A/N:
Ahem. Well. This is the first chapter of something. I'm not quite sure where it's going to end up, because I'm not very good at forward planning, but never mind. I will try make it exciting :)
Basically, it's set sort of somewhere in the middle of book seven. Draco disobeys Voldemort and has to leave Malfoy Manor, and …
I'll leave it there for the moment because the first chapter is just setting the scene as to why he has to leave … but later there will be some interesting Draco / Harry / Ron dialogue and some romantic tension between Draco / Hermione, and later, Draco /Astoria :)
DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling owns it all, I own nothing. Unfortunately.
Draco pulled the mask from his face and took a moment to drag his sleeve across his forehead. Tonight's events had left him numb with shock; a cold sweat beaded his brow. The mask weighed heavy in his hands. He looked down at it, repressing a shudder as the hollow eye sockets stared back at him.
Dead eyes. Unsettlingly like those of the Death Eater he had killed tonight.
It had been accidental. He had been about to leave the Ministry, relieved that nothing had gone wrong and at the same time frustrated that his excursion had once again proved fruitless. The man had walked straight into him.
No warning, nothing.
If he was discovered, it was all over. The lives of his friends, family and countless others would be forfeit. It was not even worth counting his own among theirs; it would be snuffed out long before Voldemort dealt with the rest.
He had panicked.
He didn't remember saying the words. One searing moment of fear, the next …
Those dead eyes, staring up at him.
He shivered. The words rung in his head like a death knell.
Avada kedavra.
Irreversible. Unforgivable.
An owl hooted outside his window and he flinched violently.
Just an owl, Draco. Relax.
Pulling himself together, he rose to his feet. It would do no good to brood over what he had done. It was all for good in the end. The lesser of two evils. Dumbledore had, at least, taught him that.
He tossed the mask onto the bed and stretched, relishing the satisfactory ache of his muscles. Then he drew his wand to perform the spells that had, in the last few months, become ritual.
It took a while to stop his hands trembling.
With a few well-wrought charms, the mask was easily concealed under a loose stone in the floor. He smoothed the moth-eaten silk carpet carefully back over it, eyeing his work appraisingly.
Once done, he pulled off his black cloak and robes and quickly changed into thin cotton pyjama trousers. Goosebumps prickled on his skin in the chill night air.
Quickly, he hung the black clothes in the wardrobe and rummaged around in a drawer, swearing under his breath as his numb fingers fumbled noisily over its contents.
If anyone heard him …
At length, he withdrew a tiny crystal vial. Tomorrow morning, it would join the others under the loose stone.
Grimacing slightly, he put his wand to his temple and drew out a glistening strand of memory. It shimmered in the moonlight as he prodded it down into the vial, which he hastily stoppered.
Almost done. He let out a shaky sigh. The paranoia that his nighttime endeavours engendered was almost not worth it. Almost.
He padded over to the four poster bed, eager for the relief it would shortly bring, and tucked the crystal vial into a bedside drawer. Wearily, he slid under the silk sheets.
Only one last thing to do.
Moonlight gleamed on his wand as he pointed it into his own face.
"Obliviate."
...
Dawn broke early, pink and gold streaking the pearly sky.
Draco hissed as his bare feet touched the floor. The stone was like ice. Teeth chattering, he pulled on his dressing gown and tiptoed down the corridor to the bathroom.
Wormtail's snores issued gratingly from behind his bedroom door. Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste. No-one in the Manor cared much for the fetid little man, apart from the Dark Lord himself, who held him unusually close.
Probably because he's a treacherous little swine who'd betray anyone as soon as look at them.
Thankfully, the bathroom was deserted. Draco locked the door before switching the hot shower tap on full blast.
He surveyed himself in the vast mirror and frowned. Something was wrong. He had gone to bed early last night. So why were his eyes ringed with deep grey shadows? He looked pallid and ill.
With a shrug, he dismissed it. Anyone would look ill with the Dark Lord threatening to kill them every few hours.
Before long the bathroom was filled with billowing steam, obscuring the black marble walls and silver serpent taps.
Draco let the water stream over his tired body, easing away the aches in his muscles.
Funny, that. He hadn't done anything physically demanding in the last few days.
After showering, he splashed his face with cold water and towelled himself dry.
Back in his bedroom, he dressed quickly in jeans and a dark shirt. He glanced in the mirror, again perturbed by the dark circles under his eyes, and dug in the bedside drawer for his wand.
Cold glass met his hand.
He recoiled. An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept over him.
Slowly, he drew the object out.
"What the …" he breathed. The insubstantial silver mist inside the vial swirled mysteriously, beckoning him in.
Draco hesitated. Subliminally, something told him he didn't want to know its secrets. But it must be important, for someone to have put it there.
He stood for a moment, torn by indecision.
Then he ran to the cupboard and pulled out an old chipped ceramic bowl.
With shaking hands, he set the bowl on his bed and decanted the swirling memory into it.
Was he doing the right thing? He took a deep breath, and before he could change his mind, bent his head toward the memory.
It did not take long.
A few minutes later he sank, gasping, against the side of the bed.
Of course he remembered now. The whole stupid thing.
The elaborate memory loss set-up was a precaution against Voldemort's Legilimency skills. If Voldemort found out, Draco doubted he would live for more than a few minutes.
But despite the risk involved, the thought of stopping made his stomach turn. Cowering away here like a frightened rabbit felt ten times worse than actually doing something, albeit something very dangerous.
It was being forced to torture Ollivander that had done it. The others, the strangers, did not matter as much, but as he watched the old man – the man who had beamed as he sold Draco a wand – writhe before him as Voldemort laughed in pleasure, something inside Draco had snapped.
That night as he lay in bed, he had though it over. He had to do something. There must be some way to bring Voldemort down and end this terror.
With a jolt, he had remembered all Potter's secret meetings with Dumbledore. And the way that Dumbledore had appeared on the top of the tower on the night of his death, mysteriously weakened. With Potter.
It had taken a while, but finally Draco had resolved to find out what Potter and his friends were doing. Maybe even help them. Even though the thought of helping Potter was about as pleasant as sticking pins in his eyes.
Potter. He ground his teeth.
Potter had everything. No restraints. No-one governing his life for him.
And everyone felt so sorry for him. Tragic, they called it. Poor boy, all alone in the world.
What Draco would give to be alone in the world. Nobody understood what a blessing it would be. His whole life, he had been groomed to act, think and live like his father, a Death Eater.
No independence, not a chance to make his own life and break free of the stigma surrounding the name of Malfoy.
To one side of the wizarding world, they were despicable. A family immersed in the Dark Arts for centuries upon centuries, obsessed with their pureblood status.
To the other, they were a laughing stock, disgraced by Lucius's failure to capture the prophecy. A family of cowards.
Well. I can't deny that.
Draco scowled. That was another thing about Potter that he envied. The ability to go about this war with nothing to hide. Of course, they had to do everything in secret, but everyone knew without a doubt what side they were on.
He, on the other hand, was expected to revel in the Dark Lord's presence. It was an honour to do his bidding.
And Draco did his bidding. He couldn't deny it. He was scared. Scared of what Voldemort might do if Draco disobeyed.
Did that make him a coward?
Wanting nothing but the Dark Lord's downfall and at the same time doing exactly as he commanded?
When he was younger, the idea of being a Death Eater had been his highest ideal. A way to inspire fear and respect, to be followed and admired.
He had revelled in his family's association with Voldemort. Pride from being part of something he did not fully understand had given him confidence and made him arrogant.
Stupid child.
He understood all too well now. Reality was nothing like his malicious, juvenile conception.
He grimaced and pulled himself to his feet. All this had seemed like a good idea at the time. Something to help lift the shroud of fear hanging over the wizarding world.
Well.
If he was completely honest with himself, it was more like something to help assuage the mantle of guilt that weighed so heavy on his shoulders.
But to no avail.
He felt worse than ever, now. All his efforts so far had been a miserable failure. He had discovered nothing, and reliving last night's venture was more painful than the rest.
He shook his head to clear the unwelcome images from his mind, but they lingered like cobwebs.
Don't be stupid, he told himself. I'm no saint, but I'm not a demon either.
After a slight pause, he shoved the crystal vial under the loose stone and quickly rewove the enchantments around it.
...
It was hard to go down to breakfast, knowing that Bellatrix would be there. All she seemed to live for was to make people miserable.
Even her own sister disliked her.
He consoled himself with the fact that the Dark Lord was gone, off on one of his long and unexplained absences. When he was away, the veil of fear mantling the house lifted somewhat, and a measure of normalcy returned.
"Good morning, princeling," Bellatrix sneered as he sat down at the table. Her cheeks were flushed with anticipation.
Beside her, her pale sister placed a restraining hand on Draco's arm.
He shrugged it off angrily and reached for the cereal. What he would give to curse Bellatrix, straight in the face. One good jinx, preferably as painful as possible.
The corner of his mouth curled upwards slightly as he imagined it.
Bellatrix looked put out by his lack of retaliation.
"The Dark Lord should be back soon. He said he would not be longer than a week."
Her lips twitched. "I daresay some of us will be pleased to see him."
Draco ignored her jibe, venting his resentment on his cereal instead.
"We are all his servants, Bella," murmured Narcissa, though her lips barely moved, "though you seem to favour him above that."
Bellatrix hissed. "And what if I do, Cissy? The Dark Lord needs all the support he can garner. What state of affairs is this, when even his own subjects begin to turn against him?"
Narcissa stiffened and a hint of red coloured her pale cheeks. For the first time, she met her sister's eyes.
Draco watched, interested.
"What do you mean by that, Bella? If you speak of Lucius—"
"Oh, don't be stupid." Bellatrix snapped, "Lucius is the last person on the Dark Lord's mind at the moment. Though I daresay he will remember him soon enough," she added snidely. Narcissa furiously opened her mouth to interrupt, but Bellatrix waved a contemptuous hand and continued.
"All I meant was that the Dark Lord is increasingly concerned that people he though loyal to him are beginning to deviate from the path he has laid out for them. For example, this Ghost Thief, as they're calling him.A lot of people convinced he's nothing more than one of ours gone over to the other side. Despicable," she spat.
Draco tensed. The Daily Prophet had picked up on his escapades fairly quickly and there had been numerous small articles, but he had hoped they would go unnoticed amongst the bigger stories.
Narcissa sighed, her eyes once again fixed on the table. "You know that's only a myth Bella—"
"A myth!" Bella snarled. "It's no fairytale, Cissy! The Thief killed last night at the Ministry. Harkiss is dead. Look, there's even a picture."
Draco's stomach twisted. A picture? That was impossible.
Heart beating uncomfortably against his ribs, he reached out and snatched the paper from Bellatrix.
"Give it to me."
"Hey!" Bellatrix flushed irritably and glared at Narcissa. "Teach your brat some manners Cissy, or Nagini will have him for tea. You should watch your step, little prince," she crooned.
Draco hardly heard her as he riffled through the pages. Finally, he found it.
The article was right in the middle of the second page. A bold headline announced, "Thief kills at Ministry last night".
He felt the blood drain out of his already ashen face. Below the headline was a picture, alarmingly accurate. The caption read, "Artist's rendition of the Ghost Thief, drawn from the memories of a Ministry worker who glimpsed the Thief on Tuesday night".
Draco swallowed nervously, hoping his expression was approximately neutral. If Bellatrix noticed his reaction …
She was not an unintelligent woman. She was perfectly capable of adding two and two and coming up with four ... And he dreaded to think what might happen if she did.
"I'll have that back, thanks," snapped Bellatrix as she ripped the newspaper from his hands.
He scowled at her, but his spirits rose slightly. She did not seem to have noticed anything. All the same, he finished his cereal and left the table as soon as possible.
Climbing the stairs back to his bedroom, the thought occurred to him; perhaps it was time to leave Malfoy Manor.
Well, that's it for now. It's a bit longwinded, but Draco's a very cool character, so who cares :)
Hope you enjoyed, please review and tell me what you think!
