I know the fic is a little Draco-heavy in recent chapters, but I promise, its still Harry's story, too! More Harry to come!
And PLEASE review. Please, please, please! I almost compulsively check my e-mail to see if there are any reviews. And yes, I just admitted that. So, yeah. Please. If you are reading, review! I live for them.
oooo
Terry Boot had finally shut up about Arithmancy and Draco had taken Boot's advice to relax. Every few minutes, or maybe it was seconds, he would remember that he was what Boot had called "high," and he would start to panic about how he had forgotten that he was high altogether. Then he would try and forget that he was high again, but it was like someone saying not to think about a pink elephant. Inevitably, one thinks about a pink elephant.
The Transitive Property of the Imperius Curse was an interesting thing, indeed. If one could cast the spell on a single insignificant person, then that person could cast the spell on others and all would be under the first person's control.
It sounded like something The Dark Lord would do.
But, maybe Draco could do it, too.
The overwhelming power of the thought was a bit too much to take on at the moment, so Draco scribbled the word "task" onto the palm of his hand (he couldn't be arsed to retrieve his parchment) then basked in the symphony of sights and sounds above him.
"Shit, Draco." Boot sat up, suddenly, and began to stuff crumpled parchment balls into his bag. "We need to go if we're going to make curfew."
Draco grinned lazily. He didn't really care. "Whatever."
Boot frowned. "Well, maybe you don't care if anyone finds you stalking about after hours, but I happen to be on probation, you know?"
Draco sighed and sat up, wishing he could just sleep in the Chapel, but knowing Boot was right. He couldn't get caught walking about after hours, either.
"Wait." Boot smiled and stopped Draco from standing. "Another hit before you go? It'll help you sleep."
Draco doubted he would have any problems sleeping that night. He was unsure if more was a good idea. Could he handle more? Evidently, his mouth thought he could because he heard himself agreeing before he was able to reach an informed decision.
And before he could take back what he said, Boot was handing him the lit cigarette-thing and Draco was inhaling.
Minutes later, Boot and Draco were exiting the Chapel in two different directions. Apparently, Boot knew some shortcut to Ravenclaw Tower through the back staircase of the North Wing.
Draco started back in the direction he had come from when suddenly he was reeling wildly from his high. Shit.
He giggled, because walking seemed like flying and he felt like he had pissed himself, but when he checked, everything felt dry.
And then he realized that he had no idea where he was and no idea how to get back. And he was high. Oh, God. He was so, so high.
He tried to turn around and go back to where the Chapel was, but there was no door when he got there. Or maybe he was in the wrong corridor completely.
Draco stumbled forward, forgetting how to walk. He used the stone walls to brace himself as he thought "Forward. Just keep going forward."
This idea took him to a dead end in a corridor, at which point he promptly changed his mantra and thought, "Backward. Just keep going backward."
As he forged on, mesmerized by the torchlight and the gently waving walls, he began to think about Chocolate Frogs and how they were one of the greatest things ever made.
Merlin, he wanted a Chocolate Frog.
Then he remembered he was lost. Why didn't Boot tell him he was going to get lost?
Draco then realized that he was thirsty. His mouth. Was so dry. Ack.
Merlin, he wanted Chocolate Frogs.
But how was he going to get back to the dungeons?
Ooh, if he could find his way to the kitchens, maybe Dobby would give him Chocolate Frogs.
Or chicken. Real food. Something salty and warm.
And water. God! Why couldn't he swallow? He had a sandpaper mouth. "Kah!" he spat.
Lost, lost! What if Boot was wrong and Draco did have a heart attack? He'd be all alone in this corridor and no one would find him. This time he was certain that his heart really was beating too fast.
He reached up and checked. No. It was beating normally, but why—? "Uf!"
Draco collided with something warm. A person. A person to help! His eyes fell upon a shiny silver badge with the letter P. Underneath that it said "Granger."
Mud-bloody hell.
Granger was going to know he was high! She was going to report him and he'd be expelled. Then he would never finish his task! He had to hide it from her. But it was so obvious. How could anyone not be able to tell?
"Malfoy! What are you doing here? You're not on duty tonight!" Granger stepped back and put her hands on her hips.
"Um," Draco began, trying to hold his eyes open, but they kept squinting up. He blinked stupidly. "I don't . . . know."
Fuck. He couldn't handle this. Draco's heart began to race and he instinctively placed a hand over it to try and quell its incessant beating.
Granger frowned. Her fluffy, brown hair was illuminated by torchlight, resembling a burning bush with an angry face. "You don't know? What kind of an answer is that?"
Wait. Wait. What had he been doing down here? Oh yeah. "Studying!" Draco was so proud that he came up with a good answer that his face split into an unwelcome grin. He pressed his lips together and tried to bite his cheeks but his stupid smile wouldn't go away. Granger could tell. She had to be able to tell. And she was a Muggle, too. She'd know all about Muggle drugs. Damn it.
"With whom?" She narrowed her eyes at his odd behavior.
"Terry Boot!" Draco exclaimed, then giggled. Then snorted. He placed a hand over his mouth to stifle it.
Oh, it was over. It was all over.
"Terry Boot . . ." her voice trailed off and then her suspicious face shifted to outrage. "You're drunk, aren't you?"
Draco, trying not to speak, pressed his lips together and shook his head, fervently, "no." He could feel his eyes, shrunken into little, smiling slits of betrayal.
Granger frowned, then stepped towards him and inhaled deeply. Her outrage changed to complete shock and her mouth dropped open. "Merlin's sakes, Malfoy! You're completely stoned!"
"I'm not!" he protested. He wasn't sure what "stoned," meant, but she had probably hit the nail on the head.
"I can't believe it!" she gasped. She held her lit wand up to his eyes and gasped again. "You are! You're completely stoned! You reek of it. I can't believe I didn't smell it on you before."
Draco couldn't think of anything sensible to say, nor did he have the energy or words to defend himself, so he remained quiet, thinking it was the least incriminating choice.
His knees felt like they were bouncing up and down and he wondered whether or not he was standing still. He was telling himself to stand still, but it felt like someone had thrown him the Jelly-Legs Jinx. Could Granger tell? Was he making a complete fool out of himself? Probably.
"I should tell Professor McGonagall about this!"
Draco's heart raced faster and he shook his head again. "Please, don't."
She crossed her arms and gave him a nasty look. "And why shouldn't I? What have you ever done for me?"
Draco said nothing. Less incriminating that way.
"Well?"
"But—I didn't know what it was!" he protested, weakly. It was kind of a lie, but it was all he had to go by. Screw Terry Boot. Terry Boot abandoned him in the labyrinth of Hogwarts. It was every man for himself. "It's all Boot's fault!"
Granger didn't seem to like that excuse. "Shut it, Malfoy." She stepped closer to Draco and wrinkled her nose. "Fine. I'll keep my mouth shut. But you need to get out of here now and go straight to bed. This conversation never happened."
She stepped back and crossed her arms, waiting expectantly.
"Thank you, Granger. You're too kind," he tried to drawl, but couldn't.
"You owe me, Malfoy."
"I know."
They stared at each other, Granger scowling and Draco failing to fight the goofy grin off of his face.
"Well?" she asked impatiently and threw her arms at her sides.
Shit. Was he supposed to do something? What had they just been talking about? "What?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "What are you waiting for, an invitation? Go to bed, you imbecile!"
Oh right. Bed. "Er—about that, Granger. Uh. See, I don't really know where I am and, well, as a Prefect, I think it's your duty to escort me back to my room."
"Um, hello, Malfoy," she thunked him twice on the head with her wand. 'If I do that, then everyone will see me and this conversation will have happened."
He shook his head and admired the light patterns. Then he frowned. "What are you talking about, Granger?"
She huffed. "You're impossible to speak with like this. Or at all, really."
Draco stared at her.
"Go to bed!" she hissed.
"Granger! I don't know where I am! I need. Um. Help." Draco waved his hands around dramatically to emphasize his point.
"Are you kidding me?" She snorted, disgusted. "You are completely pathetic, Malfoy."
"Granger. Please?"
She twisted her face up as though she were debating her choices. Then she let out all her breath in an exasperated huff. "Fine." She turned and began stomping away. "Come on, then."
Draco tripped after her, struggling to keep up, but the floor was shifting away from his feet, and his feet kept lifting up too high when he took a step and it all felt completely out of control. He briefly wondered if he might vomit, but the feeling quickly passed.
Stupid Terry Boot. Whoever thought he was fit for Ravenclaw was fit for an institution. "Granger, do you think hats can be institutionalized?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't know. What did I just say?"
Her mouth twitched up in a grin. "You asked me if hats could be institutionalized."
Oh yeah. "Right! The Sorting Hat! It's completely mental!"
"Why do you say that?" She seemed to have slowed down her pace because Draco was no longer struggling to keep up.
"Terry Boot," he proclaimed, as though this explained it all.
"What about him?" she asked with a hint of attitude.
"Ravenclaw! Really? The tosser is a complete idiot!"
"Terry Boot is brilliant, Malfoy," she shot back, defensively.
"I know that, Granger. But he's still a complete idiot! Ravenclaw is supposed to be for those with ready minds! And wit! Boot might be a book-worm, but intelligence is more than just getting straight O's."
"Hmmm," she mused, thoughtfully. "And where might you put him if you were the Sorting Hat?"
"First of all, Granger, I'd stick your know-it-all arse in Ravenclaw. Honestly, Gryffindor? Although, you don't know how to keep your mouth shut."
Neither did he, apparently.
"But Boot? He's in a class all his own. Some class with drugs and liquor and Quick Quotes Quills. He'd be a . . . Qui . . quor . . . twat."
Granger fought off a smile but failed. "What?"
Draco snorted as she led him up a staircase. "Boot would be in a fifth house. Quiquortwats. It's everything that represents him. Quick Quotes Quills, liquor and twats! It's perfect."
"That's enough, Malfoy," she said, though she was grinning. "Terry Boot's a nice person."
"Terry Boot got me all . . . high, Granger! I just want it to go away but there's not even an antidote. Four hours, he said. What time is it?"
"A little after ten."
Draco threw back his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "It feels like three in the fucking morning."
She smirked.
"Don't ever do drugs, Granger."
She turned back to him. "I won't. But I have to say, you're much more pleasant like this."
"Pfft!" he waved his hand around, dismissively. "I'm always pleasant. Do you have any Chocolate Frogs on you, Granger?" Draco still wanted Chocolate Frogs. He wondered if Granger would have enough goodness in her Gryffindor heart to take him to the kitchens before she took him to his dorm. "God, I want a Chocolate Frog. Go ask your pal, Potter. I bet he'll have a Chocolate Frog."
She wrinkled up her face. "Why would Harry ever give you a Chocolate Frog?"
"Because I want one?" Draco shrugged. "Anyway. Potter. How's he feeling?"
At this Granger stopped full-force and Draco stumbled into her back. "What?" she asked, incredulously.
"Potter. He's sick. Is he feeling better?" Why was she acting like this? Did Draco say something wrong?
Wait.
Yes. Yes, he did.
"Not that I care or anything," he prattled on, trying to undo the damage.
"How did you know he was sick?"
"Well, he had a fever and—" Nope. Wrong again, Malfoy.
"Malfoy." Granger had an irritating little smile on her face. "Were you the one that Harry brought food to yesterday?"
Yes. No! "Uh . . y-y-no. Wait. Repeat the question."
"It was! It was you!"
"No! Granger—I don't. Repeat the bloody question!"
She turned away from him and laughed. It was a tinkling sound that seemed to resonate against the stone, creating harmony. No, not harmony. Granger's laugh was stupid and Draco needed to stop talking.
And he was going to kill Terry Boot.
"To answer your question, Malfoy, Harry is fine. His fever was back for a while but it broke again around supper time."
"I couldn't care less," he grumbled.
"Still has a rather nasty cough, though."
"I said I don't care, Granger."
"You're right. Why am I telling you this?" She held a door open for him and they emerged somewhere near the back entrance to Hogwarts. "I never thought I'd say this, but, Malfoy, maybe you should get stoned more often."
"Ack! Granger! You've got a rebellious streak in that muddy blood of yours." Draco clung to the door frame, trying to orient himself as Granger glared impatiently.
"And you seem to have a streak of human hidden somewhere in that prejudiced, pure blood of yours. Who'd have imagined?"
"No, Granger. It's the drugs talking. Don't let this rakish smile fool you. I'm thinking terrible thoughts. I just can't get them out."
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Malfoy. Do you think you can find your way from here?"
He nodded.
"Good." She crossed her arms and waited. "Well?"
"What?"
"Go!"
oooo
As Draco stumbled down to his dormitory, his mind was consumed with thoughts about the Imperius Curse. Could it be that easy? Were there repercussions for the caster?
He particularly liked the fact that it caused no direct harm to the victim. It was much easier for the caster to cover his trail. Draco wanted to test it out, just to see. Maybe Crabbe would let him try. Was that something a good friend would do or was that something a terrible friend would ask a good friend to do?
No. He would not cast Imperius on any of his friends. It had to be someone that didn't matter. A stranger. A stranger with access.
Merlin, he wanted a Chocolate Frog.
Draco pivoted on his heel and began heading toward the kitchens when he glimpsed a lovely lady striding down the corridor, coming out of the kitchen herself. It was . . . what was her name?
He couldn't remember, but he'd seen her before.
Hogsmeade. She worked at that pub in Hogsmeade. She must have been delivering something to the kitchens.
The woman smiled politely at Draco as she passed. He nodded to her and then stopped.
Something told him that an opportunity was about to slip away. He didn't know the significance and had no plan from which to draw, but before he could think it through and stop himself, a whispered "Imperio" came out of his mouth.
The woman slowed. Shit. Shit. He'd done it. Oh, God. He'd done it. He was going to be in so much trouble. The woman turned to look at him with a vacant expression on her face, as if waiting to be told what to do.
Had it worked? Had it really worked? How did he control her? Was it through intention or verbal command? Draco couldn't remember. He couldn't think straight. What had he just done?
Draco thought really hard about Chocolate Frogs to see if she might fetch him some.
The woman—Madame Rosmerta, that was her name! –continued to stare at Draco expectantly.
"Um. Get me Chocolate Frogs," he stammered, feeling stupid.
"I'll get you Chocolate Frogs," she stated, without inflection. She walked back toward the kitchen, as if in a trance.
When she had gone, Draco began to pace nervously in the hallway, snapping his fingers like mad. His adrenaline and racing heart had reached new heights. What was he doing? He was completely out of control! If someone had seen him casting an Unforgivable in the hallway of Hogwarts for a midnight snack. . . forget expulsion, he'd be thrown into Azkaban. Over a fucking Chocolate Frog!
Oh God. Why was he being so careless?
This was all Terry Boot's fault!
He stopped snapping when the smear of ink on his hand caught his attention. Task. Right. What had he meant by that?
Imperius Curse. Use the Imperius Curse for the task. But how? Could Madame Rosmerta be the answer to his prayers? Maybe this wasn't such a mistake after all. If he kept her under Imperius, would people be able to tell? Would she remember that Draco cast the curse? No. No she couldn't know that he cast it, she didn't even know who he was.
Though his white-blonde hair always seemed to be a giveaway.
No. This was going to work. Draco had a good feeling about it now. He would keep her under the curse until he could figure out what in Merlin's name he was going to have her do. And then she could cast Imperius on someone else, making it harder to track Draco and that person could carry out Draco's task.
Screw the Room of Requirement. Screw the Vanishing Cabinet that refused to be mended. Rosmerta was going to help him get that cursed necklace to Dumbledore. Somehow.
Madame Rosmerta returned with an overflowing, tin bucket full of Chocolate Frogs. Draco took it and set it on the floor beside him as he began to fumble around in his cloak pockets and then in his bag.
Rosmerta turned to leave.
"Wait!" Draco stopped her and she turned back to face him. He pulled the necklace case out of his school bag and handed it to her. "Be careful with it. It's cursed. Just-keep it safe and wait until you hear from me."
She nodded vacantly and placed the necklace in her own cloak pocket.
"And," he dug in his other pocket and fished out two galleons. He quickly charmed them so that they would communicate with each other. He handed one to her. "Keep this with you at all times and wait for my instructions."
She nodded again.
Feeling better than he had in weeks, Draco thanked Rosmerta for the bucket of Chocolate Frogs. She turned to leave and he awkwardly told her to "take care."
Then, relieved and high and brilliant, Draco floated back to his dorm, collapsed on his bed and gorged himself on sweets.
oooo
"Weasley's Weather Watcher! All your forecast needs for the low, low price of five sickles. Only five sickles, ladies and gentlemen!" Seamus' voice projected from his wand across the Great Hall as students lined up in front of the Gryffindor breakfast table to receive their personal forecasts. Each forecast was charmed so that students could not share the information with anyone else and business, for Ron, Dean and Seamus, was booming.
Sort of.
A shadow stretched over their end of the Gryffindor table.
"Mr. Weasley," a familiar voice drawled. The three boys stopped cold and glanced up into the greasy, hook-nosed face of Professor Snape. "What exactly do you think you are doing?"
Snape loomed threateningly over the tented paper sign onto which Ron had scribbled "Weasley's Weather Watcher . . . 5 sickles!" An assortment of poorly-drawn, asterisk-snowflakes blew wildly over the words.
"Er. Forecasting the weather? Um, sir?"
For the last several weeks, Ron, Dean and Seamus had been charging students for weather forecasts. Ever since Ron predicted the snowstorm, students had been lining up for daily predictions. Ron was very careful about how he cast the charm, so that no one else could figure out his technique, and he loved the shining moment of popularity that each morning provided.
Dean was the one who came up with the idea of charging money for the forecasts. The boys had then roped in Hermione, who grudgingly showed them how to cast the spell so that the results could not be shared under the threat of blistering acne.
Eloise Midgen might have shared, but no one could tell for sure.
With the constant blizzards, weather forecasts had become very important to the students at Hogwarts, especially with the approach of a Hogsmeade weekend.
When the boys had started their business, it had been by word-of-mouth. Forecasts took place in the Gryffindor Common Room and between classes. But business had expanded and Weasley's Weather Watcher now serviced all four houses and the house-elves, too!
Or so said their flyers.
Snape peered down at Ron over his hook-nose with a disgusted look on his face. "In your haste to earn a galleon, Mr. Weasley, you seem to have forgotten Hogwarts Ordinance number twenty-two. 'No profitable business will operate on Hogwarts grounds without proper licensure from the Ministry.'"
Seamus grinned smugly at Snape and procured a rolled-up piece of parchment from his school bag. "A license like this one, Professor?" he asked.
Snape, looking like he had bit and swallowed a lemon, snatched the parchment from Seamus and unrolled it.
It paid to have a father in the Ministry and brothers in the business of forgery.
Excellent forgery.
Fred and George had never been so useful.
"Well?" Ron asked, trying to hide his smile.
Snape scowled and buried the license deep into his black robe pockets. "I find it hard to believe that the Ministry of Magic would grant you a license to charge money for a poorly-cast Weather Charm."
"You'd be surprised what people will pay money for, Professor," Dean offered. "Muggles buy bottled water and even flavored air. You really can market anything if the supply meets the demand and the cost it—"
"Thank you, Mr. Thomas," Snape interrupted. Dean closed his mouth and took a step back. "If I need another lesson on Muggle business practices, I'll know who to find. As it is, I don't care." Snape snatched up the Weasley's Weather Watcher sign and ripped it in half.
"Hey!" Ron protested.
"I'll be looking into this supposed Ministry-approved license, gentlemen, and it had better be legitimate or you'll be serving more than detention. I daresay forgery could land a person in Azkaban."
Seamus gulped. Dean widened his eyes and Ron stared despondently at the ripped sign in Snape's fingers.
Snape dropped the torn pieces of the sign onto the table. "Good day." He strode away slowly with his usual sneer set firmly in place.
The three boys dropped into their seats.
"Azkaban!" Dean choked. "I can't go to Azkaban!"
"Oy. Me mam's going to murder me." Seamus rubbed his temples.
Ron held the two pieces of his sign together like a puzzle. "He's full of it. We're not going to Azkaban and we're not going to get in trouble. Fred and George are the best at what they do. We won't get caught and it's not a big deal. Snape's just being a git and trying to scare us."
"Well, it's working," Dean muttered.
"I'm glad I didn't get involved." Harry's voice was muffled behind the Daily Prophet. "The last thing I need is more Ministry trouble. Look at this." Harry flattened the newspaper over the table and pointed to an article with a picture of Dumbledore and Harry leaving the Ministry of Magic after the battle at the Department of Mysteries the previous year.
Boy Who Lived and Hogwarts Headmaster Charged with Destruction of Ministry Property.
As reconstruction of the ornate lobby of the Ministry of Magic comes to a close, the question has been raised, "Who will foot the bill?"
While much speculation has occurred over the events of last May, officials are certain of several things. Harry Potter, 16, entered the Ministry without permission, bypassing Ministry security and participating in multiple illegal wizard duels on the grounds.
He was accompanied by several others, including Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. It is believed that Dumbledore's presence at the Ministry that evening was for the purpose of returning the escaped students back to Hogwarts, however, multiple damages were directly caused by the aging headmaster, as revealed by high security surveillance spells.
Though it is believed that Potter and Dumbledore's reactions to You-Know-Who were in self-defense, it remains that Ministry property was destroyed as a result.
It is no secret that the Ministry of Magic has experienced a slew of financial troubles in recent years. "We simply don't have the backing," Ministry representative, Percival Weatherby told The Prophet. "The money must come from somewhere, and the guilty parties should be held responsible."
Melvolin Grudgewick, Gringott's financial analyst, estimated the cost of damage to the Ministry at 1.2 million galleons.
For a full list of damages and charges, see page 4.
Ron pounded a fist on the table. "That's bollocks, Harry! Utter bollocks!"
"If they want to blame someone, they should blame the bloody Death Eaters!" Neville, who had walked by while they were reading, glared angrily over Ron's shoulder at the article.
"Why bother when they've got a scapegoat with a vault full of galleons?" Seamus seethed, then appeared uncomfortable at having mentioned Harry's money. "Sorry, Harry."
Harry shrugged. He was used to this. It was always something. One piece of bad news after the next. He hardly cared anymore, but it was still a rotten way to start the day.
"I'd rather just pay them off straight away so I don't have to read anymore rubbish like this. I should just owl a check or something." He stared glumly into his oatmeal, which was too watery for his tastes, then sighed in defeat and took a bite.
"No Harry!" Hermione protested. "That's just what they want you to do. It isn't right. You aren't responsible for that. You were saving them—saving us all! If this is the way the Ministry treats the people who help them then, then!" Hermione roughly pushed her empty bowl away from her.
It didn't matter if it was right or wrong. Of course the Ministry would try to use him for his money and tarnish his tenuous reputation on top of it. It didn't matter. He would pay the money if it meant that he would be left alone, although Hermione did have a point. It was the principle of the matter.
"They'll just do it again and again, Harry! You have to stand up for yourself."
"When? When, Hermione? When do I have the time to deal with all of this? For all I know, I'll get down there to plead my case and they'll shove a list of crimes at me, starting with underaged magic, which, to be honest, I'm surprised we haven't all got letters for in the first place."
Ron patted him on the shoulder. "Dad'll figure something out. Don't worry, Harry."
Just then, a flock of owls flew through The Great Hall, all headed toward the Gryffindor Table.
All except one. Through the flurry of beating wings and the hailstorm of feathers and letters, Harry glimpsed Malfoy's unmistakable eagle owl soaring gracefully to the Slytherin table with a curious-looking black envelope.
The Slytherin took the envelope and inspected it closely. He ran his wand over it several times, likely to check for curses, then carefully tore it open.
"Oy! It's a Howler, Harry!" Ron yelled, snapping Harry back to the growing pile of envelopes in front of him. Ron snatched up the angry, red envelope and began running from the table. "I'll take this one for you!" he called over his shoulder, and jogged into the hallway to open the Howler.
Ron was a good friend. Harry would remember to take a Howler for Ron in the future. And judging by what had just happened with Snape, a Howler for Ron was probably not far off.
Despite Ron's distance, the words could still be heard.
HARRY POTTER! AS THE GRANDDAUGHTER OF THE DESIGNER OF THE MINISTRY LOBBY I FIND IT DISGRACEFUL THAT SOMEONE SUCH AS YOURSELF WOULD REFUSE TO PAY FOR DESTROYED PROPERTY. THE STATUE IN THE LOBBY WAS MORE THAN JUST PROPERTY. TO AN ARTIST, IT WAS AN IRREPLACEABLE MASTERPIECE DESIGNED BY MY GRANDFATHER, THE LATE DEWITT MCCLINTON OF DEVONSHIRE! YOUR ACTIONS ARE SHAMEFUL. HOW ANYONE CAN CALL A DEVIOUS DELINQUENT SUCH AS YOURSELF A HERO, JUST PROVES WHAT A STATE OUR WIZARDING WORLD HAD FALLEN INTO. YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE WIZARDING WORLD, HARRY POTTER!
Harry buried his flaming face into his hands as Seamus burnt each remaining letter in flared succession. He grinned over the growing pile of ashes. "You're taking far too much pleasure in that, Seamus," Harry muttered through his fingers.
When he finally pulled his hands off of his face, he noticed that Draco Malfoy and his black envelope had left the Great Hall.
oooo
"—DEVIOUS DELINQUENT SUCH AS YOURSELF A HERO, JUST PROVES—"
"Out of my way, Weasel." Draco shoved Ron Weasley against the wall of the hallway. The Weasel had, yet again, received a Howler from his classless, fat mother.
Weasley's retort could hardly be heard over the screaming voice of the Howler. Draco sneered to himself. Weasley was such a gormless git.
The black envelope in Draco's hand seemed to burn with unspoken implications. The note inside was short and lacked detail but spoke worlds. "Go now." The unsigned letter accompanied two small, metal, Muggle coins, that Draco had the good sense not to touch in the Great Hall. They were Portkeys, clearly, but to where?
One was obviously a return Portkey to Hogwarts, but the other . . .
Draco needed to find Snape, but he needed a moment to compose himself first.
He raced down to the dungeons for privacy, not daring to think about the identity of the anonymous sender.
If he didn't think about it, then perhaps it wasn't really happening. Not now. Not on this average Thursday morning. No. It was not.
Draco banged into the Slytherin Common Room, not surprised to find it empty. All of the students were at breakfast, of course, eating oatmeal and drinking tea and getting ready to start an average, boring day.
Draco, on the other hand, had a meeting.
He quickly stepped into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. "Calm down, you're fine, calm down, it's—," he shook the water from his hands and sniffed, "fine." Draco looked up at himself in the mirror. "It's fine," he repeated and reached up to straighten the hairs that covered his scar.
There was no more stalling. He had to go. Now. Like the note said.
Clenching his teeth together, Draco snatched up the black envelope and went to find Snape.
oooo
Harry absentmindedly brushed the ashes of his burnt letters into the palm of his hand and then deposited them into his empty oatmeal bowl. It occurred to him that one of the burnt letters could have held a court summons of sorts, but avoidance seemed like as good a coping method as any.
If the Ministry really wanted his money, they'd find him. In the meantime, Professor Dumbledore had wanted to meet with him that evening to discuss something non-Ministry related. Or, at least, Harry hoped.
"Oi, that Malfoy's a git!" Ron grumbled as he returned to the Great Hall. He threw the empty, red envelope down onto the table and Seamus promptly burned the remains.
"Why?" Harry asked, remembering the letter Malfoy had just run off with.
"Just is. Nearly knocked me over in the hallway. Rude little wanker."
Harry hummed noncommittally. He hadn't gotten a good look at Malfoy's face, but something told him, as usual, that Malfoy was up to trouble. Or maybe just in trouble. . . Harry wanted to say this to Ron, but was in no mood to be called a suspicious, obsessive stalker that morning, so he said nothing. Harry would investigate on his own, like he had grown accustomed to. Besides that, Ron obviously had more important things to do.
"Well, up you get, Harry." Ron clapped his hands. "Dean, Seamus, let's go. The business of weather never rests. We can make a few sales before Herbology."
Harry said nothing. He thought Weasley's Weather Watcher was possibly the worst idea for a business, but Ron remained dedicated and undeterred. Discouraging Ron would only make Harry feel like a bad friend. Plus, Ron loved having people line up to chat with him and give him galleons. If Harry got involved in the business, he would just steal Ron's thunder . . .
It was nice that Ron had his own thing to do, Harry admitted, even if it was the biggest rip-off in the Wizarding World.
Harry grabbed his bag from the back of his chair and followed the boys out of the Great Hall when he saw the flash of a billowing cloak and long, greasy black hair at the end of the hallway striding briskly toward the dungeons.
"Er-I just realized I left something," said Harry. "Don't wait up for me. I'll meet you at class."
"Sure thing, Harry!" Ron waved. Harry turned from his friends and quickly followed Snape's path.
Harry could hear Seamus' voice fading as he jogged to catch up with Snape.
"Weasley's Weather Watcher! Only five sickles! Five sickles ladies and gents for your personal, daily forecast!"
oooo
Harry was back in the hallway with the knights when he heard the hiss of angry, lowered voices. He crept carefully toward them. Draco Malfoy's unmistakable drawl could be heard, whispering furiously to what must have been Professor Snape.
Harry ducked into the nearest alcove and wedged himself into a space behind a suit of armor to listen.
"I don't know why," Malfoy's voice hissed. "Iit just said to go now! You have to get me out of Hogwarts so I can Portkey."
"Draco, be reasonable. The letter is unsigned. It could be a trick." Snape sounded angry, but his voice held a hint of panic.
"It's not a trick," Malfoy cried. Harry could hear a fist pound against the stone wall. "And if it is a trick, I can handle it!"
"You're just a child, Draco—"
"And you're just jealous! Jealous that he doesn't want to see you."
Snape let out an exasperated sigh. "Draco . . ."
"No! Don't. If you don't take me off the grounds now, then I'll simply let him know that you refused to follow orders."
"You don't give me orders, insolent brat!"
Malfoy laughed without mirth. "No. Of course not, Professor. But unless you want to be on the wrong side of his wand, I suggest you take me out of Hogwarts, immediately."
Snape sighed. "And say what? You're off for a day trip at the spa?"
Malfoy let out a frustrated growl. "Make something up! I don't know . . . say its a family emergency!"
Snape exhaled slowly in resignation. "You're right. Fine. I'll think of something. Though family emergency might not be far from the truth."
"Don't say that," Malfoy muttered, quietly.
A moment of silence passed before Harry heard Snape's voice again.
"Come, Draco. Follow me—quickly. And for Merlin's sake, keep your head down."
Approaching footsteps alerted Harry to their growing proximity. He pressed himself further against the stone, willing his breath to be silent, as Snape and Malfoy took off quickly down the corridor.
oooo
Draco stumbled gracelessly onto all fours over what appeared to be a dirt floor. He moved to brush his trousers off and stand when a silky, black hem glided into his field of vision and he found himself unable to move.
"No need to stand, young Malfoy." It was him. It was him. "You're quite fine where you are, on your hands and knees."
Draco suddenly wished he had finished his glass of water at breakfast because his dry mouth seemed unwilling to cooperate. "Yes, my Lord," he choked out, training his eyes on the dropped envelope in the crumbling dirt before him.
"I am displeased, young Draco."
Oh no.
No, no, no, no.
"My Lord?" Draco's eyes darted to the side as he tried to take in more of his surroundings. He and the Dark Lord were not alone. There were others in this room, for he could see shadows of shuffling feet to his right. The thought was not altogether comforting.
The room seemed to be an unfinished cellar of sorts. The entire floor was made of dirt, but rays of cool, natural light crept in from somewhere high above. It was not enough light to see much more than shadows.
Draco tried to shut his mind down the way he had the last time he saw the Dark Lord, but found it difficult. It had seemed easier before—when Draco hadn't yet displeased the Dark Lord.
Draco tried to focus on his hands, his fingernails, his knuckles. He watched his golden ring with the Malfoy crest tremble on his left hand and hated the way it shook, catching the light and drawing attention.
"I seem to recall that you were given a task to complete, several months ago, in fact." The Dark Lord's cold voice drawled as he stepped around Draco, surveying him carefully.
Draco tried to bow his head even more. "Yes, my Lord. It's—taking time. I'm working on it."
The Dark Lord let out a hiss of laughter. "Indeed." He waved his wand and a low-lit torch erupted into a magically-contained, blazing fire. Blue flames leapt wildly, casting flickering shadows, and Draco could see bits of the people standing on his right. His eyes were drawn to a delicate blue skirt with white slippers.
He had seen those slippers before.
No, he had purchased those slippers from Pearson Park in Diagon Alley two years earlier.
Oh, God.
His mother was here and the Dark Lord was displeased.
His mother was here and the Dark Lord was displeased.
Draco closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
"Step forward, Narcissa."
Draco could see the hem of the delicate fabric of his mother's dressing robe shimmer in the light as she walked forward.
Draco stared pointedly at his ring as he dug his pinky nails deeper into the dirt. He felt a hot trickle of sweat slide down the side of face, but didn't dare raise his hand to wipe it away.
"Someone is here to see you, Draco. You mustn't be rude. Stand to greet your guest."
Draco immediately scrambled to his feet, unable to resist looking into his mother's face for comfort.
His mother's blonde hair was not styled and it hung loosely around her shoulders. She was not wearing any makeup or jewelry. Her eyes held a vacant expression as she looked somewhere beyond Draco.
She was not herself. What had they done to her? Narcissa Malfoy would not want to be seen in her nightgown like this! She hadn't come willingly—of this Draco was certain.
"Mother," Draco barely mouthed, silently praying for her to look at him—to know it was him.
She turned her head slowly and her eyes met his at long last. "Hello, Draco." Her voice was formal and cold. Despite her words of greeting, she did not know him.
Draco recognized that look.
Narcissa Malfoy was under the Imperius Curse.
Draco did not trust himself to speak at all and instead waited for the Dark Lord to continue.
"I believe," the Dark Lord began, "that we had an understanding, young Malfoy."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Were you lying to me when you said that loyalty to me was worth more than your own life and the lives of your parents?"
Draco looked at his mother, fragile and broken.
Yes, you bastard. "No, my Lord."
"And yet . . ." his sibilant voice trailed off. "And yet, I don't believe you." The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Draco's mother. "Finite Incantatem."
Narcissa Malfoy's eyes seemed to refocus as the curse was lifted. She locked Draco with a horrified gaze, but said nothing. She did not move a muscle.
Nor did Draco move, as he found his body had suddenly frozen in a terrified fear. Why was he here? Why was she here?
Draco forcibly removed his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallowed.
"My loyalty is to you, my Lord, above all others."
He had spoken these words before, but saying them now—Now! Now when his mother stood there, waiting on his next move . . . Her life was on the line and—lying or not—Draco had just stated that the monster before him mattered more to him than his mother!
If the Dark Lord killed her now, Draco's words of betrayal would be the last she would hear him speak. And they were a disgusting, horrible lie.
The Dark Lord knew this. He had to have known this. Of course! He must have known all along or he would never have used Draco's parents' lives as collateral in the first place.
How had Draco only just made this connection now? NOW! When it was too late?
A chilling thought suddenly occurred. What if Draco was ordered to kill his mother to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord? Could he-?
No! No, he could never! He could never kill her because he loved her! And if he did kill her, he would likely kill himself.
But, if he was unable to kill Dumbledore then the Dark Lord would kill Draco anyway and no matter WHAT, Draco's entire family would DIE so maybe he COULD kill his mother to save himself or save his father?
The thought sickened him. Pawns. They were all pawns in the Dark Lord's twisted, manipulative game. The Dark Lord had suspected Draco's wavering loyalty all along but would still use him however he pleased for his own sick perversions.
However, if Draco proved useful, then maybe the Dark Lord would still spare their lives.
Draco needed to pull himself together. He could do this. He needed to stand straight and lie his face off and murder and kill for the beautiful, broken woman standing before him.
But now that Draco had figured out the Dark Lord's game, he would never be so deluded to think that he could gain power through servitude.
An unbidden image of a beach paradise flitted through his mind and made him want to laugh and puke. His stomach contracted in revulsion. He would never stand beside the Dark Lord as the world crumbled beneath his feet, and not because he could not, but because he would not.
Oh, how stupid Draco had been to think the life of a Death Eater was glamorous. And he had. He was embarrassed to admit it to himself, but he fucking had.
Draco had never chosen this, though, not really, because, like Potter had said, he had never chosen. And now it was too late. He was too wrapped up in the tangled web of lies and loyalties and utter desperation.
Draco Malfoy had been a fool.
But he could play this game. He had to.
"The task will be completed, my Lord. I can assure you of that." Draco met the Dark Lord's red-eyed stare with newly found fervor. Adrenaline pumped madly through his body and he felt like he was vibrating.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, my Lord. I've been mending a Vanishing Cabinet to allow entrance into Hogwarts through Borgin and Burke's. As it is taking longer than anticipated, I have put into effect another plan to eliminate Dumbledore as soon as possible. Madame Rosmerta of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade has been placed under the Imperius Curse to act for me outside of the Hogwarts walls. I am prepared to fulfill my task right away, unless, my Lord, you feel that I should wait to act when the entrance is fully functional?"
Draco could not believe how coherent he had just sounded. He clenched his jaw and waited.
The Dark Lord stepped closely to him and lifted him by the chin with one cold, clammy finger. Draco met his gaze. "Do not make me regret placing my trust in you, young Draco. You speak well, but are your intentions pure?"
Then suddenly, Draco's mind was assaulted with images.
Draco purchased a necklace at Borgin and Burke's and stuffed it into his robe pocket. Draco smirked at Snape as he approached Dumbledore at the staff table.
The Dark Lord probed deeper in Draco's mind and he tried to fight it, desperate to clear his thoughts and remember what Aunt Bellatrix had taught him about Occlumency. Draco had been a natural at Occlumency, but here he was, inches from the Dark Lord's face and caught off-guard with the non-verbal incantation. How could he have not foreseen this?
Pansy Parkinson vanished a bucket of vomit off the floor while Draco lay in a crumpled heap against the stone wall. Draco's voice rang out into the rafters of St. Cecelia's and he was filled with overwhelming joy. Harry Potter stuffed a bezoar in Draco's mouth and commanded him to chew, eyes shining beneath his glasses. A stream of water from Draco's wand dampened a cloth in the Shrieking Shack and—
With a gasp, Draco redirected his thoughts, layering mundane scenes over his tunnels of thought, forcing the Dark Lord out of the deepest corners of his mind. Draco's hands were shaking, but he could not afford to acknowledge them. All he could think about was not feeling. Not thinking. Nothing. Clear. Clear. Clear. Class. Books. Quidditch.
The Dark Lord would not enter his mind again.
"Very interesting memories, Draco. Very interesting indeed."
Draco said nothing, only stared blankly ahead.
"Was that—Potter—I saw?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"He's a friend of yours, is he?"
Draco clenched his fists and swallowed. "Not at all, my Lord. I despise Potter to the very core of his being."
"Is that so? Your memories appear to reflect something entirely different, young Draco."
"I. Hate. Him," Draco seethed. "My Lord."
The Dark Lord regarded him closely for a moment, then turned toward his mother. "Step closer, Narcissa."
She did. She now stood right beside Draco.
"Yes, my Lord?" her cool voice inquired.
"Did you know," and at this, the Dark Lord let out an amused chuckle, "that your young son, Draco, has a penchant for the fine arts?"
Narcissa glanced at Draco in question before speaking. "My Lord?"
"It seems that Draco," he smirked, "is a talented member of a Catholic church choir, Narcissa. Were you not aware of this?"
Draco felt his cheeks begin to burn in humiliation. He had never wanted anyone to see that memory, least of all the monster that stood before him.
She frowned in confusion and spoke slowly. "When Draco was a child, Lucius felt that it would help the Malfoy reputation if we attended a community mass. I asked Draco to sing with the church choir, but he rarely attended." Narcissa shook her head. "This was all several years ago."
The Dark Lord let out a low hum. "Is there something you would like to tell mummy, Draco?"
Desperately trying keep a clear head, Draco answered, "I sing in a church choir." He blushed, despite himself and stared at the flattened ear-hole on the Dark Lord's skull. He could feel his mother's imploring eyes, but could not meet them.
"Oh, but there is no reason to be shy, Draco. I think your mother would be very proud of your talent. I know that you certainly are."
Draco said nothing. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
"Sing for your mother, Draco."
What?
Draco looked up sharply at the Dark Lord. His red eyes were alight with malicious glee. Was he serious? He wanted Draco to sing?
Humiliation at the very notion of singing for the Dark Lord made Draco's stomach and throat tie up into burning, tight knots. A wave of dizziness hit and he tried to breathe through it.
Draco looked at his mother. She was staring at her feet. He looked back to the Dark Lord.
"I said," the Dark Lord purred, "sing for your mother."
Draco tried to make a sound, but it came out as a stuttered squeak.
The Dark Lord fixed his wand on Narcissa and she looked to her son with pleading eyes.
Draco's heart began to race in panic and he could no longer breathe. He could no longer think. He didn't know what songs were, for Christ's sakes, and he certainly couldn't think of one to sing!
"I-I can't," he finally stammered, overwhelmed with terror and hot shame.
The Dark Lord was clearly taking pleasure in Draco's discomfort. He smiled. "You're telling me 'no?''
Draco tried to shake his head but his neck was completely frozen.
The Dark Lord clicked his tongue. "Pity for her."
"N-no, wait—!"
"Crucio."
Narcissa crumpled to the floor at Draco's feet and shrieked in agony as the curse ripped through her body. Her blonde hair fell onto her face and into her mouth as she writhed, screaming and screaming and screaming.
Draco dropped to her side and stared in horror. "Mother!" he croaked. "No! Please! Stop! Stop, please!" he begged, knowing it was useless.
The Dark Lord smiled cruelly as he stepped away from Narcissa's body. "Sing for dear Narcissa, Draco."
Draco choked out a sound, but found himself unable to form words or think of a melody. "PLEASE!" he sobbed, desperately, fighting to think of something to sing, something for his mother.
He had to sing. He had to sing.
"Sing," Draco cried out, wildly, his voice gasping through hot tears, "Sing, Sing!"
The Dark Lord looked amused. "But that isn't a song, Draco. Sing a nice song for Mother."
"Sing! Sing!" Draco shouted, pleading and digging his fingers desperately into the dirt, dampened with tears and saliva. "SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE A POCKET FULL OF RYE!" The words had no tune, no melody as his voice broke with a wretched, raw sound and his mother screamed louder.
The Dark Lord barked out a loud, unnatural laugh. Other Death Eaters in the room joined in his mocking laughter.
Narcissa thrashed violently. "DRACO!" The despairing plea ripped through her, tearing her voice with exertion. Draco reached out, helpless, wanting to hold her, wanting to help her, wanting to make it STOP.
He fisted his useless hands in his own hair and tore frantically. Draco needed to do something now, something to help her!
So he sang. He sang and sang and sang. Draco couldn't remember what he sang or how he sang and the song was likely no more than a wretched wail as he scrabbled at the dirt, choked by his own ragged, ugly sobs and a chorus of cruel laughter.
Narcissa's screams finally tapered off to gasping whimpers as she was released from the curse. Her body trembled with aftershocks.
Draco kept singing as he dove onto his mother and wrapped his arms around her. He clutched her frail, weakened body to his chest like it was the greatest treasure the world had to offer.
Draco had failed to protect her and he was sickened with guilt.
She had not wanted this for him. His Father had. His Mother had not. She had warned Draco and pleaded with him not to go to the Dark Lord. But Draco—stupid, foolish, ignorant Draco—had been blinded by his own greed and lust for power.
Now Mother was hurt and it was Draco's fault.
The Dark Lord's cold voice broke through the dying remains of Draco's tuneless words. "I think she rather enjoyed the song, wouldn't you agree?"
Draco breathed heavily as anger rose in his chest.
"I know I certainly did," the Dark Lord continued, speaking with vicious delight. "Did you enjoy singing for your mother, Draco? Be honest."
Slowly, Draco dragged his eyes away from his mother and across the room until they landed on the burning, red slits. Draco stared hard into the Dark Lord's eyes, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and deliberate.
"No. I did not. Enjoy it."
This time, Draco could not bring himself to regard the creature before him as his "Lord" and the unspoken epithet hung like static in the air.
The smile slid from the Dark Lord's mouth. "I see." He stepped closer to Draco and stood over him. "Stand up, Draco."
Draco stood. Blood rushed in his ears and his knees wobbled. Hardened rage etched his features as he faced the Dark Lord with his shoulders held back.
Draco would not waver again.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Draco Malfoy." The Dark Lord crept forward and grabbed Draco by the back of his neck. He leaned in and Draco could smell his musty breath and dank skin. "The next time I tell you to do something," he hissed and stroked Draco's cheek with his moist, snake-like finger, "do it."
Draco was thrown back with surprising force and he stumbled over his mother's mud-streaked white slippers. He quickly regained his balance and glared at the Dark Lord in defiance.
"Yes, my Lord," he spoke through gritted teeth.
The Dark Lord smiled slightly and nodded. "Good. Continue your work on the Cabinet, Draco. Do not release Rosmerta from the Imperius curse. She could prove useful beyond your present intentions. Your primary concern is completion of the task. Opening an entrance to Hogwarts should come secondary. Do not stall further. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, my Lord."
The Dark Lord spoke to his mother. "Dearest Narcissa, thank you for presence today. You served to be most helpful. You are now free to go."
Narcissa lay on the floor, barely conscious, with a thin stream of blood trickling from her head. She did not respond.
"Forgive me, my Lord," Draco shook with anger as he spoke, "but she might make a more timely exit if I were permitted to assist."
The Dark Lord inclined his head and a smirk lingered on his lips. "Indeed, young Draco. Do as you see fit." He then extinguished the torch with a flick of his wand, turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Draco immediately fell to her side and took one of his mother's small, smooth hands into his own.
"Mother?" he whispered, squeezing it softly. "Mother, wake up."
Her eyes fluttered slightly and she groaned in pain. "Draco?"
Narcissa was in no condition to Apparate and Draco was not only unlicensed, but beyond distraught. He did not trust himself to Apparate his mother safely in his current state.
Thoughts were a whirlwind in Draco's head. He needed to get his mother home.
"Mags," he whispered, praying that this would work.
With an immediate crack, Mags, a house elf from Malfoy Manor, appeared beside them. Her eyes widened immediately at the scene before her, but she said nothing. Mags looked up to Draco.
"Mags," he croaked. "P-please. Just-take her—take her home. Take care of her, please." He swallowed. "Clean her up. Don't let her out of your sight and owl me immediately about her condition once you've settled her in."
Mags nodded and held Narcissa's hand. Draco moved back as Mags Apparated his mother back to Malfoy Manor.
Draco felt around blindly in the dirt for the black envelope that he had dropped earlier. He snatched it and shook the envelope until the return Portkey tumbled into the soft dirt. Draco reached for the Portkey and the dirt cellar wavered before his eyes as he was sucked back and spit into the snow outside of the Hogwarts entrance.
oooo
PLEASE review! I'm begging! Let me know what you think, pretty please! It's hard to write for an imaginary audience, and I imagine you're a perfectly lovely audience, so, you know.
- Kristen