Chapter 6: The Den of Thieves
Darkness had befallen him, and yet the world expected him to remain as glorified as he had been in the day; and it made him weary, and weakened, and for a time he was sapped of his strength. Alas, he thought - in the dark, one can never see where danger might be coming; one may never know whether they may be torn in pieces, and carried off or swallowed up! He felt a spell had been cast upon him, that he would be so unprepared and shamed in his lack of fortitude; he had been bold as a thunderbolt in the daylight where there was nothing to fear, and yet reduced to shaking hands whenever darkness encroached on his sight.
But just as he had learned that the day does not last forever, he came to find that neither, then, does the night; for all eyes, if wisdom wills them, can adjust over time to the dark. Only one thing carried any hope for him, enfeebled as he was: the resolve to force his way through the dark in earnest, once he knew something of what it was made of. To encounter it head on - to know danger, but not defeat - would be to triumph over darkness, and to meet his fate - fearless and cool, his destiny held tight in his fist - would be to redraw the stars by which he lived.
He resolved to know the darkness, just as he resolved to know the night girl as his guide; for in the absence of his will, she had been his refuge; and when he spoke of darkness, her eyes glimmered to bring him light.
2001
Draco walked into the room slowly, knowing there was something off from the moment he entered. There was something inexplicably wrong about the energy of the house.
"Theo," he said quietly, looking for him. "Theo, you said - "
"I'm here."
His voice had an intangible fragility to it, an impending crack.
"Theo."
Draco saw him rise then, saw him with his hand curled around his mouth; Theo Nott with his slender frame and his laughing eyes, half broken and pale. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Draco - "
The sound was wretched; strained.
Draco's breath hitched and he paused mid-step. "What happened."
"Draco, I - "
At Draco's hand on his shoulder Theo's face crumpled, his shoulders bowing forward as he shook with soundless sobs. No tears; just gasps, like his lungs were failing.
"He - he was - "
"Where is he?" Draco asked sharply, forcing a dry swallow as he looked around the darkened room. What has he done to you now? "Did he leave?"
Theo lowered his hands from his face, his posture suddenly limp. "No," he whispered, and Draco's stomach lurched expectantly.
No other sound in the house. No one else in the house -
"Theo, what happened?"
"I only meant to stun him," Theo whispered, his eyes wild, his voice hoarse. "He - it was the same as usual, he was going to - "
A lifetime of fear, of hidden scars and open violence, revealed itself in a whimper. "And then - I - "
Draco shut his eyes; squeezed them shut. Wondered if he could freeze time just to prevent Theo from saying it.
"Self defense," Draco managed after a moment, choking a little on the words. "You don't have to say more, we'll just - whatever you did - it was self defense - "
"I only meant to stun him but the words came out wrong," Theo said haltingly, and his face twisted helplessly, the traces of mischief carved out and replaced with pain. Devastation, Draco thought. This is what it looks like. "I was - I was just so - fucking sick of it, of everything - and then - "
"What words?" Draco asked, but he knew. How many times had he thought he might have to use them himself?
Draco could tell by the look of pain on Theo's face that his grasp on his best friend's shoulder had tightened, but the strength of Draco's grip would be the least of Theo's concerns; Draco's mind whirred through the dearth of options, meeting blockage after blockage as he tried desperately to configure a solution.
There wouldn't be a trial; the Dark Lord cared little for the value of human life but he did care greatly about order. About authority. He cared about his own power, his control over his troops; patricide by one of his own - without his permission - would not sit well with him.
Where could they go? Draco's head spun. No more Narcissa. No sympathy in Lucius.
"Let me see him," Draco said finally.
Theo lurched forward, swaying briefly, then led Draco to his father's study. The belly of the beast, as Draco had always considered it.
Draco took one look at the glassy-eyed body on the floor and turned away, his chest churning with dread.
"Give me your wand," Draco ordered, clearing his throat as the command came out a whisper. "Give it to me."
Theo obeyed. This was their dynamic; when panic struck, Draco took charge.
He took Theo's wand in hand and time stopped for a moment before he snapped it in half, feeling the magic in it drain from his fingers.
"You weren't here," Draco informed him. "You had nothing to do with this."
Theo's brow furrowed. "Fuck, Draco - "
But Draco was fidgeting, pacing around the room. "Where does your father keep things?" he asked. "Gold? Heirlooms?"
"Here," Theo managed weakly, gesturing. "In this room."
Draco nodded. "Good," he muttered, beginning to pace the floor. He walked over to the shelves that lined the room, peering at the crevices between them. "Does this open?"
"Yes," Theo said.
Draco turned back to face him, feeling pieces of something mad start to compile in his mind. "You can open them?"
Theo never wavered; when panic struck for them, it never struck for long. "Yes."
"Open it," Draco instructed. "Your vault, or whatever this is. Take out some gold and put it in your father's hand, in his pockets - something."
The atmosphere in the room had changed. They had still been boys when they walked in; not anymore. Theo strode forward, stepping over his father's body, his green eyes suddenly cold.
"Who did it?" he asked, his tone as conversational as if he were asking about the weather. "Who killed my father, Draco?"
Draco's lips formed a thin, grim line. "Who else?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the copy of the Daily Prophet that was laying on Nott Sr's desk.
Sacred Twenty Eight Break-Ins Reported; Pureblood Families Advised to Seek Out Intensive Security Measures
"The Order of the Phoenix," he murmured, and Theo nodded his assent.
2005 (Present)
Draco launched forward in bed, panting.
It seemed nightmares were contagious in this house, he thought, clutching his chest and rubbing at his cold, clammy skin. He was damp with sweat and he tore away what remained of the sheets on the bed, resolving to throw himself in the shower and blink away the memory of what he'd so resolutely - and successfully, too, for so many years - shoved aside.
The threat of legilimency was pervasive. He'd had no choice but to make the memory disappear. Its return was deeply unwelcome.
He stripped off his boxer briefs, kicking them to the side and starting the shower; he didn't wait for the water to warm. It seemed more appropriate to sting.
Her face floated to mind; cruelly, he thought. He'd told her the truth, hadn't he?
I couldn't - there was nothing I could do -
That was the truth, wasn't it?
You don't get to grieve for him -
She was right, but she didn't know; she couldn't have known, could she?
Would she have been able to look him in the eye if she did?
He slicked his hair back with both hands and tilted his face up, suffering the beads of cold water that bore down against his skin.
She wasn't good for him, he thought dully.
He hadn't thought about that night in years; by necessity, he'd pushed it out of his mind long ago. He and Theo never even discussed it, once everything had -
Once everything had fallen apart, they didn't look back. They couldn't. See all that darkness, live through all that horror, and still continue to breathe? It seemed impossible.
He thought of Weasley and choked.
It seemed unjust.
She was bringing everything back. He'd wanted to know where she was, what she'd been doing, what had happened to everyone; he wanted to possess the last remnants of the world they used to live in. He hadn't realized he would have to relive his own torment first.
He shut the water off, shivering.
He hadn't had a choice. There was nothing he could do. Nott Sr had always been abusive; he was worse when he became partial employer in addition to horrifically substandard father. Didn't matter whether Theo was ten years old or twenty; Draco had always secretly wondered whether one day Theodore the elder might wind up dead. Every time Draco stepped into Nott Manor late at night, the result of a hastily scrawled owl from Theo, he wondered if he would step on a body. Sometimes, seeing the welts and the bruises on the only brother he had - hearing the retching and the rage - Draco wondered if it would even be at his own hand.
But it was fitting, in the end, that Theo had held the wand that did it. Draco was a coward, after all. Hatred doesn't make a brave man; only an angry one.
Theo would have been killed for it. Draco knew it. They both knew it; that was the way of the world now. An eye for an eye. A Nott for a Nott.
There was nothing I could do.
He hadn't lied to her.
Her.
There were moments when she looked at him and he didn't see either version of her; he couldn't see the swotty teenager or the traumatized captive. Instead there was a coldness, a vacancy where her warmth had been, where her insecurity had been; the flush in her cheeks when he mocked her seemed so many lives away. Her fingers had embedded themselves in his hips, bearing down on him, and he had thought in a moment of breathlessness: this is a woman. Not a girl.
This is a woman, and someone made her cold.
He thought the girl he'd known had come back to haunt him; he was wrong. He'd buried his face in her hair - sorrow - held her shaking shoulders while she sobbed - grief - and all the while suffered a warning pain in his chest, a pang that echoed through the depths of him.
She wasn't there to haunt him. But if he let her, she could very well destroy him.
"He didn't take it well."
Hermione looked up from where she sat at the edge of their camp. "Hi," she said, feeling a smile of relief stretch pleasantly across her face. "You're back."
"I am," Harry asserted, grinning at her as he threw himself down beside her, leaning back onto his elbows. "I don't like to leave you alone for too long."
"Oh yeah?" she asked, chewing her lip. She shifted over, letting her pinky graze his as she mirrored his languid pose.
"Of course." He tossed her an impish look of skepticism, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "I'm keeping you alive, after all."
"You were keeping me alive," she corrected, thinking of the many times her eyes would drift shut, when she thought she might succumb to an altogether perilous sleep. "Not sure it's as effective now."
He gave her a very roguish smirk. "Should I leave, then?"
She sighed, picking up a pebble and tossing it aimlessly. The prospect of him leaving was unpleasant. "No."
"I thought as much," Harry said smugly. He looked around, moving to lean against her shoulder. "Why here?"
"I liked it here," Hermione said wistfully, looking up. She could see the familiar placement of tents in a circle, all of them together. All of them safe. "The campsite with everyone. It was better than being on the run."
"It was only a different version of being on the run," Harry corrected her, and she sighed again.
"At least we were together," she reminded him.
Harry nodded. "That we were." He tilted his head, humming in thought. "Though I have to say, this was a confusing time for me."
"After we got Luna, you mean?" she asked, though she knew; he gave her a look, and she ducked her head, hiding her devilish smile.
"I really thought things were going to work with Ginny," Harry reminded her. "And maybe they would have, if she hadn't been forced to go back to Hogwarts."
Pureblood daughter of blood traitors; Ginevra Weasley had had the worst of both worlds. Among the privileged, but eyed with marked suspicion; a year of absence, and still too closely watched after that.
"Timing's a bitch," Hermione pronounced grimly, and Harry looked alarmed for a moment, but then laughed.
"Are you - "
" - quoting Ginny?" Hermione supplied. "Yes I am. But," she added, remembering the softening in Ginny's eyes when she'd seen them, "I think eventually she understood." She gave Harry a long, searching glance. "It was impossible to be around you and Luna and not understand. Even for Ginny."
"It's funny," Harry commented, his eyes drifting to where Luna had slept. Better under the stars, don't you think? "They could not have been more different, but loving them felt the same." He looked thoughtful; nostalgic. Hermione envied him. "Like I had no choice in the matter."
She shoved her misgivings aside; not everything was about her.
"I imagine one does not have much of a choice when falling for Luna," Hermione said, though she couldn't help making a face. "She grew on me, but - " she shrugged, letting the sentence trail off unfinished.
"You never were one for whimsy," Harry remarked, nudging her fondly with his shoulder.
"I like things to make sense," Hermione reminded him, vaguely aware that she had raised her chin somewhat haughtily in the assertion. "And it took me about a hundred years to sift through what she actually believed versus what was just a clever way of softening the blow of" - she waved her hand around, gesturing evasively - "you know. Whatever hard truth she was delivering."
"Calling her clever?" Harry prompted, and for a moment she vigorously wished to wipe the satisfied look from his face. Forcefully, if necessary. "A compliment of the highest degree, coming from you."
She didn't. Let him have his satisfaction.
"I know," Hermione permitted, grimacing. "But you really did make her much more tolerable. And anyway, I missed her while we were on the run," she added, softening at the thought. "She was sort of . . . comforting."
"She was," Harry agreed. "And calming."
Hermione laughed aloud at that; a barking laugh, that shook her shoulders and startled Harry. "Calming?" she sniffed, tossing in a delicate snort of disagreement. "Hardly. When things started with you - "
"She slapped me," Harry remembered, grinning. "I was angry, and about to do something stupid, and then - "
"She walked right up to you and slapped you."
Harry's smile melted to a detestable, syrupy look of affection. "Yes," he said, nodding. "And then I kissed her."
"And then you kissed her," Hermione agreed, smirking, "and I groaned out loud."
"Quite loud," Harry said, shaking his head. "Offensively loud, some might say."
"Hardly," Hermione sniffed again. "And I adjusted quickly."
"True," Harry said graciously, "though, in fairness to me, I should remind you that you really can't help who you love."
He looked over at her; she pointedly looked away.
"Isn't that how it was with Bill?" Harry asked. It was the inevitable question that she'd been hoping so fervently to avoid.
She leaned forward, pulling her knees to her chest. "It wasn't love with Bill."
Not for him, anyway.
There was a shuffle behind her, a change in the air, and then suddenly she was enveloped by a pair of strong arms, the familiar woodsy, smoky scent wafting around her nose as she took a breath, stiffening against his chest. They were arms she recognized.
Arms she dreaded.
"No," she whispered, though she knew that wouldn't work. It never did. It might have, maybe, if she'd ever managed to say it with any conviction, but she'd never really meant it.
"You don't want me?"
His voice was cool and steady in her ear.
"You never wanted me," she reminded him, and she gasped as he came to his feet, yanking her up with him, spinning her around to face him.
The jut of his cheekbones, the deep slashes of scars across his face; the haunted vacancy in his eyes that would flicker momentarily when they met hers. Still there.
"You know that's not true," Bill said.
She heard herself sob, saw herself in torment. He was supposed to be safe, she raged. You were supposed to keep him safe - you made his life a publicity stunt -
And where were you?
His voice, angry and distant. He was always angry without Fleur; though, in truth, that had been half the appeal.
Where were you, Hermione?
Don't turn this around on me, she spat. She was grieving; they both were. She found his lips in her anger; she met his hips in her grief. I was here, doing the job you gave me, I trusted you, I thought you knew what you were doing -
I lost my brother and my wife, you lost -
She'd wanted to throttle him for that. Don't demean what he was to me!
He was no less furious. How dare you think that I don't suffer?
How dare she? We're all pawns to you -
"You know that's not true," Bill said again, and she looked up at him, at the dark blue of his eyes.
"You wouldn't have chosen me," she reminded him. "I wasn't what you really wanted."
"Yeah, well." He grimaced. "Timing's a bitch."
And so is fate, she thought.
"I don't want to think about you," she informed him primly, straightening and letting her gaze travel elsewhere. "We just fed off our pain. Whatever this was" - she waved at the space between them - "it was toxic."
"You're being cruel," he told her, chucking her chin up to force her to look him in the eye. He was always manhandling her.
Funny you should say that.
"You taught me how," she whispered, her breath ghosting dangerously across his lips.
Something flared up in his eyes again - it was always there, that something; that fury that fed him, that kept him going, that he transferred to her every night - and she shuddered.
"I certainly made you selfish," he said, releasing her chin and scowling.
The scowl wasn't his - the scowl was -
She felt her chest ache as Bill's hardened expression morphed into mischief; his blue eyes melted, warming her even as she felt a chill. His nose was longer, he was lankier; he was juvenile in stature, not so elegantly built, and his skin was pale and freckled and smooth.
"Ron," she murmured.
"You're avoiding me," Ron noted sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
She sighed, licking salt from her lips. "Remind me," she said. "Tell me again how it happened."
She was crying when Draco came in; he stiffened, fighting the inadvisable impulse to reach for her.
"Ehem," he muttered quietly, and she looked up, startled.
"You're crying," he informed her, flicking his wand to set the tray of food down beside the bed.
She gave him a dizzied, blanched look. I know that, you idiot.
He huffed at the implied insult. "I'm just saying that - "
Her sudden motion interrupted him. She struggled out of the duvet and rose up on her knees; in the dim lighting of the room she looked like a ghost floating towards him, and he struggled not to stumble backwards at the sight.
"You're real," she murmured, reaching a hand out. She looked like she was reminding himself. Tells herself stories, I guess. Talks to a hallucination.
He took her hand, imagining he could crush it. Knowing he would not.
"Unfortunately," he sighed, and as she moved to settle herself on the bed, he swayed towards her, compelled by something other than the physical strength she so obviously lacked.
She looked at him for a long time before she spoke.
"Did you ever think this would be us?" she asked.
He knew what she meant; not us the unit - two people together, barely functioning, housed in the same fortress of longing and regret. She meant us, the individuals who made up us, the children they used to be; the forgotten castoffs they were now.
"No," he told her honestly. Somehow I always thought you'd win.
She averted her gaze, eyeing her hands; he settled in, knowing what was coming.
"Once, there was a poor man, who was a man of genuine intent, and blessed indeed by fortune," she said, and he felt himself lean towards her, drifting into the soothing snare of her voice. "He, a man of humble origins, was kissed by luck herself. He stumbled upon a group of thieves, of common, violent criminals, all of whom had a secret: that they kept their treasures hidden in a place no man but they could find."
"The thieves, in their carelessness, entrusted their words to the wind; the poor man learned then of a password which would permit him entry, and when the thieves had gone, he snuck into their cave, discreetly taking only what he could carry." She took a deep breath. "Only what he needed."
She was pained; her ache was creeping into her words.
"But time and triumph made the thief bold, and he began to take more and more, and what first had been need became pride, and the pride became poisonous greed. As his hubris grew, his cunning waned, and then the poor man - now quite rich - was caught," she said, her mouth twitching with disappointment. "But still," she permitted grimly, "some cleverness remained."
"One day, in his visit to the den of thieves, he discovered within the cave a body lying dead, and rather than take it as a warning, he took it instead as a sign; a means by which to further his own wishes," she said, and Draco's blood ran cold, flooding him with a frosty, chilling dread. "For he had learned that these thieves from which he stole were not wise men, nor good, nor virtuous; he hoped to expose them for their crimes, and wished to take their treasures for himself."
Common, violent criminals. Incredible how she contorted their roles.
"He mistook the ill-virtued thieves for fools; he did not predict the fire of their wrath, nor their capacity for vengeance. They set upon him a trap, that they might lure him into their web, with the aim to kill him, and thus, to right all wrongs.
"An eye for an eye," she whispered.
He swallowed. A Nott for a Nott.
No. He'd made sure that didn't happen.
A Weasley for a Nott.
"It was self defense," Ron insisted, but there was something off in the way he hadn't met her eye. "He came at me, and so I - "
"You didn't," she shouted, but nobody would listen.
"He didn't," she yelled at Bill. "I know him, Bill, I know he didn't kill Nott - "
"We're showing people we're still strong," Bill cut in evasively, not even bothering to meet her eyes. "We're lighting a fire under You-Know-Who. We're telling him we're a serious threat."
"We?"
She was breathless with anger; relentless with outrage. "This isn't a team effort, Bill, this is Ron, this is on Ron's head - " she swallowed hard. "Have you heard what they're saying? What they're threatening?"
Bill looked up, his face drawn and tired. "Why would he lie, Hermione?"
"Because you told him to!" she cried desperately. "Because you're - "
He stood up quickly, facing her. Too close to her, and she gasped. He heard it.
"A pity they won't be able to prove it," he muttered, trapping his fingers in her hair.
Draco's face was pale; she reached out, laying her palm against his cheek, her fingers brushing his jaw, smoothing back his hair.
"Tell him I'm sorry," she whispered. "Tell Nott I'm sorry."
Theo looked up as Draco strode into the room.
The same room. It was hard not to think of the feeling in the air all those years ago; the way he'd known something was wrong.
"Draco," Theo said, confused. "What - "
"We have blood on our hands," Draco said simply.
A pause; Theo considered him.
"Ah," Theo murmured, as Draco knew he would. "So she knows?"
Draco said nothing.
"Well." Theo stood, coming to Draco's side. "What do you want to do about it?"
Draco fidgeted with his hands. "We have to find Potter."
Silence. Not a surprise, but not a simple feat, either.
"Has she told you where?" Theo asked, a kinder phrase than how the fuck do you propose we do that, Draco?
"Where it started?" Draco guessed, then grimaced. "Where it ended," he added under his breath.
"Ah," Theo said again. Clever Theo. Observant Theo. Theo, worth ten of his gloriously martyred father. "So - "
"Hogwarts," Draco finished, and Theo nodded.
"We have blood on our hands," Theo repeated softly. The phrase held meaning for him this time.
Draco's turn to nod.
"Time to get clean," Draco sighed.
He was thinking of her palm on his cheek.
In the end, maybe she would absolve him.
He resolved to know the darkness, just as he resolved to know the night girl as his guide; for in the absence of his will, she had been his refuge; and when he spoke of darkness, her eyes glimmered to bring him light.
a/n: Story inspiration from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, one of the tales in Arabian Nights. Dedicated to Gaeleria - is there a baby yet?