Dragon's Bane

Chapter 7: The Face in the Mirror

It was not the crisp morning air that raised the gooseflesh on Draco's arms. It was fear for one's own life and the shock of having escaped certain death. But the wizard had no time for such sentiments. In fact, he was too busy glancing over his shoulder to even notice that he was shivering from the encounter in the woods.

"Are you a seeker or not, Potter? Fly this cheap trash faster already," he snapped, catching sight of a pair of flapping wings frantically beating through the blackened, accursed sky below and behind them, steadily gaining on the broom.

Harry growled at the statement, leaning even further into the broom, his chest pushed onto the wood. Truth be told, he knew that he wouldn't be able to move any faster so close to the tree tops without loosing control. "Shut the hell up already, Malfoy. I don't usually fly with a nagging fairy at the straw."

Draco sneered at the remark, turning back to glare at the mess of black hair, all that he could still see of Harry's head. He snorted, scooting as far as possible to get further away from the other boy. "What? When did you stop letting the Weasel King ride your arse?"

The broom suddenly jerked to the right, throwing Draco in the opposite direction. The Slytherin swallowed his tongue, slipping down the handle, both legs dangling over the edge. He desperately held to the straw, pulling out clumps of hay before clutching the end of the wooden handle.

"You're trying to get me killed!" Draco screeched.

Harry sat up, letting the broom level out so that the other wizard could get his grip, but Draco's eyes only widened in horror at Potter's actions.

"PULL UP!" Draco gaze moved down to see the bat, having caught up with them, now clawing at the sole of his shoe. "Damn it, pull up again!" He kicked at the animal, doing more to loosen his hold on the broom than free himself. "Let go of me, you bloody flying rat!"

"Hold on, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, quickly jerking the handle up, throwing them into an almost vertical, ear-popping climb. The boy-who-lived released one hand, reaching down to grab hold of Draco's wrist just as the Slytherin began to slip further down. "I can't reach my wand. You'll have to apparate us without it. Can you do it? Malfoy!"

Draco cried out as the bat painfully held to his ankle, its wide wing span slapping this legs. The young man glanced down to see the forest growing smaller beneath them, the ground quickly disappearing, along with all thought of the animal. A wave of nausea swept over him; he'd never even played quidditch this high in the air, especially with something trying to pull him down.

"I guess I'll bloody well have to!" he hissed between clenched teeth.

He closed his eyes. Concentrate! Damn it, there's nothing left for me to use! I'm drained. But Potter has. . . . Draco sucked in a deep breath of air, groaning as he felt his body moving in every direction at once, everything zooming past.

He blinked when the broom leveled out again. They were in front of the manor, flying directly toward the third floor balcony. Draco felt a weight lift from his body and his eyes moved down, catching sight of the bat falling from them, obviously dazed from the apparition. How the hell did I bring that filthy thing along? The wizard shook his head, not voicing the question.

"Land already," Draco groaned.

Harry released him a few feet above the terrace. The wizard caught his footing, quickly stepping out of the way so that Potter could land behind him. Brow raised, Draco stared at the open French paned doors, slowly walking through them, lips parted as if he had forgotten what he was about to say.

The room was clean, as straight and tidy and full of lacy femininities as Narcissa Malfoy had always preferred. One might expect that her taste would be as cold and spacious as her public appearance, but they would be wrong. While the rest of the manor was designed in dark, precise style, often preferred by the higher class members of wizarding society, Narcissa's private quarters were somewhat warmer, in creams and pinks that showed a younger woman's touch. Though he would never admit it, as a child Draco had spent many mornings sitting in her room, watching the sun rise and his mother sleep, if she was not spending the evening in his father's bed.

But this small space no longer held such fancies. It had not for a long time, not since he had grown up. Even now it felt odd being alone in her room. However, Draco did not let memories account for his awkwardness. No, the twisting in his gut had more to do with the open trunk that sat at the foot of her bed, half full of folded robes, a matching, scattered layer of clothing and necessities also covering the top of her mattress. She had been packing, preparing to leave.

"That means she's still here," Harry said, breaking the silence. "That's a good thing," he clarified.

Draco turned, almost having forgotten the wizard was still with him. "Sure. . ." But something was not right with this scene. If his mother was going to leave this place, she would have done so when he'd gone after his father. Why would she remain if she'd had the good sense to pack a trunk? Could she be waiting for him?

Draco bit his lip. No. That's not the answer—something's wrong.

"Well, then, find her so we can leave." Potter crossed the room, opening the door into the corridor. He gave it a dark glance before stepping back, to let Draco take the lead, a frown on his face. "Come on, Malfoy. We're not piddling around here all morning."

"Fine," Draco sneered. "I suppose you were secretly hoping that I'd fall off your broom earlier? You didn't seem to be playing the hero then. What would. . . .?"

Dumbledore say? He let it drop, his best line. Draco didn't care about offending people (no secret amongst his schoolmates), but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to say that name.

"Why don't you finish? Cat got your tongue?" Harry slipped one hand into his robe, where his wand waited. "Just say it Malfoy, just like you're always talking about my mum and dad. You can't, can you. You didn't have anything to do with parents. That's the difference. You know as well as anyone that you're responsible for Headmaster Dumbledore's death."

"I didn't," Draco began.

"You didn't say the words, but it's your fault that the opportunity was there. That's the truth, Malfoy. Get use to it. You'll probably spend your whole life feeling sorry about it, or being a bitter little prick about who aimed the wand, but I don't care about your feelings. I don't care. However, if you want to get your mother out of the situation you've managed to put her in, then I suggest we speed things along."

Harry slipped out the door, his footsteps sounding loudly as he walked down the hall.

Draco stared after him, stunned by the other wizard's words. "When the hell did he start talking like that," he whispered before walking out into the corridor after him.

The manor was quiet, but Draco imagined that he should begin looking for his mother at ground level. Harry, apparently, had already had that idea, since he was halfway down the first story of stairs when Draco reached them.

"You might not give a damn, but that still doesn't explain why you almost knocked me off the bloody broom!" Draco called, running down the steps to catch up with the other wizard. "I thought you needed me."

"I don't need you—I never did," Harry grumbled, not bothering to look back. "I said I would get any aid I could from you—whether you volunteered it or not. That's a big difference from actually needing help. And, as for trying to kill you, I didn't. That was an accident."

"You accidentally lost control of your broom?" Draco seethed. "Of all the damned excuses. . . ."

"Actually, another bat dropped out in front of me, and I had to dodge it," Harry snapped.

"Another bat? Dropped out of nowhere?" Draco rolled his eyes, finally reaching Harry's side. "That's the stupidest thing. . ."

"Whatever, Malfoy. I honestly don't care if you believe. . ." His voice broke off as he came to a stop at ground level.

Draco was about to reply to his defense when his gaze followed Harry's into the main foyer. His eyes widened, and he pushed past the other wizard.

"What happened?" he hissed, transfixed.

He stared at the chaotic mess before them, jaw dropped in awe. The front door to the manor was open, but between the two wizards and the exit floated a field of glass, glinting shards of all shapes and sizes bouncing off of one another in slow motions. Upon second glance, the silver of their reflections showed. They were obviously from the twin mirrors that hung on either side of the vestibule. But what had done this? What magic had shattered them and left them clinging to time and space?

"There's something in them," Harry said, taking a step forward. He snatched one large piece from the air, staring down at it. "Look at this."

Draco didn't move to join him, instead grabbing a shard for himself. He looked down at the pool of reflection, not seeing him own face but another's, his mother's. The scene on the mirror pulled away, playing for him something he could not hear, only watch.

In the glass fragment, his mother sat upon the settee in the parlor, a pocket watch held in her hands. She looked up from it, tear-filled eyes studying the door of the room in anticipation. Narcissa wiped her face with a handkerchief, blotting at her alabaster cheeks until they were rosy. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening. Her eyes widened, and she quickly stood, a word leaving her lips.

"Lucius. She said 'Lucius'," Draco said in realization. "But my father wasn't here. . ."

His mother's image ran out of the parlor, but the mirror seemed to follow her, capturing her every movement. Narcissa stepped through her front door, staring out into the night. She turned from side to side, listening. Then she must have heard something, for she ran down the front steps, toward the cliffside from which Draco had appeared earlier in the evening.

"What's she doing?" Harry asked.

"She hears. . ." Draco dropped his answer, captivated once more. He saw what she must have seen, hours ago, a figure on his knees, hunched over, and covered from head to toe in a black, hooded robe. "That's not him, mother. . . Not him. . ."

Draco held his breath, silently commanding his mother's image to return to the manor. But she disobeyed him, stepping forward toward the man, the man she assumed was her husband. She bent down to rest a hand on his shoulder, and he turned.

There was screaming. Draco could almost hear it as his mother saw the face of the man who was now holding her wrist. It was not Lucius Malfoy. It was someone who even Draco had never seen before. But, somehow, he knew that this monster was one of Dracula's. It had to be.

The image in the glass disappeared, leaving only the reflection of a young, blond wizard.

"What happened? What is this, Malfoy?"

Draco shook his head, any semblance of a proper answer flying from his head. "Taken," he whispered. "He took her."

He released the shard into the air, but instead of floating back with the others, it shot back toward his hand, slicing open the skin between his thumb and index and flying back to embed its sharp point into the staircase.

"What the hell!" Draco snapped, clasping his bleeding hand. "What just happened?"

"This isn't good," Harry replied, barely getting out of the way of his own fragment, which ended its revolt by shattering into the wall behind him. "This really isn't good."

At precisely that moment, every floating shard turned in midair, needle-like ends pointed toward the two wizards.

Draco stumbled back. "I agree."

And then, as one, the pieces of glass flew forward.