Chapter Ten ~ The Sorting Hat's First Song

DRACO

Draco was flicking his thumb idly against the glass cage when he heard a key turn in the lock.

He sat back at once and adopted a morose expression. The inert form of Cassandra Trelawney was slumped at the center of the room. Just as Draco was wondering whether she might be struck by the door, she scrambled to the corner at a remarkable speed and hunkered down, immobile.

Rothfang entered the room whistling to himself.

"Listen," said Draco, a little hoarsely. His voice had fallen into disuse. "If you want information on Potter, I can give it to you."

Rothfang ignored him, but waved futilely in Cassandra's direction.

"I know Potter," Draco insisted. "I went to school with him."

He did not think Rothfang could have succeeded in offing Potter, if indeed that had been his plan. It did not seem possible that the Chosen One could defeat the whole of the Dark Lord's army, only to be killed by a Squib.

"All you have to do is let me go, and I'll tell you anything you want to know," Draco went on.

At this Rothfang finally looked around.

"So quick to betray old friends," he said.

Passing over the dispiriting notion that he and Potter might ever have been friends, Draco shrugged.

"If you don't let me go, my father will ruin you," he said.

"Your father, like the rest of the world, believes you are dead, boy."

If Draco had still been in possession of his wand, he would have hexed Rothfang into a bloody mass on the floor. There had been ample time to cultivate his hatred while he had remained locked up. He had tried to count the days at first, making it as far as three weeks before the hours started to blur together. Draco refused to believe that he would be left to rot in the Department of Mysteries forever. Instead he waited, and seethed, and prepared himself for Rothfang's return. He would see Rothfang crushed into pulp.

"You're lying," he spat.

"I assure you that I am not. It would never do to have the Malfoys poking their noses in where they do not belong in search of their son. Much easier to simply put it about that you were gone. There was a funeral service."

"No." His mother would have wanted his body recovered. Of that, Draco was certain. She would never have believed it.

Rothfang drew a folded copy of the Prophet from his sleeve and tossed it at Draco. It was dated to the fifteenth of August. The headline glared: Draco Malfoy, 19, confirmed dead in Ministry explosion; family inconsolable at funeral, unavailable for comment…

"You'll pay for this," hissed Draco. "My family will never let you live. You'll be turned to dust—"

Rothfang seized him unceremoniously by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

"Time for an outing," he said.

Draco experienced a moment of dizzying fright as he was dragged through the door. There had been a small lavatory adjoined to the room he shared with Cassandra, and a pile of books on the shelf. These had been the extent of his world for several months. The wide open space of the Department of Mysteries pressed in on him from all sides. Draco sagged on his feet.

They were not in the same corridor through which they had first entered the Department. Somehow, Rothfang had taken them through the door to an entirely different enclosure. Here the walls were as insubstantial as the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Diaphanous sheets of rain fell from the ceiling, vanishing just a few inches above Draco's head. The corridor seemed to stretch on into darkness as far as the eye could see, with the occasional lightning strike illuminating the walls in the distance.

Draco's father had spoken to him once about the oldest sectors of the Department of Mysteries, where Unspeakables had sought in the past to develop charms that could regulate the seasons themselves. These experiments were meant to have been condemned during Artemisia Lufkin's run as Minister. It would certainly be alarming if Rothfang had managed to gain access to them.

"Where are we going?" asked Draco. "I'm not moving until you tell me where we are."

Rothfang produced a silver dagger and placed its point against Draco's throat, prodding him forward.

"Your pure blood is of little value to me," said Rothfang. "I will not hesitate to spill it."

Draco swallowed. His pride, his fear, his curiosity, everything would have to be set aside once again until he was able to find a way out of this mess. He nodded.

Rothfang directed him several hundred yards down the corridor, past patches of snow and strong winds, until they came to a stretch of wall every bit the same as the rest. Draco counted the number of steps that took him there.

"Bagnold," he said, and the wall before them dissolved, revealing a steel door. Rothfang opened it using a small bronze skeleton key.

On the other side was the Hall of Prophecy. Draco had heard it described many times. It was here that his father had lost the Dark Lord's prophecy to Potter. Nothing had gone quite right after that.

"You are familiar?" said Rothfang.

"I thought it would be bigger," Draco muttered.

Rothfang chuckled. "But this is not the first Hall of Prophecy. No, boy, it is the second. Sealed off during the Reformation of the Ministry."

"The what?"

"Do they not teach Purebloods their history anymore? After Grindelwald's war was ended, and the hatred of the vanquished spread to Britain, there was a very ugly period in the Ministry's story. Much of it was quelled when Millicent Bagnold took office, but the black mark on our record remains. The oldest sectors of the Department of Mysteries were put to a very ugly use indeed. What was done will never be erased."

With each step Rothfang took, charmed torches roared to life at either side of him, bathing the rows upon rows of shelved prophecies in a preternatural violet glow. The low-hanging ceiling and expanse of glittering orbs almost gave Draco the impression that he was back in his Hogwarts dormitory under the lake, sharing the tale of the Chamber of Secrets with an audience of frightened first years. Only this time, he was the uninitiated. His was the feeling of dawning horror.

"What was done?" he repeated.

Rothfang did not answer. They had come to a wide stone basin, suspended in midair and filled with a swirling silvery substance. Behind it was a shelf lined with crystal phials.

"Memories?" said Draco. "You brought me here to show me a load of bloody memories?"

"Seers' memories," Rothfang specified. "More specifically, the memories of prophecies, which, like prophecies themselves, can only be viewed by those about whom they are made."

Rothfang forced Draco's hand towards the nearest shelf, closing his fingers around a phial labeled "Wand of Destiny, Master."

"I'm not the Master of the Elder Wand," said Draco in a panic, straining away from the phial. "I haven't been for ages." It was Potter. Always Potter.

But Rothfang forced him to remove the phial from the shelf. Cringing, Draco watched as his hand was lifted to the Pensieve's surface. Rothfang uncapped the phial and tipped its contents into the basin. He expected perhaps to feel a bout of nausea, or unbearable pain. When nothing of the sort occurred, Draco drew forward.

"Pay close attention," said Rothfang. Then he shoved Draco face first into the Pensieve.

The world tipped and swayed. Landscapes flew past until Draco's feet landed on solid ground and he found himself standing in the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower. The one place in the world Draco was least keen to revisit. He felt his hatred for Rothfang rise higher.

A sudden movement startled him and Draco turned to see a lovely, wild-haired witch in a deerskin cloak leaning over the windowsill. Though he had only seen her painted at a more advanced age, he thought he could recognize the austere features of Rowena Ravenclaw.

"Eala! Her bio sneawgebland!" she said.

Her companion, a bearded wizard with keen grey eyes, muttered something unintelligible, and Draco's jaw dropped. It was Salazar Slytherin. The pair of them were speaking old English, Draco surmised, for he could not follow a single word of their exchange. He shrank in on himself, though he knew there was no possibility of Slytherin or Ravenclaw seeing him.

Dark clouds marred the horizon, heralding a storm. Rowena was gesticulating in their direction. Looking harassed, Salazar waved his wand at the window and caused a haze to dance across the sky. Both Founders turned tail and swept down the staircase. Draco hastened to follow them, fascinated.

Salazar's strides were long. Draco was soon out of breath, stumbling on the roughly hewn tower steps. He could have sworn that some of the windows he had known in his time had not yet been carved out. Near the foot of the tower, Salazar and Rowena were stopped by a round-faced woman in plain yellow robes, who could be no one but Helga Hufflepuff.

Draco ranked this at the very top of his not inconsiderable list of bizarre experiences. Helga's words were incomprehensible, but her expression was easy to read: she pointed grimly down the corridor towards the Great Hall. Salazar looked less than pleased, but followed with ill grace, Draco close behind.

The Great Hall itself was roughly the size of a classroom. It was absent the enchanted ceiling, but counted nearly twice as many levitating candles. At its center sat a wooden stool bearing a pristine, regal wizard's hat. It was not until a section of the hat's brim unstitched itself and began to move that Draco recognized it for what it was.

The Sorting Hat recited a garbled monologue, of which Draco thought he caught a few stray words. To his surprise, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga hung back, muttering amongst themselves and looking askance at the hat. While Rowena and Helga seemed merely anxious, Salazar actually looked enraged. He tapped his wand restlessly against his leg, emitting occasional brilliant grey sparks. When at last the hat was finished, it was Helga who spoke.

"Godric!" she cried.

Draco stepped out of the way just in time. It occurred to him that the figures in this memory could simply pass through him, but he was nevertheless glad that he darted aside before the fourth Founder could stride right through him.

Godric Gryffindor was broad-shouldered, lively, and a great orator. His words seemed to electrify his compatriots, all but Salazar, who continued to glare daggers from the doorway. As Gryffindor paced back and forth before the hat, he became increasingly agitated, producing his wand and pointing between it and the hat repeatedly. Helga gasped, clutching at her heart.

Abruptly, Salazar raised his wand and sent a blinding curse in Gryffindor's direction. The latter dove out of the way, knocking the hat to the ground in the process, so that Salazar's curse struck the head table behind him. The table caught fire. With a sigh, Rowena flicked her wand and extinguished the flames.

Helga was waving her arms and attempting to step between the two furious men. Ignoring her, Gryffindor raised his wand in retaliation. This time his cursed passed through Draco. The effect was unnerving. There was no sensation, but Draco saw a dazzling light behind his eyelids and scrambled back, flailing his arms madly. He retreated into the entrance hall, where the open oak doors afforded him a view of the grounds. Muted applause could be heard in the distance. Squinting, Draco glimpsed two dozen students engaging in broomstick races, skirting the treetops of the forbidden forest. And there was something else…

It was fortunate for the Founders that the school was emptied, for anyone who ventured past the oak front doors would be greeted by a frightful sight. The body of a young wizard, clearly dead, was sprawled on the grass in front of the entranceway. Draco approached and made to roll the body over with the point of his shoe, before remembering that he had no physical presence in this memory.

Salazar appeared behind Draco and performed the task of turning the young wizard over himself. Draco recoiled: there was a trickle of blood running from the dead man's nose. His eyes were glassy and vacant. Exerting a great deal of control to avoid thinking of a sea of slaughtered goblins on his family's drawing room floor, Draco leaned down to examine the wizard more closely.

There was a gold pendant hanging from his neck, embossed with an ornate insignia Draco found vaguely familiar. He had seen the dragon on the coat of arms somewhere before.

Gryffindor had approached. He and Salazar remained engaged in a blazing row, with Godric indicating the students flying in the distance. Salazar tapped at the dragon pendant, spitting unfamiliar curses. At last, Draco made the connection. The dead wizard was a Pureblood. The coat of arms belonged to an old Pureblood family, perhaps the Fawleys or the Burkes; Draco was too shaken to recall which.

Salazar clutched at the pendant. For the first time, Godric looked abashed. He extended his hand, entreating, but Salazar turned away. Draco was desperate to know what had caused the rift between them. He had never heard of this particular altercation in any of the Sorting Hat's songs.

To his bewilderment, a hand fell on his shoulder before he could discover any more, and Rothfang's voice spoke in his ear.

"That will be enough."

Draco was jerked upward and landed back in the Hall of Prophecy. Immediately, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to make violent retching sounds.

"Get up," said Rothfang harshly. "What on earth are you playing at?"

"You've been having trays of cold cottage pie conjured into my room every day," said Draco weakly. "It doesn't agree with me. I—I've been ill. The fall through the Pensieve…"

This was a tactic that had served Draco well with one of the family elves, before Potter—always Potter—had tricked the creature free. At the age of eight Dobby had Apparted Draco away from the Manor against Narcissa's wishes, under the pretext of taking Draco urgently to Saint Mungo's for a stomach complaint. Dobby had been punished severely when the scheme had been discovered, but in the meantime, Draco had been able to slip off to attend a Quidditch match in London with Theodore Nott.

"Would his highness prefer rice pudding?" said Rothfang, tugging at Draco's robes to lift him to his feet.

Draco made a split-second decision. Before he was fully upright, he lunged for Rothfang's midsection and attempted to rip away that ridiculous wand the latter kept holstered at his belt. At the same moment, he fumbled with his left hand for several of the phials labeled "Wand of Destiny, Master."

Rothfang snarled. Rearing back, he delivered a backhand to the side of Draco's face. His strength was quite disproportionate to his age. Draco tasted blood in his mouth and snatched his hand back from the wand holster. Under cover of Rothfang's rage, he had the chance to slip the phials in his pocket. Unfortunately, he saw at once in his captor's eyes that he was to pay for his effrontery.

Seizing him roughly by the hair, Rothfang forced Draco's head back and poured the contents of a flask down his throat. The moment the liquid touched Draco's tongue, the world burst into flames. He was suffocating. He felt as though smoke were filling his lungs, searing him from the inside out.

Draco only vaguely registered being dragged away, back through the enchanted corridor to his room. Once inside, Rothfang threw him onto the cot and shook him until his head lolled back and forth. He spoke, too, but Draco could not hear him. Everything was fire and pain.

"What was the sign?" Rothfang repeated, striking Draco twice more to get his attention. "The records state that the Seer saw a symbol on the dead man's pendant. What was it?"

"The—the—" Draco coughed. The pain was blinding. "The records?"

"Seers have been housed in the Department for centuries, and in the cellars of the very wealthy for millennia before," said Rothfang impatiently. "Their prophecies, their memories, have been harvested. Never before has a Master of the Elder Wand been located, thus historians and Unspeakables have been unable to access the memories of the prophecies concerning them directly. Prophetic memories, as I have stated, can only be accessed by those about whom they are made. The Department has had only written accounts of the Seers' memories to go on. It is all written down in the old record rooms. So do not try to deceive me. I know that the dead man wore a pendant. Now, you are going to tell me what was on it."

"A d—dragon," stammered Draco. "Please…"

Rothfang closed his eyes. "Good," he murmured. "A dragon. Yes."

"Please," Draco repeated, more faintly. "Water."

"The potion I have given you is not lethal," said Rothfang disdainfully, turning away. "Its effects will last two hours, at most. Long enough to teach you a very important lesson: do not ever attempt to steal my wand." He lifted his hand in a cheerful wave. "So long, Cassandra."

Draco lost several moments of consciousness to the fire clawing up his throat. When he was able to open his eyes again, Rothfang was gone, and someone was stroking a cool hand across his forehead. Draco grimaced in disgust.

Cassandra Trelawney was crouched over him, her withered lips twisted in a toothless grin.

"What do you want?" Draco rasped.

"Even breaths will ease the pain," she said. Her voice was ruined, hardly audible. Draco made a feeble attempt to pull away, but his strength had deserted him. He was at the mercy of a crone. Pathetic.

Resigned, Draco forced himself to take steady breaths for several minutes, until the pain slowly began to ebb.

"Brilliant," he muttered furiously. "What the hell was in that potion?"

"Liquid Fiendfyre," croaked Cassandra. "Very diluted, but an exquisite torture all the same. You bore it well, son of Malfoy."

The potion's effects had been but a fraction of the agony the Dark Lord could inflict. Still, Draco did not like to think what Rothfang might do if he ever grew angry again.

"How long until he comes back?" Draco asked.

"Sometimes young Rothfang is away for many months," said Cassandra. "Sometimes he returns day by day."

"Young Rothfang?" Draco scoffed. "How old are you, anyway, two hundred?"

"Older than anyone you know," was her only response.

Draco considered her. She showed a great deal more vitality now that Rothfang was gone. Her gnarled hands were steady as they lifted Draco's head to place it on a stack of pillows.

"I don't suppose you'd happen to have a wand, would you?" he asked.

Cassandra shook her head.

"Broken." There was pain in her voice now, even Draco could hear it. "Long before Rothfang."

"How long have you been here?"

"Long."

Though the flames had dulled, Draco experienced a final stab of fire and cringed. Cassandra eyed him intently.

"In your pockets," she said. "You carry something of great value."

Draco had not intended to share his hard-won prize with her, but there seemed little point in lying. He produced the phials. Cassandra held them up to the light.

"Two of these are my own," she said. "The others are older. Much older."

"I don't know why the hell I was able to take them," Draco muttered. "I don't have the Elder Wand. I never had it."

"When one becomes master of the Wand of Destiny, one is marked for life," said Cassandra quietly. "You are a piece of history, son of Malfoy. You were chosen."

For a moment, Draco expected to look around and discover that she was speaking to Potter, instead.

In spite of himself, he asked, "Is that why you said Rothfang was going to kill the Boy Who Lived? Because Potter got the Elder Wand in the end?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Young Rothfang's story is a sad one."

"That's so very helpful," said Draco sarcastically. "Thank you for making yourself clear."

Cassandra merely blinked at him.

Draco rolled his eyes. "While we're at it, I don't suppose you want to predict what's going to happen to us? Are we going to make it out of here alive?"

At this, Cassandra smiled.

"No."