A/N: Please, people, for the love of god, go back and read all the warnings in chapter 1! Shit's 'bout to start getting real dark here, my lovelies. You have been warned…*ominous music in background…*
AMONG THOSE KILLED
Chapter 21—Grief
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death-
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.
"Grief"—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
oOo
Harry felt hollow. He felt empty and vacuous, deadened and numb. Despite the loud buzz of flurry and chaos surrounding him, his ears felt stuffed with thick cotton and he was completely unable to hear a thing. Had he and Draco really just broken up? Had he really been the one to walk away from Draco, after everything that had happened between them?
But had Draco really deceived him in such a horrible way? How could Draco have known the identity of the attacker all along and not said a single word to anybody about it, especially Harry? And even if he hadn't known the identity the entire time, he had certainly known about it before Daphne's murder, since that had been when Harry had seen him meeting with Wisp—and oh, how the very name made Harry's blood boil—and Draco had been locked away in the safe house with Harry ever since. How could Draco have not thought twice about concealing such a thing? And from the Aurors risking their lives to protect him, no less! How could he have gone behind Harry's back to seek answers to the very same questions Harry had been searching so very desperately for? Did he even realize how much of an idiot Harry felt after learning about it all?
And now here Harry was, lonely and confused, sitting in the Auror department waiting to interrogate Cyril Crabbe, who had been locked away in a holding cell under the watchful eyes of Pickering and Scrivens. Rubbing his temples, Harry sighed wearily. Fuck, he was tired—physically, mentally, and most definitely emotionally. He needed quiet and he needed sleep; he needed time to order his thoughts and time to understand everything—it felt like he hadn't been able to catch a breath in far too long. He needed time to sort out how he felt about Malfoy—he was continually swinging between furious betrayal one moment and worrying about him with fierce anguish the next. Would the two Slytherins be okay? They had clearly caught the attacker, hadn't they? The danger was now past, right? Crabbe would soon be heading back to Azkaban, where Harry would personally make sure he was watched much more carefully this time. There would be no opportunities for any sort of repeat.
Burying his face in his palms, Harry concentrated on his inhalations, trying his hardest not to break apart from all the endless questions slashing through him, carving up his insides with their sharp lack of answers.
"Hey," a soft voice said above him, and Harry's head jerked up to find Caelix standing in front of him, hands shoved in the pockets of his tight jeans as he scuffed one shoe nervously.
"Hey, Cae," the brunet sighed, sounding nearly as exhausted as he felt.
"The Tracers just got back," Caelix said, corners of his mouth tugged down. "I heard the details about what happened. Are you…are you okay?"
"Fine," Harry answered hollowly, feeling as though he had never been less fine in his life.
"I heard about Ron and Neville." As Caelix spoke, he dropped into the wooden chair next to Harry, limbs as fidgety as Harry's were still and unmoving, his hands sitting heavy in his lap as though his body was carved from stone.
Harry said nothing.
"Are the others okay?" Caelix asked cautiously, sounding uncomfortable.
"Fine," Harry mumbled, and at the single word, both men fell into silence.
"Look, I'm sorry about the other day," Caelix blurted, one knee bouncing nervously. "I just—I really wasn't myself that day, you know? But I should never have said those things and I really didn't mean them, I swear it. I was just angry at you, and Draco, and everything in sight, and I wanted to make you just as angry as I was feeling, but it wasn't fair of me to take it out on the deceased, I know that none of them deserved what happened. You were right when you said it was a disgusting thing to say. I wasn't feeling very kindly towards Draco and I suppose I lumped all the other Slytherins into that dislike." He cast his eyes down as he continued, "I'm sorry for what I said about him. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd punched me for it. I'd have probably punched me for it."
"It's fine," Harry muttered, unwilling to delve back into the emotions of the past when his present emotions were currently overwhelming him so strongly.
"Harry, what's wrong?" Cae sounded concerned but Harry had no idea how to answer that question. So much had gone wrong in such a short amount of time and he had no idea how to explain everything that had happened, everything he was feeling, not even to himself.
"Nothing." And everything.
"You caught the bad guy, didn't you? Saved the day? Ron and Neville were taken to St. Mungo's in time, from what I've heard, and should be okay soon enough. You said the others weren't hurt, yeah? So…why do you look like your entire world has come crashing down around you?"
In response, Harry jerked one shoulder in a shrug, knowing that he would not be able to speak without everything pouring from his mouth like vomit, and he knew that once he started to talk, he would not be able to stop.
"Please, Harry," Cae touched the tips of his fingers to Harry's arm before pulling away. "Just tell me. You look like someone's just died and I'm worried. So talk to me. Even if it's about Draco."
At that, Harry glanced up at him in surprise. "Wouldn't that be crossing some sort of line? Like, a line of propriety or something?"
"Fuck propriety," Caelix smiled softly but his turquoise eyes were somber. "Who the fuck even has time to consider that shit? If you hadn't already noticed from the wild, untamed beard and excessive bulging muscles, I am a man, you know. A big, tough man, and I can take hearing you talk to me about Draco if that's what you need."
The words made Harry chuckle, much to his surprise. "Wild beard and bulging muscles?" He laughed again as he eyed Caelix's clean-shaven face and skinny physique.
"That's right," Caelix smiled wider. "Manliest man you've ever met, admit it. I outman half the male Aurors without even trying."
"Course you do, Cae," Harry grinned for a moment, shaking his head before the smile disappeared. "It's just…I don't know. It's just a bunch of shit that makes no sense to me. And the worst part is that I'm not even sure if I'm making too big a deal about it all or if I'm not making enough of a deal about it. I don't know if I should be more or less angry than I currently am. I don't even know if I'm angry or disappointed or hurt or who the fuck even knows."
"Well," Caelix began, flicking his wand to cast a privacy ward around the two of them. "That made almost no sense to me, so I think you should really start at the beginning and actually explain what it is you're so confused about."
Sighing, Harry pulled his glasses off to rub at his eyes with both hands. "Malfoy," he said finally, speaking in a low voice. "He knew. He fucking knew. For Christ only knows how long. And he never told me! How could you know something like that and just keep it to yourself? How could he have kept something that sodding important to himself? For that long! I mean honestly, who does that?!"
"Um," Cae began in a bewildered tone, "I might be able to better answer the question if I actually knew what you were talking about. So like I said, why don't we start there, at the beginning, and then come back to the cryptic questions at the end?"
"Draco hired a Tracker," Harry muttered into his palms, elbows resting on his knees and face buried in his hands. "One who apparently knew it was Cyril Crabbe behind the attacks. Malfoy fucking knew who was killing everyone off and he never said a word. You know the very first thing he said when everything was over? 'It really was Cyril Crabbe. Wisp was right.'" Harry laughed brokenly. "And yeah, it looks like Wisp was definitely fucking right."
"Oh," Caelix said softly, and Harry cracked one eye open to give him a sardonic stare. "Can I ask you a question, Harry? One you promise not to take offense at?"
Sighing heavily, Harry gestured to go ahead.
"Are you angry that he didn't tell you or are you angry that he knew the answer before we did?"
"I'm angry that he went behind my back to get the answer from someone he barely knows!" Harry snapped, feeling the same fury from earlier return like a tidal wave crashing over his head. "I'm angry that he didn't trust me enough to think that I could be the one to stop Crabbe instead of some fucking criminal that he hired! I'm angry that he has absolutely no faith in me whatsoever! And I'm angry that Daphne was killed all because Draco refused to let anybody know who was responsible!"
"Wow," Caelix mused quietly to himself, "that's quite a lot of anger."
Harry shot him a dirty look.
"Seriously, though, Harry," Caelix said, appearing somber once more. "While I might not agree with his methods or the fact that he did keep the identity of the killer a secret, I think I might understand his motivations."
The dirty look on Harry's face melted away to be replaced with shock. "What do you mean 'motivations'?"
"I mean exactly that," Caelix shrugged. "Maybe going to a criminal to illegally hunt down the name of the perp and then keeping that information secret does not exactly cast him in the best light, but I can certainly understand him wanting to take things into his own hands. You have to admit, we haven't been doing much these past few months other than circling our own lack of answers. We haven't even been able to pin down a clear motive this entire time, and I can understand Draco's impatience. Proper investigations take a very long time and I'm sure that he felt far too impatient to wait. And I'm sure that sense of control it gave him was also very appealing."
"Control?"
"Course," Caelix nodded. "Even before he was told of these attacks, he was already a target, you know? Just another name to be crossed off on a dwindling list of victims, all of whom were his friends, yes? I'm sure that kind of helplessness is very difficult for someone like him, especially in a situation such as this. I'm sure that it made him feel less like he was simply sitting around, waiting to be killed. And honestly, Harry," Caelix gave him a sympathetic look, touching his fingertips to Harry's arm once more, "grief can make people do desperate things, things they would not normally do unless under such emotional strain. He was in fear for his life and he was in mourning. Also, I'm sure that a large part of himself wanted to be the one to achieve retribution for the friends he lost, and not the oftentimes-biased and occasionally-incorrect legal system, the same one you have told me yourself he does not trust. You said part of the reason he initially refused the safe house was that he does not trust Aurors, yes?"
Reluctantly, Harry nodded.
"Well, I don't really know too much about his past, but I'm certain he can hardly be blamed for that lack of trust. Based on what I am able to infer about his upbringing, I'm sure his first instinct in any sort of stressful situation is to keep everything bottled up inside. From what I've seen, he does seem the type to find confiding in others a challenge. What if he didn't do it out of spite or maliciousness, but simply because it's his nature and he doesn't know any better? Most people don't know how to go against their natures—most people don't even realize that their natures are anything to go against. People don't often think about things like that when making decisions driven by such strong emotion."
"Why are you saying these things?" Harry asked weakly, head spinning from Caelix's words. When put that way, Harry could certainly see Draco's actions in a different light. "Why are you defending him? I thought you hated him!"
Leaning back in his chair, Caelix stared into the distance and sighed. "I never said I hated him. Jealousy is not necessarily the same as hatred. And my reaction the other day is another example of someone being unable to respond well to strong emotion. But…I do care about you, Harry. We are friends. At least, I hope we can still be. And whilst I would have loved to have been able to be the one to make you happy, I've more or less come to accept the fact that perhaps it was never meant to be. If it were, you would have noticed my feelings much sooner. I often wondered how you could continue to be so oblivious when I felt as though I could not be any more obvious with how I felt about you, until I finally realized that it was because you simply never saw me that way. I've been thinking about this a lot, if you could not already tell, pretty much constantly over the past few days, and I've come to the very mature conclusion that we were never really meant to be more than friends. My feelings for you were strong, but your feelings for Draco…" Caelix paused to sigh again and Harry felt his insides twist into a muddled swirl of emotion. "I realized it even before the night of the pub. I realized it the day I first met him and saw the two of you together. The way you both looked at one another…the way he seemed to take priority over everything else for you and the way you seemed to worry about him…and then the way the two of you fought, the way you seemed to go from friendship to hatred so quickly but were still able to hurt one another's feelings so easily…the energy between the two of you…" his voice trailed off for a moment as he continued to stare off into the distance. "And then, the night of the pub…as soon as I saw the way the two of you fit together, I knew I had lost." He paused to laugh. "I hadn't even lost. It was more like I finally realized I had never even been in the game. I was never any sort of competition for Draco, was I?"
"Cae…" Harry was unsure of what to say. How on earth did he respond to such a thing, even if it was true? He certainly did not want to confirm such a statement.
"It's okay, Harry," Caelix said gently. "I won't lie and say I wasn't incredibly hurt, and maybe I still am a bit, but what hurt the most was seeing with my own eyes how drawn to one another the two of you seemed to be. Even when you were angry and upset with one another, that fire was still there. I mean, let's be real," he turned to give Harry an amused grin, but Harry could see sadness in his turquoise eyes, "our kiss was nothing like that, was it? I could feel your hesitancy the entire time, and I know that it would never have happened if I had not been the one to initiate it. Even while I was kissing you, your heart was not in it the way I so wanted it to be. But watching you with Draco…the way you touched him and how much you clearly wanted him…it wasn't just your heart in it, but your entire body and soul. Don't just walk away from something that monumental, Harry."
"Caelix…I…" Harry was embarrassed to feel a lump forming in his throat. He had no idea what to say to such heartfelt words. Did Caelix really mean everything he had been saying? Was he really encouraging Harry to go back to Draco? "Maybe the real problem it didn't work was that I never deserved you."
Caelix laughed, easing some of the tension and heavy emotion that had been building between them. "I certainly won't argue with such truth. Very few do, you know. Deserve me, I mean. I am extraordinarily spectacular.
"You do, however," he continued, sounding serious but still smiling, "deserve Draco, if your feelings for one another really are genuine. And he deserves you, if he's who you want. We all deserve to be with the one we love, don't we?"
The lump in his throat grew bigger, making it impossible for Harry to speak. He threw his arms around Caelix instead, hugging him tightly. Caelix seemed surprised for a moment but returned the embrace, patting Harry's back with one hand.
"I've always heard you Gryffindors are overly-emotional creatures," he chuckled, releasing the brunet to sit back in his chair.
"And who told you that bollocks?" Harry offered him a watery smile.
Caelix grinned, still chuckling. "An overly-emotional Gryffindor."
Harry shook his head in amusement.
"What House do you think I would have been in?" Caelix wondered, tapping his chin with one long finger. "Had I been fortunate enough to go to Hogwarts, of course."
"Ravenclaw," Harry said immediately. "No bloody doubt there."
"Ah, yes of course," Caelix agreed. "That's the one for attractive geniuses, yes?"
"Oh absolutely," Harry grinned.
"Oh, and speaking of Hogwarts and reckless Gryffindors, not to mention attractive geniuses and those able to recognize such things…" Caelix glanced down at his scruffy shoes, appearing somewhat sheepish, "Your friend Dean contacted me the other day, asking if I would like to go out for a drink with him. Apparently, he's been asking other Aurors down the pub about me, to which those lovely traitors informed him just how disarmingly delightful and woefully single I am. Is that…would that be weird at all with you, do you think, if I were to say yes to him?"
Harry blinked at him for several moments. "Are you asking my permission to date one of my friends?"
Caelix flushed, dropping his gaze back down to the floor. "I suppose I am. I've never been in a situation such as this before and I'm not really sure what the proper protocol is here."
"Do you like Dean?"
Caelix blushed even harder. "Well, I mean, I only spoke to him for a moment at the pub, but…I dunno, I think I might. He's funny and smiles a lot and is certainly easy to talk to, and my fucking lord is he attractive."
"Say yes then," said Harry simply. "I'd be a right prat if I told you not to when you two might really like each other."
"Okay, I will then," Caelix said softly, smiling at Harry. "Thank you, P."
"Course, C," Harry returned the smile before laughing.
"What?" Caelix asked curiously.
"Oh, nothing really," Harry chuckled. "It's just…well, back in Hogwarts, Dean dated my ex-girlfriend for a while, before she and I dated. And you and I nearly…and now you and him…
"Christ, do I have a type or what?" Caelix laughed. "Nothing but dark-haired bisexual Gryffindors for me, apparently."
"Lucky you."
Caelix's retort died on his lips as a shadow fell over them. Glancing up, Harry saw Wescott's serious face staring down at them, and Caelix hastily cancelled the privacy spell.
"Potter," Wescott rumbled, arms folded across his chest. "Crabbe is being moved from his holding cell. We need you in interrogation room three."
"On my way, sir." Harry and Caelix both stood.
"And Caelix," Wescott continued, turning to face the Tracer, "we need those latest lab results as soon as you can get them."
"On it! Prepare yourselves for more lab results than you know what to do with!" Caelix snapped a quick salute and offered them both a cheeky grin before bouncing away, whistling to himself.
Westcott watched him skip away, shaking his head with a sigh, but Harry could see the corners of his mouth twitching. The next second, all traces of amusement were gone as he turned back to Harry. "Now, Potter," he began to stride away and Harry hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him as he spoke, "you already got the confession out of Crabbe at the safe house, so we're just looking for answers to tie up the questions we still have. What I'm mostly curious about is how he got out of Azkaban in the first place. I sent someone out there to check on that, because according to the records, he's still currently there."
"Okay, right," Harry nodded.
"Just see what you can get out of him for now, anything he'll tell us," Wescott told him, clapping him on the back as they reached the interrogation rooms. "Normally Weasley would be in there with you for this sort of thing, but he's still in St. Mungo's, so I've assigned you Pickering for the time being, since he was the one keeping an eye on Crabbe. They should both be in there already."
Nodding, Harry turned to enter the room, only to pause as Wescott's voice sounded behind him.
"Oh, and Potter?" Harry turned to face the man, noting that his demeanor was much less gruff than it normally was.
"Yes?" Was there something else Harry needed to know before entering the room?
"Damn fine job out there tonight."
Harry blinked in surprise. Wescott rarely dished out praise, and Harry felt a small smile creep over his face. "Thank you, sir." The normally stoic man offered Harry a rare smile in return before turning away from the brunet and barking orders at someone farther down the corridor.
Feeling bemused, Harry twisted the knob and entered the room.
Crabbe looked awful. That was the first thing to catch Harry's attention. The man's wrists were shackled to the arms of the chair he was sat in, head bowed and long stringy hair hanging like a greasy curtain in front of his face. His demeanor was much more subdued than Harry had been expecting, and he wondered if Crabbe had truly not counted on getting caught. Maybe he's just upset he didn't get to complete the job first. Shutting the door behind himself, Harry dropped into the seat next to Pickering, who was eyeing Crabbe with caution, as though he expected the man to leap to his feet and begin brandishing a knife.
Pulling out his wand, Harry set a recording charm and recited the names of all those present, along with the date and time before turning to Crabbe. "Five dead," he said coldly, grateful that he did not need to worm a confession out of the man shackled to the seat before him. There was no way Harry would be able to reign his emotions in enough to manipulate the man into dropping his guard by pretending to be civil. "Theodore Nott, Tracey Davis, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass. The attempted murder of two others, and all at your hand."
Silence greeted the Auror's words.
"Counting Vincent Crabbe, that makes six dead Slytherins from that year, out of a total of nine." Crabbe twitched but still did not respond. "Out of the three Slytherins still remaining, only two are accounted for. What do you know of Zabini's whereabouts?" Based on what Harry knew of Zabini, the man would not have willingly involved himself with someone such as Cyril Crabbe. Neither their motivations nor their temperaments matched up. Had Crabbe done something to the dark-skinned man, or had it been sheer coincidence that he left the Manor right before Daphne's murder?
"Dead…" Crabbe croaked in a lifeless voice. "All dead…so many dead…all…all deserved it…right? Didn't…didn't they…?"
"Are you saying that Zabini is dead?" Harry asked sharply, leaning forward in his seat. Was this a confession to Zabini's murder? But if Zabini had been murdered, where was his body? Why had Crabbe taken him somewhere else to kill him, instead of leaving him for the Aurors to find as he had seemed to delight so strongly in doing with the others?
"Dead, dead, dead," Crabbe chanted in a low, scratchy voice, gazing at the shackles on his wrists. "Dead like him…dead like me, he said…dead…why—" the man seemed to struggle with words for a moment, "why won't he help me? He…he did this…"
"Who won't help you? Are you working with someone?" Harry's voice lashed out, but Crabbe did not even appear to hear the question.
"He…he won't…he did this…he did this…why—why did he do this?" The words were stilted and odd, making Harry frown. What the hell was Crabbe on about? He had been speaking coherently enough when Harry first confronted him at the safe house. He had clearly been insane, sure, but the words had at least made some sort of sense.
"Who did this, Cyril?" Harry asked, hoping his use of the man's first name would elicit some sort of response. "Who are you talking about?"
"Cyril…" the man repeated, sounding as though the name tasted odd on his tongue. "Cyyy-ril…no…" he whispered, voice sorrowful. "No, it was…no—it was him."
"Who are you talking about? Who are you working with?"
A strange look suddenly passed over Crabbe's face, gone in the blink of an eye. "Me, all me," he answered dully, face blank. "All dead…all me."
"How did you get out of Azkaban then, if it was just you?"
The man fell silent, staring down at the floor.
"How did you know how to find the safe house?" What was the matter with the man? Earlier, he had been far too eager to talk, far too ready to scream his guilt for anyone willing to listen. But now, it was like he had completely retreated within himself. Was this a result of his time in Azkaban? Was it normal for him to switch temperaments at the drop of a hat? Was this personality change completely in character for him? "You were able to find the house when you shouldn't have been, you even knew exactly where to go within it to find the safe room! I'm done playing your sick games, Crabbe, I want the answers! How did you know where to go?!"
The man was silent for several minutes, but Harry simply sat and waited. Finally, Crabbe raised his head to pin Harry in place with a strange haunting stare. "Told," he said softly, head tilted at an odd angle like a hollow marionette doll, one with chipped paint and broken strings long cast aside by its maker; Harry shivered at the sight. "I—he—we were—I was told."
"Told?" The single word felt razor-sharp as it sliced from Harry's throat. "Told by who?" Who the hell would have told Crabbe such a thing and how exactly would they have informed him? In person? Through post? Who were they and how were they in contact with him? Was it someone in the Ministry?
"Told…" Crabbe's voice was so soft Harry had to lean forward to hear him. "Told…he told m-me…"
"Who told you?" Harry forced himself to speak in a low voice, hoping that if he matched the same tone as Crabbe, the man would be more willing to answer than if Harry continued to shout.
"He…my…" Crabbe struggled again for words, looking as though they were being forced up his throat, shocking Harry when they finally tripped their way free. "My…my son…"
"Your son?" What the hell did Crabbe mean by that? His son…? No, that had to have been a mistake. He only had one son and he had been dead for years, for Christ's sake! There was no way Vincent Crabbe had told his father anything; it simply was not possible.
Just like everything else in this case so far, a nasty voice in Harry's head reminded him, and it was a voice he could not argue with.
But something like this…? There was simply no way that Vincent Crabbe could still be walking around, telling people things. Harry had been there when Crabbe had died, after all—he knew for a fact that Crabbe was long deceased. And there was no way that Harry would not have been made aware if Vincent Crabbe had come back as a ghost.
"What do you mean your son?" Harry had been aiming for a harsh tone, but it only sounded bewildered to his ears. "Your son is dead."
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no." The words were muttered in a clumsy rush, gaining speed as the shackled man continued, "Nononononononononononononononononononononononono—"
"What does that mean?!" Harry interrupted, feeling off-kilter and strange. A shiver tingled down his spine and he attempted to shake it off as best he could. "Your son is dead, Crabbe, I was there! You said it yourself! Isn't that why you've been killing all his classmates? Because you blame them for his death? Bit petty of you to kill them for his death if he's not actually dead, isn't it?"
At that, Crabbe's head snapped up, startling Harry. The two men were suddenly making eye contact, and Harry did not want to admit to himself how frightening he found gazing into Cyril Crabbe's eyes to be. It was like looking into an abyss; it was like gazing into a vast dark nothingness that had no end. It felt like Harry was staring into an open grave, one he was terrified of tumbling into if not careful.
"Not…actually dead," Crabbe echoed, staring at Harry with hollow eyes. "He's not dead…not dead…told me…he's dead…he told me…that's—that's why…all dead and that's why…all dead…" Without warning, Crabbe suddenly screamed, straining against the shackles holding him firmly to the heavy chair. "CHILDREN MURDERED BECAUSE HE'S DEAD! HE KILLED THEM BECAUSE HE'S DEAD! MURDERED—MY SON! MY SON! HE'S—MY SON—MURDERED! DEAD! ALL DEAD! MY SON—KILLED! My son…" Appearing to have exhausted himself, Crabbe collapsed back in his chair, breathing heavily. "My son…my son…my son…my son…my son…all dead…son…help me…" The words trailed off into a whisper, leaving the room in ringing silence.
A shiver of fear ran through Harry as he gazed at Crabbe in shock, completely unsure how to handle his strange words and unexpected screaming fit. What did Crabbe mean? How did Harry even begin to make sense of any of what he had said?
"How did you escape Azkaban?" Harry asked in a hoarse voice, uncertain how to continue the interrogation. Were they even capable of getting any sort of clear answers from someone in such a state? Obviously, the man was not in his right mind and most likely had not been for decades.
"My son…" Crabbe whispered, voice as blank as his expression. "My son…"
"Who helped you escape Azkaban, Crabbe?" Harry repeated. Who on earth would ever have helped Cyril Crabbe escape Azkaban to kill off his son's old housemates?
"My son…my son…my son…"
"Hey," Pickering said suddenly, leaning in close to Harry to speak in a quiet voice. "Do you mind terribly if I take a break? This bloke is freaking me out something fierce, I don't know if I can take any more right now. I can send Scrivens in if you want to continue."
"Yeah, go ahead," Harry waved him off half-heartedly, understanding the man's need for a little space from Crabbe. Harry was freaked out something fierce as well if he was being honest with himself. "Go get some tea or some fresh air or something."
"Right, thank you," said Pickering, sounding relieved. "Scrivens will be right in."
The sound of the door closing behind Pickering sounded far too loud in the granite silence of the tiny room. Long minutes of deafening quiet passed before the door opened to reveal Scrivens, appearing apprehensive as he took the recently-vacated seat. His face was pale and pinched, looking wary and almost pained.
"Pickering said to prepare myself," he murmured in a worried voice. As he sat, he shook his head slightly, as though attempting to throw off a headache.
"Definitely not a bad idea," Harry sighed, eyeing Scrivens carefully, who was gazing at Crabbe with an undisguised hint of fear in his eyes. Sighing again, Harry also turned his attention back to the man still shackled to a chair. "Now," he began, trying not to sound as weary as he felt, "let's try this again, Crabbe, shall we? How did you escape from Azkaban?"
"My son my son my son my son my son," Crabbe mumbled, staring down at the floor as though reading his words from its surface, growing more and more frantic as he continued. "Mysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmysonmyson—"
"What does that mean?" Harry yelled, feeling frustration and dread grow with every passing utterance of 'my son'. What the hell did that mean? Was Crabbe stuck on some sort of mental loop? Or was he actually answering the question? "Are you saying that your son is the one who broke you out of Azkaban?"
Crabbe gazed at him without expression. "Son…yes…h-he—all dead…so many dead…"
"Your son is one of the dead ones, though, Crabbe," Harry reminded him harshly, skin prickling with discomfort. "How could he have broken you out when he was the first Slytherin to die, hmm? He died years ago."
"Son…my son…not dead…" Crabbe continued to stare at him with vacant eyes. "Not—not dead…my son…"
Harry had to resist the urge to slam his fist down on the table. What was wrong with the man? "I was there, Crabbe, I know your son is dead!"
"No," Crabbe whispered, shaking his head slowly from side-to-side without removing his gaze from Harry's. "No, no, no…no…my son…no…"
"Are you saying he never died?" Harry asked sharply, trying to ignore the slither of fear creeping up his spine. Crabbe was clearly insane, wasn't he? Obviously, the man was suffering from some sort of delusion. Vincent Crabbe was dead, Harry knew that to be fact, no matter what his unstable father was saying.
"Never…died…" Crabbe breathed, staring at Harry as though somehow willing him to understand what the words meant, but Harry wasn't sure if he had ever been more bewildered in his life. "My son…my son…my son…my—my son n-n-never died…"
"Where is he now, then?" Maybe if Harry played along, Crabbe would give him some kind of real answer. "Where is your son right now, Cyril?"
"Son…my son…my son…" The words were haunted and spoken in a low, scratchy voice, sending chills through Harry's chest. "My son…my son…my son…my son…"
"And how did your son break you out of Azkaban, then, if he's still alive?" Harry asked in a calm voice, wondering if Crabbe really did believe that his son had somehow risen from the dead in order to break his malicious father out of prison.
"My son…my son…" Crabbe's chin dropped forward to meet his chest, gazing down at his lap as he mumbled to himself, over and over, "my son…my son…my son…my son…my son…"
Harry watched him silently for several minutes, wondering if the man would say anything else, but he only continued to repeat the two words to himself in a dull, lifeless voice.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Harry sighed before climbing to his feet. "Right," he said down to Scrivens, "I don't think we're going to get any more out of him right now. Let's give us all a break and try again a bit later, yeah?"
"Sounds good to me," Scrivens agreed in a relieved voice. "I can see now why Pickering was so mad to get out of here."
"Yeah," said Harry listlessly, heading for the door. He had nearly reached it when a shocked gasp from behind had him whirling back around to face the room. Immediately, he saw the cause of Scrivens' horrified surprise.
Cyril Crabbe sat trembling in the chair he was bound to, fingers scrabbling against the wooden arms as he struggled uselessly against his holds. But something wasn't right…something was different about him…Harry echoed Scrivens' gasp as he watched Crabbe's hair thicken and turn from dirty-grey to chestnut brown. His nose shortened as his chin rounded, cheekbones shifting higher and fingers thinning somewhat, becoming more delicate than before. His chest expanded as his shoulders became less broad, neck thinning above the new features. Feeling horrified, Harry watched as Crabbe's entire body adjusted and changed, becoming someone new. Someone Harry had certainly not been expecting.
"No," Harry whispered, wondering if he might be sick—because the person sitting before him, still shackled to the chair, was no longer Cyril Crabbe.
It was Wilona Goyle.
"My son," she whispered.
oOo
Draco stared lifelessly out the window, listening to the rhythm of the raindrops striking the glass. Goyle's house was cold but Draco could not be bothered to raise his wand, not even to cast a warming charm. The cold seemed to be seeping outwards through his body, as though his heart had frozen into a block of ice within his chest that was radiating cold throughout him to infect the rest of the house with creeping glacial fingers.
Harry hated him.
How would anything ever be able to warm Draco again when he knew with such certainty that Harry now hated him and wanted nothing more to do with Draco? How could Draco ever live with himself knowing that he had had Harry Potter's love, only to lose it due to his own stupid actions? Why hadn't he told Harry about Cyril? Why had he ever gone to Wisp in the first place? It had all seemed to make so much sense at the time, and yet now…
Sighing, Draco attempted to blink back the unpleasant emotions churning through him. He had survived the dreaded attacks but lost Harry in the process. He snorted as he realized that the only reason Harry had ever re-entered his life was because of the attacks; perhaps their relationship was meant to have only lasted until the investigation was over. After all, a part of Draco had always known there would be a time limit on it. A part of him had always known that he would never be allowed to hold onto Harry Potter for very long.
He had clearly never deserved Harry in the first place, and he could not fault the man for finally realizing it.
Don't touch me…don't ever touch me…
The words Harry had spoken to him only so short a time ago made the ice in Draco's heart creep even further into his chest, burrowing deep and settling in his bones until he felt as though winter had descended on his every limb, taken up residence in his soul and left him a hollow, frostbitten shell.
Goodbye, Draco…goodbye…
"Goodbye," Draco whispered, wondering how it was even possible to continue breathing through such pain. Harry had said goodbye—Harry had walked away. And now Draco would be alone forever. He was more alone than he had ever been in his entire life, far more alone than he had been before the attacks. He had now lost everybody he had ever cared about—his friends were gone, Blaise was gone, his mother was gone, Pansy was gone, and now Harry was gone. Harry had vanished just as Draco had started to allow himself to truly believe that the brunet loved him, that he would stand by Draco through anything. For the first time in his life, Draco had started to believe that real love might just exist.
But now, he knew better. Now, he finally knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that love was nothing more than self-delusion and pretty lies. It was never real, it could never last, and it always ended in tragedy. Draco should have known that the universe would never have allowed him the happiness he had found in Harry's arms to last very long.
A crippling pain slashed through Draco as he wondered if Harry would turn to Caelix for comfort. Would he decide that Caelix had been the better option all along and take the man up on his obvious attraction to Potter? Was he with Caelix at that very moment, speaking quietly in a corner of the Ministry, perhaps? Trading looks and touches, kisses and promises? Declarations and reconciliations?
Oh, god. Draco felt as though he would be sick. What had he done?
"Draco?" a deep voice rumbled behind him, and Draco half-turned to see Gregory standing several feet away. "You okay? What are you doing?"
"Just thinking," Draco muttered, turning back to gaze out of the dark window once more. "Were you surprised, Gregory? When you saw it was Cyril Crabbe?"
"Well, yeah," Goyle responded, sounding perplexed. "Who the fuck would have expected it to be that piece of shite? He's meant to be in Azkaban, yeah? Weren't you surprised?"
"Yes and no," Draco sighed. Finally, he understood how keeping things hidden could come back to bite him on the arse. Was this not a sign that he should start being more honest in his relationships? Did he not owe Gregory the truth, as both his only living friend and someone who had been directly involved in everything?
"What does that mean?" Goyle still sounded confused, and Draco turned to see the man scratching his head in bewilderment.
"I knew it was him," Draco admitted in a low voice. "I knew it was Vincent's father."
"How would you know that?" Greg asked in a slow voice, stepping closer.
"Because," Draco took a deep breath, "because I hired a man, an ex-Hit wizard, to track down Pansy's killer, and his investigation led him to Cyril."
"So," Goyle seemed to struggle to make sense of Draco's words, "so you knew who it was the whole time? Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"That's not all," Draco continued, determined to air everything. "Wisp also told me that Cyril had been receiving a visitor in Azkaban for the past several months. Always the same person."
"Who the fuck would ever want to visit that sodding cunt?" Goyle grunted, sounding upset. "Not even Vince would ever have gone."
The words made Draco wince. "But that's who it was, Gregory."
"That's who what was?"
"It was Vincent. Wisp said that according to the log book and the wand registration, there could be no doubt. Vince was the one visiting his father."
"That's not funny, Draco," Greg said sharply, words now edged in anger. "That's not fucking funny. It can't be Vince, so don't fucking say something like that!"
"It's not meant to be a joke!" Draco snapped, turning fully to face the larger man. "I told Wisp the same thing, but he said there's no way to fool the magic when presenting one's wand! According to the registration, it was Vince!"
"Vince is dead!" Goyle shouted, taking a step forward. "It took me so long to finally realize that he's never coming back! So don't you fucking say something like that to me now!"
"But what if he's the one who broke his father out of Azkaban?" Draco asked in a whisper. "What if he really did somehow come back? What if Cyril and Vince are working together, and he's as equally behind these attacks as his father?"
"It's not fucking Vince! Why would he kill a bunch of purebloods?! You're wrong, Draco! He's dead and that's not fair to blame him when he's dead!"
"I don't want it to be true, Gregory," said Draco sharply. Never before in their entire time of knowing one another could Draco ever remember Greg raising his voice to the blond. Draco and Vincent had gotten in their share of arguments over the years, but never Gregory. Out of the three of them, Greg had always been the peacekeeper. But now, he stood there glaring at Draco, one step forward in a menacing stance and brown eyes flashing dangerously.
"Then stop fucking saying it!"
"You can't just ignore me because you don't like what I've got to say!"
A low, ugly laugh escaped Goyle as he stepped even closer. "Christ, Draco, you don't ever change, do you? You just don't know when to let things go. You don't know how to back down even for your own fucking good, do you?"
A shiver of fear suddenly wracked Draco at the tone in the other man's voice. The entire house was deathly silent, not the tiniest hint of noise beyond the storm still raging outside. "Gregory," he said slowly, legs suddenly telling him to run, brain suddenly screaming Danger! "Where is your mother?"
At the question, a toothy, unpleasant smile slid across Goyle's face. "Finally stopped thinking about yourself long enough to notice, huh?"
"Where is she?" Draco repeated, feeling terror freeze him in place. Fear had settled over every inch of him and he wasn't quite sure where it was coming from or what he was so afraid of, other than the fact that his instincts were telling him that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
"Gone," Greg answered nastily, a moment before he lifted one large fist and slammed it into Draco's head, and then the entire world went black.
"Draaaco? Hellooo?" A voice was saying something, Draco could hear it. But everything was dark and he could not quite make out what the words meant. "Draaaco?" the same sing-song voice tried again, but still, Draco could not quite seem able to climb out of the dark pit he was trapped in; he could not respond to the voice from such depth and darkness.
"Draco!" Without warning, two rough hands seized his shoulders and shook, snapping him back into awareness. His eyes flicked open and he sucked in a startled breath as he was suddenly face-to-face with a grinning, furious Goyle.
"Greg?" he whispered fearfully, attempting to pull away only to find that he could not move. His arms were wrenched painfully above his head, and he glanced up to find them shackled to the ceiling, heavy chains preventing his escape. His head throbbed and he blinked for several moments as he attempted to clear the lingering cobwebs from his mind. "Greg…what the hell is going on?"
"Oh, look who's finally awake," Goyle drawled, stepping back to eye Draco with contempt. "You almost missed all the fun, Draco, trying to sleep through it like that. Just the same selfish arsehole you've always been."
"What," Draco croaked, throat sore and parched, "what are you talking about? Gregory, what the fuck is going on?"
"I thought you were meant to be the smart one," Goyle grinned, crossing his arms as he surveyed Draco. "Isn't that what you always liked everyone to think? Isn't that what you always told me and Vince? You were the smart one, and we were the dumb muscle, yeah?"
"I never said that," Draco defended automatically.
"But obviously not smart enough to realize you were doing it," the man spat, fury emanating from his every pore. "You always looked down on me and Vince, admit it."
"Greg, I never—"
"ADMIT IT!" Goyle screamed, stepping forward to spit the words right in Draco's face.
But Draco struggled to admit such a thing even to himself, despite knowing it to be true. Yes, he had always looked down on the other two. "What have you done, Gregory?" he asked instead, shifting his arms to try to relieve some of the pained pressure on them. "What on earth have you done?"
"I've done what I needed to do," Greg snarled. "I've balanced everything out."
"Balanced everything…" The throbbing in his head was getting worse; Draco could not make sense of the other man's words. "What does that even mean, you've balanced everything?"
"Not the smart one at all," Goyle muttered, shaking his head. "What I mean, Draco, is that all that was wrong and fucked in this world I've now righted."
"You mean…" Draco's words trailed off as a dawning horror crept up on him, "Gregory, are you saying…are you the one behind all this?"
"Finally got there, did you?" Greg spat gleefully, eyes crazed as he glared at Draco. "Knew you would get there eventually, Mr Fucking Genius."
"But…but…" Draco felt at a complete loss for words. No, surely he was dreaming. This was clearly some horrible nightmare he was having and any moment he would wake to find himself in bed. This had to be a nightmare! Please, just wake up already! he pleaded to himself. "But how would you…? Why?"
"Why? WHY! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN WHY?!" Goyle screamed, stepping forward to shake Draco roughly. "YOU SELFISH SODDING STUPID FUCKING PRAT!" He shook him even harder before stepping back completely and eyeing Draco with pure loathing. "You really have no idea why things needed balancing? Really, Draco? You can't think of one single reason why things needed to be this way?"
Dread slithered down Draco's parched throat, sliding into his lungs and stomach to join the terror already pooled there. "Vince," he whispered, shrinking back as Greg's teeth snapped together.
"Five points to Slytherin," he sneered, fury still radiating from him. "Did you really think I would have just allowed things to end like that? With Vince being the only one to be punished for everything?"
"It's not punishment if his death was his own fault!" Draco snapped, struggling against the shackles binding his wrists above his head. Already knowing it to be futile, he yanked on the chains regardless, praying they would give. How could he have never noticed all the hatred shining out at him from Greg's brown eyes?
"HIS DEATH WAS YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO TOOK US THERE! WE WERE ONLY IN THAT FUCKING ROOM BECAUSE OF YOU!"
The words echoed through the empty house, accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "But I didn't make him start that fire."
"You always thought yourself the fucking leader, didn't you?" Greg spat, eyes gleaming maniacally, and the sight made Draco shrink back in fear. "Always thought me and Vince were too stupid to do things on our own without you ordering us around every single fucking second!"
"I didn't kill him, Gregory," Draco said frantically, wrenching at the chains once more. "I didn't kill Vince!"
"But you may as well have," said Goyle in a cold voice. "It was your fault even if you didn't kill him. You may as fucking well have."
"But why the others?" Draco cried, twisting away from the other man. "They didn't do anything! They weren't even there!"
"VINCE SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN THE ONLY ONE TO DIE!" Greg roared, causing Draco to flinch away from the sound. "HE WAS THE ONLY ONE OF OUR ENTIRE YEAR OF SLYTHERINS TO DIE AND IT'S NOT FUCKING RIGHT! IT'S NOT RIGHT THAT HE'S DEAD WHEN AN ARROGANT PIECE OF SHITE LIKE YOU IS STILL BREATHING!"
"Why didn't you just kill me then?" Draco felt numb—this could not be happening. It had to be a nightmare, it simply could not be happening. That could not be the reason Pansy and the others had been killed. "If you blame me so much, why not just kill me and be done with it? It's not the fault of the others that they lived and Vincent didn't!"
"I don't care," Goyle responded, breathing heavily. "I don't fucking care. You say it wasn't fair that they died? Well, I say it wasn't fair that my best friend had to die, either. And it wasn't even enough that I lost my only friend in the entire world—no, the entire world had to make sure I was reminded of just how much he deserved to die every single fucking day! He wasn't even allowed to have a funeral! There wasn't even a body to bury! So don't give me that shite about the unfairness of it, Draco! Life has never once been fair to anyone, so grow the fuck up already!"
An icy tear, matching the temperature of his insides, slid down Draco's cheek. "Did it really make you feel better to kill them, Gregory? Did it really make Vincent's passing more bearable?"
At the questions, Gregory barked a sharp laugh. "You know, Draco, it really, really did. They may not have been guiltier than Vince but they sure as hell weren't more innocent. They deserved what happened to them."
"They never tried to kill anyone! But Vince did! Vince tried to kill all of us that day, including you! He didn't think twice about the fact that you were in the room as well before he started that fire!"
"YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW THAT!" Greg screamed, fists clenching at his sides. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE WAS THINKING THAT DAY! YOU NEVER FUCKING KNEW HIM, DRACO! YOU NEVER KNEW EITHER ONE OF US!"
Silence fell. Draco felt completely taken aback, completely unsure how to respond. Was that true? Had he never really known either of them? Was the person standing before him someone Gregory had become, or someone he had always been? Should Draco have seen this coming?
"Was this whole thing revenge against me?" The question was asked before Draco was even aware of thinking it.
"Of course," Greg responded sarcastically, shaking his head at Draco in disgust, "because absolutely everything in this fucking world is about you, isn't it? This was for Vince, Draco, even if you're the reason he's gone."
No, he's wrong, Draco thought to himself, eyes narrowing. "I'm sorry that you think that, Greg—"
"I THINK THAT BECAUSE THAT'S THE WAY IT IS! HE'S DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU! AND YOU DON'T EVEN MISS HIM! YOU NEVER FUCKING CARED ABOUT HIM, JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE IN HIS LIFE! EVERYONE WAS SO GLAD WHEN HE DIED! EVERYONE SAW HIM AS A SLYTHERIN AND A DEATH EATER AND NOTHING MORE!" Goyle paused to breathe heavily. "But he wasn't the only one, now, was he? You took the Mark at sixteen. Me and Vince both took the Mark a year later. Theo's father was a Death Eater too, just like ours. You know he would've taken the Mark too if the war hadn't ended. Most of the Slytherins in our year were connected to Death Eaters in some way, but Vince was the only one who died for it." He grinned menacingly. "But not anymore. Now, things are balanced.
"And now, Draco," his smile widened into a toothy grin, one that made Draco cringe away in terror, "now, I'm going to balance out a few more things." The words made Draco's stomach drop as his heart began to pound, hammering so fast he was sure it would somehow break. Was Gregory saying it was now Draco's turn? Goyle glanced past Draco, calling, "You can come out now," to someone behind him, and Draco began to thrash in his chains even harder, wondering just who the hell the man had been speaking to.
Shock stilled his movements as Blaise walked into his line of sight, staring at Draco impassively.
"Blaise?" he whispered, feeling sick with confusion. "Blaise, what are you…what are you doing here? Are you helping him?"
Blaise said nothing, staring at Draco with a blank look that sent a shiver down Draco's spine. What the hell was wrong with the man?
"Blaise! Fucking answer me!"
"Oh, he won't," Goyle interrupted, sounding bored.
"What does that mean?" Draco snarled, wrestling with his constraints once more. "Why the fuck won't he answer?"
Goyle shot him a smug look. "Because I haven't told him to yet."
"Haven't told him…" Staring at Blaise's vacant expression, it suddenly hit Draco like a slap to the head. "Oh god, you've Imperiused him."
"You know, I think you can have another five points to Slytherin for that," Greg said thoughtfully, stepping close to Blaise and shaking him roughly. "He's like a breathing puppet, isn't he?"
"Why, Gregory?" Draco felt nausea and dread creep up his throat like sour bile. Was Greg the one who had taken the man from the Manor the day of Daphne's murder? Had he killed her and then gone immediately to Blaise's room? Why go to the trouble? Why change up the original pattern by kidnapping one of the targets instead of killing him?
"Simple, Draco," Goyle grinned, "I wanted you to watch him die. And I needed a bit of help with some of it, which is where my puppet comes in. He distracted the Aurors at the safe house, like a good puppet."
"Don't, Greg," Draco pleaded, yanking hard on the chains and feeling as though his arms would tear straight from his body. "Please! Please don't kill him! Just let him go, please! You don't have to kill him!"
"Dra…co…" Blaise's soft voice cut through the air, immediately quieting Draco's struggles as the blond turned to Blaise in shock. "Dra…co…"
"Blaise," Draco whispered. "Oh, god, Blaise!"
"Stupid bastard won't stop fighting it," Greg sighed, shaking his head. "Not the first time he's said your name, you know."
"Blaise!" Draco cried, feeling blood slowly beginning to seep out under the cuffs of the shackles and run down the length of his arms as the skin on his wrists tore from the force of his struggles. "Blaise! I'm right here, Blaise, snap out of it! Please," the blond sobbed, "please, Blaise, you're stronger than this, I know you are!"
"Dra…co…" Blaise whispered, and Draco was horrified to see a single tear roll down the man's cheek. His limbs twitched as though he was attempting to move but was frozen to the spot.
A sharp laugh like breaking glass tore from Goyle's throat. "He's right over there, Zabini," he cooed, leaning in close to speak in Blaise's ear. "Draco's right over there, tied up and waiting to be gutted. I'm going to carve him into tiny bloody pieces. Right after you."
More tears rolled down Blaise's face, the very first time Draco had ever witnessed him cry. "No…Dra…co…"
"Crucio!"
Draco screamed as the spell hit Blaise, body falling to the floor and contorting grotesquely, mouth twisted wide in an agonized scream although not a single sound escaped him.
"STOP IT, GREG! STOP!"
Goyle laughed in response before finally lifting the spell. The tears were streaming freely down Draco's cheeks as Blaise twitched helplessly on the floor, face still blank.
"Greg, stop," Draco sobbed, swaying weakly in his chains as he wept.
"But don't you want to see what happened with all the others?" Greg asked innocently, holding up his wand. "Don't you want to know just what exactly it was I did to them?"
"Please stop," Draco begged, clenching his eyes shut tight. "Please."
"Crucio!"
Draco screamed again, even though he had his eyes closed and could not hear a thing. Blaise was not screaming, but Draco certainly was.
"STOP IT, GREGORY! STOP! PLEASE, YOU DON'T NEED TO DO THIS!" Fresh sobs shook Draco's frame. "Please, just stop! You don't need to drag it out like this!" He wept bitterly, desperate to make the man just stop. His sobs quieted, however, as he felt a sudden change in his surroundings. The air around him was growing dry and hot, a crackling energy spreading through the entire room, as though the lightning outside had somehow found a way inside the house.
Draco recognized the feeling. The air felt the same as it had the day of Daphne's murder, when Dark magic had spread through the Manor like cancerous smoke, affecting everything it touched with arid fingers made of Darkness and fire.
"He's right, Gregory, we don't have time for this," a voice spoke somewhere behind Draco, and Draco's eyes flew open automatically at the sound. He recognized that voice, he knew that voice. He had known it nearly his entire life, recognized it since childhood, sat next to it in classes. It was a voice that he had never expected to hear ever again, because the owner of that voice was dead. That voice should not be walking around speaking when Draco knew for a fact it should be just as dead as its owner. After all, Draco had been there as they died, had heard it with his own ears and seen it with his own eyes.
Footsteps sounded softly against the floor as the owner of the voice strode forward, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut once more, suddenly frightened to finally see the face he knew he would find, the one he had thought was lost forever. They were dead, this was not possible! How was it possible? How was any of this possible?
"Hello, Draco," the voice said directly in front of him, and slowly, Draco opened his eyes to see the owner of that voice standing before him, exactly whom he had been expecting and yet never expected to see again, knocking him into open-mouthed shock.
"Daphne," he whispered.