Disclaimer: The characters and plot from JK Rowling's Harry Potter series are not owned by Fowl Ole Ron
THE LAST THREAD
By Foul Ole Ron
Chapter One
Filthy Turncoat
The air is thick with noise and drunken euphoria. Someone has poured their ale into the fire and it has sprung up like a great red beast. Draco Malfoy imagines he can see black slits of eyes and a gaping mouth as he watches it crackle and spit. Hazy figures around him chortle to themselves as one man gets up onto the bar and begins to dance. The owner of the pub gives him a wary look and stands braced, ready to push him toward the drinkers rather than his precious alcohol, should he fall. The dancer's face is red with exertion, and he is singing an unintelligible drinking song while he flings up his legs with surprising agility. Malfoy blinks, and suddenly there is a girl up there with him, crowing with glee as he spins her around, causing her pointed shoe to narrowly miss several people's heads. The girl, despite having an ugly face, has a wealth of smooth golden hair. Malfoy watches transfixed as the hellish light of the fire plays across her twirling locks. Raising his fire whisky to his lips, Malfoy smiles coldly to himself and wonders how long it will be until he is properly drunk this evening. Not that he is the type of drunk who would be dancing on tables. No. He would probably take more comfort in being relieved of his cash by some prostitute, and then awakening alone in the street with a few clear memories.
1111
Several miles away, Hermione Granger sits in her dusty room at number 12 Grimmauld Place and carefully files reports, sorts through relevant information and meticulously records it. Being a witch, she reads by candle light, writes with a quill, and wonders why the wizarding world must distance themselves so dramatically from ordinary muggles. What she wouldn't do for a little of the central heating or electric lighting that is commonplace in her parent's house. As Hermione scratches away, a clock somewhere in the house chimes midnight. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, she contemplates going to bed. After she has stared at the same sentence (written in Harry Potter's uneven scrawl) for at least five minutes, she realizes that she can no longer think straight and is unsure as to weather the last fourteen reports have been filed correctly. She glares at them accusingly for some time, until she blows out her candle huffily and stalks out of the room, across the landing and into the bathroom. Turning on the shower full blast, she half-hopes that several people who always seem to get a proper night's sleep are woken up and stricken with terrible insomnia.
1111
Draco Malfoy stumbles out onto the street. He has achieved his goal. He is completely smashed. The road is icy and a muggle car skids to a halt mere inches from where he stands. He gazes almost lovingly at the headlights. They are so bright, and so beautiful. An irate, balding man in a heavy overcoat steps angrily out of the car and bangs his door shut, ruining Malfoy's blissful moment.
"What the hell are you doing, mate?" shouts the man, "You could've been killed!" Malfoy tries to gather his thoughts. He squints and opens his mouth, but can't form the words,
"Drunk as a skunk!" the man cries, stepping closer to him and peering into his face. The muggle is a good deal taller and broader than Malfoy, and deep within his drink dazed brain, Malfoy feels a little threatened. Finally able to speak, he leans on the bonnet of the car and laughs,
"I am not!" he says thickly, "I am not drunk as a skunk. I'm as sober as Rover!" he laughs again. The muggle gives him a disgusted look. In the darkened street, the sound of reveling from the pub can be heard, and a trickle of light splash's the muggle's face. Malfoy sees a trace of concern in his disapproving eyes, and immediately stops laughing.
"Why don't you fucking well mind your own business!" he says, suddenly clear and strong. The man steps back, shocked, and draws himself up to his full height.
"How old are you, lad?" he asks severely. Malfoy finds himself forced to grin. Malfoy is nineteen years old and has killed three men, one woman and an assortment of dogs, cats and birds. This old fool, who has probably never even had one too many drinks, is treating him like a misbehaving child.
"It doesn't matter how old I am," said Malfoy, because it was true. Malfoy can see the man fighting the urge just to leave him where he is on the street.
"Well, perhaps there's somewhere you'd like to go?" he asks. Malfoy glares at him. The irony is he really doesn't have anywhere he can go. Absolutely no where.
"If you say one more thing," he says calmly, "I will kill you." The man steps back again. This time fear replaces the concern in his eyes. Malfoy no longer looks like some harmless kid who's had a few more than is good for him. There's a glint in his grey eyes that fills the man with unease. Although he's quite sure, rationally, that this flimsy bag of bones has no more chance against him than a field mouse, he has a strong inclination to get in his car and drive away as fast as possible.
Malfoy continues to glare at the man. He is a comfortable, fleshy old bastard with nothing more to worry about than whether he's going to remember to get any milk on the way home. The injustice of it all is appalling.
"Now, son, if you'd jus-"
"Did you hear what I said?" Malfoy says, and wonders if he is really capable of it, at this time, after all that has happened. He advances on the man, who steps back despite himself. Even in his drunken state, Malfoy knows it would be more trouble than it is worth to use magic in front of this muggle, but he has become nothing if not slightly paranoid. He slips one of the several sharpened knives he carries on his person from beneath his muggle coat and raises it in front of him. At that exact moment the moon sails out from behind thick cloud. The blade glints, and the muggle understands. Without a word he scrambles into his car and is off. Malfoy leaps to the side just in time, and is showered with ice as the car's wheels struggle to accelerate.
(iiiii)
Hermione Granger steps out of the bathroom, warm and dry and a little disappointed that she has not interrupted anyone's sleep. She crosses the landing and enters her room. Sighing, she sits on her bed and contemplates life. She remembers being a little girl. A normal little muggle girl without any knowledge of witches and wizards and magic and broomsticks. When she was five, she played mummies and daddies with her next-door neighbors. She went to primary school and was bullied by Brendan Keller. She remembers Brendan Keller's face after he had called her beaver, and he was made to sit for an entire lunchtime on the 'brown chair'. She learnt the flute in year three, and was terrible at it. She was a sheep in the Christmas nativity play in year five. And then…well, then she was at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Then she met Harry Potter, and her life changed forever. Her early existence is now a world away. It is amazing, really. Now, she dreamily wonders what her life would be if she had never become a witch…never been possessed of magic. Would she even now be at university? Studying to be a doctor, a lawyer, a dentist? Would she be dead? She knows it is pointless to speculate. This is where she is now, and that is all that matters. She is working for the Order of the Phoenix in the war against the Dark Lord Voldemort. She is happy with that. It is a worthwhile cause.
(iiiii)
Malfoy draws himself up to his full height. He has to do it before the morning's hangover sets in. He judges it to be about 2:00am. He is alone in a dingy alleyway. Muggle waste is scattered on the cobbled stones and he has seen more than one rat. Shuddering, he draws out his wand. He stares at the polished wood, wondering if his muddled mind will be able to focus enough for him to apparate. Perhaps he will splinch himself…
(iiiii)
Hermione cannot sleep. Her shower seems to have woken her up a little too much. Now she is over-tired. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. She can just make out the dusty rafters above her. Who would have thought that she could have gone from living in her parent's orange-and-green cement rendered modernized bungalow to this rotting mansion full of real-live ghosts and sad memories. She smiles to herself. Real-live ghosts indeed…
(iiiii)
Malfoy materializes in front of what should be Number 12 Grimmauld Place without a sound. He has perfected the art of silent apparation to a tee. It has saved his life on several occasions. He stands in the darkness for a second. By some strange fortune, most of the streetlights are out tonight. He doesn't have to bother extinguishing them. He visualizes the key words in his head: The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number 12 Grimmauld PlaceLondonAs expected, the grimy old mansion appears before him, squeezing itself in between numbers 11 and 13. Malfoy grimaces. He can barely believe what he is about to do. He sways slightly, grateful for his intoxicated state. At least now he is less likely to follow his own nature. More likely to go through with it. He trudges up the front steps, wondering vaguely if he is in fact on a suicide mission. Taking a deep breath he gives the rope attached to the door bell a decisive wrench. There is a resounding clang. There is no going back now.
(iiiii)
Hermione is disturbed from her sleeplessness by the distant echoing reverberations of the door bell. Her first reaction is not puzzlement at who could be calling so late – order members return from their doings at all hours of the day or night. She does tense however, at the prospect of the noise awakening the portrait of the late mother of the late Sirius Black, Harry Potter's God father. By all accounts a nasty piece of work in life, her continued existence in portraiture has only served to increase Madam Black's degree of general bitterness and loathing for any kind of disturbance. Hermione holds her breath for a full minute before realizing that a miracle has occurred, and the portrait has not commenced its habitual ranting and raving. Hermione smiles. She is then galvanized into action, hoping whoever is out there is smart enough not to ring twice. Grabbing a dressing gown, she races out of the room.
(iiiii)
It takes a while for Malfoy to work out who has opened the door. The corridor within is dark, and his brain is not functioning at its usual rate. He concentrates a little harder and the person's features slowly swim into focus.
"Ah, shit," he says, and crumples to the ground.
(iiiii)
Attacking first and asking questions later has always been more of a Harry Potter-and-Ron Weasley thing rather than a Hermione Granger thing. She guesses that they've rubbed off on her quite a bit. She also asks herself who wouldn't send an instant stupefying spell at Draco Malfoy's head if he turned up on their doorstep at two o'clock in the morning. As she has been trained to do, she quickly has Malfoy in a full body bind and is levitating him into the house. Her hands are shaking has she directs Malfoy's body through the murky halls of Grimmauld Place. They know is all she can think, they know where we are…Voldemort knows where we are…but there is still the question, why did he ring on the door bell? Are there more out their? Did they sneak in after me? Feeling herself on the verge of panic, she begins to run, regardless of the battering Malfoy's rigid form is taking from protruding objects. She is on the first landing. She is in front of Dumbledore's bedroom door. She is thumping on the door like it's Harry's or Ron's. Regaining control, she knocks more politely. But her earlier noise seems to have done the trick. The door swings open and there stands Albus Dumbledore, wide awake and clad in a magnificent starry dressing gown. His clear blue eyes widen as he takes in his late night visitors.
"Hermione?"
"Professor! It's Malfoy!" she leans on the door frame for support, "Malfoy! Sir, they've found us! I don't-"
"Hermione, take a deep breath. What has happened?"
"He just turned up! He rang on the doorbell, sir! Draco Malfoy rang on the doorbell!" Dumbledore stares at her for a few more moments, and then shifts his gaze to Malfoy's pale, frozen face. Hermione takes a look at him too. He is looking decidedly worse for wear. His cheeks are thin and drawn, and a thick, messy red scar runs from beneath his pointed chin to just below his ear. His white-blond hair is lank and straggly. Not at all the arrogant, slime-ball image Hermione remembers from her last sighting of him. Dumbledore has stepped forward, draping his long, snowy white beard over his shoulder. His touches a long, bony index finger to Malfoy's scar.
"Someone has tried to cut his throat," he mutters to himself.
"Sir?" Hermione is feeling a lot calmer now. The mere presence of Dumbledore is enough for her.
"Ah…do go and wake Remus Lupin, and, er Alastor too, I think, and Professor McGonagall-"
"Alright, I'll just-"
"And, Hermione, don't awaken Harry or Ron, will you?"
"Er, no, of course not."
(iiiii)
Malfoy comes to with a severe pain in his temple. He opens his eyes blearily and takes stock of the situation. He is sitting up right in a decidedly hard wooden chair. His hands are tied none too gently behind the chair's back and his ankles have been fastened to the chair legs. A bright light has been conjured to shine directly into his face. He sighs as he squints around at the other occupants of the room. He should have known he was not going to get through this without being strung up with a skull-shattering blow to the head. He glances fleetingly at the silent assembly around him. They are all alert and with varying degrees of puzzlement, fear and disdain on their faces. He obviously hasn't been out long.
"Mr Malfoy," says the deep, infuriatingly polite voice of Albus Dumbledore. Malfoy forces himself to look up, cringing under Dumbledore's stern gaze.
"I've come to give you a warning," he says quickly, because he has spotted the infamous revolving eye of Alastor Moody, otherwise known as Mad-Eye Moody, fixed menacingly upon his face.
"A warning from your master, is it?" spits Moody, and Malfoy is surprised at the vehemence in his tone, "We don't stand to listen to threats from psychopaths, and we don't send his scumbags back!" Moody is advancing on Malfoy now, and he presses himself further back in his seat. The object of his insane little venture was not to get himself killed, but the likelihood of his staying alive was looking slimmer by the second.
"Wait a moment, Alastor," says Dumbledore calmly, "What do you mean by a 'warning'?" his piercing eyes are fixed on Malfoy's own, making him squirm. He has to say the right thing. Otherwise his life won't be worth living.
"I'm betraying my father," he says haltingly, having to force the words out. He cannot meet Dumbledore's eyes, "I'm betraying the Dark Lord. I'm trying to save the Order of the Phoenix. I'm a fucking filthy turncoat." If someone had told Draco Malfoy that he would be uttering these words a year ago, he would never have believed it, and that someone would probably find himself regretting he had ever been born. It is amazing what a single year can do to a person. Malfoy looks fearfully at the faces around him. Minerva McGonagall, his old transfiguration teacher, normally hard and inscrutable, has her mouth open in disbelief. Remus Lupin, the shabby werewolf, is regarding him suspiciously. Hermione Granger, one of his least favourite ex school mates, who he had always been adamant is a whiny little mudblood bitch, has confused look on her face. If he gets out of this alive, Malfoy promises himself he will get his revenge for her unnecessarily violent greeting.
Mad-Eye Moody is the only one showing open and complete loathing and disbelief. It is to be expected. After all, Moody is known to be so utterly paranoid that he is fundamentally unable to drink anything he has not prepared himself, and carts a hip flask around wherever he goes. Thinking of drinks, Malfoy is reminded that he is no longer drunk. Some bastard seems to have performed a sobering charm on him. He grits his teeth. What do these people care that he is basically defying his very nature just to save them. Well, not to save them exactly, but definitely for the betterment of wizard kind. Or the betterment of Draco Malfoy. Either way.
"The Dark Lord has found out where your base is-"
"Obviously," interjects Moody. Malfoy shudders.
"And he's coming. At midnight tonight. In less than twenty four hours time. He's found a way to…well, I don't understand it exactly…but, he's already planted things-"
"Things?"
"-in this house…he'll kill all of you at once, he knows there's some kind meeting going on – you'll all be here-"
"Mr Malfoy," interrupts Dumbledore, his voice slightly strained, "Are you telling me that we have a traitor in our midst?" Malfoy gulps. Dumbledore has gotten straight to the point.
"Yes." There is an surprisingly loud uproar of voices for a small group of five.
"We can't trust him!" roars Moody over the babble. He's the bleeding son of Lucius Malfoy. What possible reason could we have to believe a word that comes out of his craven mouth?" There is a brief silence at these words. Dumbledore sighs. He strides over to Malfoy. Malfoy looks up. He has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dumbledore smiles grimly,
"A precautionary measure. I do hope you understand, Mr Malfoy." Dumbledore taps him gently on the head with his wand. He blacks out.
(iiiii)
Hermione gazes at Malfoy's limp form, slumped over his chair. His head is thrown backwards, baring his ugly scar to the onlookers. All at once he looks small and vulnerable. Hermione remembers all the times he called her a stupid mudblood. All through school, he had been utterly convinced that he had something over her when he said things like that. The sad thing was, Hermione had been unaffected for the most part. She was a muggleborn. Initially she'd had no idea what a mudblood was, or the stigma attached to it. Besides, it was hard to feel the sting when you had friends like Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Hard to feel the sting from a selfish, vindictive little boy who was probably going to end up dead, imprisoned or a pathetic lackey to an evil tyrant by time he'd finished school. With those prospects, one could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. Hermione sighs.
"I am afraid I do not detect a lie in his words," says Dumbledore. Moody glares at him fiercely, his wild eyes rotating faster and faster.
"His father's one of the best liars I've ever met, and there could be some trickery. He might be under the imperius charm, completely oblivious to what he's saying-"
"Alastor, if you merely calmed down slightly, you would see that in no way am I suggesting that we simply let him free and take his word for it. I am just saying that we cannot be too careful. There are more ways to get the truth out of him than simply asking. I believe that Severus Snape has some veritaserum stored in his room at this very moment. Truth potion will usually counter most charms." Moody nodded at Dumbledore respectfully and shot another death glare at Malfoy.
"You're right Dumbledore. I can't help but feel that there's something fishy about anything to do with a Malfoy, however." He strode to the door. "But there's no time to lose. I'll be back with that veritaserum in a minute." Dumbledore holds up his hand, his eyes glittering,
"Alastor, do remember you are entering Severus' rooms. I could not venture a guess at the kind of defensive spells he would cast on his door when he is away,"
"I do hope, Dumbledore, that you are not seriously asking me to be careful?"
"Oh, no, I would not presume to. Off you go then. Excellent."
The remaining company watch Moody lurch out of the room, his wooden leg clunking loudly on the floor boards. They then turn back to Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore," says McGonagall in a rather high voice, "Don't you think we ought to have questioned him a little more before we knocked him out? I don't understand how you're so calm. This is…well, it's going to change everything. They've found out where we are and who knows how many other secrets!"
"Ah, well, Minerva, I think Alastor was getting a little excited. If this is a trap – and if it is it's a very strange one – I do not want young Malfoy finding out anymore than he already has," Dumbledore looks very sad for a moment, "My true worry is for Severus, of course." There is an intake of breath around the room as the company realize the implications of a traitor in their midst. Severus Snape has been a double agent for a long time now, and if he has been found out by Voldemort he is as good as dead, or worse. Hermione Granger has never felt there to be any love lost between her and the embittered potions master, but she knows that Severus Snape of all people does not deserve such an inevitably gruesome fate. Glancing back at Malfoy, she wonders again whether he is telling the truth. The last anyone heard of Draco Malfoy, which was admittedly almost two years ago now, he had just been granted the rights to his father's vast property, which had been confiscated by the ministry the previous year, on the condition that he kept his nose clean. He had smilingly sworn allegiance to the Ministry of Magic, locked up his house so it was an impenetrable fortress, and promptly disappeared off the face of the earth. He was then classified officially as a missing person, and a suspected deatheater. In other words, people like Mad-Eye Moody were after his blood.
Hermione thinks of something. She walks cautiously over to Malfoy and picks up his skinny wrist, gently pulling up his sleeve. She closes her eyes for a second. Branded into Malfoy's pale flesh is the horrific black tattoo that Voldemort bestows upon all his minions, a painful reminder of where their loyalties lie, and a way to call them up at a moment's notice. Hermione gazes it with a kind of fascinated disgust, and quickly drops his arm, backing away. Dumbledore gives her a level stare,
"It was to be expected, after all," he says quietly. She nods,
"You know, sir, this doesn't really make much sense. Why would Voldemort send someone in to tell us about an attack he isn't going to perform? If there is a traitor, why not just attack us unawares? Why tell us about it?" Dumbledore looks thoughtful,
"I must admit, I'm not sure. Perhaps Voldemort plans to tell us one time and attack sooner? I do not know. No, that would be an idiotic course. That is not his style. His plans have been foiled too many times for him to play games." Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully, "I am afraid I am inclined to believe Malfoy so far. There may be quite a reasonable explanation for his change of heart. But we must get the truth quickly, for obvious reasons. Thus, the truth potion."
"But, sir, what if one of us is the traitor, if there is one? The traitor could act now, easily-"
"I am confident that none of us is the traitor. I am sure that if they were, they would have acted already," replies Dumbledore evenly, but Hermione detects a note of worry in his voice. It is not encouraging.
(iiiii)
Malfoy regains consciousness for the second time in half an hour. It is not a pleasant awakening. Mad-Eye Moody's mutilated nose is trust forcefully into his face. His mouth is twisted into a leering grin. Malfoy swallows and takes a breath,
"I-"
"Shut it, Malfoy. Not another word. We're going to do this as quickly as possible." Still grinning hideously, Moody raises a small vial of something clear and sinister into Malfoy's line of vision. Malfoy is seized with a sudden fear. He's seen that liquid before…
"Surely there's no need-"
"Oh, I assure you, there's need." Without another word, Moody grabs Malfoy's chin and brings the potion to his lips. Before he knows it, he has swallowed. It tastes of nothing…it makes his stomach feel like…nothing. In fact, nothing really matters any more. Quite literally…
