harry or reminders of the deed he committed. When was he allowed to simply live his own life?

Still new to his body, the Slytherin didn't know how to drown out certain sounds and focus on others. The world was a detonation of smells and sounds, and he understood now why cats slept the majority of their lives away. If it wasn't because they were genuinely exhausted from filtering through the bombardment of senses, it was because they'd rather be asleep then deal with it.

And so as he walked around the shop, he was forced to listen to the entire conversation between Snape, Harry, and Madam Malkin.

To try to distract himself while waiting for them to leave and get fitted for his own robes for the wedding, Draco looked between the school robes he was loitering near. Ravenclaw hung nearest to him, the hems unseamed and ready for quick fitting for those who didn't have the funds for more customized attire, while the Slytherin robes hung beside it. Which would he be wearing this year? For his entire life, he'd always prided himself with knowing he was destined for the green and silver tie. All of his notable family on both sides were sorted into the House, and he was no different. For five years, he was regarded as the king of Slytherin, the unofficial leader of their house even without being the oldest. The wealth of influence he possessed made him a power to be trifled with, whether it was inner-House disputes or architecting deeds beyond his typical threshold. For years, Draco redefined the characteristics of being a Slytherin through his cunning and resources.

Was he willing to throw all of that away and put on a Ravenclaw robe just because he was ashamed to show himself to his old housemates? Was he really that cowardly and afraid for his safety in their dorms? Was he ready and willing to go against his own nature and embrace Ravenclaw?

It felt hollow and forced. It wasn't him. Sure, he certainly possessed all of the Ravenclaw chief traits: wisdom, intelligence, and wit. But he used those traits to bolster up his Slytherin ones; he employed intellect to achieve his lofty ambitions, laced a disarming wit with his cunning, and kept a steady supply of wisdom to maintain his leadership and resources. He didn't possess the Ravenclaw traits independently; they were there to support his more pronounced, dominant ones.

His Slytherin ones. He was a Slytherin. And if his father came back with the option for him to return to Hogwarts under the assumption that he'd be 're-sorted' into Ravenclaw, Draco decided he'd tell him he no longer wanted that. He would sooner be a Hogwarts dropout. Slytherin was his House, and if he couldn't return wearing green and silver, he wouldn't be returning at all.

Just to solidify his decision, Draco rubbed his body against the Ravenclaw robes some more, soiling the black fabric with his stark white fur. And then did the same to the Gryffindors for good measure. As he was using his front claws to discreetly snag a few side seams on the Gryffindor ties, he idly listened to Snape trample through his awkward conversation with Healer Walker, who was also his captive roommate months ago. Were they making date plans? Wasn't she married?

The teen internally shrugged. Snape was Slytherin, at the end of the day. Good for him.

Draco didn't want to follow them - really, he didn't find their conversation the least bit interesting and he hated to see how much fanfare Harry was getting for having done absolutely nothing in Voldemort's demise besides actively committing suicide - but he slinked out after them when they left the shop, keeping a sizable distance that he hoped was casual enough. It was a good training exercise, he convinced himself, to see how well he could eavesdrop on people in his new form. His hearing was beyond otherworldly if only he could train himself to hone in on one source.

Snape and Harry were perfectly viable training dummies. Balancing on the curb's edge, he stalked them slowly.

"I did not ask her on a date. I simply wanted to take some time to clear the air between us," Snape whispered, though Draco heard him as clear as day.

"It sounded like a date," Harry countered.

"You're going to be there."

"So?"

"Harry," Snape stopped and turned to his young ward. Draco barely dug his paws into the curb fast enough to stop himself. "Regardless of what you may think, two adults of the opposite gender can have coffee together without there being any romantic feelings, especially if one of them is married already."

Draco made a sinful assumption between the lines of what the professor said; maybe the older Slytherin was just in the market for a good shag. He wouldn't discredit the man after everything he went through. But Harry, ever his Gryffindor self, didn't even come close to making that assumption. "How do you know that?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I did spend two months locked in a cell with her. Plus, where I'm originally from, she was your healer."

Draco was so puzzled and shocked by the words that he barely took notice to Harry's own surprised exclamation. Where I'm originally from. He'd heard similar sentiments in the past from Snape, had begun to web together presumptions on what it could mean, but never followed up on them. Here it was again, this reference that made no sense.

Where was Snape originally from? Healer Walker was in charge of Harry's care? That wasn't right. That couldn't be right. Draco internally filed that tidbit of information with a mental bookmark to follow up on through reconnaissance work later on. It was a puzzle with a missing piece that he felt oddly intrigued by, something he had to work out if nothing else to have better information on his peers.

"Harry?!"

Draco barely managed to dive to the side to avoid Hermione's gaze as she - and Ron, together, much to his annoyance - waved to Harry from Flourish and Blotts. When Harry joined them, Draco had all intentions of giving his girlfriend privacy with her friends, especially seeing as how she didn't know he was there. But a strong, ugly current of jealousy coursed through him like a river when he stared at the redhead. It should've been him walking out of Flourish and Blotts with her, it should've been him shopping with her for dress robes and school supplies and buying lavender ice cream while laughing over how insanely packed their seventh year would be. It should've been him with her downing shots of fire whiskey while she leveled him disapproving stares over her butterbeer, all the while using the rim to hide her amused smirk. But it wasn't him - it was Ron Weasley because Draco was too cowardly to show himself in Diagon Alley.

He followed the trio down the alley, hugging the shops and using the bustling crowd to hide his presence. Come Hogwarts, if he returned, he had every intention on spending as much public time with the witch as possible. Image be damned.

Sharp, jerkish movement near the curb made Draco dig his paws into the grimy ground and spin around to spot it. If he weren't a cat, imbued with otherworldly senses, he would've missed the teeny creature entirely: a beetle scurrying along the alley in a suspiciously neat path. Too neat for a wild beetle.

Quickly closing the distance between them, Draco lumbered towards what he could only assume - and pray - was the infamous Rita Skeeter. Since the trial, she went out of her way to slander him and his family's name at every opportunity, whether it was reminding the wizarding world of the deeds he committed while a spy - all of which had been chronicled during his trial, including the raids, duels with the aurors, and when he was forced to kill - to the more mundane, such as the construction activity around the manor. Benevolent media stories drew some readers, but misery loves company, and reading about the fallen state of an ancient and powerful family did the perfect trick.

If he could squish her, he'd be doing the magical world a great service. He wouldn't even expect a 'thank you' for it.

Pouncing left and right, powder white paws slamming down together only for the beetle to zig away at the last moment, Draco cursed his lack of feline finesse. How did he even begin to hone his acquired yet raw animal instincts?

A familiar voice suddenly mixed in with the din of his surroundings and pulled his attention from the beetle, reminding him of a french horn in an orchestra. It was bold enough to depict if you focused on it, but could get lost in the harmonic cacophony of a trained ear. Unfortunately for Draco, he wasn't a trained animagus and didn't know how to exist in the overwhelming world, and rather was subject to random bursts of sounds and smells. This one voice, though, was enough to make the entire world fizzle away to softness as nervousness and trepidation began to fester in his belly.

He identified the voices before seeing them: Lazuli Ash and Theodore Talpin. Unmarked followers of Voldemort who would've killed their own mothers if it meant getting into the inner circle. Draco had only met them a few times, typically when they were given mundane orders, but his heightened senses had categorized voices from ages past. What were two of Voldemort's followers doing together in Diagon Alley?

He'd only just begun his animagus spying curriculum in the past hour, but he supposed it was high time to put it to good use.

Creeping around Ollivander's, making sure his weight was perfectly distributed between his four paws to soften his footsteps, Draco pressed his body against the shop's brick side to watch the two shady wizards. Ash continued walking down the alley while Talpin remained back, his beady eyes focused on Harry and the thick crowd he was gaining. If Draco had to pick, he'd say Ash was the more intelligent one, but using that word to describe either was generous and liberal. They had been desperate for Voldemort's approval, zealots more than followers and drunk on the surface-depth ideals of Pureblood supremacy. They didn't question the intent of their orders; they simply performed them with as much gusto as a priestess performed her rituals. And maybe that was why Voldemort never actually welcomed them into his inner circle and began their initiation. Though loyal without fault, they were riotously unbalanced, eager for carrion, and easy to fall off their hinges. Like a knife, they were sharp but deadly if turned the wrong way, and slippery between the fingers. They were most useful when pressured on a certain point rather than employed all the time; their edges remained sharper that way and the possessor never got accidentally cut.

Hearing the crowd's rancor grow in intensity, Draco hesitantly took his eyes off the two wizards to look behind him. It was a brief glance, long enough for him to see Harry getting into some kind of altercation with an older wizard, before the sound of rustling fabric made him snap his attention back down the narrow alley. Ash was nowhere to be seen anymore as Talpin drew his slender wand from his robes and cast a lick of fire from the tip of his wand, directing it at Ollivander's.

It felt like everything moved in slow motion as the fire immediately consumed the ancient shop, flooding its heated fury over the roof, shattering the frosted, bubbled windows, and dissolving any protective wards the wand shop might've had due to the fire's own magical essence. The fire caught faster than it should've thanks to the spell, igniting the hundreds of priceless wands and creating a festering inferno ripping through the small structure. Within seconds, as Draco stood watching in frozen horror, the fire crescendoed in a combustible finale. An explosion in the shop's attic sent a plume of burnt timber, shimmering embers, and an echoing shockwave throughout Diagon Alley.

The explosion sent Draco back several yards, making his small body collide with the other side of the alley wall. Grumbling lowly under his breath as he got back onto his wobbly feet, he watched as the fire quickly spread from Ollivander's to the surrounding shops. And one look back into the side street, in hopes of finding the culprits that started it, only showed an empty, barren alley.

To be continued...
End Notes:
Coming Up Next: The Memory


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