Thanks to all of you for all your well-wishes regarding my breakup. Unfortunately, it needed to be done.
The co-owner who is just starting to be an Operations partner in my company is coming in to wreck everything. He's forcing me to reduce wages for my existing entry-level employees and its SOOFUCKINGSTUPIDANDIHATEIT. So I'll be dealing with the backlash of that for a while, but I'll for sure have an update on Saturday.
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"Rowena Ravenclaw's family came from southern Bulgaria..." said Hermione thoughtfully.
"They didn't. It's a commonly known fact that Ravenclaw was from Scotland, and anyway, there's no mistaking that brogue."
"Not according to this. Her family must have emigrated at some point."
"Well, that'll explain her dark features."
"Right," Hermione agreed, flipping back to the book's title page. "Oh, my God. This was published in the year 1003!"
"... How exciting."
"Draco, in the 1000s, European borders were much different from what they are today," she explained pedantically. "Back then, that area would have been part of the Bulgarian Empire; today, it's called Albania."
Sigh. "And I suppose this is significant, for some reason?"
"Yes! Albania is where Voldemort hid for more than a decade after the curse rebounded!" She returned to the paragraph she had been reading and said pensively, "I'd just assumed that he chose Albania because it was still a socialist nation at the time, but - "
"Albania was a what?"
"A socialist nation, it's -" She stopped abruptly, turning in bed to face him as though she'd had some sort of epiphany. "What do you know about the Second World War, Draco?"
"I know what Binns said back in fourth year. That the Wizarding World kept out of it."
"So… so, you don't know anything about the Holocaust."
"What is that, a spell of some sort? A curse? Get to the point, Granger."
Hermione watched him apprehensively. "It's the historical name given to the mass extermination of European Jews by the fascist tyrant, Adolf Hitler."
"Jews. You mean the Jewish religion?"
Nod. "It is a religion. But it's also a people. It's a culture all by itself."
"When you say 'mass extermination'..."
"I mean more than six million - and that's only what the records show. There's really no way to accurately determine the death toll because their captors didn't think them worthy of proper documentation."
"Six million? That's -"
" - Almost as much as the entire population of London."
"To what end? What was the purpose?"
"Control. Power. Hate… there's plenty of speculation as to the reasoning behind his actions, but the main point was that Hitler - and his regime - considered the Jews to be an inferior race."
"No. No, there's no way he'd have gotten away with that. Somebody would have interfered, they'd have put an end to it."
"They did, eventually - but it wasn't to save the Jews. The rest of the Muggle world only stepped in when it became clear that their own countries were at risk."
"Granger, what you're saying - it isn't possible. Six million people, that's inconceivable - it's staggering -"
"It wasn't inconceivable to the victims, Draco," she said quietly. "What do you suppose will happen if Voldemort takes over?"
But Draco knew a loaded question when he heard one.
"Drawn the parallels, have you?" Hermione asked crisply.
.
.
Draco pulled off his dragonhide gloves, discarding them on the surface of the Potions work table before he ran his hands down his tired face, scrubbing at sleep-weary eyes with the tips of thin fingers. Tuesday had dawned with a pounding headache and a subtle, but very distracting, prickling in his left arm - compounded by the fact that it was raining, which, for Draco, meant the start of a very miserable day indeed.
As a child, Draco had enjoyed the rain - he'd loved to run out and play in it when his parents weren't keeping a close enough eye on him, mainly to cause them distress, but he'd been a kid then. As an adult, not only was it tedious and quite irritating to get wet, but all of Draco's worst experiences also seemed to happen in poor weather. Thunder clouds almost invariably brought with them a sense of foreboding, and having woken up to the sheets of rain pelting against his dormitory window meant that Draco's nerves were already on edge.
Hermione, on the other hand, apparently loved the rain. She had practically jumped out of bed, gazing out at the blurred landscape as though she'd never witnessed the forces of nature in her entire life, which would have been more curious to him if she wasn't still naked. But she was still naked, and Draco had therefore been distracted enough to disregard that peculiarity and focus instead on the spectacular view of her arse.
"I love days like this," she'd said softly as she leaned over the window sill, so close to the glass that her breath had fanned out over the pane when she spoke.
Draco had snorted in response and then tossed the duvet away from his body. "What's good about the rain, Granger?"
"It's beautiful to watch, isn't it? Don't be so grumpy, Malfoy," she'd replied, abandoning the embrasure in favor of the bathroom. She paused in the archway and fastened her eyes to his when he didn't immediately follow. "Aren't you coming to shower?"
Yes, Draco had been considerably happier by the time the two of them finally left for breakfast, but his migraine had stubbornly persisted and his Mark had continued to sting. Hermione had been positively chipper, which was both endearing and aggravating to behold: aggravating because Draco was in a foul mood and therefore felt that it was surely an injustice that she was not, and endearing because she was beautiful when she smiled.
But, he reasoned, she also didn't have the same cause to be frustrated as Draco did because she hadn't been awake to see him sit bolt upright in bed the night before, sweating and pale-faced, with the imprint of his Mark searing as he cast frantically around until he realized that he wasn't, in fact, at Malfoy Manor, and that there was no misshapen Dark Lord, no monstrous snake threatening to devour him, no Death Eaters jeering at the prospect of his impending death - that he was actually safe in his own bed at Hogwarts, the bed that he was now sharing with a peacefully oblivious Hermione Granger.
This, Draco had realized, was just one out of a whole host of problems that his subconscious occluding had brought him: his nightmares had returned sevenfold, with unparalleled intensity and a disturbing vividness that made his blood run cold with fear. He hadn't been aware that Occlumency was the reason for their absence, but now that he looked back on it, Draco couldn't remember having dreamt of anything, pleasant or otherwise, in more than a year. The effects of unknowingly blocking his mind ran much deeper than Draco had thought possible and they were still wreaking havoc on his brain as he struggled to maintain a balance - hence his horrific headache that had not yet faded.
And after the sound of his own racing heart had eased into a dull roar, Draco settled back against the headboard of the four-poster bed and looked down at his witch - and she was, undoubtedly, his witch - with something akin to longing.
The truth was that Draco had never felt as close to anyone before, and the sentiment was as troublesome as it was refreshing. To be fair, he hadn't confided in her as often as Draco admitted he probably needed to (that was what lovers were meant to do, wasn't it? Share their secrets and worries and fears?) and certainly less than she deserved, but the fact remained that she was the only person he felt comfortable talking to, and the only person with whom he was content. Draco couldn't ever recall feeling the same way about another person before: everyone in his life had been cold and distant, including his mother and especially his father.
Hermione Granger held no outrageous expectations of him and made no demands. She had faith in him, believed in him… and yet for all that easy companionability, Draco felt very far from her, as though she was merely a reflection in the looking glass, separated by a world of prejudice and never close enough to actually touch.
He had to wonder whether it was truly wise for Hermione to involve herself with him, for Snape's words continued to echo in his mind:
...how tragically reckless you are for putting that girl in such a dangerous position... I have seen firsthand what atrocities your father is capable of… the epitome of hatred against Muggleborns… she is the one who shall bear the weight of the consequences…
There was no question that Draco's father was a bigot, for it was Lucius who had ingrained those same beliefs in his son, even to the point of physically punishing Draco for failing to outshine Hermione Granger in lessons. He had taught Draco to fight for a world where she and others like her existed in a rigid caste system, for a society where Muggleborns were treated like the second-class citizens they supposedly were.
But was Lucius Malfoy really a danger to her, as Snape had so forcefully claimed? Draco knew, to some extent, that his father was a corrupt, vicious, and even inhumane wizard, because he knew - had seen - what Death Eaters got up to, during revels especially. His father was by no means innocent of the horrors inflicted upon Muggles and Mudbloods, and neither was Snape, for that matter - though his professor was very rarely in attendance of such lurid celebrations because of his position. Draco himself was never forced to participate, a request made by his mother because he'd been underage at the time, but he had of course been present, had been made to witness the carnage… but Granger was just a girl, and there had never been someone so young -
And the thought made Draco shudder involuntarily, clutching the duvet in white-knuckled fists as the same gruesome images played across the darkness in front of him, but where the faces of nameless women had been, Hermione's was there instead.
Were there limits for his father? Would the fact that Granger was Draco's choice be a deterrent? Snape didn't think so. Though Draco had promptly occluded those ghastly thoughts from his mind, and though he had known that he'd guarded himself against any further nightmares, Draco hadn't slept for many more hours afterward.
"Late night?" asked Blaise Zabini.
His Potions partner had just returned from leaving a sample of their work with Slughorn to be marked, and Blaise's superior look was infuriating enough for Draco to want to hex the smugness right off his face. But Blaise was one of the few allies Draco had left, and he wasn't eager to be rid of what friendships he could hold on to where other Slytherins were concerned. Draco could only suffer the company of so many Gryffindors, after all, and Blaise had seemed willing enough to forget their heated conversations regarding Granger.
Still, he knew what Blaise was implying, and Draco was determined not to rise to the bait.
"You could say that," he grumbled in return, setting about cleaning off the workspace with his wand.
"And what kept you up all night?"
"Studying," replied Draco. It seemed to be his default answer these days.
"Anatomy?"
Draco did not turn to look at him. "History," he said, which wasn't a lie: Rowena Ravenclaw's early life would definitely fall under that category, even if Hermione Granger had been leaning against his chest without clothes on at the time.
"There's been a lot of gossip in the common room, you know," said Blaise luringly.
"Oh?"
"People are wondering what you and the Golden Trio are getting up to, running through the corridors on the weekends."
Draco snorted. "You expect me to believe that there were Slytherins above ground on a Sunday?"
And when Blaise said nothing, Draco felt the choking grip of anger creep into his throat.
"Are you telling me that little first-year bitch is still trailing me through the castle?" asked Draco, careful to keep the fury from manifesting in his voice.
Blaise shrugged. "It's a hot topic of conversation recently."
And from this, Draco understood that Blaise was not just trying to goad him: he was trying to warn him that he was being followed. Draco wasn't sure whether to be peeved or grateful for it.
"It's nothing anyone needs to be concerned about," Draco lied, hoping that it would be enough to quell Blaise's concealed worry.
"But they are your mates now," Blaise stated, though it sounded closer to a question than anything else.
What to say to that? Potter and Weasley could hardly be considered Draco's friends, and Granger was obviously much more, but people would talk either way. It was nothing less than expected, and if conceding would throw the focus off what they were all actually doing, then so be it. "You know the answer to that," said Draco flatly.
Blaise gave him a calculating look. "Their lot is always up to something."
"So were we," said Draco, grinning.
"Don't be evasive, Malfoy."
And Draco laughed. "'Evasive' is my middle name, Zabini."
But Blaise did not seem to be joking at all. He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "I can help you, if you need it."
Draco's head whipped around so quickly he thought he could hear his own joint snap into place. Now that was a strangely tempting offer - there was nothing Blaise could do about the diadem, for Draco could never, ever bring him into that sphere of knowledge… but the Slytherin was in a much better position to keep an eye on Theo. It was not a decision he could make on his own, however. As much as Draco truly resented it, he would have to speak to the others first.
He stared into Blaise's serious eyes, searching for deception and ill-will but finding none. Draco was tempted to use Legilimency to ascertain whether Blaise was being honest, but the dark-skinned boy was likely to have some experience with mind-reading and would almost definitely know what Draco was doing. He'd be able to feel Draco seeking entrance, and really, it wasn't the best way to establish trust in any kind of relationship.
"Listen, Blaise -"
"You don't have to do everything on your own, Draco, there are people who give a fuck about you -"
"Don't," Draco warned.
.
.
Draco's headache had not eased in the slightest by the time he headed off to Transfiguration. It was still raining, for one thing, and for another, the pain in his temple got worse every time he realized that he had unintentionally occluded a thought. He would hastily bring it back to the surface, testing the subsequent feelings it inspired and the memories associated with it, and the result was something Draco could only describe as sensory overload.
Not for the first time, Draco found himself cursing his Aunt Bellatrix for neglecting to properly train him in the art of Occlumency - though, it may have been unreasonable to hold her accountable for that failure because honestly, the woman was absolutely fucking mental. One thing Draco had resolved within himself, however, was that he was not going to ask Snape for help. He was a natural. He could accomplish it on his own, thanks very much, even if it was making for an absolutely horrific day.
And he had a niggling feeling that it was only going to go south from there.
There was one positive aspect of having Transfiguration after lunch, however: the subject was typically so engaging that there would be no opportunities for Blaise to ask any more damnable questions, and in any case, McGonagall would never allow idle chatter during her lesson. But when he finally strode into the classroom, Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen.
The Transfiguration post had evidently been filled by someone Draco didn't recognize - a gorgeous blond woman who was standing in front of her desk with a brilliant, dazzling smile, waiting patiently for the students to file in. Draco was dumbfounded. Surely a woman this young was not qualified to teach, and surely having someone this pretty in charge of a classroom was a risk with so many hormonal teenage boys running around.
"Good afternoon!" she said enthusiastically once everyone had taken their seats. "I'm your new Transfiguration teacher - er, professor."
Perhaps not that authoritative, Draco thought skeptically. It wasn't that the woman was lacking confidence, necessarily, and yet there was something off about her, something strangely familiar… but Draco was sure he'd never seen her before.
"Some would call me a Master Transfigurer," she went on. "Others would probably say that I'm not a master of anything. Professor McGonagall's told me that you lot are pretty well-versed in Human Transfiguration by this point, so in this lesson, we'll see just how advanced you NEWT-level students really are." Ahem. "Allow me to demonstrate."
And Draco watched with astonishment as the woman's features began to change, sans wand: her nose elongated slightly, her eyes flashed from blue to a dark shade of twinkling brown, and her blond hair receded into a spiked, vibrant pink.
The classroom erupted into applause, and not even Draco could help but smirk.
"My name is Professor Lupin," said the woman as she beamed delightedly. "But you can also call me Professor Tonks. Either is fine."
The Ravenclaw Patil twin's hand shot immediately into the air. "Professor, are you a Metamorphmagus?"
"Sorry, what's your name?"
"Padma Patil."
"Right, Miss Patil. The answer is yes - really rare, we are."
Ernie Macmillan raised his hand. "Are you related to the other Professor Lupin?"
Tonks smiled widely. "I'm his wife."
Blaise leaned in close to Draco and whispered, "Bit young, isn't she, to be married to him?"
Actually, Draco thought that there was quite another reason why Tonks shouldn't have married Remus Lupin, the werewolf, but now was probably not the time to express that sentiment, especially considering that she was technically Draco's cousin.
"They're magic. They'll be alive for another century, what's fifteen years difference?" he whispered instead.
Blaise shrugged. "I liked her first look better."
Draco had no response to that statement because Tonks was pretty either way. She was descended from the Black's, after all.
"Hang on," said Tonks, eyes roaming curiously over the students. "There are meant to be eighteen of you in this class. Who's missing?"
Furrowing his brow, Draco glanced around, and at the front of the classroom, Potter, Weasley, and Granger all twisted in their seats, worst suspicions confirmed. It only required a cursory inspection before it became obvious who was missing, but the rest of the students merely shifted uncomfortably and averted their gazes.
No one was willing to be the rat.
"Ahh," Tonks realized, grinning. "Well, can't say that I'm surprised that none of you want to snitch. But I've got the list, you know."
She traveled to the other end of her desk and began shuffling around her disorganized mess of parchment until she found her enrollment sheet, then proceeded to call out names in alphabetical order:
"Hannah Abbott…. Lavender Brown…."
One by one, the students responded with either "here" or "present," but Draco knew that Tonks wouldn't make it to the end before she figured it out.
"... Draco Malfoy… Theodore Nott…." She looked up when there was no reply and repeated, "Theodore Nott? No? Ah, well… I'd hate to take points on my first day. Detention it is, I suppose."
Draco watched as Potter and Granger exchanged glances that were full of significance and worry.
The rest of the lesson passed by uneventfully. There was a low hum of conversation as Tonks had them review, in pairs, what they had learned on Human Transfiguration, which had been mostly successful with the exception of the Gryffindor Patil twin accidentally turning Lavender Brown into a hog, which she was then unable to reverse - and Hermione's responding snicker did not go unnoticed by Draco, who was irritated enough as it was without having to look over and watch her work with Michael Corner.
Draco had never had any specific feelings toward the bloke, but Corner was now many types of tossers and wankers in the privacy of Draco's own mind; worse, those thoughts evoked a few very singular emotions, which, in turn, produced an even more intense headache than what Draco had already been experiencing thus far.
It was about halfway through the hour when Draco's Mark began to burn with an agonizing heat, and he had been so caught off guard by it that he'd nearly dropped his wand; it was fortunate for Blaise that he didn't, because he'd been right in the middle of Transfiguring the dark-skinned boy's head at the time. Trying not to show his discomfort, Draco turned his gaze immediately to Potter; the fact that Potter had already been staring at him told Draco everything he needed to know.
When the bell finally rang, Draco all but hopped out of his seat - he needed air, and he needed it now, but, of course, no such thing was going to happen.
"Not so quick, Mister Malfoy!" called Tonks jovially, and Draco swore before turning around to face her.
As expected, Potter, Weasley and Granger had already gathered around the front desk and were bombarding Tonks with questions. Draco didn't see why he needed to be a part of it all, especially when his fucking arm was burning and he couldn't fucking breathe for it - Merlin, he wished it would stop raining. All of their words seemed muffled and distant to him, as though he was hearing it through water -
Get a sodding grip, Draco told himself sternly, gritting his teeth against the pain.
"What are you doing here?" asked Weasley.
"It's a special favor to Professor McGonagall, no one was willing to take the post, for obvious reasons," said Tonks. "I asked Minerva if I could wait till this lesson to start - wanted to make a bit of a grand entrance - was it good?"
"Brilliant," Potter told her, nodding. "But what about the Auror's office?"
"Well, it is something of a double mission, I'm meant to look after you four as well, but I hadn't been working anyway." She paused, grinning. "I'm pregnant."
"What?" - "Tonks, that's great!" - "Congratulations!"
Draco looked awkwardly away.
"When did you find out?" asked Hermione happily.
"You lot have been at school, so you wouldn't have been around to hear - and Remus and I waited, anyway, there's plenty of things that can go wrong because he's a werewolf - but we're almost certain that I'm due to deliver in April."
"Is Lupin excited?"
Tonks cleared her throat as she turned her gaze to Potter. "He's been a bit, well I get the impression he's a bit nervous - but, nevermind," she said, looking back to Granger. "Are you feeling any better, Hermione?"
Granger's brows were knit inquisitively toward one another as she regarded Tonks, but she apparently decided not to intrude. "I'm alright now. Pansy's curses weren't anything Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape couldn't mend, though the Cruciatus was quite terrifying."
Hermione shuddered and Draco fixed his full attention on her, suddenly furious beyond all reason. He hadn't known Pansy had tortured her… why hadn't Hermione told him?
"It's just been rather difficult catching up with all the lessons I missed," Granger went on. "I wasn't able to go to class all last week. Madam Pomfrey wouldn't release me from the Hospital Wing until my voice had healed completely."
Tonks nodded in understanding. "Don't worry about handing in your Transfiguration work," she said, winking, and Hermione offered her a soft smile. Draco knew that Granger would do the essay anyway. More than likely, she already had. "Oh, sorry, Malfoy, I forgot about you."
Draco rolled his eyes in annoyance as Tonks dug into the pocket of her robes and extracted a sealed envelope. He recognized the flowing script instantly.
"This is from your mum," said Tonks, handing it to him. "Listen, your parents aren't allowed to send or receive any mail, but Ginny's told me she'll be happy to smuggle a letter to your parents if you send it with Hedwig."
So taken aback was Draco by this abrupt kindness that he nearly forgot to be angry at the fact that everyone other than his parents were permitted to write to and from Grimmauld Place. He was still staring dumbly down at the envelope when Granger pulled hard on his elbow, wearing an impatient expression.
"Oh - right," Draco said grudgingly. "Thanks, Tonks."
"Don't mention it," the pink-haired witch replied. "You'd better be off, then, I don't need any rubbish from the other teachers because you lot were late to your next lesson -"
But Tonks never finished that statement, for the door to the Transfiguration classroom swung open, and the students spun around to see that Professor McGonagall was striding quickly in, looking harried and fraught with tension as her emerald-green robes danced around her ankles.
"Professor, has something happened?" asked Potter, turning to face her fully - and in concert, the other three turned with him.
"You have company," said McGonagall tersely.
As though on cue, the Minister of Magic swept into the room in the manner of a wizard-on-business, limping slightly as he approached them. Draco had never met the man in person, but Rufus Scrimgeour held the same air of confidence he seemed to carry in the pictures Draco had seen of him in the Daily Prophet.
Instinctively, Draco shoved the envelope into his pocket: he wasn't sure how the Minister would react if Draco had gotten illegal mail from his parents, but he needn't have worried, because Scrimgeour did not appear to have noticed at all.
"I have urgent matters to discuss with the four of you," said Scrimgeour in a voice that was both rough and authoritative.
Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Draco all shared confused glances with one another, all wondering what could possibly be so very urgent that the Minister of Magic himself would come to Hogwarts to speak with them about it; strangely, Potter's own countenance seemed to be teetering somewhere between resentment and hostility. Draco guessed that this wasn't his first run-in with the Minister and that whichever conversations Potter and Scrimgeour had shared in the past were not at all friendly.
"With us?" Potter asked. "All four of us?"
"All four of you," the Minister confirmed, and as his eyes darted between the students, they lingered a bit on Draco before flicking down to the blond wizard's left arm as though he could see the Dark Mark hidden there beneath Draco's school robes. Finally, Scrimgeour addressed Tonks, "Have you lessons during the next class period, or is this classroom free to use for a private conversation?"
"I - well, yes, sir, I have a lesson." Her gaze drifted questioningly to the Headmistress. "But I'm sure it can be canceled if you need the room."
"Minister," interrupted McGonagall. "I'm sure my own office is suitable -"
But Scrimgeour shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Professor." He swung an arm in the direction of the door. "An empty classroom shall suffice. No, Minerva, do not follow," he added to McGonagall, who didn't seem willing to let the students out of her sight.
Tentatively, they led him through the entrance, careful to avoid each other's eyes in case the Minister derived some sort of meaning from their glances. They hadn't made it very far down the corridor before Scrimgeour pushed open an unassuming-looking door. "This will do."
Draco feared it would be a broom cupboard, but it turned out to be an unused classroom in which the chairs had been flipped over on top of the tables; using his wand, the Minister levitated five of them, placing four side-by-side and one facing the opposite direction, then nodded his head, indicating for the students to sit. Once they had, the Minister took the seat across from them and cleared his throat.
"Sorry to interrupt your lessons," he said.
"Ron and I haven't got lessons next period, actually," Potter responded. "But I don't see what that has to do with what you're here to tell us."
Hermione looked at him with utter astonishment, but Scrimgeour did not seem to be concerned with Potter's impertinence. Instead, the Minister turned his shrewd eyes on Hermione and Draco.
"And which subject are the pair of you missing?"
Draco looked briefly at Hermione, who said, "Ancient Runes."
"Ah," Scrimgeour affirmed, as though this was exactly the answer he'd wanted to hear. He looked over them appraisingly. "I gather the four of you do not know why I have come."
Potter looked incredibly annoyed while the rest of them shook their heads.
"You did not know, I take it, that the late Professor Dumbledore included you in his will?"
"His will?" Potter echoed incredulously.
"Dumbledore left all of us something?" asked Ron. "Malfoy included?"
Hermione was suddenly no longer reticent. She had taken on that fierce expression Draco so often admired her for, her mind traveling in great leaps and bounds as she pounced upon an issue that her two friends were quite obviously unaware of.
"You confiscated what Dumbledore left us!" she said angrily. "You had no right -"
Scrimgeour cut her off. "The laws regarding such things are quite clear, Miss Granger."
"Yes, they are!" Hermione agreed. "The Ministry had absolutely no evidence suggesting that Dumbledore had possession of any Dark Artifacts, and nevermind that he might be trying to pass them to a handful of teenagers!"
Next to her, Potter was shaking with rage. "I suppose you haven't found anything dodgy about them, so you're finally handing them over?"
Draco gave a short laugh as he stared at the Minister. "No, it's because he has to. He'd likely keep them for himself if that law didn't have a thirty-one-day cap on it."
"That's right," said Scrimgeour coldly. "My actions are perfectly legal under the -"
"Well, get on with it then -"
"You will mind your tongue, Potter," Scrimgeour interrupted. "Dumbledore's not here to protect you anymore, and you would do well to remember it."
The two then engaged in a tense staring contest, which Potter won. Looking away from Potter's accusatory eyes, Scrimgeour continued as though there had been no interruption at all.
"Dumbledore made no bequests to another witch or wizard other than his own brother, Aberforth. Therefore, I find it out of the ordinary that he would include four teenagers, especially the two of you -" he looked at Hermione and Weasley. " - to whom he had no obvious attachment."
"W-well," Weasley stammered, then jerked his head toward Draco. "He didn't have an attachment to Malfoy either."
But Draco knew before the Minister could answer that this was not precisely true.
"On the contrary, Mister Weasley," said Scrimgeour. "Albus Dumbledore's relationship with Mister Malfoy is quite well-documented. It was only through his testimony that this young Death Eater avoided imprisonment for his crimes."
"I'm not a Death Eater," Draco bit out.
"Dumbledore said the same of your father when he requested that Lucius Malfoy be released from Azkaban, but we both know this to be false."
Draco's blood boiled but he chose to ignore this statement, for the Minister had just withdrawn a very official-looking scroll from what appeared to be a moleskin pouch. Without waiting for a response, Scrimgeour unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat:
"'The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore…'" his yellowish eyes darted down the looping handwriting until he found the first bequest. "'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it."
From the same moleskin pouch, Scrimgeour withdrew a thin, silver object that Draco did not recognize and handed it to Weasley, who seemed to be as confused as Draco was. In fact, the only person who seemed to know exactly what the 'Deluminator' would do was Potter, who was looking back and forth between the object and Scrimgeour suspiciously. Weasley, too, glanced over at the Minister, who nodded as though encouraging the boy to use it; with a small click, Weasley opened the Deluminator and pressed down on its silvery button - and all the lights in the room rushed immediately toward it, appearing to bury themselves within its confines.
"Cool," said Weasley simply, clicking on the button again so that the lights could return to their rightful places. Once the room was bright again, Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes.
"Don't you find it strange that Dumbledore would have bestowed upon you such a rare object?"
Ron shrugged. "Doesn't seem to do anything especially rare to me."
Scrimgeour gave a barely-audible hmph and then continued:
"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"
The Minister removed a very age-worn book and handed it to Hermione, who seemed to be on the verge of tears as she accepted it. All three boys leaned in closely in order to get a good look, and Draco saw why Scrimgeour had been so interested to learn that he and Hermione's next lesson would be Ancient Runes: it was a sodding first edition, and the runes that were printed upon its surface looked older and more cryptic than anything Draco had ever dealt with in class.
"Why do you believe Dumbledore would have left you something of this… nature?"
"He knew she likes books," said Potter defensively.
"I was not addressing you, Mister Potter," Scrimgeour replied dismissively, and his eyes never left the top of Hermione's bushy head as she gazed down at the book. "Do you maintain, Miss Granger, that you and Dumbledore never discussed any sort of secret codes or ciphers?"
"This is why you didn't want to use the Headmistress' office?" Potter realized. "You wanted to interrogate us without Dumbledore's portrait there to defend himself!"
"I was not addressing you," Scrimgeour repeated. "Miss Granger, the question?"
And when Hermione looked up, she was crying. "No, I didn't!"
"Can't you see that you're upsetting her?" asked Draco wildly, and the other two boys' heads spun around to face him, both looking properly astounded. Fuck, Draco thought, almost wincing at his own recklessness.
"Very well," said Scrimgeour, directing his attention back to the will. "To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill."
Potter reluctantly tore his eyes away from Draco, but Weasley continued to stare with skeptically tapered eyes; Draco sneered at him before focusing back on the Minister, who was holding a familiar golden ball between his thumb and forefinger. In all regards, the Snitch did not look special or unique in any sort of way, but Scrimgeour did not seem to agree.
"Why would Dumbledore have left you this Snitch?"
"For perseverance and skill, obviously!" Hermione burst out.
"I was not addressing you, Miss Granger," said the Minister calmly. "Potter?"
Harry snorted, and it was clear that the boy's already thin patience was fraying around the edges. "What she said."
"Were you aware, Mister Potter, that Snitches have flesh memories?" Scrimgeour asked quietly. No one answered.
All four of them eyed the Snitch as though it was about to do something spectacular as the Minister slowly extended his hand toward Potter, whose bright green eyes showed obvious apprehension when he reached forward to take it. He could hear Hermione's breath hitch as soon as Potter's fingers closed around the tiny, golden ball, but to all the students' immense relief, nothing happened; Scrimgeour's shoulders sagged with disappointment, and Potter gave a hollow laugh.
"Was it everything you expected, Minister?"
"Don't mock me, boy," said Scrimgeour. He adjusted his robes and then appeared to regain his footing, as though straightening his clothes had put him back in control of the conversation. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter. He left you the Sword of Gryffindor."
Potter's eyes darted around Scrimgeour's form, apparently searching for a sword-shaped lump in the Minister's robes. "Well, where's it at, then?"
"The Sword of Gryffindor was not Dumbledore's to give away. It is an important historical artifact and as such, it belongs -"
"To Harry!" said Hermione emphatically, her eyes still red-rimmed although she had stopped crying. "It belongs to Harry. It came to him when he had need of it -"
"The Sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, Miss Granger. It does not belong to Mister Potter exclusively -"
"Nor does it belong to the Ministry!" she argued.
"The Ministry is not in possession of the Sword of Gryffindor. It is missing," he denied, then leaned forward. "In fact, I was hoping that you, Mister Potter, would know of its whereabouts."
"If the Ministry doesn't even know where it is, why would we?" asked Potter.
"Dumbledore would hardly have bequeathed you the Sword of Gryffindor if he, himself, did not know where it was, Mister Potter, which begs the question: where might Dumbledore have hidden it?"
"If I did know where it was, I wouldn't tell you," said Potter, and even Draco had to admire his callousness in the face of a man who would probably toss him in Azkaban if there was a valid reason to do it. "It's ironic that you come to us asking questions and yet you refuse to answer any of ours."
Scrimgeour ignored him. "Mister Malfoy, as you might have guessed, you were not included in the original copy of Albus Dumbledore's will. Your bequest was made as an addendum."
Draco watched him intently and said nothing. Honestly, he had no idea what sort of reaction the Minister would have expected of him, anyway.
Scrimgeour read aloud:
"'To Draco Lucius Malfoy, I leave my own memories, in the hope that he will remember the importance of virtue and strong moral fiber."
Draco could feel the pressure of his own elevated heart rate pounding in his ears. Virtue and strong moral fiber… Dumbledore had said those words to him before. My own memories…
Scrimgeour reached into the pouch and revealed a stoppered bottle, the silvery contents of which swirled tempestuously as though eager to be viewed. The bottle was slightly larger than the slim vials which were typically used to store such things and the corked stopper was sealed with what looked like wax.
My own memories… but of what use could these be to Draco, and why would Dumbledore have wanted him, of all people, to have them?
As soon as the bottle left the Minister's hand and was passed to Draco, the wax burned away like so much kindling, and he looked up to see that Scrimgeour's eyes were full of wonder and greed. Draco could tell that he was itching to have them, and that, despite the Ministry's best efforts, the bottle would not have opened for anyone other than himself.
"Why," Scrimgeour said slowly. "Would Dumbledore have left you his own memories, Mister Malfoy? What is in Dumbledore's past that he would have desired you to see?"
"Dunno," Draco responded, curling his fingers protectively over the bottle. "I suppose I won't know until I view them, will I?"
"You will hand them over at once!" Scrimgeour demanded, jumping to his feet.
It was the wrong move. Potter, Weasley and Draco all exploded out of their chairs in an instant, and Hermione, too, seemed prepared to intervene should it become necessary, for she was perched on the edge of her seat, looking frightened but determined.
"Don't do it, Malfoy," Potter warned.
Draco snorted. "What do you take me for, Potter?"
"The Ministry were unable to break the seal," Scrimgeour growled. "The memories are therefore the property of the Ministry now that they are able to be reviewed!"
"They're not!" Hermione fired back. "They're the property of Draco Malfoy, which is clearly stated in the will, and furthermore, your thirty-one days are up. If Draco chooses not to share them with the Ministry, then he's well within his rights to deny you!"
Scrimgeour did not appear to have an answer to this. Instead, he took Draco roughly by the arm and hauled him closer and the two men were suddenly toe-to-toe. It was all Draco could do not to push Scrimgeour away; actually, what he wanted to do was punch him, but even the smallest retaliation would surely have consequences. It would be the word of four teenagers with questionable rap-sheets against the Minister of Magic - with no witnesses, the odds were not in their favor.
"I'll have your father back in Azkaban faster than you can say 'Quidditch!'" Scrimgeour threatened.
A stern voice sounded from the entrance of the room, and it was loud and booming and feminine and authoritative. "I'm afraid I must ask you to unhand my student, Minister." All heads turned to see that Professor McGonagall was standing at the front of the classroom, looking more furious than Draco had ever seen her. "Lucius Malfoy is under the protection of the Order of the Phoenix, and at the behest of Albus Dumbledore is undergoing a mission that is vital to the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Scrimgeour gave Draco one last glare before relinquishing his hold and taking a step back. "Lucius Malfoy is a convicted Death Eater, and his freedom was granted under the condition of absolute and unchallenged cooperation." He pointed at Draco with one imperious finger. "This boy is not cooperating."
"With all due respect, Minister Scrimgeour, that boy is not Lucius Malfoy, but his son. The days when children were held responsible for the actions of their parents, and vice versa, are long since gone," McGonagall countered. "Unless you wish for me to testify in front of the Wizengamot, I would advise you to stand down."
"Your position as Head of this school is not as secure as you seem to believe it is," said Scrimgeour. "You can be replaced."
McGonagall's lips thinned to a barely-visible line and she raised her chin defiantly. "I daresay the Wizengamot shan't agree with you," she said. "Nor would they condone your underhanded tactics."
Scrimgeour emitted a low sort of noise that sounded rather like a growl. "You are forgetting the ultimate goal, Harry Potter. You seem to believe that we are on opposite sides, yet we share a common enemy."
"And you seem to believe that we'd be willing to side with you, even though your interests are clearly for yourself, and yourself only," said Potter icily. "If this is what you're wasting your time on, combing through the contents of a dead wizard's will when you ought to be out stopping a war, then our faith is better placed elsewhere."
Scrimgeour stared around the room, meeting each person's eyes in turn, before apparently deciding that this argument was not to be won. He sneered at Potter and said, "This won't be the last you hear of me. Minerva, there will be no need for you to escort me out."
The Minister limped out of the room and vanished from sight.
"Famous last words," Weasley quipped.
Hermione laughed nervously and finally got to her feet; her hands were shaking as she bit down on her lower lip, and Draco had to look swiftly away from the entirely-too-enticing sight and focus instead on McGonagall, who appeared to be waiting for an explanation.
"He finally gave us what Dumbledore left us in his will," said Potter promptly. "Did you know the Ministry had kept them, Professor?"
"Albus mentioned it to me. There was nothing for it, however. It was out of my hands, as you well know."
"Professor," Draco ventured, realizing that he owed her some measure of gratitude. Truthfully, he could not imagine what would have possessed her to come to his defense, or for that matter, tell such an outrageous lie about his father, who was most definitely not on a mission for the Order. "Thank you."
"It is what Dumbledore would have wanted," she told him, though she looked understandably conflicted; Draco had never really earned her trust, after all. "And I'll not have Rufus Scrimgeour manhandling my students, regardless of his position."
Hermione tugged on the sleeve of Potter's robes.
"Professor McGonagall," he said. "Dumbledore left me the Sword of Gryffindor. Scrimgeour said it was missing…"
"Did he, now?" she asked, then nodded slowly in understanding. "That is a matter you shall have to take up with him in person, Mister Potter. If you would like to see him, you need only ask. Frankly, I am surprised that you have not sought him out before now."
"Actually," said Potter, looking meaningfully toward Draco. "I think Malfoy needs to use your office first."
Draco glanced down at the bottle of memories. He'd almost forgotten what the entire scuffle had been about in the first place. He held it up for McGonagall to see, half-expecting her to demand to accompany him to the Pensieve. But she did not.
"Very well. You know the password, Mister Malfoy."
.
.
The Headmistress' office was nothing like Draco remembered it. The last time he had been there was more than a month ago, on the evening of Dumbledore's death. The circular room seemed forlorn, and it was not only because he was alone: there were no curious instruments to be seen, none of the effects that had always made the office so warm and inviting as it had when Dumbledore was the one to occupy it. Rather, it was spartan and practical, and the only items that gave away any of McGonagall's characteristics were the familiar tin of biscuits on her desk and the tea set placed on top of one of the spindly tables, where the pot was still steaming with what must have been perpetual heat.
Draco traveled to the cabinet where he knew the Pensieve would still be waiting for him before removing the large, stone basin and setting it on the table. He gazed apprehensively into its swirling depths, glancing up to Professor Dumbledore's portrait as he did. The late headmaster appeared to be snoozing happily with his hands folded contentedly in his lap, and his soft snores gave no legitimacy to the world that was falling apart around them all.
Draco wished that the portrait was awake, wished that he could speak to the wizard who had done so much for him even though he had never deserved it… to ask him what to expect, what to do…
Draco turned his gaze back to the Pensieve and resolutely unstoppered the bottle, watching as the silvery substance drifted down into the basin and then churned turbulently within it. With one last hopeful look toward the portrait, who had not woken in the few seconds since he had last checked, Draco pulled in a fortifying breath and dipped his head into the Pensieve.
The first sensation Draco had was one of falling, of speeding uncontrollably toward the ground until his feet found purchase on the wooden floor of the Astronomy Tower. The scene resolved itself and Draco realized that the first memory was one that included himself - why Dumbledore saw fit to remind him of this, he did not know.
There were only three people visible: Dumbledore, Snape, and Draco himself, although he knew now that Potter was waiting only a few feet below them, sentient but unable to move. The Death Eaters would be running rampant in the castle now but would never make it to the Astronomy Tower because they would not have known where he was. They would not have known that it was all to come to end here - only Snape had been quick enough to figure it out, a blessing which Draco would later be unspeakably grateful for.
A disarmed Albus Dumbledore was pleading with Draco, but not for his own life: the Headmaster was asking Draco to reconsider, trying to help him even when it was clear that Draco was beyond care.
"I can help you Draco," said Dumbledore quietly.
"You can't!" memory Draco exclaimed, his wand shaking with the tremors of his hand. He hadn't known then how utterly terrified he had looked in that moment, his face pulled tight with fear while tears ran unchecked down his own pale face. "No one can help me - don't you understand? I have to do this - I have to. I have to kill you -" sob. "Or he's gonna kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"
Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "There is always help at Hogwarts for those who are brave enough to seek it," came his melancholy voice. "I can offer you and your mother the highest protection."
It was this statement, he remembered, that had caused memory-Draco to falter, evident in the fractional lowering of his wand as he began to lose his resolve. "She's at Malfoy Manor, you'll never get to her in time. He'll kill her!"
"You must trust me, Draco. I will see to it that she is safe."
Memory-Draco's lip trembled and the hawthorn wand dropped a bit further. "What about my father?" he demanded. "He isn't safe - the Dark Lord will find him, he'll stop at nothing -"
Dumbledore seemed to take a moment to consider. "I believe I can offer Lucius Malfoy the same protection."
"You believe?!" Draco echoed angrily. "You believe you can help him?"
"Let us speak candidly, Draco," said Dumbledore. "You have already disarmed me. I am an old, tired man, considerably weakened and at your absolute mercy. You have had ample opportunity to kill me. If you have not yet found it within yourself to commit murder, a few more moments shall not reveal the urge.
"You stand at a crossroads, Draco. You are faced with options which you had not expected to be open to you: you can fail to kill me now and your family shall suffer the consequences, or you can accept my help and take the chance that they may live. A leap of faith."
Draco raised his weapon and jabbed it ineffectually at the Headmaster, opening his mouth to say a curse that would never come. After a few seconds, memory-Draco dropped two wands at Dumbledore's feet and then sank to his knees, shoulders convulsing violently as the older wizard turned to Snape.
It was done. Memory-Draco had surrendered.
"Severus, you will warn Narcissa to flee Malfoy Manor before you rejoin the other Death Eaters," Dumbledore commanded. "You will tell them that Draco and I are gone, and you will make the urgent demand that they return in order to apprehend her before it is too late."
"You would have me use my own Patronus?"
"Tom will never suspect that you are capable of casting one, Severus. Do as I say."
"Expecto Patronum."
And a brilliantly shining doe burst from Snape's wand. The wizard stepped forward and directed it to take Dumbledore's message and, once it had recorded the Headmaster's voice, the Patronus leaped through the window and was gone.
Still shaking, memory-Draco looked over at Snape, completely and utterly stunned. "You - you really are a traitor!"
Snape looked down at the quivering mess of his student impassively. "As are you, Draco."
"Severus," Dumbledore prompted. "Go."
The Headmaster reached forward and extended a wizened hand toward memory-Draco, but the scene dissolved, leaving the real-life-Draco's head spinning with confusion - he could not think why Dumbledore would want him to see this, he had been there when it happened - but there was no time to waste pondering it, for he was suddenly back in the Headmaster's office, no longer on the Astronomy tower and only a short time after the original events had unfolded.
Potter had only recently been dismissed from the room with the instructions to gather the other students who would be returning to Grimmauld Place, leaving Draco and the Dumbledore alone in the circular tower, seated on opposing sides of the Headmaster's ornate desk
Memory-Draco looked ashen, as though all the blood had drained completely from his face, still trembling as he stared vacantly out the window.
"Professor, my mum -"
"Will no doubt already have escaped, Draco. There is nothing you can do to help her. Either she has heeded my warning and fled, or she has elected to stay and will have been killed."
The words did not comfort memory-Draco. But they had not been intended to.
"Your fears are entirely justified," Dumbledore continued. "But it is from them you have drawn courage."
"Courage," Draco repeated skeptically. "My mother will think I'm a coward."
"Ah, but your mother never wanted this fate for you. It was she who pleaded with Professor Snape to assist you, she was the one who implored him to make the Unbreakable Vow so that he would protect you. If Narcissa had her way, she would have parted with this lifestyle long ago, before her only son was made to sacrifice his own life to take the Dark Mark. It is not what she desired."
Memory-Draco glanced up, looking shocked.
"My mother? But I thought - but it was my aunt Bellatrix that asked Snape -"
Dumbledore shook his head. "It was not," he objected, observing memory Draco with elbows propped on the arms of his chair and his long fingers steepled against one another. "You believe your decision to be foolish."
Memory-Draco shrugged uncomfortably. "Not necessarily. If I'm going to be murdered either way, I may as well go out trying to do something good…" He cast his eyes to the floor. "For once."
The Headmaster smiled calmly, an action that Draco had not seen the first time around. "You have not disappointed my hopes for you, Draco. You are more capable of redemption than you assume."
At this, memory Draco raised his head, looking so vulnerable that real-life-Draco wanted to smack himself. Never had he seen so many emotions so obvious on his own face.
"Professor… how can you believe redemption is possible for me? That forgiveness is possible for someone like me?"
"Worse wizards than you have achieved it, Draco. Nearly everyone has a past. You were born into a family whose values were sorely misplaced. I cannot hold it against you that you believed those values without question - but your birth is of no issue. Your actions are what shall decide your fate."
"Professor, I -" Memory-Draco swallowed, and he remembered that he had been fending off another bout of tears at the time. "I want to help - I can help. I can change."
"There is still much to accomplish if you are to reach such an end. However, you have made the first and most important step toward this goal. The journey shall not be easy, my boy, but the reward is worth the toil… this is, for lack of a better description, the beginning of your revival. Your resurrection, if you will." And the Headmaster gestured to the magnificent bird to his left. "Do you know what sort of creature this is, Draco?"
"It's a Phoenix."
Dumbledore nodded. "As you have no doubt learned in your lessons, Phoenixes live forever. Beautiful animals, are they not?"
"I suppose."
"They are rebirthed from ash, from the final ruin of their lives. You, too, can be rebirthed from ruin."
Draco shook his head. "Forgive me, sir, but the analogy doesn't fit. Phoenixes are beautiful before they die."
Dumbledore only smiled and pushed a bit of parchment toward memory-Draco, who took it and read silently: The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
The office faded, spinning away into nothing and then reforming in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. It was so dark Draco could hardly see in front of his face, but the thin form of Albus Dumbledore swept suddenly into view, followed closely by the Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt. The two wizards rushed ahead, wands held out in front them as they traveled along a wooded path. Draco was barely quick enough to keep pace with them, hurrying to trail behind and straining to hear their words.
"Albus, she cannot be trusted. The Malfoy boy cannot be trusted!" Shacklebolt was insisting, and Draco realized belatedly that this was a memory that he himself was not a part of.
"We shall take the risk, Kingsley," said Dumbledore. "There is no other way."
"I beg you to reconsider!"
But Dumbledore did not answer. They had come to a clearing, and Draco was shocked to see that his own mother was standing in the middle of it, turning on the spot with her own wand held aloft - and at the wizards' entrance, she wheeled quickly around to face them.
"Narcissa Malfoy, have you come alone?" demanded Dumbledore.
"I - Dumbledore! Yes, I am alone," she assured him but did not lower her wand.
Neither did Dumbledore.
"Prove your identity. What is the last request you made of me before your graduation from Hogwarts?"
"I asked that you pass several thousand Galleons to the family of Mathilda Greene on my behalf," she answered immediately, and Dumbledore, seeming satisfied, stowed his wand in the pocket of his robes, though Shacklebolt kept his own weapon trained on the very distraught-looking witch. "Professor, Albus - the Patronus. To whom does it belong? It spoke with your voice, but it is not your own."
"That is a secret which I am not at liberty to reveal, Narcissa," Dumbledore told her, stepping further into the clearing. "I trust you know by now what your son has chosen."
"Where is he?" asked Narcissa, wringing her hands. "Where is Draco?"
"You shall know in good time," said Dumbledore evasively. "Your son has forsaken the Dark Lord. Do you hold objections to his decision?"
"No!" Narcissa gasped. "No, I - never! I shall never stand against him!"
"Shall Lucius say the same?"
"I… you know that I cannot speak for him, Albus."
"I have promised Draco that I would protect his father. You know what this entails."
"You seek to have him released from Azkaban?"
"You do not think it would be wise?"
Narcissa's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "I cannot say. I should like to think he would stand with his own son."
"And if he does not? Should Lucius choose to turn his back on his family, do I have your word that you, Narcissa Malfoy, will do what is necessary to stop him? Do you possess the strength of will to make that decision?"
Narcissa seemed hesitant. "Perhaps it is better to leave my husband where he is."
Draco was shocked - not even Lucius' wife believed the best of him... which was not even near as surprising as the fact that Albus Dumbledore had appealed for Lucius' release from Azkaban despite it. And more to the fucking point, who the hell was Mathilda Greene? Greene was not a wizarding name, not one that he had ever heard of, anyway. Thousands of Galleons was a lot of sodding money - what had Mathilda Greene done to deserve it… or, what had been done to her that she needed such outrageously exorbitant compensation?
"I cannot oblige you, Narcissa," Dumbledore said somberly. "I vowed to ensure that you and Lucius Malfoy were protected. You and I both know that the time is coming very soon when Azkaban will be compromised."
Narcissa pulled in a deep breath and nodded. "I shall do whatever is necessary."
"Your word, Narcissa!"
And Narcissa Malfoy, the very image of pureblood aristocracy, dropped to her knees in the middle of the clearing and begged.
"Albus, I swear! I'll make the Unbreakable Vow, if you require it of me -"
"Enough," said Dumbledore. "The Order of the Phoenix does not tie its members' fate to certain death."
"You have my word," she said desperately. "I will do anything for Draco - anything, I will give my own life for his safety."
"You must understand, Narcissa, that your son has not merely chosen to part ways with the Dark side. I cannot protect him should he follow a path that leads him closer to peril."
"Is there... is there no hope for my son's protection?"
"There is hope yet, Narcissa, but he shan't be immune. I can offer him sanctuary, but already his values are changing…"
The scene started to dissolve again, and Draco rushed forward, reached for his mother although he knew that he was powerless to touch her, knew that she was merely a memory but aching to wrap his arms around her all the same… to assure her that he was okay, that he would be fine…
He was in his own room at Grimmauld Place, the night before he and the others would board the Hogwarts Express. Memory-Draco looked sullen and resentful as he sat in the dimly-lit space, arms crossed as he glowered at Dumbledore.
In retrospect, Draco wasn't sure how he could have been so ungrateful to be where he was at.
"These Horcruxes," Draco began. "How are we to find them if we haven't even a clue of what they are?"
"We are aware of what several of them are likely to be," Dumbledore responded. "However, now is not the time or place to discuss them further. Miss Granger will explain in the next few days. I am sure they will be hesitant, at first, to include you, but your true intentions will soon become evident. Given time, they will accept you."
"Professor, I can't - I can't share a dorm with her. I can't. She hates me as much as I hate her."
"You have no choice in the matter."
"But she's - Merlin, she's insufferable! Know-it-all, swotty as they come, stuck-up, holier-than-thou. Not to mention a sodding Mudblood -"
"Do not use that word! We have discussed this at length, my boy. If you cannot see past your own false prejudices, you shall not be of use to the Order in this war."
"Sir, I want to fight the war. I have my own reasons to see the Dark Lord defeated."
"You ought to call him by his name, Draco. Fear of the name -"
"Only increases fear of the thing itself. I know, but that's beside the point, Professor. Granger is -"
"She is living proof that everything you've been raised to believe is false. You have been bred to scorn those of her heritage, and yet she is an intelligent and highly-capable witch. Indeed, she has many qualities that are a match to your own."
Memory-Draco snorted. "I wouldn't say she matches me -"
"And you would be wrong."
"Professor, please, don't make me live with her."
"Your housemates shall not welcome you. You will be in even greater danger should you return to the dungeons."
"I can handle it - I'm not afraid! Anything but that, anyone but her…."
The room spun again, and Draco was back in the Headmaster's office only a few days later, sitting petulantly in one of the armchairs in front of Dumbledore's desk, running a hand through his hair and leaving behind an unruly mess in its wake.
"None of them want me involved," said memory-Draco angrily, and real-life Draco knew that this was the day that he and the others had viewed Tom Riddle's memories. Memory-Draco had beaten them to the office, but in a matter of moments, Hermione, Potter, and Weasley would walk through the door and glare suspiciously at him, as though he, Draco, was less than the dirt on the bottom of their shoes.
"It is my belief that they will come around," Dumbledore said peacefully.
"They won't - Granger won't. If you'd been there, if you'd seen the way she reacted in the dorm…" memory Draco trailed off, shaking his head. "You just have no clue, you can't understand, professor. She hates me."
"And do you return the sentiment?"
Memory Draco let out a frustrated growl. "Yes! It's hard not to when she's fighting me at every turn, always suspicious as all hell, questioning my loyalties -"
"And forcing you to question your prejudices?"
"I - no!"
But Dumbledore only smiled and settled back into his high-backed chair, folding his hands across his lap. "You are not being honest, Draco."
"Not being honest? Professor, she's still a Mudblood," memory Draco said stubbornly.
"You shall not use that word in this office, Draco. Your resolution is waning, my boy. It is exactly as I expected: Hermione Granger is a positive influence on you."
"She's repulsive!"
"She is of unshakeable virtue and strong moral fiber," said Dumbledore shrewdly. "These are the qualities you seek to possess, are they not?"
Memory-Draco had no answer, but it turned out not to matter, for there was a sharp rap on the door.
"Ah, that will be the others. Come in!"
The door swung open and the Gryffindors trickled in, but the scene dissolved, and what came next was not what at all what Draco had expected.
He was in the middle of a raging battle, and was taken so off-guard by the sudden change in scenery that he had fallen to the ground, scampering out of the way as curses and the blazing lights of violent spells were passed back and forth between two wizards.
One, he recognized as a much younger Albus Dumbledore, whose hair was still a rich, auburn brown and whose beard fell no further than the center of his neck - but Dumbledore's appearance was not what drew Draco's unwavering focus; it was the fury and determination in the wizard's face, the lethal efficacy of his dueling, the unparalleled ferocity of his speed as he met his opponent spell-for-spell. Draco looked wildly to the other end of the makeshift battlefield and saw a handsome, blond wizard whom Draco recognized only from books: it was Gellert Grindelwald, and the man was attacking with all his might, elegant features twisting dangerously as he exchanged one deadly curse after the next.
Draco jumped to his feet, watching in awe as two of the greatest wizards of all time faced off in a duel that would go down in history books…
But why?
What was the purpose of Dumbledore showing him this memory, and for the love of Merlin, why hadn't he at least given him the entire battle? It was obvious that the duel was coming to a close, for Grindelwald was very clearly struggling to maintain his lead.
A vast, powerful tidal wave erupted from Dumbledore's end, which was soon vanished by Grindelwald and replaced by a barrage of conjured arrows that sailed in the opposite direction; a flick of Dumbledore's wand and their momentum was suspended, hanging harmlessly inert in the middle of the air, before turning against their creator and firing toward him. Grindelwald's Shield Charm was quicker, however, and the arrows bounced away from the barrier with a soft shimmer upon impact, falling pointlessly to the ground.
Grindelwald countered with the most vicious Fiendfyre Draco had ever seen. From the conflagration erupted the terrifying forms of serpents - nay, dragons - monstrous lions and winged horses, all charging toward the young Dumbledore with fearsome accuracy. Draco never knew that there was a counter to such a formidable and all-encompassing spell, yet Dumbledore only arced his wand through the air and the flames disappeared in a puff of innocuous smoke. Recovering, Grindelwald fired what Draco instantly recognized as a gruesome Entrail-Expelling Curse, but Dumbledore parried it so effectively that it rebounded against Grindelwald's Protego -
But it only took a moment of Grindelwald's uncertainty, and Dumbledore had spun, casting a Reductor so powerful that it burst through the Shield Charm and nailed Grindelwald solidly on the chest; the Dark Wizard flew backward, colliding roughly with a boulder and sliding to the dirt with an agonized groan.
Grindelwald's last stand was to grin maliciously as he raised his wand, a knowing glint shining in the fathoms of his black eyes, but the jet of green light was not faster than Dumbledore's explosion of red.
Sidestepping the Killing curse, Dumbledore raised his arm and accepted Grindelwald's wand as it flew neatly into his hand.
"Your time has come, Gellert!" Dumbledore boomed, and Draco was struck stupid at the sheer gravity of it all, of the image of his Headmaster defeating one of the the most powerful Dark wizards ever to walk the earth, second only to Voldemort himself.
Gone was the dotty old man whose eyes twinkled and who always had a lemon drop to offer in his office and in place of him stood a raging, terrible, commanding wizard with eyes as hard as slate - and yet there was something else in his gaze… was it sorrow? Remorse?
Regret?
"You!" snarled Grindelwald, pushing to his feet. "It is impossible! How, Albus?!" the blond demanded vehemently, looking demented with his teeth bared maniacally. "How have you overcome what is legend?"
"You have always so deeply misunderstood, Gellert," responded Dumbledore. "You have failed, yet again, to see that power yields first to those who do not seek to control it…"
And then it was over. The scene faded into nothing, and Draco was rising through the memory, slamming into his own body and gasping for air, stumbling backward as the present-day Headmistress' office swam into view, head throbbing relentlessly as the gathering storm pounded against the towering windows.
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