Chapter Text
Leo Malfoy wakes up alone. He wakes up completely abandoned in a strange, strange place that’s so unbelievably familiar that it itches at his brain. His first thought is I’ve never felt closer to Regulus. It’s stupid, terribly stupid, given the only things he truly knows of his Counterpart are as follows: he looked identical to him; he, Regulus, died at eighteen (he is never told exactly how or why, but deep down when he wakes up furiously sketching choppy waves and desolate beaches, Leo knows he drowned); and Regulus was a seer. Somewhere, some indignant part that is so annoyed at having to clarify over and over and over again, reminds Leo that Regulus wasn’t the type of seer to tell prophecies or read tea leaves, or even outright see the future. Really, it’s dreadfully ironic that Regulus was a Soul Seer.
And, Leo remembers with a sharp cold shiver running up his spine—Regulus, like him, sorted Slytherin.
Right, he thinks. That’s where I am, Hogwarts. Then, he realizes with a start, he doesn’t remember going to the common rooms (and even then, they wouldn’t be stark white but a deep emerald green). It all rushes back after that.
He fainted. He fainted! Who the actual hell faints anymore? Since, what? Dying Victorian children? Well. At least no one's going to question Lamb’s mysterious illness’ legitimacy anymore, that’s for sure. Clearly he’s here, so he’s not a squib, or a myth or a ghost or whatever people are telling themselves.
(He thinks a truly outlandish claim said he was hidden away because he was the dark lord’s secret love child. Some said his mum cheated, which just made it even more ridiculous because anyone with half a brain knew that his crazy Auntie Bella was obsessed with his evil dictatorness, and for that to hold weight they might at least try and be realistic and let her be his ‘mother’. Although with such a low standard, maybe that just made too much sense. Nonetheless, Dora and him got a good laugh out of that one.)
But, validating his family’s history of lies is hardly his concern. Slytherin is about power. And what power comes from fainting on the first day? He’ll probably be the laughing stock. Dray could never keep his mouth shut, he’s likely telling anyone who will listen now. “Oh, baby lamby,” he’ll say. “He fainted! Oh, brother dear,” he’ll mock him when he returns from wherever he is. “Is it true you fainted? I mean, really fainted?” Then, Pansy and Greg and Vince and the entourage will laugh, and Blaise will probably snort too and Theo will give a little twitch of a smile.
Is it true you really fainted? Leo can hardly believe it. He’s always known he’s weak, he’s been on the verge a few times, even got those black spots clouding his vision and head pounding as if from blood loss and, like, staggered a little, when he held a morph too long at Dora’s graduation—but fainted. Literally, actually passed out. Unheard of. Unbecoming for a Malfoy, the chorus of Lucius Malfoy that lives rent free in his head echoes.
It’s then that the blinds isolating him vanish, and a witch dressed like an old-fashioned nurse appears in their place. “Oh, good,” she says briskly. “You’re awake. You’ve taken quite the ordeal, Mister Malfoy,” it’s then, when she says his name, that Leo realizes in stunned horror that his morph has fallen. No wonder he felt lighter.
Noticing his panic, the mediwitch ‘tsk’s. “Calm down, Mister Malfoy. Your mother told me all about your special circumstances.” The witch, who probably must be Madame Pomfrey—which then thus means he’s in the Hospital Wing—doesn’t look at him the way most strangers see Capella's Cursed, horrified and transfixed, so Maman must not have told her all about everything. Asking, however, to clarify, will just make him look suspicious, showing that he has something more to hide.
“So you know father was embarrassed I took after ma—mother’s side of the family. Big whoop.” Dang it, he thinks. That’s a muggle phrase. Hopefully she looks over it.
“Do try and be more sympathetic,” she says, rather hypocritically as she looks like she sucked on a lemon all the while. Ah, the woes of adulthood. “As much as I personally think that forcing a child to drain their magical core is utterly unacceptable; I imagine, especially in the social climate nowadays, how hard it would be, to erm… well, at any rate, you look more like the younger Mister Black to me. R-something… Rigel…?” Madame Pomfrey shakes her head as if to clear it.
“Take these potions everyday to replenish your magic; do not, under any circumstances, try and do something as idiotic as attempting to hold your morph overnight. And I swear to Merlin, Mister Malfoy, if you do not come and check in with me every day so help me—”
“But people will notice if I go to the hospital wing every day!” Leo exclaims, interrupting her rant. That will definitely ruin Lamb’s reputation. “What will I tell them?”
Madame Pomfrey sighs. “I’m sure you can think of something. As long as you show up I don’t see any reason to preach to you over morals. Although I suggest the truth, that you were a sickly child who is currently being pushed way past his limit; I highly doubt your pride will allow for that…” At that, Leo swears she mutters something akin to ‘Slytherin’s… almost as bad as Gryffindors when they rush off to danger… or Ravenclaws during exam season…’.
“Please, though,” Leo looks at her with wide eyes and silently debates the pros and cons of morphing his skin a shade paler for the ‘oh you poor sickly child!’ affect. However, since the only morph he’s practiced enough to confidently perform without either a live person to mimic or a picture, a mirror, and hours on hand is his blond hair-blue eyes one, he calls it quits and just plays into his already-there patheticness. That, and a bit of flattery.
“I’m sure you, in all your experience here, have a good excuse for such, erm, enthusiasm for the, well, to be fran—to be fair, hospital wing.”
“Mister Malfoy,” Madame Pomfrey says plainly. “Pretty words will get you nowhere here. There are too many students who think that they can turn on the charm to get out of a nasty potions regime or Quidditch-missing bedrest for that to ever be a possibility, I’ll have you know. While I won’t disregard whatever lie you claim, it’s hardly my place to feed you one.”
Properly shamed, Leo looks down. “Sorry, Madame.” He says. “I know a Slytherin should be more resourceful and clever than I.” He knows that he sounds like he’s repeating words oft spoken to him, and the sad picture that it paints. It can be rather obvious manipulation though, so he adds some more showy subterfuge. With a pointed voice that sounds like it’s being poorly masqueraded as sincere (with a hint too much of ‘lightbulb moment’ to ever truly work out) he adds, “you know, it’s just so hard to think clearly, with all the horrid dementor exposure and that awful fainting business. My magical core draining clearly extends to my mind this day.”
Madame Pomfrey gives him a look and at last speaks to his plea; though she suggests rather tartly, “I’m sure if you say that you want to be a healer and want the experience of observing in your free time, your housemates will understand and even appreciate that ambition and drive for success. A few years back a student did a similar programme—though admittedly not until later in his school career and not quite as often, but with all that horrid dementor exposure draining your magical core and mind, you can see why I think it necessary, at least this year.”
Leo grimaces as she sarcastically stresses his own words back to him. He had hopes to, at the very least, get her to let up on how often he has to come—as Leo, actually, quite dislikes hospitals.
This dislike he fully blames on who he is sure Madame Pomfrey was referring to, that is, his much less impactful first cousin once removed, Felix Rosier, who’s a healer; he’s only a little older than Dora is at twenty-four.
Felix, technically, is who Maman and father told people was babysitting Leo when he was actually at the Tonkes or Grandfather’s for much of his youth, so as to avoid awkward questions. Admittedly, that was only when they couldn’t say that he was home (such as to guests) or at someplace equally respectable, reasonable, and hard to prove. Or when Felix was in school and thus wasn’t available (which mostly aligned with Dora. Actually, with that, he is pretty sure the whole thing sprouted from the idea that they could easily explain away any of a kid's mentions of ‘being with family’ or his ‘cousin’ by redirecting them to a more “appropriate” source).
Of course, to be entirely fair, since Felix spent most of his formative years with his older sister, Pandora Lovegood née Rosier (who married a light wizard), he’s much less of a bigoted psycho than his brother (coincidentally Mrs Lovegood’s twin), Evan Rosier, and their father must’ve been, seeing as they had been Death Eaters.
But even if he isn’t entirely horrid, Leo will never forget the one time he actually visited with him and was forced to help a makeshift ‘patient’. Should’ve been a Hufflepuff, if the way he insisted on helping the poor sap who got bitten by a Venomous Tectaula meant anything. It was just to hold their hand when Felix cast a particularly nasty and painful charm to heal the cut, but (and he shivers slightly as the memory resurfaces in his mind’s eye)… the blood… and the pus…
Merlin, it prompts more nightmares than Regulus does at times. Never again—at least not soon, Leo notes with relief, as Felix reallocated to France thanks to some job offer or another as a healer of some kind there.
Shaking off the horrid recollection of the experience that has arisen, Leo realizes that personal differences or no, it is a perfectly solid excuse, that, with all the effort put into ensuring as such, will be a waste to not use it; so he grits his teeth and nods.
“Fine, but I don’t wanna see any organs, gaping flesh wounds, or limbs sticking at wrong angles.” Then, because she has just done him a favor and that really was quite rude, he adds, “thank you.”
Madame Pomfrey nods, like she didn’t expect anything else from a Pureblood (he’d protest if it wasn’t so accurate) and then proceeds to shove chocolate in his face, and keeps on muttering about ‘dementors, horrid creatures…’ this time with a bit more sincerity.
Leo can’t really find it in himself to disagree, though he finds himself choking a little when he realizes that there’s the taste of salt water still on his tongue, rushing down his throat.
(And, he checks, the chocolate wasn’t a salted caramel).
After some more fussing from Madame Pomfrey, Leo is finally free to leave the confines of the hospital wing. “Thank you,” he says to her, much more grateful now that he is allowed to go. “I appreciate all your efforts to help me feel better. Could I trouble you for the time?” He looks up at her with big innocent grey eyes (if only because he knows they look more earnest. That, and he is still tired).
With the essence of rolling her eyes (although he assumes the matron is much too uptight to do so in actuality), Madame Pomfrey casts a tempus charm, revealing it to be much earlier than the warm sunlight rolling in and bouncing off the white walls suggested. However, that doesn’t mean he won’t have to rush if he wants to make breakfast and get his schedule.
Dressed in freshly pressed school robes that the house elves must’ve cleaned, Leo rushes toward the Great Hall, dubiously grateful for his uncanny sense of direction.
His hair is blond and his eyes are blue; Leo feels like he’s going to die.
Leo doesn’t like being bitter, but as he walks into the Great Hall and no one even notices him he feels horribly, deeply alone. It’s what he wants though, so he mustn’t complain, even as Dray swoons in a mock faint at Potter.
Why does he want it to be him? This is great, no one will think about Leo, if they know him at all, but something in him feels abandoned, stranded like he had this time last year when he was too blood traitor to be let in. Leo knows some people are born in September, so he feels awfully silly, but he is born in October and is already almost twelve. He’s learned the entire first year curriculum through a series of lessons from various family members and books and even the odd tutor or two last year. He should be ready. His father should’ve pulled through.
Leo feels so terribly embarrassed when he realizes that he just expected to be given that special treatment because he’s privileged, but he can’t help but be indignant—wrong or not, his father lied.
Leo should be grateful he can go this year and yet his morph weighs on him already and he feels vaguely depressed and there’s a soft ringing in his ears from the dementors and—
Think of the others, he’s aware, who would never even have the chance to even imagine like he has. That’s what Dora would do, that’s what good people would do and yet—it just isn’t fair at all, and all Leo cares is that it’s not fair to him. But he’s a good person still, right? Well, he supposes as he sits down, heart warming as he’s waved over by Blaise and Theo, that’s why he’s in Slytherin.
By the time he makes it to the far side of the table, Professor Snape is already glowering at him as he hands him the parchment with his schedule on it. You’re an abomination, Black, his black eyes whisper harshly. “Mister Malfoy… our newest spoiled brat,” he drawls instead. “I hope you thanked your father properly.”
The schedule in his hands, inexplicably, reads: Malfoy, Leonis - Second Year.
When the owl post comes—swarming the tables in a chaotic fashion; across the hall, Astoria’s long-eared even upsets her breakfast plate; how anyone can live with this his pampered brain cannot comprehend—Leo recalls a line from the book he had just finished reading: The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered. It can be poisoned or made perfect.
The price of the soul must be the way he sneered at Red—Weasley—on the train and the delicate balance of features he wears like a mask over his own. For him, the world’s a masquerade and Leo knows that’s why; and yet, he can’t help but beam: because maybe, just maybe, Lucius Malfoy did this because—
His father loved him.
Leo, more than ever before, wishes he were his brother—it would all be easier then. Draco is effortlessly perfect in their father’s eyes, and a horrible part of himself remembers when he was too.
It’s a near-thing, since he was so young, but… once, before Capella’s Curse took hold, being a Metamorphmagus was a gift, not just a tool. Was it fun, maybe, like Dora? Was it easy before he realized that it shouldn’t be? He doesn’t know, doesn’t remember. But he, if he strains, remembers enough to doubt.
Then, he wouldn’t spend his days trying to die as himself, his mind being pushed over and over to be his. No—he and Draco would play outside together, brothers, happy… Why couldn’t they still be happy? Was there some fundamental dif—
“Malfoy,” a feminine voice calls. It is familiar in the sense that the lilt of accent was his own, but unfamiliar in the sense that he doubts he ever held a conversation with her before, at least a memorable one.
“Yes?” He asks, turning around. He’s startled; more than he should be. Soft brown ringlets and pale leaf-green eyes. Her face is round in a way that says doll, and her voice is stronger and sharper than he’s ever heard her. She should be a first year student, like him, only her birthday is in January.
“Astoria Greengrass,” she says like she doesn’t know they both already are aware of who the other is. “Well met for real—we are to be friends.”
His father’s doing, he suspects. Leo pauses, considers the consequences of scorning this stranger, his… he shivers, betrothed. He doesn’t know what she believes, stands for, not really. Her loyalty and friendship isn’t for him and that makes him uneasy. Blaise and Theo, at least, were known variables. Is she bitter at their arrangement? Excited? Confused? They are to be married; they’ve never truly met.
—That’s wrong, isn’t it? Auntie Ellie and her husband, Rupert (‘Auntie Ellie’ wasn’t really his auntie after all, so calling her new beau ‘Uncle’ felt very wrong indeed since he didn’t actually know him) had dated for no less than five years after all, and dated for two before even moving in together!
But—they’re in charms, in the second year of magic school, and Leo’s eyes are pulled away from Astoria’s blend of generally pretty features and drawn to a flash of red hair. Red, he overhears, is leaving her seat to go to the bathroom, Flitwick easily dismissing her since people are still coming in. A flash of guilty gratitude fills him when he looks at her, even out of the corner of his eye—in a way, Red’s the reason he’s here, but he’d betrayed his morals to make that reason possible.
Astoria’s eyes follow his. “Weasley.” She notes, striking hard and fast, viper like and yet she’s a Ravenclaw—how did she even get here? “You got a bit of a crush… Malfoy?” It’s then, that slight hesitation, when Leo’s aware that she doesn’t even know his first name. He’d bet that all her little letter said was ‘be a good little lackey to the younger Malfoy. Love, dad’. Did she even read the contract with holes of Swiss cheese so gaping he’s surprised Cyrillus Greengrass signed it in the first place?
“Lamb,” he makes a split second decision. “And no, I would never touch a filthy—thing—like her.” He feels sick. Disgusted in himself. How dare he? Merlin, Dora would fillet him. He would deserve it. But, thankfully, Astoria looks satisfied.
“Right, Lamb,” she says as if she never doubted. Does she even know it’s just a nasty nickname that stuck? “Why don’t we teach the blood traitor a little lesson?”
She walks over to Red’s seat and leans over, cursing it with something nasty. And—there’s a line, a line Leo can’t allow Lamb to cross. Sure, words hurt something awful, but physical assault is an inch too far.
“What are you thinking?” He hisses, pushing Astoria away. She looks at him, hurt like she’d never been told ‘no’ before. Before she can open her mouth he adds, “Flitwick is right here!”
“On the other side of the classroom,” she shrugs, unconcerned, a wicked grin on her deceptively soft face. “Trust me, the half-breed’s blind.”
“He’s a teacher!” And a person, too!
“Oh, get over yourself, Lambykins,” it’s then that Leo decides that his father can’t force him to be friends with this nasty little girl who smirks like a Slytherin yet wears blue and bronze.
He’ll try to be civil, sure, but not friends. He shoves her all the way out of Red’s workspace and leans down, trying to undo whatever it is that Astoria did. The Astoria in question, is of course no help at all, unless you counted ‘scoffing at him’ as ‘cheering him on’, which he doubted.
But it’s as he’s leaning down, with his wand out, that he falters in his bravado. Leo realizes that he knew enough to reasonably be in second year thanks to his various tutors. However, that didn’t transfer to figuring out what curse a girl he’s never really met used when he didn’t even hear the words.
Of course, as such, he’s still leaning over the chair with his wand out, looking awfully suspicious, by the time Red returns.
She approaches quietly, and he doesn't even notice her until her voice sounds above his head. “Malfoy,” she says drily, with barely contained anger. “Trouble with your levitation charm?”
Looking up, he sees Red raise an eyebrow at him. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, anything, to disown Astoria’s little game, Flitwick claps for their seats, and solves the earlier mystery by giving Astoria a signed note, ‘thanks for the chat’ and sends her away to her actual first class.
What happens next is possibly his fault. Maybe. He stays a second too long to reasonably just leave, all to make the grave mistake of quipping, “oh, yeah, my invisible feather flew down just to dust the chair off for you, your royal hastiness,” in response to Red’s earlier accusation. In his defense, he was tired and a bit scatterbrained from all the leaning towers of preteen politics and was going to apologize after, but—alas.
In a moment, she is placed next to him, much to her chagrin, and with a wince he doesn’t blame her: he wouldn’t want to deal with Lamb being a pompous arse either, especially after said guy supposedly just tried to hex her and didn’t apologize. Could he still? No, it would be awkward now, so he doesn’t really have much choice but to move to slide into the uncursed side of the bench.
(Or is that him? His choice? Is he the pompous arse? He is Lamb—those words are coming out of his mouth, off the tip of his tongue, being clarified by the hateful gleam in his eyes—they were just his father’s, or Draco’s, or even at times, Maman’s, first.
But if he is the one repeating them, saying them, does that make them his too? He hopes not, and yet—it’s not like Red isn’t justified when she matches him with her own snippy rudeness.)
Red stares at him. Raises an eyebrow. She's a Weasley, he knows, but he doesn’t actually know her first name, can’t remember, so—well, Red. It seems nicer—more personal, at least, and less judgy.
“Well,” she says, brown eyes flashing. “Why don’t you take a seat, Malfoy?” She’s gesturing pointedly at the cursed seat. Leo weighs his options.
“There’s enough room on the other side of the bench that we can both avoid it…?” He tries, but to no avail.
“Can’t take a bit of your own medicine? Did daddy not account for that when shoving you into your big-bog shoes?”
He flinches at the mention of his father. Red watches him intently and he feels vaguely unnerved. She sounds like Draco.
(She sounds like Sirius—)
“I’m just amazed that you can use the words ‘Daddy’ and ‘account’ in the same sentence unironically. Isn’t your daddy dirt-poor?”
Leo—Leo never lashes out. He’s quiet, controlled… soft. He’s a Slytherin, and he’s not so spoiled as to think the world belongs to him, he—
Maybe a sick, demented part of him likes this, not the cruel words exactly, but talking back, having the power for once and he hates that sososo much.
He doesn’t stop though, Lamb doesn’t stop.
They’re in a classroom, if anything he’ll get reprimanded for his rudeness, and his father would certainly not be all too pleased about that. Even if he’s too cowardly to be outright nice, he can be cordial, couldn’t he? Try, at least. Hey, even just try and take actual responsibility for once, Dora’s metonymy furthers, because, well: he’s saying it’s because of his father, this method acting as Lamb, but—Lamb. L. A. M. B. Leonis Andee Malfoy Black—that’s just him, isn’t it?
Just him.
He smirks when she raises to the bait, even when Flitwick comes over and decides that “perhaps it’s best to split you two up.”
Is it him that raises a haughty, taunting eyebrow right back at her when the teacher mutters, “a Malfoy and a Weasley, working together, what was I thinking?”
But what does it say about her that she replies by mock blowing him a kiss, her hand curled in a rude gesture to show her dislike? Is she acting too?
What it must be like, Leo wonders, to be able to walk around your school and be yourself. It’s such a novel notion that he almost chokes on a laugh.
Leo returns to the Slytherin—
Leo enters the Slytherin Common Rooms for the first time that night. He’s just had a lovely meal and is really rather exhausted from classes, but he can’t wait to drop his morph. Sure, he’ll need to have security wards put up first, however Maman reassures him that she’s taught Draco the necessary ones (that weren’t already there). She also doesn’t trust Snape with this, and even though he hasn’t had potions yet, Leo agrees it’s probably for the better.
The common room is under the lake. The windows—big, arching, elegant—open to dark waters and Leo almost chokes. The common room is underwater. He shivers. Forcing his attention away from the window (a window into his soul, perhaps; but what’s in a soul?), his gaze is pulled toward the green-and-silver couches and chairs and such. In the arguably best spot but a large hearth are some, what he presumes to be, seventh years and there are clusters of other older students in various places around the room. Some are studying, but some, like his brother, are holding court.
Draco is surrounded by a scattering of wide eyed first-, second-, and third- years and even the stray suck up older year student. Leo can’t see much from his vantage point, but he knows that Draco’s telling a story—Merlin, he’s always been brilliant at that. He’s waving his arms around—arm. He’s only really moving one.
Leo comes closer. That, of course, is when Draco sees him.
“Lamb!” He exclaims with a grin, turning around. “My baby brother, everyone. How was your first day of classes?” Leo replies blandly with an ‘okay’, confused. Draco doesn’t usually ask questions like that to him, so he must be looking for an opening. Sure enough, that’s when Leo’s eyes zero in on it.
“…and then that oaf, Hagrid, just made a spectacle of his psychotic beast mauling me!” By the time the nth recounting of this story is over, Leo’s still staring at his brother's bandaged arm. Nearly took my arm off, he’d said, but Madame Pomfrey would never let him come back if it wasn’t completely healed.
Leo doesn’t doubt that it was injured horrifically at some point, but for it to stay? A magical creature may scar but… he glances again at the bandages. What’s his game? Is it possible Dray’s actually hurt? Leo almost worries his lip before stopping himself. Merlin, he’s tired. The morph really is weighing on him.
“Well?” His brother is sharp: all angles. He has a pointy chin and narrowed eyes and a cruel tongue cuts like a knife into his growing headache.
“I think you’re lying.” It just comes out, honest. Maybe a part of him that played perfect Pureblood pounce all day finally shriveled up and died inside him. Leo can’t take it anymore. “Your ‘ailment’ is fake.” This is for Red, he likes to think, but if it was really for her, he wouldn’t have allowed those words out of his mouth earlier at all. Is he just as bad as he is?
Draco looks at him, searches him. They’re almost mirrors like this, perfect siblings. Draco has Maman’s grey eyes and father’s platinum hair. Leo has father’s blue eyes and maman’s golden hair.
(Sirius had Walburga’s grey eyes and his father’s black curls. Regulus had Orion’s grey eyes and his mother’s black curls. It is only because they are cousins that those features were no different. As kids, distant relatives would even mistake them as twins, despite the age difference.)
“You’d know all about fake ailments,” he says slowly, evenly. He’s surrounded by warmth and friends and yet his voice is so so cold. It barely contained the undercurrents of anger, jealousy. “Wouldn’t you, Lamb?”
Leo is frozen. Dray—Draco explodes, but this— he’s freezing him out. Since when have they swapped places? Roles in this performance of life?
Leo has had a horrible day when it’s supposed to be the best day of his life. What he’s worked toward for years. He looks at his brother. “It’s not fake. You should know better than to go spreading rumors, now, brother.”
Draco holds his stare for an uncomfortable moment. It was a low blow, dangerous, even, to even hint at Capella’s, but it was also below the belt for him to bring up Draco’s mistake. He’d been a kid, asked a little too loudly at a gala why Leo didn’t look like a Malfoy. It was the first time that Lucius Malfoy punished his first son. Draco buried it, and Leo knew he hated to be reminded.
Leo turns, and walks away. When he gets to his dormitory, he sees his curtains had already been charmed anyway. A mocking note on his pillow from his brother. Guilt eats away at him as he closes the bed off and drops his morph at long last.
He cries himself to sleep and feels like drowning.
Alone.