Chapter 6
When Malfoy comes again, it is midmorning, judging by the glimpse of sunlight from the door. He never comes at the same time of day and he never explains why. I do not ask what he does when he is not here. The less I know, the better. Besides, the black mark on his forearm and the ashy-white pallor of his complexion tell me more than enough.
He does not hide the Dark Mark. He avoids looking at it, but he does not hide it. I think it is more a matter of concession or sensory adaptation than of pride or aggression. This Malfoy is different. Draco Malfoy: the grave, hard-working caretaker.
We begin working on potions side-by-side, in nearly total silence, just as we do every day. Mine is a new elixir. His has been brewing for days, and is almost complete. The pumpkin-orange broth simmers over the low flames.
Malfoy curses under his breath and begins rifling through the pages of his potions book. He reads a page again and runs his hands through his hair, still muttering profanity.
I break the silence between us. "What's wrong?"
He glances my way, then back to the book. "I misread the ingredients list. I don't have the last ingredient."
"What is it?" Without waiting for an answer, I lean over and look at the list on the page. A the bottom is written:
A friend's blood, willingly sacrificed. Add one to ten drops, to strengthen. Do not exceed ten drops.
"I was thinking it would be my blood. A friend, as in someone who does not oppose the creation of this potion. But I think now it means the literal sense of the word. Friend, as in one who cares for and enjoys the company of another. I do not think I can count myself as my own friend. My blood will not suffice."
"Can you find a friend who will help you?"
He shakes his head even before I finish speaking. "Even if I had a friend still alive and speaking to me, even if I could explain why I'm making this potion, the blood needs to be added now, before the potion curdles."
"You need a friend who is here right now."
His eyes darted up to meet mine. White and grey, like clouds. "Granger," he hesitated, "I need to ask a huge favor of you."
"You need my blood." A toneless statement of fact.
"Just one drop," he almost pleads. "One drop of blood will make it work."
"Is that what we are, Malfoy? Friends?" I'm curious.
He chooses his words carefully, seriously. "You are the closest thing I have to a friend these days."
I pick up the small knife from tool kit. Memories of the nightmare and my illogical reaction flash in my mind as the blade flashes across my palm.
I hold my fist over the cauldron and the red blood drips into the orange broth.
One
Two
Three
Malfoy looks surprised, but does not dare look away for fear of losing count.
Four
Five
Six
I wonder why I am doing this for him.
I wonder why he has done all this for me.
Seven.
"That's enough," Malfoy reaches out and pulls my hand away from the potion, which is now a dense sapphire-blue.
An eighth drop smears across his palm.
Very gently, he uncurls my fingers and holds my hand flat, palm-up. He takes out his wand and, muttering a spell, closes the cut. I tug my hand away, but his grip is firm. He picks up a clean cloth and rubs away the blood left on my palm and fingers. There is nothing to suggest I ever cut my palm, except for the faint trace of red smeared into the lines of his.
We stare at each other for a moment, uncertain. Then Malfoy releases my hand and turns back to the potion. When he has it cooled, bottled, and labeled, he turns back to me.
I ask him what I have wanted to know since I regained consciousness.
"Why are you helping me?"
Malfoy sits down and rubs his face tiredly. Slouching so that his forearms rested on his knees, he stared at the ground while he spoke.
"The moment Potter died, we ran. My father, my mum, and I. We had been counting on The Great Harry Potter to triumph once again. My father had shown that his interests leaned toward my safety rather than the Dark Lord's will. My mother had betrayed him.
"So we ran. We found a safehouse where no one would be able to find us, and fortified it with every defensive magic at our disposal.
"But none of us meant to live out our lives in hiding. Malfoys do not go unnoticed. We are too bloody proud for that. We needed an escape plan. It was far too late to go crawling back to the Dark Lord, so we needed him and his Death Eaters out of our way."
At this he looks up and meets my eyes.
"We needed someone who could kill You-Know-Who. Potter was dead, but I figured he would have told you and the Weasel how to finish the job. The Weasel is dead, so you were our last chance. You are my last hope."
"You must be desperate, if you would go through all this trouble just to get my help."
He gives me a sharp look, but then turns away again. "You were dying. I couldn't let my last chance for freedom slip away so easily."
I nod. "Well, then I suppose I should be grateful that you needed my help. A life for a life, right? You saved mine, so I'll help save yours."
He gives me a weak smile at that. "A life debt. Now that's something I understand. Purebloods are obsessed with political debts."
"What a horrible way to live. Only focused on who owes who and how much power you all have over each other."
"Well, the way I see it, the Dark Lord holds all the power now."
"So is this just another play to gain more power? Do the Malfoys not already have enough?"
The glare he gives me was one of his worst. "We lost everything, Granger. Everything except each other. All I am trying to do is regain enough power to give ourselves some freedom. Freedom from fear, freedom to live, freedom to stay in our own bloody home."
"Everyone deserves freedom."