Chapter 9
Standing Draco eyed the old wizard with caution.
His mind was reeling from the memory. His father's smile and his mother's soft eyes. His breath caught in his throat.
Dumbledore watched as he collected himself, wand swirling absently, stirring sugar into his tea.
A cup soared in his direction, landing with a clink on the nearest flat surface. Next to it was a plate of tart. The sweet scent made him want to vomit.
Sitting with trembling legs he sipped his far-too-warm tea, burning his tongue, singing down his throat. Moments of silence past until he willed himself to speak.
Thank you, he said to which the old wizard nodded.
You left that memory out for me… didn't you. Draco asked as an afterthought, soothing his burning tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Yes, sighed Dumbledore. Weariness was apparent on the aged wizards face, long lines dug deep into his skin, the colour of which spoke of countless hours huddled in the dark.
It was not my intention to spring it on you, taking a bite of sweet tart; it stained his lips like blood. But if you are to make a choice, I thought it best you be well informed.
Informed of what, Draco bit all too eagerly.
Dumbledore's antics only served to reinforce Draco's pre-existing beliefs of the man. He was completely bonkers.
I love the scent of berries in the springtime. The man spoke gaining a reproachful look from Draco. But I am much more partial to lemons.
You don't say, mused Draco, sensing the citric scent wafting his way as the phoenix flapped its wings abruptly. Thinking old age must be doing something to the man.
You remind me of him, your father.
Draco cringed at the thought.
But you are so much more like your mother.
Headmaster, said Draco trying to keep his voice steady, his patience was waning.
What did it mean? The memory.
Dumbledore gazed absently at the snoring portraits on the wall above Draco's head. With an air of remorse he spoke, refusing to meet his eyes.
Your father came to me for help after the first wizarding war.
As you must have figured out by now, I declined. In the coming months his requests became increasingly desperate.
His icy greys glared. Draco despised the word desperate being used in conjunction with his father. He acknowledged that it Lucius was a difficult man, but he still felt a surge of anger at having him being insulted, to his face no less.
Looking back, I am not sure I acted, as I should have. But I did not trust myself to be in such a position of power. And the war was over. Or so we thought.
With bated breath he met his icy stare.
I was arrogant…presumptuous to think that the remainder of the death eaters could cause no more harm. All was well.
And then he returned.
Voldemort, mouthed Draco silently.
Your father was ready to turn his back to the dark lord. But then you came. And he swore to give his life to save yours. He knew, would he not return to the good graces of the Lord Voldemort, your life or the life of your mother could never be safe.
Draco listened intently, wishing the man could speak more candidly.
You were safer, so to say, in the burrow of the beast than in his line of vision.
The words came hard for him, as though the old man had buried them deep within the chasms of his conscience. Draco saw his hand tremble before setting down the cup. It came to cradle his other, which was folded beneath his lilac robes.
I have not done my best to look after you. I hope you can one day see… one day forgive me for my transgressions. Guilt dripping off of his voice like hot wax.
Hogwarts will always be a place of safety, Draco.
All you have to do is ask.
Dumbledore leaned back, adopting his calm inviting demeanour despite his tense display of remorse.
Draco could not help but hate the man. When he spoke his voice was grittier than he had anticipated.
Why didn't you help them? Why…
Dumbledore had the nerve to look sheepish. What am I even doing, he wondered pushing back any semblance of hope from his mind. This is pointless.
He felt angry tears threatening to spill over. His voice was shaky and weak. Controlling his emotions as best he could, he breathed deeply.
It's too late, he said bitterly.
It's never too late. Your father knew that the night he asked for my help. For all my blindness I didn't see it, I wronged them, and in turn you.
He wanted to run, willing his limbs to move but remained welded to his seat.
But you cannot punish yourself for our mistakes, or blame yours on others.
You have a wonderful gift, Draco Malfoy.
Not many could go through what you have and come out a better person.
He could, his mind whispered to him, memories of the boy wonder flooding his mind. His stupid goofy smile. And that mop of a haircut.
If someone so bastardly righteous could see good in him, maybe it wasn't too late.
Did he dare to hope?
He felt a pang at his heart that affirmed his sentiment.
Maybe he could dare to put his life in the hands of a green-eyed boy.
Whose searing kiss and soft eyes filled him with more emotion than anything he had experience in his pitiful 16 yearlong existence.
This time he did move.
Standing he looked down at his headmaster.
Say… he began. Summoning his bravado he stood tall and spoke with a confidence only contended by Malfoy senior.
Say, I do ask for help.
Dumbledore eyed him expectedly.
What can you do?
Once outside he turned to see the staircase disappear from view, the proud gargoyle now shrouding the entrance.
It was with a heavy trod he made his way down the corridor. He was exhausted in every sense of the word. His body wanted nothing more than to clamber into bed and sleep till morning.
Not yet, he thought with a smirk.
Diving into the next available classroom he waited.
And he did not have to wait long.
