Chapter One

'Responsibility is the price of freedom.'
- Elbert Hubbard

If there was one epithet that Draco Malfoy never thought could have been applied to him, it was the term 'blood traitor'.

Malfoys were pureblood in every sense of the word, and loyal to the Dark Lord and his cause. It was the world he'd been born into, the way he had been raised, trained, and tailored into a man. Draco trusted in this twisted sort of medieval ideology that he was better than the rest of the world based on his heritage alone, with the collateral wealth and political power vested in his father to boot.

Even from Azkaban, Lucius commanded a high reputation, weaving threads of enough blackmail and threats to turn the Ministry inside-out without so much as lifting a finger. His son was to supplement his presence where required, something Draco considered a compliment; acting as the representative of such power and respect was not something to be taken lightly, after all.

He would make his father proud, even if he had all but soiled himself standing in the presence of the Dark Lord at barely sixteen, enervated and terrified at the duty he had been given to make up for his father's failure. To earn his father's right to live, to protect his mother, to uphold everything he had to live for. Malfoys were not blood traitors, even in the face of annihilation. Draco would acquiesce the Dark Lord's command, even if it meant forfeiting the rest of his life for a cause he trusted and believed but never quite understood.

He would make his father proud, he told himself again. He would protect his mother. He had to. No Malfoy in history had earned the title of a blood traitor. Draco did not intend to be the first.

He didn't realise it at the time, that this moment would become the fork in the road of his life. This was the moment he had to decide; was he a murderer, or a traitor?

'Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.'

To kill in cold blood—

'No harm has been done...'

—or to betray those he loved.

'...you have hurt nobody.'

This was not a decision any sixteen-year-old should had ever had to make. But, no, he would not give in. He could not cave. He couldn't take the easy way out. He'd gotten this far... he was the one with the wand. His grip on it tightened; he stood up straighter, holding his chin higher. 'You're at my mercy...'

'No, Draco,' Dumbledore said calmly. Much too calmly for a weak, injured, unarmed old wizard being held at wand point. Blue eyes watched Draco from behind their half-moon spectacles, as serene and pastel as the afternoon summer sky. 'It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.'

At these words, Draco was overwhelmed with a blinding haze of fury at everything; at Dumbledore, for being so fucking calm and benevolent all the time, even in the face of his own demise; his father, for failing and expecting him to pick up the pieces; the Dark Lord, for being the biggest hypocrite of them all, and for forcing him to make this decision; at the whole war, for stealing his life away before he knew what the hell had happened.

He was sixteen. He should have been worrying about where to spend his summer holidays, hoping he'd get that new Firebolt prototype for his seventeenth birthday, or if he'd ever get his hands under Pansy's skirt, wondering if the Headmaster had enough brains to make him Head Boy his seventh-year...

And with a sudden jolt, looking down the smooth, dark wood of his wand to his target, Draco suddenly realised how very unlikely his having a seventh-year was anymore; how very unlikely just having a seventeenth birthday had suddenly become. He fought the strong urge that gripped his insides, the urge that wanted to flee to his dormitory and close the drapes and disappear under the covers. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to make this decision.

Dumbledore continued to watch him with those bright, halcyon orbs, silent and patient and far too understanding of a boy who came in here with the intent to kill him. Those eyes were offering Draco everything he'd been trying to find all year.

Safety. Compassion. Forgiveness.

A way out.

The tip of his wand faltered; slowly, at first, his wrist dipping an inch, then two, and suddenly his arm dropped to his side, sagging as if the weight of the world has dragged it down. He was barely able to keep his knees from following. He hated Dumbledore—always had—but not enough to kill him. Not enough to kill anybody.

And he hated the Dark Lord enough not to.

Dumbledore expelled out a breath Draco was unaware he had been holding. 'My wand, please, Draco.'

There was a terrified scream followed by a howl of rage somewhere downstairs. Draco snapped out of his stupor as the noises of the world suddenly reoriented him in his current situation, and without thinking he called Dumbledore's wand to him with a muttered Accio. With only a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward and, hand trembling, handed it back to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore was watching him irradiant eyes, and something warm and tingling unfurled in Draco's chest. He briefly considered that perhaps it was pride, but almost immediately he was thrown back into the here and now as Dumbledore raised his wand, once again a power to be reckoned with.

He pointed his wand at the far wall and said, softly, 'Quickly, Harry, we don't have much time.'

Draco's blood froze and he wheeled around. From nowhere, Harry Potter emerged, rolling his Invisibility Cloak up in his arms. He looked positively furious; at first, Draco thought, at him, but Potter rounded on Dumbledore instead. 'What the hell were you thinking?! If he hadn't—he could have—'

'Now is not the time, Harry,' Dumbledore interrupted, voice still quiet and even, but now with an underlying urgency. 'The important thing is that he did not, even with the opportunity.'

His gaze turned from Potter to Draco, who was now flushed and tense with suspicion and indignation. 'The two of you must get under the Cloak and keep out of the way.'

Potter began to open his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him without moving his eyes from Draco. 'You may disagree with me later, Harry. You agreed to follow my orders, without question. Both of you, under the cloak, now.'

Potter's eyes snapped to Draco. He still looked furious, but he opened the cloak anyway and without so much as waiting for a response, stepped up to Draco and threw it over the both of them.

'Out of the way,' Dumbledore reminded them in a whisper. Over his words, Draco could hear the distant thuds as someone runs up the stairs... several someones...

'Move,' Potter hissed, seizing Draco by the elbows and dragging him backward.

Potter's grip was tight and vice-like on Draco's elbows, and would probably be hurting if Draco hadn't been so completely benumbed with fear as the door to the Astronomy Tower suddenly burst open, quelling any impulsive desire Draco had had to pull away from Potter. Four figures pile in, shrouded in dark cloaks. One of the group—short, a woman from the look of it, stepped forward, her wand raised.

'Alecto,' Dumbledore said pleasantly. 'Forgive me if I cannot say it's good to see you again.'

'Don't play coy, Dumbledore!' she warned. 'Where is the boy?'

'I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific,' Dumbledore replied patiently, 'for there are many boys housed in this institution.'

'Any will do for me.' The words were uttered through a nasty, low snarl. 'I'm not picky, Dumbledore. You know that.'

'My goodness,' Dumbledore said, sounding mildly surprised. 'Is that you, Fenrir?'

A throaty, barkish laugh answered him. 'Miss me?'

'No,' Dumbledore said, managing to make his regret sound genuine. 'I really can't say that I have.'

His calm blue eyes swept the group as he held his wand ahead of him, raised but not threateningly so. An enormous, blonde Death Eater with a brutal-looking face stepped forward beside Fenrir, eyes narrowed and wand held aloft. Dumbledore acknowledged him with a slight inclination of his head. 'It's been quite a while, Dolohov.'

'Enough with your tricks!' said the short, stumpy figure by Alecto's side, his wand also raised. 'We don't have time for your games, Dumbledore!'

'Games?' Dumbledore said mildly. 'These aren't games, my dear Amycus. These are manners.'

Draco could hear more people coming up the stairs. He wondered why none of the Death Eaters had attacked Dumbledore yet, who may have been armed, but was outnumbered four-to-one and was still wavering weakly by the opposite wall. But his blue eyes were fixed and his wand was held with a confidence that was beyond Draco's ability to understand. Draco could practically sense the fear the Death Eaters had of this old wizard, all too cowardly to strike first, each shooting one another furtive, sideways looks in hopes of provoking the other to make the first move. Dumbledore observed them all in a still silence.

Potter's grip had not loosened and Draco's elbows were growing stiff with pain from the bruises forming under his ironclad grip. One of his hands had both Draco's elbow and his wand, which was pointed at the group of Death Eaters, ready to attack from behind the safety of the cloak if needed. Greyback was closest to them, and Draco could smell the dried blood on his clothes.

It was also beyond Draco how Potter could even pretend to be brave enough in this situation, as if he could do anything against three armed Death Eaters and a fucking werewolf, even with Dumbledore there. He could feel Potter's breath on the back of his neck, shallow and even, the heartbeat against his back remarkably calm, as if used to standing in the face of its own demise.

Draco would have never let Potter this close to him before, sod the circumstances, and he was sure Potter felt the same, but both knew better than to move. Instead, he wanted to say something, to ask Potter what the hell he should be doing, if he should be doing anything, or should he just get out of the way, because he didn't feel able to charm a lock open at the moment, much less send a curse flying at the snarling, ragged form of Greyback standing ten feet ahead of him.

The atmosphere was so thick he could have sliced it with a knife, and just as the air felt like it was about to break, Snape barrelled into the room.

Draco felt Potter go rigid behind him, his heart skipping a beat and then plunging into overdrive. The hand holding his wand released Draco's elbow, and he held it higher, steadier, aiming his wand directly at Snape. Draco turned his head to look at Potter over his shoulder and mouthed, 'What the hell are you doing?' but Potter ignored him, eyes narrowed and focused on the Potions Master.

'Severus!' Alecto hissed, whirling on him. 'Where the hell have you been?'

Snape ignored her question. 'Have you found the boy?' he demanded.

'This old fool's hiding him,' Amycus snapped, pointing at Dumbledore. 'I bet my life—that boy's bad blood, just like his filthy cousins.'

Snape's eyes, almost involuntarily, flickered to Dumbledore; no words were exchanged, but some sort of understanding must have passed between their gazes, because Draco suddenly found himself forced to the floor by his shoulders as the room erupted in an explosion of lights and colours and bangs, like some sort of massive, spectral firework.

Someone shouted in surprise, Draco heard an enraged snarl nearby, and there were several loud thuds. Another spell exploded right above where Draco and Potter laid on the cold floor, still disguised with the cloak. Before Draco could recover from the shock, he was hauled to his feet by strong arms; these strong arms end up belonging to Potter, and Draco hissed and wrenched away from him.

Potter ignored him and wrapped the cloak back up in his arms. There were three bodies on the floor; Fenrir was gone, and the other Death Eaters laid Stunned in a haphazard pile between Snape and Dumbledore.

'Thank you, Severus,' Dumbledore said quietly. His eyes switched their focus to Draco, who was still edging away from Potter but unsure of where else to go. 'I need to assist the others. You know what you must do,' he said. He conjured a quill and parchment out of thin air and began writing very quickly against the wall.

Snape walked over to him and took the parchment when he finished and nodded. 'I counted half a dozen on my way up.'

Potter moved to follow Dumbledore on his way out, but Dumbledore halted him with a forcible gesture. 'No, Harry, you are to go with Professor Snape and Mr Malfoy.'

'What?' Potter snapped. 'The bloody hell I—'

'Disagree with me later, Harry,' Dumbledore said once again, very firmly. 'You are to accompany Professor Snape and Mr Malfoy. I will send an owl. Go.'

As Dumbledore turned and exited down the stairs, Potter started forward. 'But—'

'Potter!' Snape's fist crushed the parchment in his hand. He stepped forward, cutting Potter's route to follow Dumbledore short. 'You heard the Headmaster, and you will do as you're told. Draco,' Snape's eyes flickered to his student, cold and hard, 'now is not the time for delays. Read this, quickly, and memorise.'

Draco blinked briefly at the parchment Snape shoved at him but did not read it. He didn't care what was written there, or where Snape intended to take him. He didn't even care that Potter was supposed to go with him. It felt like Dumbledore's words had hooked onto his stomach and dragged it out of the tower with him.

'But,' he began, looking between Snape and the door, 'what about my mother? He said he'd—'

'Read it,' Snape snarled again, in a tone that demanded obedience. He offered the note once more and this time, albeit grudgingly, Draco accepted it. Smoothing the wrinkled parchment, he read the narrow handwriting quickly:

The Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix can be found at
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

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