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Published:
2024-12-18
Completed:
2025-01-27
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1,962
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4/4
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The Sum of His Shadows

Summary:

The story of Draco Malfoy told through a series of four portraits from shortly before being Marked to his early twenties. An illustration series.

Notes:

Each chapter is framed around an illustration featuring a coming-of-age portrait of Draco.

NOTE About Usage:
Personal use ONLY. I am fine with personal usage fan binds. Have at it! If you would like to use any of the art for another personal use, feel free to contact me. I can be reached on BlueSky, Tumblr, or Instagram @Landbeorht or via email.

Do NOT alter the artwork.

Do not repost.

Thank you!

Chapter 1: The Coming of Age Portrait

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Portrait of Draco Malfoy

It had long been the fashion in families of impeccable taste and breeding—Malfoys, of course, the first among them—to commission coming-of-age portraits for their children. Great portraiture took time, of course. This necessitated sitting for the painting at sixteen, an age Narcissa considered ideal for immortalizing Draco’s transformation from boy to young man. As she often remarked to her circle, her son had matured beautifully. His fine bone structure had gained definition, the softness of childhood yielding to the sharper promise of manhood. With his father’s elegant posture and light hair, he was a picture of grace. If, perhaps, his hands and brows retained the roguish quality of her Black blood, well, that was merely an elegant refinement.

For such a portrait, only Cosimo di Lorenzo would do. The renowned artist, whose exquisite brushwork and deep reverence for the old masters made him legendary, would be summoned from his studio in the magical quarter of Florence.

As summer drew nearer, Narcissa found she could no longer wait. The air in her home felt tight—her collars pulling too close, her robes clutched unconsciously in her fists. A strange feverishness settled over her brow whenever she lingered too long on certain thoughts. Easter holidays may be a little early for her desires, but what difference would a few short weeks shy of sixteen make in the face of her boy? Was he not the picture of perfection now?

And so, Cosimo was summoned; no expense was spared. Draco was interviewed at length in preparation. Long walks in the garden through Easter holidays where he waxed endlessly about himself, his love of Quidditch, and his other hobbies of reading and occasionally writing (silly things, he insisted, nothing of consequence). Cosimo followed him closely; brow creased in concentration, a sketchbook floating before him while he made gesture drawings of Draco in deft lines.

In the final days of the visit, Draco sat for the portrait. Narcissa watched with an arch in her brow and a refined tilt to her chin.

Nothing would stand in the way of his future.

No shadow could dim his sun in splendor…

Notes:

This portrait of Draco Malfoy is styled completely after Bronzino's 1535 painting, "Portrait of a Young Man," which hangs in the Met Museum in New York City.

I saw that painting of the arrogant young man and thought, Yep, with a few tweaks, this could be Draco.

Portrait of a Young Man

Find more details about the artwork and artist, Agnolo di Cosimo 'Bronzino,'Here.

Chapter 2: Marked

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Marked-dm.png

 

How could he? How could they ask him to? How could he do it?

A draft from the old windows wafted through the room, rustling the heavy drapes. Not even a magical house could withstand the ravages of wind and time at work on sixteenth-century glazing.

A shivering cold overtook him again, wracking through until his bones rattled. Brittle—all of him was as brittle as a winter tree shaking in the wind, its branches snapping one by one in the frost.

Despite his chill, he would not unroll his sleeves. His eyes slid to his forearm. And there it was. The stain. The Mark. His skin crawled. The very magic of it seemed to itch.

No going back. 

He rocked on the chair, drawing his knee up to himself. Something hot and damp streaked down his face. With a ruthless swipe, he wiped it from his cheek. Not today. No time for that. His hand plunged into his hair and tugged at the roots until the blood rushed beneath the skin and anchored him.

Snape’s expression—contorted, sickened—haunted him. Greasy hair hung limp about his sallow face as he begged—pleaded—for Draco to let him help.

Let him help?

Let him help?

How could he? Didn’t Snape see? Didn’t he know? Alone was the only way. He needed the glory all for himself.

...Whatever glory meant now, anyway.

That idiotic face behind him in ridiculous frippery and equally ridiculous gilded frame seemed to taunt him. How proud, how adult he had felt being Marked. But that was months ago, before winter had settled in. What did that Draco know? Nothing.

Everything gold had turned to brass.

He needed every scrap of clout he could gather to bring back to the Dark Lord and show him: see? See what I have done in your honor? For you? And yet, in his mind’s eye, his gaze shifted—always—to the corner.

To his mother.

Her chin lifted in defiance, her pale fists clenched, Yaxley’s filthy fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.

Notes:

Some notes about the visuals: Draco on the chair is wearing the same shirt and trousers as in the portrait, but the fineries of the vest and jacket are now gone—a stripping down.

Chapter 3: Turn and Face the Strange Changes

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Illustration of Draco Malfoy writing at a table while his coming of age portrait looms behind him

The Howler screamed at him at the god-awful hour of seven in the morning. Narcissa Malfoy gave no quarter.

“Draco!” Her enchanted voice yelled. The delivery owl ruffled his feathers in astonishment and scarpered. “How dare you insult your father like this! After everything he has been through for this family.” The red envelope crackled and shuddered. “Have we not loved you? Have we not cherished you? Have we not worshipped you as our own special Draco?” Golden sparks exploded from its edges, ricocheting across the floor and fizzling out one by one. “I can only assume you’ve lost your mind and forgotten who you are. Have your portrait and let it remind you, selfish boy. I can’t bear to look at you right now.”

Draco flinched as her words pierced him. His grip tightened on his teacup, his knuckles, like his face, going dead white.

A puff of smoke erupted from the Howler; then it drifted down, down, down to his table. Pinching its corner between his thumb and forefinger, Draco gingerly laid it on his little stack of books. He’d been expecting this since taking possession of the flat yesterday. At least it was only a Howler and the portrait.

It loomed, a large paper-wrapped block in the corner of the room. Shrunken for transport, the frame expanded to full size the moment the owl dropped it. It landed with a heavy thud, the carved and gilded wooden frame splintering with a sharp crack.

Sipping his tea, he walked to the wall and peeled back a corner of the paper to get a better look.

It had been two years since he’d laid eyes on it. Merlin, he was young, wasn’t he? Still was, in a way, he supposed. Twenty-one wasn’t much.

An eighth year at Hogwarts, probation in an assigned flat, mandatory continued education, and now, finally, his Gringotts account had been taken off its leash, and he was free to do what he liked. What he liked, it turned out, wasn’t much different than what he’d been doing.

The flat wasn’t far from Diagon. A short walk at most. The exchange rate from galleons to pounds worked out very much in his favor, so he found himself on a lovely tree-filled square, luckily enough.

Muggle fixtures, but still connected to the Floo. He eyed the recessed lighting and the clanking radiator with mild amusement. A foot in both worlds, indeed. They thought he was mad. Maybe he was a bit. But the university courses were illuminating and there was no going back now.

Returning to the table, he picked up his last quill and grimaced. Horrible scratching sound. And all of the ink flecks—gods. Couldn’t carry that into a Muggle lecture hall, anyway. The feather spiralled into the bin before landing silently against its fellows.

Sitting down, he took another sip of his tea, lifted his brass pen, and began to write. First, his hand gripped the pen too tightly, his forearm too stiff. He took another sip, pressing on. A word. A sentence. A breath in and a slow exhale.

And the words flowed.

They washed through him like a cleansing rain.

They poured onto the page in earnest.

They spoke of everything he had been and what he wished he hadn’t. They sang of those he had never thought of before but now couldn’t put from his mind. They rushed on in long sentences and stuttered in short ones.

A name he had once cursed took shape in ink. Memory of lithe hands and brown eyes caught in the grip of a cursed necklace lingered, rewritten into something he could almost accept.

A lifetime. A hundred lifetimes. The real and the imagined. The acts and the atonement.

His limbs loosened, his body leaning eagerly toward the page.

And words set him free. 

Notes:

This portrait and vignette should be paired with David Bowie's 'Changes'

Chapter title from 'Changes' lyrics by David Bowie (1971)

Chapter 4: Healed

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

They met again on a strange day in March when sunlight broke through the clouds, flooding the streets with the promise of spring. All along Diagon Alley, scarves loosened, robes unbuttoned and fell open, and laughter rang between the shops. In a shaft of golden sunlight, Hermione Granger’s amber eyes met his outside of Flourish and Blotts, where she stood, holding his latest book.

Draco had never been courageous, yet his feet led him right to her.

They greeted each other stiffly. A smile tried to pull at the corner of his mouth. Wariness was in both of their stances, but he had to know. He had to.

“Have you read it?”

She glanced at the book in her hands.

“Not yet, but I,” she bit her lip, considering, “I’ve read all your others,” she admitted softly.

“And?” What did you notice? Do you hate me? Did you see yourself? Can you see me?

Sunlight illuminated her piercing gaze. She shook her head, brows peaked as though uncertain.  “Somehow,” she let out a slow breath, “you gave all that pain a voice, Malfoy.”

His heart hammered against his ribs. A breeze swept gently along the street, lifting a curl that brushed against her cheek. He followed the movement.

“Would you—” he faltered, swallowing. “Would you like to get a drink?”

“All right.”

“Only, not at the Leaky. I’m not… well… somewhere Muggle might be a bit better if that’s alright?”

Her smile was radiant. “That’s perfect.”   

Smoke and the stale scent of malt and hops curled around them in the darkened corner. A fire crackled beside them. One hour became two became three, and then they ordered food. Later, they walked out together in the chilly evening, conversation a moving volley between them. As the warmth of the sunlight faded, stars glittered in the clear sky overhead. Hands in pockets pulled out energetically as they turned to one another to make one point and another and another.

Somewhere around midnight, they stopped being ‘Malfoy’ and ‘Granger.’ Their names changed, and so did they.

They met again and again in the days that followed. At first, serendipitous encounters. Last-minute invitations. Tentative plans as the day faded to night.

Hermione and Draco: balancing on cobbled curbs, sitting on cool metal benches, walking beneath bare trees.

Bright buds grew, blossomed, and flourished into summer. They ate ice cream in the park, discussed books in the evenings, and played with runes, potions, and charms by dark.

As the seasons grew colder, they shifted closer, the warmth of one attracting the warmth of the other. Loose plans became firmer. Incidental meetings became standing arrangements.

Autumn fell, and so did they.

“Would you like to stay?” He asked, one evening in his flat. Emboldened, he reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Please, stay.”

Sheets tangled. Hands traversed longed for planes. Lips mapped her hills and valleys. Fingers traced his angles and ridges. Whispers rustled in the night air: promises, endearments, commands, laughter.

Morning dawned, bright and clear and cold. Branches shuddered outside in the October bluster. Hermione sat beside him, tracing his scars. His left arm stayed folded in—not ready to face horror and revulsion writ plain on that face he had come to love so well.

Gently, she unbent his arm and stretched it out before her. Fingers—those gentle, delicate touches—traced the serpent burned into his flesh.

“You know,” she said, “in many cultures, the snake is a symbol of healing.”

Draco’s breath caught; his eyes fixed on her as she bent over and brushed her lips across the Mark.

“I’m not healed,” he murmured, voice raw. “It’s still in me—always.”

“You are.” Her gaze burned bright, unwavering. “You healed yourself.”

 

Draco-portrait-4-final.png

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for joining me on this portrait journey!

A few notes about the pieces:
I wanted the sense of light increasing to be apparent as Draco goes from such a dark time to a better, hopeful one. Think of "reading" these pieces left to right. On the left is his past (the portrait), and on the right (the windows) is his future.
_________________________________________

NOTE about usage:
Personal use ONLY. I am fine with personal usage fan binds of this. If you would like to use any of the art for another personal use, feel free to contact me. Find me on BlueSky, Tumblr, or Instagram @Landbeorht.

Do NOT alter the artwork.

Do not repost.

Thank you!