Chapter Thirty-Seven
His mum was looking a bit misty-eyed as she stood in Madam Malkin's showroom and observed Draco in his school robes.
The hem of the ordered robes had been a tad too long and had to be taken up.
Draco looked at his mum's reflection in the mirror, as she stood behind him and suddenly wished she'd stayed at home. Goyle's dad had volunteered to take the boys to buy their school things, but Narcissa had insisted on accompanying Draco personally. It was, after all, the last time they would see each other before Draco started his first year at Hogwarts.
Narcissa Malfoy was not very good company on an outing to a place like Diagon Alley. Goyle's father was an ogre of a man, but he was not above a bit of tomfoolery when the occasion called for it; like throwing 'Exploding Ants' at the heels of Muggles, for example. It was easy enough to spot them. They were the ones who inevitably gawked at everything.
Narcissa, on the other hand, worried about things like too much sun and Muggles and crowds and running into people she didn't want to run into such as Mrs So-and So from last Sunday's afternoon tea.
But still, she had wanted to accompany her son, and so there she was, smiling fondly at him as she picked off a loose thread from the black material of his robes.
She covered her sentimentality with a sharpish comment. "You're not quite as tall as your father was at the same age, but I suppose you have plenty of time to catch up."
Draco fervently hoped so. It would not do to remain two heads shorter than Goyle and the same height as Pansy Parkinson. Shortness had long since been eliminated from the Malfoy bloodline.
That, and giggling.
"What's left on the list?" his mother asked.
Draco remembered that he had stashed it in his back, trouser pocket. He retrieved the list and unfurled it. Mother and son consulted the last two items.
"I've yet to pick an owl and a wand," Draco said
Narcissa nodded. "Your owl has already been arranged. Your father's seen to the selection personally. His name is Pietro and he's very fine."
Of course the bird would be fine. Lucius didn't know the meaning of the word 'substandard'. Draco was a bit put out by the fact that he would not be permitted to choose his own owl, though. He had even briefly entertained the notion of getting a cat, but that was out of the question. He would require a safe and secure means of communicating with his parents and a school bird would not do.
That left only one other thing to be done. Draco changed out of his school robes while his mother paid Madam Malkin, and then they crossed the street with their packages and headed down to Ollivanders, where his mother paused just outside the shop.
The wind and the walk had caused several wisps of her blonde hair to escape her previously immaculate chignon and she tucked these loose strands behind her ear. His mother was perhaps the most beautiful witch Draco had ever seen. Not a vibrant-pretty, like Blaise Zabini's mother, but the sort of beautiful you had to take a step back from, to appreciate. Her features were almost plain in isolation, but together, she seemed pristine, perfect.
"Draco, come here."
He did as requested. She smoothed the parting of his already smooth hair and made a fuss of straightening his perfectly ironed collar. It occurred to him that there really wasn't much mother-stuff for her to do.
Everything, right down to the preparation of his meals and the way his pyjamas were laid out for him on his bed, while he had his baths, was seen to by Manor staff.
"Mother…" he whined, when she trailed her long, scented fingers over his cheeks.
Thank goodness the Goyles were still at Flourish and Blotts. He'd never hear the end of it from Greg. His face was still chubby. He hated that.
"A wand means many things," she explained, a little breathlessly. "It means you are grown up, Draco. You were born a wizard and a Malfoy, but now you will earn these titles. Your father and I have high expectations of you. No doubt, you'll make us very proud."
"Only if I end up in Slytherin," he emphasised. If only he got a Galleon every time his father brought up the topic of Sorting, the Malfoys would have been twice as rich as they were.
She raised an eyebrow. "One does not end up in Slytherin, dear. One is born to it."
Her tone of voice did not allow for what ifs, so he simply said, "Yes, mother."
"Now, after we buy your wand, what would you like to do? We still have an hour to spare."
Draco's mood lightened considerable, even as he noticed that his mum seemed a little sad. "Really? We can do anything?"
She smiled. "Anything."
"Even ice-cream?" He knew she disliked being jostled about at Florean Fortescue's, which was going to be completely filled with children and their parents.
"Yes," she agreed, touching his cheek, "let's have some ice-cream."
**
It happens, that in the first few moments when a person wakes up, they sometimes forget where they are and what has happened to them up until the point that they awaken.
Draco experienced just this feeling of 'nothingness'. He opened his eyes, registered that he was warm and comfortable and that that these things were all he really cared about at that particular moment.
And then, he remembered.
It wasn't grief. Grief would have been preferable to the guilt he was feeling. Guilt was funny like that. Grief could be dulled over time, but guilt had real staying power. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and felt the huge, invisible weight of reality bearing down on him. He wanted to pull the covers over his head and stay in bed until the nightmare spent itself.
He wanted to believe that he still had a few more years of growing up to do, and that the problems he currently faced would just have to wait until he was bloody ready to face them. Draco sighed. He could not hide from reality, which insofar as it applied to the last fortnight, went as follows:
He was bullied into accepting a dangerous assignment by the Ministry of magic.
His mother had been murdered.
The Auror cousin he knew he had, but had never met, had gone missing a scant two days after meeting him.
Death Eaters apparently had in it for him. Lastly, and by no means least, he was married to Hermione Granger.
Marcus Flint, the former Captain of Slytherin Quidditch had always said that Draco got better, sharper and more focussed when things were at their absolute shittiest in a game.
It was no different now.
He eventually sat up in bed and grimaced at how heavy his head felt. His mind was clear, however, and the headache could be fixed with a quick stop at the Infirmary. It was important to keep going. If he even paused to think about what his mother's final moments might have been like, he would…he would just…
Draco swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. No. He would not think of it. He could not. He was in serious danger of unravelling as it was. He felt worn out. His shoulder was sore too, which meant that he had spent too much time sleeping on it.
Merlin, he felt like an old man in need of a long, relaxing vacation in which nobody would try to frame him, target him, dislocate parts of his body, fall in love with him or murder what was left of his family.
What was left of his family was basically Lucius and Toolip, their loyal, remaining House Elf.
Ironically, his father was probably located in the safest place in the entire wizarding world. Toolip, meanwhile, had her own brand of magic to protect her and it was doubtful that any of Voldemorts' people could even guess at the affection that Draco felt for the old elf.
That left Granger. She was family now, wasn't she?
The Forces of Evil Depravity knew about them. Draco was certain of it. He would need to speak to Potter about that. No doubt the Boy Who Did Not Own A Hairbrush had already learned of Narcissa's death.
Snape mentioned that it had been in the papers, after all. The news was probably everywhere by now. Draco knew Harry was not the sort to gloat over such a thing. That would have been preferable, actually. An excuse to punch Potter in the face might even make him feel a little better. But Draco knew the only reaction he would receive from Harry would be pity.
And that, he could not handle.
Draco felt like there wasn't much hide left on him to insulate himself against the world. Self-pity was something he had never indulged in, though, and he wasn't about to give in to the temptation.
Damn it, he wanted Hermione. Where the hell was she? Why hadn't she stayed with him? Wasn't that exactly the kind of thing she was liable to do? Caring and coddling and whatever other soft and fluffy things girls like her did to take away hurts from the people they cared about?
He knew the answer even as he thought this. If they weren't at Hogwarts, he would be free to take her to bed and keep her there for a week, as penance for adding to his life's troubles. She could have been there with him now, watching him as he awakened. She would touch him, kiss him, distract him. He wanted to see his pain mirrored in her clear, brown eyes because he sure as hell knew he wouldn't be able to bear seeing it in his own eyes.
Draco avoided the small mirror over his dresser for this very reason. It was the last, official day of his schooling career and yet he felt nothing apart from irritation at the state of his wrinkled school pants, as he pulled them on.
His tie went on next, and still he did not feel the poignancy he thought he should be feeling. There was only so much intense emotion he could spare, he decided.
He had a made a decision before leaving Snape's office the previous evening.
It wasn't a difficult choice, but it was going to be a difficult task. Draco had little faith in the Ministry's brand of justice. He wanted real justice, not the kind the bureaucrats and the Wizengamot weighed and measured out.
He wanted revenge. It was the only thing that made sense to him. He would do this final thing for his mother.
Gods, it was going to be hard. He had no combat training other than duelling club, which was a joke. He had his brains, his reflexes and an encyclopaedic knowledge of minor curses and hexes. He was also a Malfoy. Surely that meant a natural talent for evil-doing. Would that be enough?
It didn't matter. He would find the people responsible for killing his mother. He would do it personally, even if it took him years.
They dared to touch his mother, he thought, with fresh anguish. Disbelief mingled with rage. Imprisonment was one thing. Assassination was quite another.
This was his father's fault. The pathetic bastard couldn't stop his wife from leaving him and then he couldn't offer her any protection after she did.
It was his fault as well. He hadn't bothered to see her after she had left the Manor. He had been too caught up in being hurt over her apparent rejection of him. Perhaps it hadn't been rejection after all. Perhaps she had feared for his safety and thought to put as much distance between them. No matter about the flaws in their relationship, though. Draco had never doubted that she cared for him.
Best not to dwell on her motives. It did not even enter into his head that Narcissa would not have wanted her son to pursue the matter of her death. These types of considerations didn't apply to them, to the Malfoys. And she had been a Black, to boot. Blood-vengeance would be expected. He owed that much to the woman who had brought him into the world.
His father had killed. His mother had stood by her husband, accepting, if not always understanding or approving. Yes. Narcissa would not fault her son for avenging her.
"Mother, wherever you are, I hope you're a hell of a lot happier than you were with us."
Draco did not worry that God would frown down at him for slipping a blasphemy into the makeshift prayer.
God had a sick sense of humour. After all, he had given Draco Hermione Granger.
**
"So," Hermione asked. "Are you going to say anything?"
It was after breakfast and Hermione, Harry and Ron were seated in her favourite corner in a deserted Hogwarts Library. Hermione felt that it was safest to tell them her news in the part of Hogwarts she knew no one was likely to visit on their last day of school before the summer holidays.
It was a brilliantly sunny day outside. A good day for bad news, or so she thought. Ginny was still polishing off her breakfast in the Great Hall and thus had no idea what was transpiring. Hermione thought that this was for the best.
She would start with the boys first, as they would no doubt prove more difficult.
Harry was still staring at her oddly, though at least his previously gaping mouth had closed. Ron was doing something else entirely. He had walked off, returned, paced in front of the desk with his hands on his hips while contemplating the ground with a great and moody intensity.
"I'm still trying to wrap my head around the part where you said you had run off with him in the middle of the Graduation party, but then you hit me with the fact that the two of you are married," Harry stated. He looked floored.
Hermione noted that he had slowly taken off his glasses and had placed them carefully on the table top. He usually only did this when extremely disturbed or when he was suffering from a headache. The look on his face suggested it might be a combination of both.
"And now that you have wrapped your head around it?" Hermione prodded. She couldn't help feeling like she was telling her parents that she had been sneaking out of the house to date a boy they didn't approve of.
It would be fantastic if they would skip ahead to the oh my God how could you it's Malfoy stage already.
"I can't believe you've managed to keep this a secret for two whole weeks." Harry actually sounded impressed.
"Neither can I," she admitted.
Ron's reaction, or lack of, rather, was starting to really worry her.
"I'm not any good at keeping things from you two." She directed this latter comment to Ron.
"Ignorance would be preferable in this case," Ron finally muttered. At least he had stopped pacing. He pulled a chair out and slumped into it.
Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "Have you told Ginny?"
"No, not yet."
"Don't tell her," Ron added. "She'll just die."
Harry snorted. "She will not. She'll take the news better than us. I should tell you that we did suspect you were seeing a Slytherin, but we assumed it was Zabini," he informed.
Hermione's eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. "Blaise? What on earth made you think it was Blaise?"
Harry sounded incredulous when he responded. "The same reasons why we would never have guessed it was Malfoy! Because you like Zabini and you hate Malfoy."
"I never hated him, Harry."
"Yes, well that slap you gave him in third year could have fooled us," muttered Harry.
"Things were different then."
"How much different? I'd like to slap Malfoy at least once a week, myself."
Hermione ignored that. She turned her focus to Ron. "Out with it Weasley."
Ron obliged her. "Have you gone insane?" His voice had climbed an entire octave. "This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about. He's scum!"
Hermione sighed. This, she was expecting. "I take it you don't approve, then?"
"No, I don't bloody approve!" he roared. "Have you forgotten that his father tried to kill us?"
"Keep it down!" Harry hissed.
"Draco is not his father! I wish everyone would stop harping on about that!"
"Oh, it's Draco now is it?"
"Well they are married," Harry felt the need to point out. He then wished he hadn't.
Ron stood. "I think I'm going to be sick…."
Hermione glared at him. "Where are you going? For God's sake, just sit down will you? There's more I need to tell you!" For a moment, it looked like he would leave after all, but then he sat, folded his arms and stared at her.
"Why him?" Harry asked.
She was going to tell them why, but then stopped. She had been in enough arguments with Ron, especially, to know when he wasn't going to be receptive to logic.
"Do the two of you really think you're in a frame of mind to listen to that answer? I didn't come here to be shamed. I came here because I need your help."
"And you'll always have it," Harry assured, more quietly. "What is it? The way you sounded, I didn't think it had anything to do with Malfoy's bedside manner."
She blushed. "No, of course not."
"Are you in danger?" Harry asked. His green eyes, always the most compelling thing about him, felt like they were boring into her skull. Abruptly, he seemed to notice the unnatural intensity of his stare and immediately broke the connection. Hermione knew that his Occlumency abilities sometimes flared up when he was feeling particularly inquisitive.
So was she in danger then?
"Yes," she whispered.
Ron was already nodding his head vigorously. He was also standing again. "Sod it, Harry! We're going to have to talk to him, aren't we? Bloody Seamus and Dean have already left. Who else have we got for backup? We can get Hagrid! You ask Malfoy to meet us outside and-"
Harry had had enough. He yanked him friend down. "Ron, you're giving me a headache. Sit down and shut up."
Hermione gave Ron a look of disgust. "Let me guess. The two of you wouldn't mind it so much if it was Blaise I was seeing? Is that about right?"
"Zabini is different," Harry interjected. "He's not like the rest of them."
"Rest of them? Listen to yourselves. This is exactly the kind of thinking that perpetuates inter-house enmity!"
Ron made a choking noise to convey his exasperation. "Oh! Oh and having parents that murder people doesn't perpetuate inter house… em-enmee…" He botched the word.
"That's enmity," Hermione assisted, icily. "Want me to spell it for you, Weasley?"
Ron went red. "Being able to spell didn't exactly do much for you when you fell into bed with the spawn of the Devil, did it?!" Ron screeched.
"You don't need to raise your voice to me. I can hear you just fine," Hermione snapped.
"He's obviously not treating you very well. Look at you!" Ron stuck out his palm at her. "You're skin and bones. You barely touch your food these days and you've said barely three words to us since last week!"
Hermione scowled. She could see how hurt Ron was and she understood why, but they were all old enough now to deal with it, damn it.
"Don't tell me 'Mudblood' has become his disgusting little endearment for you?" Ron scoffed.
"Now Ron," Harry began.
"For your information, he hasn't called me that once this year!"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Merlin, give the man a medal!"
Hermione threw her hands up. "I knew you'd be like this! I knew Harry would be shocked, but you! You'd take any excuse to fly off the handle. It was the same when Ginny said she fancied Seamus and he's in Gryffindor."
"It's not the same and you know it! We all know Ginny wants to be with Harry, but Harry's trying to be all noble and not put her at risk, which is more than I can say for you taking off with Malfoy during such…um uncertain times!"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" Harry muttered, embarrassed to have his own dirty laundry aired in public.
Hermione shook her head at him. "Nicely done, Ron. I think there was SOMEONE IN HOGMSEADE WHO MIGHT NOT HAVE HEARD YOU!"
"How did you expect us to react?" Ron added. Both he and Hermione were standing a hair's breadth away from each other as they shouted. "It was bad enough when we thought you were off holding hands with cold-fish Zabini! I mean, that sort of made sense. You could discuss 'Hogwarts, A History' until you turn blue in the face! But this! IT'S MALFOY WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! HERMIONE, HIS FATHER KILLED PEOPLE!"
"DON'T SHOUT AT ME, RONALD!"
Harry hurriedly shushed them. He could hear approaching footsteps and assumed it was Madam Pince investigating what the screaming was about. He also noted that Hermione was close to tears.
"Ron, calm down!"
Ron whirled on Harry. "No, I'm not going to calm down and you, Harry, are obviously mental to sit there and accept this. Tell her to come to her senses!"
Harry also got to his feet. "WILL YOU STOP BEING A JEALOUS GIT FOR ONE SECOND AND LISTEN TO WHAT SHE WAS ABOUT TO TELL US!"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this…" Ron backed away from Harry as if he were unclean. "You've both lost it. My best friend in bed with a Malfoy! Mum's going to be in a state when she finds out. How convenient that you happen to be friends with Harry Potter and the son of the Minister for Magic. That's it, isn't it? Of course it is! How do you know he's not just pumping you for-"
It was Hermione's expression that gave Ron pause. She was staring over Ron's shoulder, looking stricken.
There were tears running down her face. Ron knew he should have felt bad about this, but things had gone too far now.
"Weasley," Draco said, with all the warmth of an arctic breeze in December, "if you dare to finish that insult, please know that I'm going to do my utmost to beat you to a bloody pulp."
Ron whirled around. He seemed at a complete loss for words to find the topic of their conversation standing directly in front of him. But then, a hard glint came to his eyes.
"Malfoy, I'd offer you my sympathies over the death of your mum, but that would only work if I felt sorry about it."
Harry said a foul word. Hermione gasped.
Draco smiled.
"Thank you so much," he announced. And then he punched Ron in the face.