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 "Albus, is it really necessary for Draco to go through all this?  You said so yourself. The boy isn’t going to be able to do it. Can’t we offer him a way out?”

“I know he’s your godson, Severus, but this is for the greater good."

“Is it really, Albus? Or is this another of your character-building exercises? What doesn’t kill him makes him stronger? At the rate things are going, the boy is going to snap. There are other ways to achieve yo—the Order’s goals.”

But of course, Albus hadn’t listened, and there was little he could do in the way of dissent, not when he had sworn himself to the Order. And so Severus had watched as Draco cracked, bit by bit, day by day. It reminded him of a Muggle experiment he’d once read about: elastic bands placed around a melon until it exploded from the pressure. He’d seen it before, hadn’t he? Young men driven to breaking point by masters who viewed them as pawns. The taste of old bile rose in his throat.

The first fissures were apparent from the start of Draco’s sixth year. According to his informant, the Dark Lord had summoned him to “an initiation ceremony” shortly after he took the Mark in August. Severus had received the news with dismay, well aware that Tom was planting the seeds of terror in Draco by giving him a preview of what would happen to his parents if he failed his task.

Severus had attended one of these things once, when a newly resurrected Tom had summoned his followers to mark his triumphant return. That day, he heard sounds he never thought a human being could make. He had known the Death Eaters—Yaxley, the Carrows, and their ilk—were brutish sorts, however, watching them compete and outdo each other in cruelty was another thing altogether. Severus rarely drank but when he got home that night, he proceeded to empty his private stores of Ogden’s finest, trying to drown out his impotence and despair at having been a silent witness to the horrors that were forever seared in his mind.

His informant's next bit of intel was thus hardly surprising: Draco had Occluded himself into a catatonic state, brought back only by a vicious jinx, to Tom’s evident delight.

Severus often wondered if Dumbledore and the Order realised that the Dark Lord they faced now was but a hollow echo of the wizard from the first war. That Tom, though ruthlessly driven, had retained some fragment of humanity. This iteration had shed even that. Severus suspected it had something to do with how his resurrection had corrupted his already splintered soul. In the past, Tom had taken little interest in torture, seeing it as merely a means to an end. Now though, he presided over these ceremonies with ghoulish glee, like some terrible creature drawing sustenance from the pain and suffering of those before him.

Death Eaters were constantly plumbing new depths in depravity for his amusement. And how was the Order preparing to counter this? By placing their faith in a prophecy and a handful of teenagers, none of whom had seen a day of proper combat in their lives. Severus often thought that if wizarding Britain fell into ruin, they had only themselves to blame. Natural selection at its finest.

If Dumbledore was content to let Potter and his sidekicks stumble through cryptic Horcrux clues, he would refrain from comment. Salazar knew he wasn’t being paid enough to get involved. He had other concerns—helping his godson, for one. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done because the fool refused to tell him how he was getting on with his assignment. Why that was the case, Merlin only knew. Severus was of the opinion it had something to do with that toxic combination of stubborn pride and teenage male idiocy. The same pride that had stopped Severus himself from seeking help when he’d needed it most, though he tried not to dwell on that particular parallel.

Despite Draco’s refusal to divulge anything, Severus could tell things were not going well. The signs were plain to see: Jittery twitches from downing one too many Pepper-ups; dark shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights; the way he flinched at sudden movements. His housemates noticed, of course, but what could they say? Quite a few of them had parents in the Dark Lord’s service, and those who didn't, well, they knew better than to comment.

Draco’s studies soon began to suffer as well. Where he had once earned consistent E’s and O’s, his grades now slipped to A’s and even the occasional P. Ordinarily, his teachers would have intervened. But these were politically charged times, with a clear divide between "good" and "evil," the Order and the Death Eaters. Draco was no longer viewed as a student who needed help but a Death Eater's son. If he chose to skive off or fall asleep in class, he would have to accept the consequences.

After finding his godson bleeding out on the bathroom floor, chest carved open by Potter’s curse, Severus knew he had to speak with Narcissa. 

Except discussing Draco’s troubles with her required a gentle finesse he didn’t have much patience for.

While he didn’t typically mince words, Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t one of the cretins he taught. Pureblood protocol wrapped everything in layers of subtext and careful suggestion. Every sentiment had its prescribed method of delivery, governed by generations of unspoken rules. Her love for Draco was unquestionable—the Unbreakable Vow proved as much—but what she knew of his psychological state, or would admit to knowing, remained unclear. The Malfoys didn’t like talking about things that could be misconstrued as a weakness, at least not with outsiders.

She received him in her parlour, every inch the society maven who had—or used to have—upper wizarding Britain in thrall. If the stress of Lucius’s imprisonment and her son’s task caused her restless nights, she betrayed nothing, her face a perfectly genteel mask. Amid careful arrangements of late spring blooms, their sweet, ephemeral perfume scenting the air, she directed the house-elf serving tea with practiced composure.

The room stood as a living archive—centuries of Malfoy achievement distilled into carefully curated artifacts and artwork. Severus found himself counting the generations represented in each corner. One careless misstep, one word from Tom, and it would all vanish. Not just the objects, but the family’s entire legacy. Their history, their influence, their very name—gone, just like that.

As they talked, she recounted Draco’s final weeks at the Manor before the start of the new term. He had been distant and distracted, she said, absently fingering the emerald bracelet on her wrist, but she had chalked it up to teenage moodiness—that and the fact that he had just taken the Dark Mark. Bellatrix had accompanied him to a meeting with the Dark Lord a week before he returned to Hogwarts. He had said little about it when he returned, only that everything was fine.

“Is there anything I should know, Severus? Isn’t that why you’re here?” she pressed, her expression betraying a faint edge of worry. “If this concerns Draco, I want you to tell me the truth. I never wanted my son to take the Mark and I would have sent him away if I could, but the Dark Lord... didn’t leave us with a choice.”

“Draco is struggling,” Severus admitted, relieved he didn’t need to dance around the matter at hand. He thought of Lucius, now locked away in a squalid little cell in Azkaban. How different things might have been if they’d all made different choices in their youth. “He’s refused to discuss any details, but it won’t end well if he keeps bottling everything up.”

Shaking her head, she looked away and dabbed discreetly at the corner of her eye. “Oh, that boy.”

Severus hesitated. “There’s more.”

“Go on.”

He described the initiation, sparing her the grim specifics. Narcissa’s face paled. The teacup in her hand rattled against its saucer.

“What can I do to help him? The Dark Lord may scorn my husband, but I can’t let Draco pay for Lucius’s failings,” she whispered, her voice catching on her husband’s name.

“Draco needs to follow through on his task. I’ll help him, of course, but he must conceal his feelings about the Dark Lord and his methods. Otherwise, he risks further manipulation. Talk to him, if you can, and tell him he can come to me. I can’t help him if he continues holding himself apart.”

He refrained from mentioning the possibility of defection, unsure how Narcissa—and Lucius—would react to the suggestion. While she didn’t want her son to suffer under the Dark Lord, that didn’t necessarily equate to a willingness to join the Order. Not to mention, he’d have to speak with Kingsley and Lupin first, and it was unlikely the Order would accept his defection without conditions of their own. He could already imagine the arguments: Moody’s paranoid accusations, Molly Weasley’s protective outrage, the younger Order members’ dissent. Draco hadn’t exactly endeared himself to them over the years. Best to focus on the task at hand for now.

“I’ll do what I can. Thank you, Severus.” Her hand trembled slightly as she set down her teacup, the quiet clink echoing in the stillness of the room.

As he took his leave, he caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the parlour’s gilded mirrors—shoulders bent, head bowed, all pretense of composure falling away now that she thought herself unobserved. The sight stirred an old memory: his mother in their grimy kitchen at Spinner’s End, sitting in a similar position. But where Eileen had crumpled under her circumstances, accepting her fate with dull resignation, Narcissa’s fingers were curled into fists in her lap. Unlike his mother, Severus had a feeling she would fight for her son.