Narcissa Black-Malfoy had done a poor job of hiding her horror when she'd learned of her Draco's fate. She wept and wailed and begged Lucius to reconsider. She'd taken Calming Draughts and had to be seen by a Healer without once referencing what troubled her. In short, she'd played every card in a pureblooded witch's hand; but in the end it wasn't Lucius-dear's decision, and therefore she could only worry and wear on him more – to little effect.
So, she put away her womanly wiles and dusted off an older set.
Narcissa locked herself in her study and considered things from the Dark Lord's point of view.
Everyone by then knew of the prophecy that claimed Potter had to die at the Dark Lord's hand. Potter was a nuisance in any case. Albus Dumbledore had to die too, of course.
If she could accomplish the both of these things without putting her Draco in danger, well. Obviously that was all for the best.
She pored over her Darkest of Dark Arts books – or rather, Lucius's – she'd never had much of a head for (or a fondness for) removing people's entrails while they were alive, or turning them inside out – how ostentatious, when a simple dagger to the heart or a touch of poison would do? – and she found a solution to everyone's problems that was deliciously simple and yet complex enough for the boys to enjoy.
She set up a private meeting with the Dark Lord and explained everything. (It was surprising and a bit worrying how easy that was; he surely needed a secretary.)
"Are you sure, Narcissa?" he inquired. "That you can carry it out, I mean."
She assured him that she could – so long as he were willing to help a little. She emphasized her womanly weakness and batted her eyes. It didn't surprise her that he was as susceptible as any man, or at least – willing to feign that he was.
"You may make up for your husband's inadequacies nicely, if that is so," he replied. "I've found Black women to be very clever and competent," he mused.
She waited with bated breath.
"Very well," he said, steepling his hands. "Bring Harry Potter and your son to me… and we shall see."
The back of Draco's neck prickled as he entered the classroom, but he needn't have worried about where to sit or how to behave, because Weasley practically herded him to the centre of the room, where Granger was already seated on his right side and Weasley joined him at his left. Even though they were two of the last people there, those spots had been left empty.
Draco knew a sign of fealty when he saw one: everyone in this classroom was one of Potter's, or close enough, and they made space for him without thinking.
Draco's own body was seated in the far corner of the room, looking bored, examining his nails. Draco quickly turned to face front before his features registered – whatever they might be registering – at the sight of himself, trying to look like he wasn't paying attention to Harry Potter. Examining your nails, what are we, in a novel? He scoffed aloud.
"All right, Harry?" said Granger to his right, and Draco tried hard not to curse aloud.
Damn Harry Potter and his thrice-cursed, observant pair of sycophants.
"He's having an off day," said Ron under his breath, and Draco's head whipped to him so swiftly that he heard and felt it crack. Ron shrugged, and all Draco could do was glare, having no idea what Potter's version of a bad day meant.
But it got Granger off his back with an instantaneousness that was profoundly relieving. "Do your best, Harry; Snape isn't likely to be sympathetic."
"Wow, thanks, Granger," Draco said. "Who'd have guessed?"
"He's extra twitchy," Ron added, and when Draco turned to glare, Ron put on his best gormless face and shrugged.
You Slytherin, Draco thought – his highest compliment.
But maybe it was the way that Ron grinned and rolled his eyes, after, that coloured his positive impression.
A bit.
"Textbooks to page eleven," came a sharp crack of a voice from the front of the room. "Nonverbals from that page for twenty."
Eloquent as always, Professor.
"We shall see if any of you have mastered the art of SILENT casting and repelling… yet."
Why did everything Professor Snape said sound ominous today? He'd noted it in the dungeons, too, with the small part of his brain that wasn't quietly panicking at the time.
Weasley nudged him and they retreated to a corner of the room. To his surprise, Weasley was being diligent, skimming the curses in the book. "Tripping Jinx, yeah?" he said, and Draco nodded. He'd mastered wordless magic ages ago at his father's direction. He raised his wand and –
A featureless burst of magic flew from his wand hand up his arm, suffusing his entire body with strength.
Whoa.
The whole classroom looked sharper and cleaner, as though he'd put on a second pair of spectacles; the world narrowed to Ron Weasley across from him, his features pressed into comical concentration, turning practically blue in the face as he tried to force the magic out without the accompanying words. At the same time, the wand calmed and centred him, reminding him that Weasley before him was not truly an enemy.
Draco felt sharp and calm and deadly in a way he never had, before; and when Weasley finally succeeded, his answering wordless Protego was so perfect that Draco gasped a bit. It came out with just the right force, dissipating Weasley's jinx before it had fully formed.
Draco huffed a disbelieving laugh and stared blankly at the wand in his hand, jolting forward when Weasley clapped him on the back.
"Well done, mate," Weasley said. "That's a lot more control than your usual, right?"
"Yeah, I…" said Draco raking his free hand through his now-wild hair. "…Yeah."
"Well done, Harry," said someone at his elbow.
"Thanks, Seamus," he said, still staring at the wand. He looked up at Ron. "Something's… different."
"I'll say," said Weasley, rocking back on his heels.
"Mister Potter, Mister Weasley," said Snape, suddenly standing in front of them, his arms crossed over his chest.
Draco startled.
"Mister Potter, do you feel that you are above what is being taught in this class? No? Then. Practice."
Draco felt irritated, of course – a stab and twist at his gut – then a nudge forward, like he was offstage and someone was intent on shoving him into the spotlight.
I hate you – you hurt me – I'll show you!
Merlin, Potter, he thought, shaking his head. You are a piece of work.
But he supposed that was where "there's no need to call me 'sir', Professor," had come from. Draco felt half-inclined to come up with something clever to growl, something that would make everyone laugh and make Snape feel small.
"Yes, sir," he said instead, through clenched teeth. He kept a close watch on Weasley and Granger, but his response must've qualified as vaguely characteristic, because Granger sighed and Weasley thumped him on the back and retreated.
"Okay," Ron said. "Again."
Another boy in Draco Malfoy's position might have found being Harry Potter a reprieve from the dreadful responsibility with which he'd been honoured (threatened) over the summer. Another boy might have thought of his new position as a place of retreat or escape. But Draco was Slytherin enough to realize: this new body didn't abrogate Draco's responsibilities. It multiplied them.
It didn't change that the Dark Lord had threatened to torture his mother and execute his father if he couldn't kill Albus Dumbledore and smuggle the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.
It had no bearing on the fact that he had no experience with magical transportational devices and therefore, not the first idea of how to repair a Vanishing Cabinet.
It didn't change that he'd been painted into a corner; it only altered the colour on the brush.
So of course, after surviving Defense (nonverbals, simple – his father had hired a tutor when he was twelve) and Potions (where in Merlin's name Potter had stolen that incredibly useful textbook with its Slytherin-sharp comments in the margins, Draco couldn't guess) – in short, after fulfilling his Potter-shaped responsibilities, at the end of the day Draco still had his own.
"Game of chess?" Weasley inquired as they sat around the Gryffindor fireplace that evening, Draco having claimed the largest, coziest sinkhole of a sofa for himself. Everything was red velvet here as well: a sort of rust colour that was probably meant to look both respectable and invitingly lived-in. Draco was reminded of how the Slytherin Common Room was redesigned every few years on funds from the wealthier parents, including his own.
"Nonsense, Ron; Harry has the Charms homework and the Potions reading yet to do. Which, may I say, you do as well."
Draco clamped down on the reflexive disgust he felt at the sound of the Mudblood's voice, ignored the stab of exasperated affection that didn't belong to him. He was losing patience with the Potter palimpsest already, for all it gave excellent advice; it was wearing, acting contrary to one's inclinations all the time.
"And the Quidditch tryouts tomorrow," Weasley sighed, raking a hand through his hair.
"Yes, and those, too," Granger agreed.
Draco's breath caught. "Right," he said aloud.
"Oh, Harry; don't tell me you forgot," Granger chided. "I hear a great number of people are planning on trying out."
"People do follow a star," Draco scoffed.
Granger and Weasley stared.
"Yes, well, that's rather the problem, isn't it?" Granger said, tossing that mane of bushy hair back away from her face in a motion that was at once entitled and rather self-conscious. "The vast majority of them are there to stare at your new three centimetres – in height Ron, don't waggle your eyebrows at me! – and your Quidditchy musculature."
"My… Quidditchy –?!"
"Shut up," Granger ordered.
"I'm also very Quidditchy, I'll have you know," Weasley insisted, affronted.
"I doubt it's anything to do with centimetres in any direction," Draco said. "More to do with the very fact that... I'm famous," he said. I, me, I'm famous.
"And we all know how much you adore posing for your fans," Granger said apologetically, "but bear up! I'll buy you a butterbeer afterwards if you manage to avoid hexing anyone."
"A worthy inducement," Draco said, and Weasley laughed.
"The Malfoy thing you've got going is pretty good, actually," he said, and Draco froze.
"What Malfoy thing?" Granger inquired, lips quirking, ready to laugh; these Gryffindor fools were all like that, even Granger, always poised to leap to humour, while Draco's heart beat double-time.
"Don't you hear it? A worthy inducement… and earlier he calls me Weasley in that high-brow sort of voice –"
"Plummy," Hermione offered.
"Ooh, good one, yeah, plummy voice. It's spot on, it is."
Draco felt himself stand; he bowed, in perfect pureblooded fashion, from the waist; he added a few extra flourishes at the wrist; then, with perfect comedic timing, he looked up from under his lashes and raised his eyebrows. "Draco Malfoy, at your service."
There was a beat of silence in which Draco feared he'd made a terrible mistake. Granger and Weasley were staring and blinking in shock.
But then a grin grew on Weasley's face. "How did you – do that?"
And Granger broke into delighted applause. "At yours and your family's!" she returned, which didn't make much sense to Draco but which sent her into further peals of laughter.
Draco straightened and raked a hand through his now-unruly hair. "Well, I've been watching the git for six years. I should know more than anyone what he's like."
"We all know you've been watching him," Weasley said in an oddly significant way, exchanging an oddly significant look with Granger. "Still, that was uncanny, mate. Five stars."
Draco bowed again, this time in a far less studied way, and sat to a second round of applause, from various corners of the room; Gryffindors were laughing and elbowing each other. "They can't have heard that," he muttered. "They don't even know what they're clapping for."
"For you," Granger said, simply, and Draco blinked.
Merlin's sky and stars, he'd been right all along: Gryffindors clapped at Harry Potter for merely existing.
"They're clapping because it's fun and because they like to see you having a good time," Granger elaborated. She sounded exasperated; she must've seen the look on his face. "Like it or not, a lot of them look to how you're doing in terms of – how things are going."
Weasley swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing on his freckled throat. "Did you see the paper? They're pretty sure of the Vance thing, now. Not even denying it was murder, now, are they?"
Draco watched Granger's shoulders hunch in and felt a stab of discomfort from Potter. Of course Potter wouldn't want Granger upset; the fragile line of her shoulder was doing strange things to his guts. Potter's. His.
It was all the same for now, but –
"The Prophet said that Thicknesse has replaced Bones as head of Magical Law Enforcement," Granger contributed. "This is very, very bad. This is how it starts."
Neither Weasley nor Draco interrupted her, but it took her a moment to gather herself and speak again.
"It isn't random. He Who Must Not Be Named is murdering high-placed people and tugging this or that thread to ensure someone on his side is next in line. Perhaps he's been doing it for years."
Granger and Weasley shuddered simultaneously.
"So we can't trust anyone who's a replacement," Granger went on. "Chances are, they're not on our side."
Weasley didn't disagree. He thumped back into his seat as though the revelation had physically knocked him back; he stared into the fire. "Well," he said at length, "I'm… not worried about Quidditch tryouts anymore."
"That's the spirit," Hermione said weakly and offered up a wavering smile. "Harry? Harry?"
It took Draco a moment longer than it ought to have, to remember that she meant him.
"What do you think of all this?" Granger prompted – gently, for her.
What a question. Draco thought Vance and Bones were blood traitors and had to be eradicated. It was ugly and – and (wrong, Draco's gut told him – wrongwrongwrong) – but it had to be done, and those with the clear-sightedness to know it and the power to do it were to be admired.
He was aiming, hoping, to be one of those men himself, someday: the sort you called on to do difficult tasks that needed doing. The sort that was above remorse – confident in his superior understanding of the Way Things Ought to Be and in his ability – and the ability of those like him – to turn the tide so that the world spun on a more even and orderly keel. Back the way it was before there were Mudbloods and Muggleborns polluting the Wizarding World. Back when his place was inviolate and unquestioned and definitively over those around him.
Draco looked up to find Weasley and Granger staring at him.
"Harry," Granger whispered again.
Harry.
Right.
But the Potter palimpsest was silent for once.
"It's just that you're probably right, Hermione," he said, and her name sounded like Weasley's: natural rolling off Potter's tongue. "We can't trust anyone who's been replaced."
Late that night, Draco crept towards the Room of Requirement only to catch sight of a small girl wearing a Slytherin badge parading back and forth: Crabbe, or else Goyle, disguised.
Draco flattened himself against an alcove until the tiny sentry had passed before making his way back to Gryffindor Tower…
…
…
…..
He awoke with a start, sitting up so rapidly that the motion caused his head to throb. Or… no, his head was just throbbing, he – where was he? How had he gotten wherever he was?
All around him it was dark. Still nighttime, then?
Merlin – he ought to have known that being Potter would get him killed sooner rather than later. Though whoever had knocked him out – or moved him once he'd been knocked out – obviously hadn't intended to kill him…
Perhaps the Dark Lord intended to kill Harry Potter, himself. He wouldn't be surprised.
He was definitely in a room, on a bed – though tossed across the bed rather haphazardly, and no one had bothered to remove his shoes or throw a cursory blanket over him; but it was all still rather more comforting than the inside of a stone cellar with a bar at the door, so.
Rising, still rubbing at the back of his neck –
…not his, not his, and that ruff of unruly curls and cowlicks was still so strange he had to sit down again straightaway, dizzy…
…or that wasn't why he was dizzy, honestly, but that had to be a decent measure of why…
Then the door opened and rough hands hauled him to his feet; and when he tried to protest, nothing emerged out of his mouth… someone must've cast Silencio…
The bright lights blinded him so badly that it took a full half-minute before he realized where he was.
Shit.
He transferred his gaze to his captors; Crabbe and Goyle senior held an arm on either side. He was in the East Wing of Malfoy Manor. He'd been captured and taken to Malfoy Manor.
Draco gawped as they dragged him forward. He was about to be murdered. He was about to be murdered in the home of his ancestors.
If he could have, he might have laughed 'til he cried.
As it was, he kicked and hissed, wriggled and spat; he shouted silent imprecations on their families, ancestry, and sexual prowess. He fought for his life, and wondered – with the part of his brain inclined to be honest with itself – that if he had to do this yearly, like Potter, he might not have gone a little mad. He felt he was going a little mad now, actually, until Crabbe, senior gave him a rather sobering slap across the mouth.
The doors to the Malfoy ballroom opened, and the pair tossed him forward so that he landed on his hands and knees, the marble fireplace ablaze to his right.
The robes of some other wizard, flickering and shifting in the light of the flames; as Draco lifted his chin, he saw himself, standing over him with arms crossed over his chest, smirking.
He scrambled to his feet and whirled to see that the room's usual furniture had been shoved aside, and their most elaborate dining room table had been placed at the room's centre, with every chair full; his father was – wait.
His father.
Lucius Malfoy sat at the table's right-hand, and he looked tired and bedraggled, but he was there, he was – broken out of Azkaban, Merlin, Draco thought dizzily, he's all right, and his mother on Lucius's other side; and Dolohov, and – who cared because his father was out of Azkaban, and –
Lord Voldemort was at the table's head.
"He does not even reach for his wand," Voldemort intoned. "Neither of them do."
"Twenty four hours does not a success make," said another voice, and Draco whipped his head around to observe his Aunt Bellatrix, sneering in his general direction. "If you want to be safe, my Lord, I still say we should kill him."
"We did that already," Narcissa interjected, and the Death Eaters turned as one to hear her speak; Draco blinked. His mother had never made a single comment at a meeting in all his memory.
Draco darted a glance over at his counterpart, but the boy appeared just as confused as he was.
You, Draco wanted to say. You're the one who did this…
"Ah," said Voldemort. "Let us hear the boy speak. Finite incantatem."
But what was there for Draco to now say? He swallowed.
"A naturally obedient young man, as ever," said Voldemort.
"What… him?" the other Draco Malfoy screeched, and – incredibly –
The Death Eaters around the table chuckled, as though he were a child who'd asked a naïve or humorously inappropriate question at a fancy dinner...
Their response matched exactly, down to not addressing Malfoy's question at all.
"What am I doing here?" Draco demanded. "Why is he here?"
Potter's bravery was good for something, he supposed; that insistent nudge forward he'd felt on facing Snape seemed to have ratcheted up and up and up, along with his heartbeat, his blood pressure, and his tendency to pray to whatever gods might be listening.
"It's all right," Narcissa said, leaning forward in her seat, both hands pressed to the table's surface until her fingertips went white. "Tell us your name." She lowered her head, looking up through her lashes. "Your full name."
Draco drew himself up. "Draco Lucius Malfoy," he said, and a series of relieved and happy sighs circulated around the table until a smattering of light applause broke out –
"What?" the other Draco demanded, going rather white in the face. "What? Mother!"
But Narcissa didn't reply; she didn't even look at him, choosing to regard Draco warmly, instead. The applause didn't cease until Voldemort held one hand in the air; then it cut off as though it had been sliced clean through. The fire was hot against Draco's neck; he could feel the hair there begin to curl with his sweat.
"Narcissa Black-Malfoy," Lord Voldemort said. "Any pleasure I might express at your success would be a mere shadow of my true feeling. How is it that you have succeeded where others have... so frequently failed?"
"A mother's love finds a way, my Lord," Narcissa said, bending her neck with a polite smile.
"Finds a way to what?" Malfoy shouted. "Mother… look at me!"
"If I'm Draco Malfoy," said Draco, thumbing at his counterpart, "who – or what – is that?"
"It's no one," Narcissa said, at the same time Lord Voldemort replied, "it's nothing."
Malfoy had gone quiet, hanging on their words. It was clear to Draco that he was either someone or something, and he was leaning towards the someone because only a person's face could go that white and only a person would swallow again and again like they feared they might vomit.
"It's a piece of soul," Draco's father contributed suddenly, and unexpectedly. "A fragment. Meaning –"
"It's a Horcrux," Draco breathed, turning to stare.
"Lucius!" Narcissa chided.
"I'm… what?" said Malfoy. He was turning his hands over and over before his eyes, as though answers might be hidden in the dusting of hair across his knuckles, in the whorls of his fingertips. "No, I'm not."
Narcissa turned to him. "You're a mere imprint of my son. You may have his memories, but you are an impression, only. A magical portrait that can walk on two feet, and that is all."
"If he has a fragment of my soul," Draco said, slowly. "I've lost a part of it?"
"That's why we left a bit of the Potter boy's behind," Narcissa explained, "to ensure you remained a complete person. Well, that, and…"
Bellatrix rolled her eyes and broke through Narcissa's explanation. "Our Lord is replacing high-positioned people all over Britain," she said with a shark-like grin. "Making them our people. Some are dying," she said, miming an expression of great sorrow in a way that was so counterfeit that Draco's stomach turned, "some are under the Imperius Curse, but little Hawwy Potter is the first who's been successfully… replaced. And to be a believable replacement, you'll need to have a hint or two about Potter. Or so some of us have insisted," she tacked on, glaring sourly at her sister.
Draco's breath trembled in his lungs. "Potter's dead," he said, and it came out like a fact.
"No, darling," Narcissa said with a bright smile. "Harry Potter is you."
"But he died; he definitely died. You killed him," Malfoy broke in. "Because that's how you make a Horcrux."
Once again, everyone behaved – not as though he weren't in the room, quite; a few people tsked or their gazes transferred briefly to him – but as though what he had to say wasn't worth much of their attention.
"What about him?" Draco wondered.
"Well, he's part of the ruse, dear," Narcissa explained. "With a boy walking around looking and talking like Draco Malfoy, no one should suspect your involvement, should they?"
"So… what?" Draco said. "Harry Potter declares for the Dark Lord and no one finds this the least suspicious?"
"Don't be silly dear, you're embarrassing your mother," Narcissa said.
Draco swallowed. "I should stay close to the Weasel and the Mudblood and be kind to kittens and blood traitors… at first. Begin to make a few pureblooded friends. Cooperate with your people at the Ministry. Use what's left of Potter to guide me, to make my reactions believable in the eyes of his friends. Convert people to the right way of thinking where I can. Show worry and lack of faith in our cause to those I know I can't. And someday – in the near future – youngest Minister for Magic. With you as my silent advisor, My Lord. Does that meet your expectations, Mother?"
With every word out of his mouth, Narcissa looked more smug and the Dark Lord more intrigued. Even his Aunt Bellatrix looked begrudgingly impressed.
"And I should do what?" Malfoy said, voice high.
Lucius finally addressed him. "Nothing. You should do nothing."
"I can still do it," Malfoy went on in that same, desperate tone. "I can still kill him. I could, Father; please."
Lucius hung his head, but it was Voldemort who answered.
"You understand that I never intended you to succeed," the Dark Lord intoned. "It was a punishment, for your father's slow thinking and poor planning. Your mother's cleverness is all that saved you."
"I can," Malfoy said again. "The Vanishing Cabinets…"
"Are not necessary," Voldemort interrupted, with a slice of his hand. "Did you truly believe we could not get at Albus Dumbledore if that were our true desire? Or Harry Potter? What do you suppose prevented us?"
"The," Malfoy stammered. "The wards?"
Lucius scoffed. "They let any Animagus through. Peter could have slit Potter's throat in the night… easily. They let animals through… Greyback could have slipped in one full moon and torn Potter to pieces. They let members of the Board through, of which I am one. Don't imagine that I could not have ended Potter, were that the Dark Lord's wish. Until now, Potter was kept alive for various reasons, none of which had to do with a lack of accessibility."
That shut Malfoy up quickly, and Draco, too.
"It was a trial, Draco-kins," Aunt Bellatrix cooed. "We'd been planning Dumbledore's murder for just ages, you see. But making you, and dear Lucius sweat, first – that was the real fun."
Don't let it show, don't let it show, Draco thought wildly. He refused to curl his fingers into fists, he refused to think or feel anything, Merlin, they'd just been fucking with him – no, no, no, don't think about it, think about – Quidditch, being high up in the air, anything, anything else…
"Then why didn't you?" Malfoy spat at his side. "If you could've killed Potter at any time, why didn't you just do it? And Dumbledore, too?"
"My plans, beyond as they involve you directly, are none of your concern," the Dark Lord said.
Malfoy didn't seem aware that he was in danger – at least not in any traditional sense. He was pale and shaky and might be in something like shock, and kept muttering something under his breath about diaries.
It occurred to Draco, too, that none of the other Death Eaters had so much as breathed a word, and that they were there merely to observe. From the moment they'd kidnapped him (all too easily – he'd never sleep again -) not telling him why he was here, it was all to ensure that whatever they'd done, however they'd done it, had worked, demonstrating the Dark Lord's brilliance and forethought.
"Will you Obliviate him?" Draco queried, thumbing at his counterpart.
"That thing? Why bother?" said Voldemort, and then Crabbe and Goyle were grabbing them and hustling them from the room.
Malfoy was still muttering to himself and would be of no help in the discernible future. Not that Draco knew what he'd ask for if his companion were coherent. His mind was reeling.
Potter was dead.
Potter was dead.
It was fine, of course. Not a problem. Just.
Had he screamed? He'd probably screamed.
Who had done it?
Had Dumbledore ever thought that a student could knock out another student and Mobilicorpus them off of school grounds?
Shit.
So perhaps a student – an older student, bigger than scrawny Potter, maybe, someone in seventh-year – had knocked Potter out from behind. Maybe they'd murdered him while he was still unconscious. Maybe they'd been Imperiused; maybe Obliviated afterward.
No, no – knowing Potter he'd fought, tooth and nail.
And Voldemort would have wanted him to have been awake and aware.
Voldemort would have wanted him to know what was coming.
Voldemort probably told him what he'd just told Draco:
That he could've killed Potter at any time, really.
That he could go back and kill anyone Potter had ever cared for –
Granger.
Weasley!
Nononono –
Get ahold of yourself. It's just Potter. It's Potter losing his mind over his friends, not you.
Shockingly, that seemed to help. It was only Potter's feelings about Granger and Weasley that were interfering with his total lack of interest in –
- hatred for! –-
Granger.
And Weasley.
Right.
So he just needed to focus on himself for a moment. Just ignore the way his heart was thudding against the cage of his chest, the way everything had gone all tingly, the way his feet were sort of numb, the way the hallway had gone all sparkling, and –-
…
….
…
Draco awoke in the Gryffindor Common Room in a panic that was instant and complete.
Granger.
Weasley!
They were in danger, he had to – he had to find them, get to them – Granger, first –
The bloody stairs wouldn't let him up, fuck –
Weasley first!
Draco scurried up the stairs and burst into the room he shared with the Gryffindor sixth-years and darted forward to throw back the curtains on Weasley's bed.
Ron lay there, washed out by the moonlight and his native paleness, and for a moment, Draco was so sure he was dead that his heart – quite literally – stopped a moment before kicking like a mule.
He fell forward with a gasp and shook Weasley, who awoke instantly.
"Harry? What is it!"
"Hermione!" said Draco, and Weasley blinked and grabbed his broom.
Yes, yes of course, Draco thought and cast about before Ron Accio'd and a second broom flew from Potter's trunk. Together they burst into the girls' dorm and found Hermione, who awoke before they reached her and shooed them back into the hallway.
"What on earth?!" she demanded, hands on hips. "What's the matter?"
Draco stared at them.
He wasn't sure.
Why had he gotten them?
He didn't care if they lived or died –-
Weasley gathered Granger close; she gasped aloud before clinging, staring at Draco over Weasley's shoulder.
The Potter palimpsest was screaming, screeching in panic. Shaking and juddering apart.
"We," Weasley was babbling, "we thought you were – we thought something had –"
"Okay, all right," Granger said, pulling out of Weasley's embrace. When she caught sight of Draco, something shifted in her expression. "Harry."
Draco shook his head, which he hadn't meant to do.
"Okay," Granger said, "hang on."
She disappeared into her bedroom, emerging a moment later with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and fuzzy slippers on her feet. "Harry, go get the Map."
"What?"
Granger, bless her, turned to Weasley. "Ron, go get the Map."
When Weasley re-mounted his broom to return to the boys' dormitory, Granger turned to him. "Here," she said, and pulled him close.
He yanked himself away, but Granger only clucked her tongue. "We're talking about this," she whispered, and Draco ignored her, vibrating in place until Weasley returned.
Granger perched on the side of Weasley's broom for fun's sake, Draco supposed at first, but then they stayed on the brooms as they exited the Fat Lady's portrait, and Draco was surprised to find how calming it was, focusing on keeping his balance and steering straight. They didn't go far, though – they arrived at the room where Potter had been holding those little dueling sessions and Weasley dismounted, folding the magical Map and tucking it away.
Ron strode back and forth in front of the doorway once, twice, three times, before opening it.
Inside there was a cozy little sitting room with a fire cheerily blazing in the hearth. There was a very plain square table set at the room's center, and a small couch set behind it, with many blankets and pillows strewn across its back. All was in red-and-gold and very much in the expensive-yet-lived-in style of Gryffindor Tower, which didn't exactly set Draco's mind at ease but did serve as a constant reminder of who he was and to whom he was talking, which managed to be useful in its way.
There were only three places to sit, and Weasley and Granger immediately claimed the corners, leaving Draco no choice but to sit in the middle. Instead, he sat on the table, facing them –
That was, until Granger yanked him forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Weasley did the same on the other side, and Draco shoved them both away without checking in with the Potter palimpsest at all.
"Well, I just – I was worried about you both, but I see you're all right, and so –"
"Nice try," said Granger, and tugged him right back down, aggressive little Mudblood that she was.
Weasley on his other side was squishing him and he could hardly breathe, and –
Comfort. Home. Family, the Potter palimpsest whispered, relieved.
Shut up, Draco hissed internally, but it was too late. Relief was seeping into his skin, his muscles, down to the bone. Granger and Weasley were intact; they were all right. Never in his life had he felt so reassured, so settled in his own skin.
All right, so he needed them – for now. He still hated them, hated everything they stood for. Hated every molecule in their bodies.
But just now – their bodies, pressed to either side of him – were calming and marvelous and.
Oh, no. Here came the waterworks.
Draco pulled hastily away. "So, Hermione, you've probably read Hogwarts: a history," he babbled.
Weasley chuckled at his left. "Probably?"
"What are the wards like around Hogwarts?"
"Oh, Harry," said Hermione. "That must've been some nightmare."
"Just…!" Draco took a breath. "Answer the question."
"Well, the wards are designed to keep out anyone with evil intent."
"Towards what?"
Granger looked puzzled in the low light.
"I mean," Draco said, knowing he was treading on thin ice. "Malfoy would probably enjoy murdering me in my sleep, but he walks through the doors each year."
Granger's features fell into chiding lines, her lip quirking up on one side as she raised her brows. "I hardly think Malfoy's actually out to kill you, Harry."
"I," said Draco. "What?"
"Seriously, Hermione, what?" Weasley echoed.
"Because you two have exchanged words, even a punch-up, that's not the same as wanting you dead," Granger protested. "Malfoy is many things, but he isn't a murderer."
Draco, against all expectations, felt a bit touched. That was, until Weasley began to laugh.
"Pull the other one, Hermione."
"Oh? Who has Malfoy murdered?"
"What, like we have to wait for him to have a go?"
"Uh, can we talk about something else?" Draco whispered desperately. "Fine, not that Malfoy – the other one. The wards let Lucius Malfoy through. Unless you're claiming he also wants me healthy and well."
Weasley looked worried and Granger puzzled.
"Well," Hermione offered. "He's on the Board? Maybe that makes a difference?"
"You aren't serious," said Weasley.
"I do know that there's something to alert the Headmaster if anyone with the Dark Mark crosses the wards onto school grounds," Granger said, pensively.
"But since Lucius Malfoy got off last time by saying he was under Imperius, everyone knows he has a Dark Mark," Weasley contributed. "So the wards might… ring, or whatever it is that they do… but Dumbledore would be expecting them to alert him, and he'd turn them off."
"And animals can get through?" Draco said. "You wouldn't want the wards going off every time a bird pecked at a window."
"It's clear they don't distinguish Animagi from animals, given Sirius."
"Given serious what?" said Draco.
"Given he walked straight into Gryffindor Tower, mate," Ron supplied. "Honestly, are you all right?"
"Not sure," Draco said, which felt perfectly true. "So the wards do nothing for intent towards individual students – it might be different if it were an attempt to take over the school; nothing to prevent Animagi, one of whom we know is a Death Eater, from entering; nothing to stop someone who belongs at Hogwarts from knocking someone out and carrying them off of school grounds…?"
Granger had gone white. "There has to be something…" Her face brightened. "The Secrecy Sensors! They searched us when we came through this year, they would've found any sinister object…"
"A sinister object like a wand?" Weasley scoffed. "That's all anyone needs. Do I have to remind you that a literal Death Eater using Polyjuice worked here all last year? He didn't need a special, sinister object to stir up trouble then, did he?"
"So my question is: why aren't we all dead yet?" Draco pressed, ashamed when his voice wobbled a bit at the end.
Granger frowned, tapping her fingers on her knee. "Okay, so I think we should consider leaving," she said at length. She looked up. "If you're right, Harry, and Hogwarts isn't as well protected as we've been led to believe, there's no reason to stay here."
"But," said Weasley. "Classes?" He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "I can't believe I'm mentioning classes…"
"They won't be much use if we're dead," Granger said grimly. "Harry?"
It went against everything Voldemort had been trying to work towards, but checking in with the Potter palimpsest told Draco that Potter would want everyone safe, first of all. "We should focus on putting up our own, personal wards, wards that will protect against anyone who means us harm. Let's aim to put them around the girls' and boys' dormitories. People who would want to hurt us are likely to attack at night when everyone's asleep."
And it was a little heady how quickly they agreed, Weasley's features going tactician-mobile as he considered before nodding, Granger swiftly agreeing to research wards and ward-making tomorrow morning.
The rush of warmth was all Potter, but it was far from unpleasant.
"It's okay," Granger said, looking warmly into Potter's features and placing her small palm over his own. "We're all going to be okay," she repeated, and Weasley brought his hand over hers and Harry's, to cover and squeeze all three.
But one of you was already killed, Draco thought. And you didn't even notice.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who left reviews and followed so far - here's a fresh new chapter for your troubles!
