I don't own Harry Potter.
Ten.
His Father's eyes stared at him coldly wherever he went, pressing on him even through the veils of snow and wind. Draco did his best to ignore them, buttoning his coat up to his ears and bowing against the wind, keeping his eyes to the ground, to the sky, anywhere but the eyes.
WANTED FUGITIVE, the posters read. There were others, of Greyback, of Bellatrix, of Crabbe and the rest. Their images growled and screamed in their frames, or like Greyback, licked his lips and flashed his sharp, yellowed teeth. They were bloodied. Crabbe glowered sullenly at the camera, holding his placard with huge, meaty hands that threatened to snap the piece of wood.
It was only Lucius who stood calmly in the face of the shaming camera. He stood erect, rigid, hands restrained behind his back like Bella's, his placard hanging down his front by a chain. He stared down his nose at the onlooker, lips in a thin straight line, the faintest curl of a sneer visible, but it was his eyes that disturbed Draco the most.
He was no stranger to the practices at Azkaban. The Dementors by far were not the end of it. But whatever they were, they had reached his father, and they had cracked him. It turned Draco's resentment to fear.
He had looked at the others to see it they had it too, but it was hard to tell. Aunt Bella had been unstable for as long as he could remember. She looked just as wild as before, but as he stared at the image again, watching it replay itself continuously, he was unable to tell any difference. Would it matter, in her?
Greyback's intimidation did not affect him. He had known the werewolf for too long to consider him a threat. Countless times in his childhood he had come to visit or have dinner (despite his mother's protests) or simply to visit his father, for the two had been friends for years. Draco searched his familiar yellow eyes and found nothing, but took no comfort in that. Greyback, family friend or not, was as dangerous as Bella. More so, perhaps, in his own way.
Crabbe looked on the verge of tears despite his scowl. Draco looked away from the posters at last, and resumed walking. His Father's eyes followed him.
He wondered what was happening currently at his home. That look in his Father's eyes…how was he now? He had received no more letters but the warning was ever present in his thoughts.
The posters covered almost everything, creating a sort of tunnel-like appearance in Hogsmeade. No one was outside. The other students on the trip were nowhere to be seen—they had either gone inside for warmth or fled back to the castle. Occasionally he could hear the jingle of a shop door or pub door opening, a brief flash of sound from a crowd, and then silence. Once or twice he'd see a shrouded figure, bent against the wind, hurrying to their next destination.
He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know where to go.
The thought of entering the shops or the restaurants repulsed him. What would he do, sit alone while everyone else talked of their plans for the holiday? No, he would much rather stay out here.
The wind gained force, and he stumbled into a wall sideways. Raising his arm to cover his face, Draco placed his other hand against the wall for support.
He had to act soon, but didn't know how to start. The necklace lay in wait in his pocket, packaged carefully so that he ran no risk of its danger, and disguised as a bottle of perfume so as to evade Filch's hated Secrecy Sensors. He wasn't sure if the spells would have worked, but caught a stroke of luck when Filch had found Romilda Vane with some love potions in her canteen, and had spent the better part of the morning crowing his victory, targeting the rest of the Gryffindors over everyone else, and Draco had slipped through without trouble.
Draco blinked snow away from his eyes. Perhaps it was time to get back after all. Why had he come in the first place?
The wind faltered and died down. Relieved, Draco began to turn and head out of the village when a pair of voices caught his attention.
"What're you writing to him for? It's been ages!"
"Friendship requires frequent communication, didn't you know?" The scornful voice was immediately recognizable. Draco lunged into a narrow space between two buildings beside him and crouched behind a mound of snow almost as large as him.
They were coming toward him. He didn't know why he'd hidden himself, but figured it was best it no one saw him.
"You only knew him for a few months!" Could Weasley try any harder to sound jealous? Draco rolled his eyes. "You'll probably never see him again!"
"What of it, Ronald? I'll make friends as I damn well please."
"What, were you going to invite him to your Slug Club party?" He said mockingly.
"I'd have invited you if you'd just asked," she hissed. "You've gotten yourself worked up over a letter."
"A series of letters, apparently," Weasley said angrily. Draco rolled his eyes.
A third voice cut in and said something. Draco couldn't hear it, but assumed it was Potter.
"I'm not saying she's not allowed to write to him," Weasley said. Without looking, Draco could easily picture his red, speckled face standing out in all the snow. "I'm just saying-"
Their steps came to a dead halt, mere feet away from Draco.
"Yes, Ron, tell us, we're dying to hear what business it is of yours," she said.
Weasley said nothing.
"That's what I thought," she said coldly, and then the vicious stomp of her boots through the snow led her past them and Draco, to the end of the lane.
"You could have handled that better," Potter said.
"I didn't mean it like that," Weasley replied half-heartedly.
"Then are you going to apologize?"
"Do you think she kissed him?"
There was an uncomfortable silence. Draco found himself wishing he'd left when he had the chance. He'd been surprised at the question, thinking at once that Weasley was referring to him. But it couldn't be. If they were truly talking about him, then they would have come with their wands out and then asked questions later, as if she weren't capable of defending herself (and that she had).
"Yeah, probably," Potter said at last.
"Him?"
"She can kiss whoever she likes." Potter sounded annoyed now. "She liked him, you know."
"I'm still not convinced he liked her-"
"If you're jealous-"
"I'm not," Weasley said impatiently.
"Then tell her how you feel."
"I'm not jealous. I just don't trust him."
Who? Draco thought. Who were they talking about? All this time he'd though it was Potter and Granger who had eyes for each other. But Weasley? This was more information than he cared to have. Did she like him back? What he'd just witnessed gave him a very strong negative answer, but one couldn't be too sure. If she had stayed around that jealous idiot for so long then it would be ridiculous to claim she didn't care for him.
Even when he acts like a fool.
But here he was, starting to feel better about himself and eavesdropping, too. It wouldn't do. One evil didn't wipe out another, and he certainly was in no position to think himself higher than Weasley considering all he'd already done. It was a sickening, humbling thought, and Draco hated it, but it was the truth.
They kept talking, and finally began walking away, but Draco had already ceased to listen. Draco rose from his hiding place and dusted snow off his cloak. Before he too could leave the scene a door in the alley way opened, and he froze.
Bright light illuminated the alley for a split second, flashing on the posters around him, and then there was the slam of the door closing, and the curious sound of someone walking through snow in heels. At least, he supposed they had to be heels, since it didn't sound at all like boots. He paused, waited to see who it was.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" said a somewhat familiar female voice. Draco waited another second, and then saw a large black trash bag floating towards the other end of the alley. There was a figure there, protecting herself with a thick shawl, whom he could only guess was Madame Rosmerta.
The bag landed heavily on the frozen ground, and she turned to enter back into the pub but caught sight of him.
"What are you looking at?" she asked, not too sternly. "Isn't it a bit too cold to be lingering about, dear? You ought to be going back to school."
She'd recognized his cloak. Draco was about to reply when an idea struck him suddenly. Rosmerta was coming closer. It must have gotten darker in the alley, or maybe the snow was still falling too quickly because while he could see her somewhat clearly she didn't seem to be able to tell who he was, and that was lucky. He wouldn't have faulted her for shooing him away from her property based on the posters splashed around them in the narrow space.
"You look half-frozen," she was saying. "Come on in-I'll fetch you something warm to drink."
Draco pulled his wand from his pocket as a sudden gust of air brought a spray of snow off the gutter and between them, obscuring both their vision.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She had come even closer. Draco backed away.
"Sorry about what?"
"Imperio."
She froze, and as his Father's eyes watched, Draco gave his orders and commenced the first stage of his plan.
A/N:
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