Chapter Text
Prologue
London, 2001
Draco’s fairly certain he’s going to die here in this murky alley in Muggle London surrounded by rats and shards of long discarded beer bottles. Footsteps sound from the nearby road and he shakily opens his mouth to call for help, but his throat is a gritty mess and his eyelids lie heavy.
And besides , he acknowledges grimly, what does it matter? What’s the fucking point?
The footsteps fade, and Draco folds in on himself, clutching his knees to his chest. His wand lies useless in his pocket, nothing more than a stick without his magic. A part of him tries to fight, but the more he considers his life, the less compelled he is to do anything.
Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if he just disappears forever?
In hindsight, his life is a series of failures: failure to appease his father, failure to appease an inept dark lord, and eventually, he realises, failure to be anyone worthwhile. And now?
A wave of nausea hits and he turns, retching onto the cement, trying desperately not to get vomit on his already dingy trousers.
Now he’s nothing. Too low of a Death Eater to be sent to Azkaban, but still a criminal. He was sentenced to five years of probation, forced to live without magic and limited to a small allowance while the Ministry continues to figure out what to do with the Malfoy fortune.
He manages out a weak cough at the errant thought, wishing he still felt the ire that once stoked his veins at his punishment. But now it’s a muddled blur. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since his sentencing; he vaguely recalls a couple of New Years spent getting absolutely obliterated, and decides he really doesn’t care.
What would a wand and some money give him anyway?
He’s lived on the streets long enough to know this place is too dangerous at night, but his legs are like lead and sleep calls to him.
Besides, what’s the point?
“Excuse me?”
Draco shivers at the intrusion, blinking his eyes open to find a man standing a few feet away, too blurry to make out.
“Yea?” Draco manages, trying to focus on the figure dressed in black, but the world is shaky and his fringe hangs heavy over his eyes.
“Do you need help?” the man asks, his voice surprisingly soft.
Draco tries to say no, yells at his legs to stand up and walk away, but instead his lip quivers and his fingers shake.
“I have a safe place you can spend the night.” The man cautiously approaches Draco, squatting beside him with his hands open. The man’s crisp clothes are a stark contrast to Draco’s vomit stained rags; his kind face foreign amidst the dregs of society Draco’s used to seeing.
“Who—” Draco tries, swallowing when the words get caught in his throat.
“I’m Father Matthew. If you come with me, I can give you a bed and something to eat.”
The moniker rings a bell, but Draco’s mind is too muddled to figure out just what it means. He’s tempted to shake his head, to try and explain to the man that it doesn’t matter; if he doesn’t die today, he’ll surely die the next, or the day after that.
But if there’s one thing Draco’s always been, it’s a coward; so he nods, accepting the brief reprieve if it means staving off his inevitable demise.