Thursday, 28th, August 1997

Draco turned the one-page menu over - a wrinkly long piece of paper with water stains and finger smudges - in a poor effort to find more food offerings. But no matter how many times he flipped it back and forth, the sparse selection didn't change: one side of the menu listed the food and the other side was devoted to cask ales, beers, and a plethora of spirits. The owners - and majority of the patrons, considering the cackle of drunkards hugging the bar when it was only noon - didn't put much effort into the 'gastro' part of the 'gastropub' they ran.

They'd only just gotten back to England from France the day prior, during which Draco and Hermione were forced to say a temporary farewell until they'd meet up again on the following Monday at King's Cross Station for their trip back to Hogwarts. It was bittersweet knowing his girlfriend was returning to the Burrow to spend the remaining days of summer with Ron Weasley, while he was relegated back to the dreary manor, where his demons and shadows thrived in his absence.

Today was his last session with Dr Cobb before he returned to school and the first appointment since the Diagon Alley incident and Reims trip. Which meant the session had plenty of content to go over if Draco was interested in sharing that much detail. If it was only an individual session between himself and the psychologist, he probably wouldn't freely divulge on what occurred; reliving the experiences - breaking protocol and reporting a couple of renegade Death Eaters, being mistreated by an Auror he dueled against while a spy, and then the awkward meeting between Hermione and his parents - wasn't on his agenda of things to experience.

He was tired of being chased by his past transgressions, exhausted by the actions he'd forever be held accountable for, and didn't want to muck through them and analyze 'how they made him feel'.

Unfortunately for him, Cobb requested both Lucius and Draco for the session. A father-son appointment. And that meant his father would bare all to the mind doctor, as was his usual form, in hopes that it would garner some kind of traction in their venture towards completion and healing again. To be clear, it wasn't an altruistic, benevolent move with a heartfelt optimism for the best outcome; it was a strategic, collateral damage decision to temporarily show weakness with the intention of reaping a better return. A Slytherin and Malfoy at his finest.

Attending the session in Downtown London, in the forest of towers and technology and muggle innovation, was expected. What was unexpected was his father's insistence that they have lunch at a nearby gastropub lovingly named, 'Cthulhu by the Sea'.

At first, Draco cast assumptions on what a muggle pub named after Cthulhu could've been; dark, sinister, Knockturn Alley sort of variety. He still found it strange that a retired auror famous for infiltrating a zealotus cult responsible for nearly raising Cthulhu from a cosmic realm became a critically acclaimed Muggle author and poet. But apparently once-decorated Auror Howard Phillips Lovecraft abandoned his famous identity in the wizarding world to sell his experiences to the muggles as 'fiction', and ended up becoming just as celebrated among those circles.

Lovecraft was known for his vitriol words that splashed horror and darkness on the pages. But the pub that was named after the creature that gained him infamy was anything but sinister and horrific. It was bright, welcoming, and airy with a mishmash of architectural styles. An entire wall of near ceiling to floor windows in the Elizabethan style to bring in a flood of natural light, scalloped maroon drapes at the tops of the windows in a traditional English design, perfectly symmetrical moulding and plasterwork in geometric wainscotting on the walls with white on top and glossy black on the bottom, and plain wood and leather-upholstered chairs stylized in pure Cromwellian fashion.

In a way it reminded Draco of the Three Broomsticks in the traditional British pub-style. But it was louder, livelier, and had a different feel about it.

Everything in Muggle London had a different feel about it. And the fact that his father suggested the locale before their session with Cobb was surprising, to say the least. Then again, his father was surprising him left and right when it came to muggle things, like his conditional acceptance of Muggleborn Hermione Granger as his girlfriend.

Placing his menu down, Draco looked across the table at his father, dressed in a crisp Muggle suit to match the teen's muggle casual jeans and tshirt. "How did you get Hermione somehow related to the Dagworth-Grangers? Who did you pay off for that favor?"

It was a bold assumption, but one the young Slytherin debated on mentioning ever since his parents first met Hermione in Reims and they unveiled the surprise connection between Hermione's paternal side and the Pureblood family.

It was all bullocks. Everyone knew it.

Lucius didn't even look up from his menu as he responded in a casual, almost bored tone. "Details hardly considered pertinent, don't you think?"

"I think those details are brilliant to know," Draco immediately retorted. "Wouldn't it be lovely to know the price tag you placed on my girlfriend's acceptance to our family? I for one surely would."

The older wizard sighed and gracefully dropped the menu down to the table to join his son's. "Dramatics are unbecoming of you, Draco." He paused to consider the clearly incensed teen glaring back at him. "If you absolutely must know, your mother's charity work for the Genealogical Society has continued to maintain her sponsorship seat. There are certain, unsolicited benefits that come along with our annual gracious donations, this just being one of them."

It was the confirmation Draco needed, the affirmation that they all knew existed. "Why?" He blurted out the question before he could stop himself. "She's the only good thing in my life right now. Isn't that reason enough to accept her?"

The words, slathered in hurt and incrimination, slapped Lucius so hard that the older wizard blinked in a rare form of momentary stupor. But before he could find his faltered poise, their server approached their tables to take their orders.

Fish and chips for both of them, mumbled in half-hearted grace as they both fought with their trampled emotions, neither one strong enough to know how to respond to their feelings.

After the server left, the father and son fell into a collapsing, cloying silence that cast shadows on their imperfections and the awkwardness that flooded them. Before the war and Voldemort's return, Draco would never have sat in a dockside muggle pub on the eve of a mind doctor visit. And even if he did, he would've known what to talk about or would've known what to listen to. Back in those days, he idolized the commanding aura that surrounded his father, how he could force people to fall into line and heed his word without ever raising his voice. It was in the way that he spoke in low tones, predatory and so filled with power that no one could imagine disputing him. His displeasures were feared, and his approval was sought by many.

Could Draco still idolize those attributes even in the aftermath of everything?

"Draco, I wanted to tell you…"

The uncomfortable lilt in the Malfoy patriarch's voice was what immediately grabbed Draco's attention, so alien and uncommonly found on the man. Looking at the wizard he idolized for so long, that he placed on an impossibly soaring pillar as the epitome of strength and confidence, he wondered what happened to land them in such a spot. They were the victors from the war - they won, and yet across from him sat his father, uncharacteristically fiddling with his hands in a nervous tick, trying to fix his son's broken identity while holding the shattered remains of his own.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, Lucius stared at the table that rivered between them while he fought with his internal dialogue, subdued emotions, and how to express himself. "I wanted to tell you how… happy I am that you're returning to Hogwarts." The sentence was a feat to get out, as if he were speaking a different language entirely, fighting with himself. "Proud. I am proud of you."

The words brought on a flood of confusing, zig zagging emotions, the first of which felt like a boulder was placed on Draco's chest and left to crush against his lungs. The air was rushed out of them, making him wonder if he could breathe at all. For years he hungered for those words, and now that he had them, he wasn't sure what to do with it.

A torrential storm of emotions spilled over him, easily drowning him in their weight and inky depths. The blonde teen looked down at the table, fingers splayed over the uneven grained surface to ground himself.

"I haven't done anything worth being proud over," he lamely said back with just as much unfamiliarity as his father was in showing his affection. "Going back to school is something that's expected. It's right. Purposeful and proper. What pride is there to have in doing the basic expectations?"

"These past few months haven't been the smoothest of living. Your mother and I recognize-"

"Mother doesn't recognize anything!" The words left him on their own accord, getting caught in the lump resting in his throat and hitching his voice up from the emotion. "She can barely stand to look at me, for Merlin's sake. I think she's more than happy with her renovations and pretending like the past fifteen months never happened. Probably can't wait for me to go off to school again just so she doesn't have to look at me."

"That's not true, Draco," the older wizard mumbled in a confusing refrain of remorse and doubt at his own words. Because they all knew it was a thin veil of poorly constructed lies, and no matter how sweet smelling they were, it was a fallacy that simply didn't exist. Narcissa Malfoy's healing was stunted in the jungle of her own mind, where she fought with demons and death eaters and shadows that chained her to the past. Where did her husband and her son fit in that narrative? No one knew. Maybe nowhere.

When Draco said nothing else in response, only looking away as a drunken group of fishermen stumbled into the pub laughing, Lucius broke the ice that surrounded them with rarely spoken truths: "Come winter break, should your mother's renovations still be in progress, I'll be making alternate living arrangements for us to spend the weeks." He paused, clear grey eyes finding his son's. "Just you and I."

Draco stared back. While his father continued to speak in clandestine words and code, it was more candid and blunt than ever before. And raised to slice words and derive their meaning, he was beginning to figure out what his father was suggesting. "Without mother?"

Lucius looked down at his lap, eyes hooded to conceal his emotion. "So long as she's preoccupied with her renovations, this will be the most sound decision for… for you. For us. She's been informed she has until then to get her affairs in order." He looked like he wanted to say more, to drop all hidden pretenses and speak plainly like his heart desired, but Lucius existed in a world that operated with control and poise. And to break from that rigid mold took more than all the weight of the galleons in their vaults.

But Draco was raised in the same emotionally repressing environment, and he understood what his father said. His mother was given an ultimatum: either begin to heal or Lucius would take Draco away from her hurtful antics.

It was the most uncharacteristically selfless action his father had ever done. And yet, it was the first thing Lucius Malfoy committed to doing as a father that Draco could ever recall in his seventeen years. It was still wrapped in the similar airs of confidence and staunch poshiness of their family, but the undercarriage of warmth was driven with such a moving intensity it left the Slytherin teen wordless. Was it for some ulterior motive? Was it a test? Was it genuine?

The teen scattered his gaze all around the lip of the table, seeing nothing but the board of their lives playing out pieces and moves. It was an exhausting life to live, always trying to dilute someone's intentions and anticipate their next step, but emotion was a fogging variable to the process.

His father had no motive beyond his son's wellbeing. While Lucius Malfoy was certainly playing a game against outside forces, it wasn't against Draco. For once, he wasn't a pawn being sacrificed across the board in a perfectly executed riposte - he was the king kept safeguarded behind a platoon of bishops and knights.

How did he feel knowing his father acknowledged his mother's detrimental habits? How did he feel knowing his father was willing to relocate away from her all because of him? Draco wasn't sure - the numbness he usually blanketed over his emotions was yanked away by his father's candidness, leaving the teen to question so much.

In the absence of knowing what to say or how to show his own emotional reaction, Draco took a leap of faith to speak in similar notes of open frankness with his father on a topic he'd been wrestling with since Reims. "I've been thinking about our new disease center…" He paused for a moment. "Do you remember our holiday in Luxor when I was a child? I was around six years old, I think - my first trip to Egypt?"

Lucius looked back at the blonde teen in momentary surprise, taken off guard at the question's topic and abrupt change of conversation. But he recovered quickly with a dry, flat chuckle. "You couldn't possibly be referring to the trip where I took you to the dark necropolis, Deir el-Bahari, under direct order only to wear the charmed robes given to you? The same trip that you ignored those orders and snuck your stuffed animal dragon- what was his name again? Rufus? - into an ancient dark tomb, managed to walk out with a 3500 year old curse attached to your toy, which followed us home to Wiltshire and required the combined efforts of the British and Egyptian Ministries to decurse? No, Draco, I don't think I - or either Ministry, for that matter - will ever forget that trip."

Yes. It was quite the memorable holiday. It'd taken only a few weeks after their return for little Draco to get stalked from the angry spirits of Ahmose I and Amenhotep I. Malfoy Manor's natural inclination towards the dark occult ushered in the malevolent spirits with glee, and the small family didn't realize the haunting until the spirits were closing in on claiming the young heir's soul. Draco never managed to get all the details from his parents on how and why his father couldn't decurse him himself, but considering he was nearly killed by wraithful Egyptian spirits, he guessed the situation was beyond the Malfoy patriarch's decursing repertoire.

"Yeah, right, that's the exact trip I'm talking about," the young Slytherin scratched the back of his head. Reminding himself he was in a Muggle pub, he lowered his voice. "But before I managed to get some vengeful spirits attached to my plushie, do you remember the tutoring you arranged for me with High Priest Amentemha?"

Lucius waved a hand dismissively over the table, above their two untouched glasses of white wine. "Operate on the assumption that I do."

The younger wizard wet his lips and leaned forward. "He taught me all about the honored pasts and history of their people. More than three thousand years ago, the ancient Egyptians were innovators in ritualcraft. More than innovators, they were masters at it, and weaved rituals seamlessly in their daily activities. Yes, the more demanding rituals were carried out by highly trained priests and priestesses, but otherwise, magic was a common household commodity that flowed into their purposes as predictable as the Nile."

His father tilted his head slightly; listening but no doubt racing Draco to the finish line in trying to anticipate what his son was getting at. "True exemplars of Magic."

Draco nodded quickly. "Precisely. An uncontested title they proudly wear on their breast pocket. Their rituals have stood the test of time and continue to be replicated all across the Wizarding World! They're role models in it, despite their un-dichotomous mindset with dark and light magic. Magic is simply magic to them - a tool imbued by their gods, per their belief, and something that's inherent to most."

They were interrupted when their server returned with their identical plates of food. Though neither Malfoy reached for their meals.

"As intriguing as Egyptian antiquities are, I trust you're gradually making your way to a point," Lucius said once they were alone again. "Though I applaud your memory and academic candor in remembering tutoring from over a decade ago. I'm glad to see it was galleons well spent."

Draco knew his chance was now or never. His future was on the line - a future him and Hermione had briefly discussed in Reims, though they both recognized the blockades along the way. Lucius Malfoy - or the man he used to be - was one of the most damaging to Draco's future plans. But the old Lucius Malfoy never would've suggested a Muggle pub for lunch or made a hard decision to potentially separate from his wife for the good of his son's mental health.

The old Lucius Malfoy only cared enough to ensure a strong, Pure bloodline with no weaknesses. That wizard died at the Battle of Malfoy Manor.

"But despite their daily, heavy use of ritualcraft and magic, the Egyptians weren't entirely reliant on it. Not like we are," Draco continued. "They believed that magic brought on an automatic response when they reached the limits of their technology and science. There were some overlaps between technology and magic in their society, sometimes between healing and military use, but for the most part, they didn't see one advantageous over the other. You see, Egyptians were just as renowned for their Muggle technology as they were for their magic. Magic and muggle science existed harmoniously hand in hand, and their civilization soared from it."

Draco felt his palms go sweaty as his father narrowed his eyes on him. The older wizard's emotions were perfectly tucked away, though, making it impossible for the teen to read his audience. Was it all a mistake to bring up? Would Lucius agree with him?

"That's exactly what we're trying to achieve with our disease center, though it's more of the opposite, I suppose," the younger Slytherin hurriedly tacked on. "Clearly, our healing ability isn't nearly as robust as we've assumed it to be, largely because we simply haven't been exposed to the amount of maladies the muggles have. What we're trying to do is learn muggle illnesses and develop treatments for them, but we don't know about muggle science. I'm confident Snape can perfect potions at his bench if given the time and ingredients, but think about how much more we could do if we understood the muggle side of things."

Lucius slowly leaned back in his chair as a wash of cold pragmatism veiled his features, much like they did when he attended business meetings. Because that's what their roles had shifted to: business partners. "I've offered generously pensioned positions to Healer Walker, Severus, and several other healers with some connections in the muggle community. I'm guessing you have a different proposal?"

The ticking clock on the wall hammered loudly as Draco took a deep breath. "The type of training we need is specific. We need healers and researchers who know both muggle medicine and magic healing. The chances of finding that in a pool of applicants is... limited. What if we developed a training curriculum that combines those things? We'll be the only ones to specialize in it. We set the same requirements for becoming a healer after leaving Hogwarts and have them complete their training with us, while working at our Center, of course."

A radiant and distant look filled the Malfoy patriarch's eyes as thoughts and ideas filled him. Though he kept looking at Draco, he was feverishly working through the idea in his head. "A proprietary training? Specific only to the Malfoy Center?"

Draco nodded. "We'll keep the program very quiet so competitors can't replicate it."

Lucius looked away in thought, thumb and finger running over his chin. "Monopolize on the specialty."

"A global monopoly if we play our cards right."

The older Slytherin was silent for a few lengthy seconds before looking back at his son with a curious, assessing glance. "There is one major flaw with your proposal. You said it yourself - our applicant pool for employees, especially those involved in the muggle side of disease knowledge, is lacking. And those who are our leading candidates have wavering loyalty I wouldn't trust my Gringotts key with."

Snape? His father wouldn't trust Snape with his Gringotts key? He supposed it only stood to show that despite their familiar pasts, both his father and Snape were Slytherins and loyalty to one another was conditional.

"Right, loyalty is something we'll have to-"

"It should stay in the family," Lucius interjected lightly, like it was the most obvious answer. "Your returning to Hogwarts was to pursue a healing designation, was it not? You wanted to be involved in program development, after all."

Draco blinked. "Yes, but I don't know a thing about Muggle medicine. I've asked Hermione some, and she described a rubbish schooling route Muggles go through to become doctors. It's long and bloody confusing and-"

"And? Don't tell me you're complaining over academia. Truly, Draco, I knew you wanted me to approve of this plan from the start of the conversation, but do give me more credit and pick a more convincing argument if you're trying to deceive me into believing that I suggest it."

The teen unflappably gazed back at his father who looked pleased at himself for calling his bluff. Their conversations were always a chess match, always a mix of hidden interest and intentions, all the while trying to figure out the other's angle. "Yes, fine, you're right," Draco conceded with a huff. "I've spoken with Hermione and… and I think it would be in our best interest if I studied muggle medicine."

To his utter surprise, his father smirked. "While attending to your healer training?"

"Ideally."

"Are you aware of how long it'll take you?"

The teen looked down at his untouched fish and chips. The newspaper under the meal was practically translucent from the pooling oil. "Years. A decade at best."

It was silent for several seconds, during which Draco remained impassive and patient in waiting for his father's decision. It was an act. His father likely already made his decision in seconds and was simply waiting to see if his progeny would buckle.

"I have associates in high ranking dean positions at several universities," the older Slytherin began. "While I'm confident I can gain you admission with conveniently manufactured school records, you'll need to attend foundational tutoring to stay enrolled. You'll be expected to begin the Center's program development while still a student yourself." His father leaned forward a bit, a somber expression studying his son's. And he asked the one question Draco had never been asked before by him: "Is this what you truly want, though?"

Never before was Draco's future up to him; he was always following the path given to him, determined by someone else. A Pureblooded son with prejudice ideals. A Death Eater. A Spy.

He smiled. "It is."

The rest of the meal passed by in a whirl of wine, beyond deep fried fish they both refused to eat, and conversations over topics Draco would never have dreamed of having with his father. He told him all about his horrible experience when first asking Hermione out, how he trailed her back to the Gryffindor tower after a prefects meeting and she worried that he was ill or hit his head. His father listened with a faint smile, nearly unnoticeable on his lips but enough to fill his eyes. And he continued listening to Draco talk about his quasi run-in with Harry and Snape in Diagon Alley in his animagus form, how it made him feel jealous and angry and loath being a slave to the emotions he didn't understand.

It was rare for a Malfoy to speak so openly with their worries and weaknesses, but something felt different at the table. And his father, though he said nothing, acknowledged his son with a simple, silent nod.

As the day morphed from lunch towards dinner, they talked about Hogwarts. Lucius told him to return home the moment something felt amiss. The older Malfoy didn't reassure him that nothing nefarious wouldn't happen, which didn't go unnoticed by Draco. Maybe his father knew then that the forces acting against their family had a reach beyond his own.

When the time for dinner arrived, they just finished off a bottle of wine as Draco rehashed the Weasley wedding. Lucius listened intently, chuckling every so often as his son tore into the Weasley's poor attempt of dressing rich and formal. Considering his father didn't chide him to not waste good insults on the Weasleys, that told Draco that the older wizard didn't see the insults as severely hateful as they once were. Or that his father's opinion of the Weasley's had changed, if however small and marginal.

Realizing the time, the Malfoy wizards paid the measly bill and left the pub just as more muggles were spilling into it, eager for ale and food at the end of their day. The air around the docks was tepid and smelled of fish and salt, but Draco couldn't find anything sour about it.

And as they talked about Draco's odd experiences and struggles as an animagus, his father guiding them towards an amazing coffee shop he insisted Draco just had to try, neither one said anything about the psychologist session they missed. For the first time in a long time Draco walked beside his father with a renewed sense of purpose, regency, and pride.