Chapter 11: A Prelude to Freedom

- Draco -

The tension in the atmosphere of number twelve, Grimmauld Place almost completely dissipated as the month of June came to an end. With the Order's newfound trust in Scorpius, the boys were left alone more often. Even Kreacher, who seemed to be infatuated with both Malfoys (going so far as to address them as 'Master'), made a considerable effort to brighten the old house, and obliged Draco's meal requests more often than anyone else's.

For the first time since he had been told that his mother was still with the Dark Lord, Draco believed that things would get better.

Lupin and Tonks were married, as predicted—a quiet ceremony at Tonks' parents' that Draco—for obvious reasons—did not attend. He had no plans either to attend the Weasley wedding that was to take place on the first of August, but that was partly for a different reason.

"So," he said to Scorpius when they had retreated to their room after dinner. "What's going to happen on the first of August that you're not bothering to warn anyone about?"

It was easy to tell when Scorpius was hiding something, especially when a date was mentioned; he had turned a shade paler than normal and suddenly grew interested in the conversation when Bill Weasley had stopped by Headquarters to announce it.

"Why should I warn them?" Scorpius replied. "From what I figured, they don't want me trying to change things. Though when the inevitable happens, they'll probably blame me anyway. The Weasel will, at least."

Ron was now referred to as 'the Weasel' between them to differentiate him from the rest of his family, because neither would use his first name except to keep up appearances in front of others. Draco was pleased to see that Scorpius had developed a new distrust toward Potter as well.

"I thought it seemed more like they don't want to know what you're trying to change, as long as you're not intending to help the Dark Lord."

Scorpius brushed past him; he had spotted the bandy-legged ginger cat sitting on his bed. He picked Crookshanks up and escorted him out of the room, muttering, "Why is this cat always following me? It's like he thinks I'm up to something…

"You really want to know?" he then said, looking at Draco. "The first of August was the day that the Ministry fell. And Bill and Fleur are planning their wedding like everything is normal. They won't tell us what the Death Eaters are up to; the Daily Prophet hardly reports anything. If You-Know-Who himself decides to crash the wedding, they'll have to deal with it."

Draco widened his eyes in astonishment. "You really don't care, do you?" he could not help asking.

"I don't want to hurt anyone…" Scorpius muttered. "But… I don't know."

"Hermione is going to their wedding," Draco whispered.

"Did you just call her Hermione?" Draco flushed a pale pink at the grin that stretched across Scorpius' face.

"Well, it would sort of interfere with your plans if she were to die… wouldn't it?" he amended.

"You're worried about her getting ambushed by Death Eaters at a wedding because it will interfere with my plans, but you won't even play Monopoly with her. Come on, no one's going to tell your father."

"Go get her, then. Potter too, if you want. I'll play. Just don't tell them I suggested it."

It was not a show of friendship, but rather, after over a month of living in the same house and being forced to share meals at the same table, Draco was used to their presence. He wondered, too, whether Scorpius might be right about Hermione Granger… She was the only one who did not seem to ignore him whenever possible.

One hour into the match, a dreadful pain seared his left arm, and Draco dropped the dice reflexively. His money bag token slid by itself seven spaces to King's Cross Station.

"You passed Go," Granger told him.

A massive struggle began inside his head. He glanced at the drawer where his potion was kept, knowing he had only five minutes before the burning would be impossible to ignore, but he was afraid to reach for it while they were watching.

Scorpius handed him the two hundred pounds from the bank, and their eyes locked. He, of course, could not understand the fear that compelled Draco to keep the Mark hidden from everyone else, so he said, "He's calling you again, isn't he?"

Potter and Granger both darted shocked looks at him, as though the idea that the Dark Lord would enjoy reminding Draco that he was still looking for him was a foreign concept.

Draco closed his eyes and leaned back against his bed. The last thing he wanted was to deal with this in front of them.

"Game over then," said Potter with false nonchalance. "Anyone fancy a Butterbeer?"

He heard Granger agree, then Scorpius inserted, "I'll go with you."

Draco caught his eye as Scorpius stood to follow Potter, and he gave him a look that he hoped conveyed his annoyance at being left alone with her.

Granger started to cast the spell that Scorpius had taught her to compare the totals of each player's assets. Choosing comfort over pride, Draco reached for his Numbing Potion.

Granger was quiet; as long as he focused on the task at hand, he could pretend that she was not there—until he dipped his cloth into the potion a second time and caught her staring at it, reading the label. A small voice muttered, "Does it really hurt that much?"

He raised his eyebrows, and decided there was no harm in telling her, "It gets worse over time if I don't go to him."

Granger seemed to contemplate this new information. "But… what if you can't? I mean, if he called all his Death Eaters at once, what would happen to the ones in Azkaban?"

Instantly, he thought of his father. How many times in his year-long imprisonment had he endured this pain with nothing to counter it? Was he still being tortured now? Instead of voicing his concern, however, Draco used all the strength he possessed to roll his eyes and inform her, "There aren't any Death Eaters in Azkaban."

He did consider her question, though, and answered in his head, He would think that they deserved it for getting themselves captured.

She grew silent for a long moment, watching as he continued to rub the potion into the blackened Mark, then he pressed the cloth tightly against his arm.

"How often does this happen?"

Lately, almost every other day. "Why would you care?" he snapped.

Granger glanced back at the Monopoly board, where Draco's token was glowing leaf-green. "You won," she pointed out. He glanced over briefly in acknowledgement, then she waved her wand, and all the cards and fake money returned neatly to their allotted places in the cardboard box.

"I ask because you shouldn't have to suffer alone. Do you tell Scorpius, at least?"

Draco did not answer.

"You don't," she guessed.

"If he's around when it happens, he'll figure it out, but I don't bother him with it otherwise."

Her mouth sat open for a few seconds before she replied, "It wouldn't bother him. He cares about you."

Draco winced; the pain was getting worse, but he forced out, "He's too protective of me. It's suffocating. He treats me like a child."

They exchanged glances; another silent moment passed.

"Why didn't you do it?" Granger asked suddenly as she shoved the game back under the bed for an obvious excuse to look away from him.

"Do what, exactly?"

She clarified, "Why didn't you kill Dumbledore? Harry was there, that night, on top of the Astronomy Tower. He told us what happened. Dumbledore was weak; you could have easily disarmed him and done it. Why didn't you?"

He suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the rug he was sitting on.

"Draco?"

"I didn't ask for this," he muttered, still looking at the rug though it was obvious that he meant the Dark Mark on his arm. "He chose me."

"But you wanted it," said Granger. "Didn't you?"

"Just leave me alone!" He gave her a cold glare and stormed from the room, walking toward the kitchen on autopilot—his only focus was to get away from her—and that question, because she had no business asking, and he had no answer anyway. The door opened before he could reach for the knob and he walked straight into Scorpius, who steadied him. Their eyes met and they both froze for a second.

"Here," said Scorpius, pushing one of the Butterbeer bottles he was holding into Draco's hand. Potter was watching from behind him, and Granger had followed Draco down the stairs.

"I want to be alone," Draco whispered so that only Scorpius could hear.

"Go. I'll distract them," Scorpius whispered back.

With his bedroom now empty, Draco returned to it. He resealed his jar of potion and put it away, then fell back onto his bed, closing his eyes tightly and clutching his left arm. He did not understand how he felt or why, but at that moment, the dull ache that pierced through the numbness was almost comforting.

- Scorpius -

Scorpius took a casual swig of Butterbeer and asked Hermione, who was still standing on the bottom stair, "What did you do to him?"

"I—er—" she stuttered for a moment, then she told him everything, and when she finished, she asked reprovingly, "You don't really think it's a good idea to leave him alone when—when this happens?"

"No, it really isn't," said Scorpius. "No matter what he says or does."

"Think he might be tempted to answer it?" Harry could not help asking.

Hermione looked appalled, but Scorpius nodded.

"If it's really happening more often than he's telling me… he's probably scared that You-Know-Who is getting impatient and might start killing his parents soon if he doesn't go back."

"If he wants to go, then—"

"Don't you dare tell me to let him. Just don't."

Harry stopped mid-sentence. Scorpius left the two of them in the hall, and quietly entered the bedroom. The bottle of Butterbeer was still unopened in Draco's hand, and his cheeks were soaked with silent tears.

Scorpius conjured a soft handkerchief and pressed it into his empty hand. "Drink the Butterbeer, it'll help," he said, and sat down on his bed.

Draco dabbed at his eyes, and after a moment, he uncorked his bottle.

"My father once told me," Scorpius said quietly, "it's okay to cry, as long as you don't do it in front of anyone you can't trust."

Draco sniffled, seemingly in response, and took a drink.

"You're not the only one, Draco. None of us have parents anymore."

A strangled whisper, "Don't say that."

"No, it's true. Harry's an orphan. I left home; you can't go back. Hermione modified her parents' memories and sent them to Australia. They don't even know they have a daughter."

Draco openly stared at him.

"And she came here, instead of staying with her weasel boyfriend, because we're all the same. That's why the Weasel acts all high and mighty around us—because his family is whole and together. He probably can't even imagine what it's like to have a difficult life."

"You know a lot about it," Draco commented.

"I ask questions," said Scorpius. He downed the remainder of his Butterbeer and added, "She will choose you over him if you give her a chance to."

- Harry -

He was standing in a darkened room, lit only by firelight, and he was looking down from a far greater height than usual, into the black eyes of a sallow-faced man who knelt before him. The scene was blurred.

"How long? When did it happen?" His voice was high and cold, and there was no mistaking the undertone of anger.

"Weeks ago, my Lord," said Severus Snape. "It was done shortly after the old fool's death." He spoke, in contrast, in a voice that was controlled and emotionless.

"And you tell me there is no way to break through the enchantments?"

Fear seemed to flicker in Snape's eyes, but he held his gaze.

"The Secret-Keeper lives, my Lord—it was never Dumbledore. While Harry Potter remains inside, it is impossible to attack him."

"I am disappointed in you, Snape. Dumbledore is dead, and the Ministry will soon be mine, but Harry Potter is out of my reach and one of my Death Eaters remains missing. I am not pleased."

He raised a large white hand and saw that it was holding a wand made of yew.

"Harry!"

"My Lord—"

"Harry, wake up!"

The image of Snape sprawled on the floor vanished, and Harry opened his eyes. His scar seared, and he was shivering and covered in cold sweat. Hermione was kneeling beside him on the bed, looking stricken.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry, thinking that something unrelated to his vision might have happened.

"You were screaming," said Hermione.

Behind her, Scorpius added in a shaky voice, "We could hear it from the first floor."

Draco stood in the doorway, white-faced and staring at Harry like he had never seen him before. His left pyjama sleeve was ruffled up slightly; Harry could see the red snake protruding from underneath that he imagined must have recently burned black.

The scene was frozen for a moment, then Scorpius spoke again, "What happened? It wasn't my family, was it?"

"No," said Harry. "It was Snape."

Scorpius turned as white as Draco. "He's not—?" He gave Harry a look that pleaded for more information.

"I don't know," said Harry, and he quietly recounted everything he had seen, but Scorpius only grew paler.

"No. He can't—he's not dying this time—Expecto patronum!"

Nothing happened. Scorpius took several deep breaths, apparently concentrating, and tried again with a stronger sense of determination in his voice, "Expecto patronum!" and Harry saw a silvery white wolf lingering in the air for a few seconds before soaring through the window out into the night.

"You shouldn't have seen anything at all, Harry," said Hermione. "You mustn't let that connection open up again—Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!"

"Dumbledore is dead."

Hermione flinched at the coldness in his tone. Harry's scar was still prickling. Draco could not seem to look away from him.

"And I can't close my mind while I'm sleeping."

As the first of August drew nearer, Harry and Hermione started spending more time at the Burrow, helping with preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding. There was little else to do; the Horcruxes were out of reach until Harry turned seventeen, and though they still talked, prepared, and modified their plans when any of them discovered something new, the mission had, for the most part, been postponed.

It was a dreary afternoon when, seeing that it was the only way to get Scorpius to help, Harry confided to Lupin that it would be beneficial for the Order to rescue Draco's parents from Voldemort.

"We have looked into the possibility," Lupin said. "If Voldemort had not got to them first, it would have been done already. To take them directly from his Headquarters, however—especially if they refuse to cooperate with us… that would be nearly impossible."

"But there's something we need," Harry pressed. "Scorpius says he knows where it is, but he won't tell us unless his family is safe."

Lupin shook his head and stated, "I thought Kingsley had told you not to bother him about what he may or may not know, especially about things concerning the war."

"It was Ron's idea," Harry said. "I wasn't sure about it, but even Hermione thought it made sense as long as we didn't force him to tell us anything."

"He is who he says he is, and his intentions are basically good. There is no reason for anyone to know more than that unless Scorpius chooses to divulge."

Harry rolled his eyes and guessed, "Because he might be wrong?"

Lupin was wearing a strange expression; it was almost disappointment. "No, Harry," he said. "Because he is not an encyclopedia. He is a boy with feelings, and he does not want to be used."

All Harry could manage was a bewildered, "Oh."

"No matter what his intentions are, it would not be wise to have him think of the Order as his enemies," Lupin explained further, giving Harry a slight conspiratorial grin.

The guilt that he felt subsided only after he had thought about it overnight and it occurred to him that people sometimes do the worst possible things with the best intentions, and this reminded him, strangely, of Dumbledore, and the second page of the letter he had found in Sirius' old bedroom.

He thought all this as he was heading down to breakfast with a two-week-old edition of the Daily Prophet in hand, but he stopped just in front of the kitchen door when he heard Hermione's voice saying, "You could come if you wanted to."

"I wasn't invited," said a Malfoy—Harry was not quite sure which, for their voices sounded similar. "Unless… you mean to ask me to accompany you? If that were the case, I don't think I would refuse."

"As flattering as the offer is," Hermione said, "I'm going with Ron."

"Right. Of course," said Malfoy, not sounding either surprised or disappointed.

"What is it with the two of you?" asked Hermione suddenly. "Your attitude is not half as bad when Ron's not around. Why do you hate him so much?" She dropped her voice to a low murmur and added, "What did your Ron Weasley do to you?"

Harry thought that he should not have been listening, but it seemed like it would also be a bad idea to interrupt at that point, so he stayed where he was. Then he heard Scorpius—he was sure it was Scorpius, now—saying, "He hates me for an unjustifiable reason, let's just leave it at that."

"That doesn't give you the right to blame anyone here for things that haven't even happened yet."

Harry heard a clattering of plates, then Scorpius said, "I was referring to both of them, actually. Or has your boyfriend explained to you why he hates me?"

"He's not my—"

This was when Harry pushed open the door, and not surprisingly, the conversation died at once.

Hermione stood up, apparently glad for an excuse to leave, and said to Harry with slight awkwardness, "The potion should be ready today. I'm going up to check on it. We'll bottle it later." (They had been brewing two cauldrons full of Polyjuice Potion for the past month).

Harry nodded, then dropped the newspaper on the table. "Have you seen this?" he asked Scorpius. It was turned to the page that showed the article about Rita Skeeter's new book.

There was a moment's pause in which Scorpius skimmed the article, then he said, "I don't read Skeeter. I know enough about her to know that her work is unreliable at best, and a worthless collection of lies at worst."

"What about Grindelwald though?" asked Harry. "Was Dumbledore ever friends with him?"

Scorpius looked puzzled for a short moment, then proceeded to skim the article a second time, apparently looking for the part where Grindelwald was mentioned. "It doesn't say that in here," he remarked.

"I know; it's something I read somewhere else," said Harry.

"I know a lot more about Grindelwald than I do about Dumbledore… but I have never heard of any relationship between the two until the famous so-called duel, and it's highly unlikely that they became friends after that, as Grindelwald has been imprisoned at Nurmengard ever since."

"What do you mean, 'so-called' duel?"

"There are no confirmed eye-witness accounts," Scorpius said. "No proof that any duel ever happened. For all we know, he could have just surrendered."

They were silent for what felt like an eternity before Scorpius seemed to think it important to add, "Dumbledore is not someone I would put my faith in. He's just like Voldemort, only a little less murderous and a lot more self-righteous."

Harry returned from the Burrow on the thirty-first of July with a wild mixture of emotions swarming through his head. He felt angry and confused, but also happy, and on some lower level, there was fear and uncertainty, and the same odd sense of freedom he had been noticing for weeks already was still growing.

He stared into the small square mirror—his Godfather's last gift—for a moment before stuffing it inside the mokeskin pouch that Hagrid had given him, but it showed nothing more than his own reflection. Wherever the other mirror was, it was not at Grimmauld Place. Harry wondered if maybe Sirius did have it with him when he went through the veil—or perhaps the Reparo spell had fixed the mirror, but not its magic.

He added his other treasured but worthless possessions to the pouch: the Marauder's Map, his mother's letter and the photograph he had found with it, and lastly, the Snitch, after pressing it to his lips for the second time and rolling his eyes at Dumbledore's cryptic message, I open at the close

One more day, he thought—just one more day, and then everything would truly begin.