Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
"If you're a child of Hogwarts too, then maybe you can explain something that's been puzzling me and Skye," Draco began. He looked challengingly at Hermione. She nodded the go ahead, still bemused by Draco's shock all over again once he had learned a bit more about what being a child of Hogwarts was, and that he was now included in a prophesy of sorts…even Skye hadn't known about the Morrigan's specific Seeing. Ugh, Divination. Useless subject, Hermione groused to herself internally. At least the Morrigan was sensible and understood that Seeing the future is merely a glimpse of what might be if one path is played out. Sybil Trelawney might be a great fighter in a pinch and we've been getting along better now that she saved my life in that battle, but she still insists on being ridiculously reliant on visions, signs, and symbols entirely too much.
Draco explained what the White Witch had called after them and how it had seemed like she knew, somehow, about Skye. By the end of his narration, Hermione's mind was already racing way ahead of herself. "You said that she mentioned the other children of Hogwarts and that the way to put Skye back into her body lay in the same body of research as that which the children of Hogwarts seek to destroy?"
"As far as I can remember, those were her words," Draco replied, glancing over at Skye—or where Hermione assumed Skye was—to corroborate his memory. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."
That has to be the immortality project. With growing dismay, Hermione realized once again just how crucial and sensitive the project Severus had gotten involved with was. Damn. I don't know if I have the authority or right to tell them about it. On the other hand, the Morrigan does have some prescience and if she specifically implied the immortality project and its potential benefits in helping Skye regain her body, how can I withhold that from her or Draco? Sodding hell. What should I do? Hermione sighed. "Frankly, I believe I know what the White Witch was talking about, although not how she knew that Skye was there," she informed them. "But—but—I don't have…the authority to tell you about it. It's a highly crucial secret, with the life of at least one person—perhaps even more—hanging on its absolute secrecy."
Draco stood up. "Skye's life is hanging on that bloody top secret stuff you have going on too! She can't stay like this forever—she can't even get further away from me than her own body or the boundaries of Hogwarts anymore! What if one day she's chained so tightly to me that she literally can't leave my side? What if something happens and she fades out of existence, or something happens to her body, or her aunt decides to take her off the magical supports that are helping her stay alive even though she's not in her body? You can't just leave her like this, Granger. You owe her for not protecting her better, you and your bloody Order. I owe her."
Hermione deliberately sat back slowly, keeping her breath even as she gazed calmly at the angry teenager in front of her. "Sit down please, Draco. I didn't say that I was going to just abandon Skye. What kind of person do you think I am?"
His attention was diverted by, presumably, Skye, and Hermione watched leisurely as his face turned slightly red and he muttered an apology to the empty chair beside him, reseating himself before shuffling his feet a bit and looking back up at her. "I will do all that is in my power to help Skye," Hermione told him seriously. She turned her head towards the empty chair. "Skye, I swear to you that whatever I can do, I will do it to get you back into your body. I can't tell you about the research going on now. I just can't—there are other lives hanging on this other than yours. But I can and will petition the Order to give Draco, and by extension, Skye, clearance to…join a forming research team that's being created right now. You're doing well with your training, am I right Draco?"
"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I'm getting lessons with Potter and Weasley now, and it's a bit tense but rather nice to be able to spar with someone else at my level."
Hermione blinked in surprise. She hadn't known that Harry and Ron were training with Draco. When had the Order decided to combine their lessons? It makes sense, if you discount the obvious conflicts between them. It spares them Order members and time, both, to teach all of them at one time now that they're all at Hogwarts. I wonder why Harry or Ron didn't tell me though. "Well, that's good," she responded. "I'll petition, and meanwhile I will do some research on my own about it, and see what preliminary hypotheses I can come up with. Is that okay for you two?"
Draco had a staring match with the chair. Finally, Skye must have won because he looked away somewhat sulkily. "Fine," he conceded roughly. "But you had better not back out on your promise."
"I won't," Hermione assured him, unruffled by his ungracious tone and unsubtle threat. Merlin, he's definitely got it bad for Skye, she thought. Traitorously, her heart stirred—exactly like you about Severus, Hermione? Pot, meet kettle. When Draco—and, Hermione hoped, Skye—had both left her to her solitude after some intense discussion of how best to alert Hermione if things went south during his meeting, Hermione remained in her seat staring into nothing in particular for a long time.
--break--
Draco sat in an uncomfortable chair—courtesy of Pansy's Transfiguration skills—and feigned a coolness he did not in any way feel. He knew that behind him, sitting in a slightly less affected position on his bed, was Skye. Next to Skye was their secret weapon: a very invisible Crookshanks, Granger's scarily smart cat. The feline, upon testing, was very much able to sense, if not see, Skye.
When Granger had postulated that magical beings could sense Skye, Draco had been skeptical. After all, weren't witches and wizards magical beings?
They were more human than magic, was his startling conclusion. For upon some testing and prodding Skye for details, it had become evident that magical creatures at least could somehow feel her presence. Or perhaps it was only just kneazles. They had mysterious attributes still puzzled over by animal researchers. Draco was reminded that the magical community of Egypt continued to worship Bastet the feline goddess. Whatever it was, Granger had only mentioned that she'd remembered something that Hogwarts had shown her and she'd brushed aside as inconsequential, which made her suspect that the more magical essence one was in proportion to physical, non-magical self, the more able one would be able to see Skye.
Draco would have pressed more, but they'd been short on time. So, he'd accepted that she'd pulled that theory out of no where and that it worked, whatever explanation it had for working be it Granger's sound theoretical hypothesis or the mystical being of cats. It didn't matter right now. What mattered was that Skye had admitted that the kneazles especially—Mrs. Norris the most, and several other familiars, had never walked through her and had, on occasion, acted almost as if they knew someone or something was there although they didn't react very much to the strange presence. It ascertaining this, Granger had given her cat some serious instructions, disillusioned it, and sent it off with them for the evening. If Skye thought Draco needed help, she'd stick her arm through Crookshanks' body and the kneazle would run to get his mistress.
It was a relief to know that he had a back up, but for now he was on his own. Draco raised an eyebrow at his Housemates as the silence dragged out. The new struggle for dominancy was broken by Zabini this time. "We're here to talk about your reasons for going over to the other side," he said bluntly.
Nott shifted uneasily, but did nothing to quell his classmate. Draco raised an eyebrow slowly, a move he'd copied from Uncle Severus. He'd noticed the effect of that eyebrow's expressions, and he exploited it now without shame on his former friends. It reminded them that he was still of Malfoy blood, that he considered himself still far above them, and that he was well aware of the rudeness of Zabini's question. Then he spoke. "Did you really want to know my reasons, or did you want a story to bring for favor?"
"Your reasons—Malfoy," Nott informed him. The pause before he gave Draco his last name irked Draco. Don't show emotion. Don't show emotion.
"I bow to no one," Draco said simply. He spread his hands wide. "I was not prepared to bend my back to one who would draw the blood of the pure. I'm sure you remember the whispers about what happened to Evangeline Cain when she first failed him. I prefer to be master of my own life and soul. Don't you?"
Like he'd calculated, he'd pushed Nott's buttons. Calm Theodore Nott abruptly threw back a scathing, "I am in control of what I do!"
"Oh, really?" Draco's amusement bled through to his voice. Uncle Severus would be proud. Even if he's on the wrong side of this mess. I think he'd still be proud of me for having absorbed some of his rants about how to successfully manipulate other people. "I see," he drawled. His tone very heavily suggested that he did indeed see, and that he didn't believe Nott.
"And aren't you just serving another master now anyway?" countered Bulstrode unexpectedly.
Draco glanced over at her. "I serve no one," he emphasized coldly. "I am allied with others, but I hold my own and make my own decisions. Can you say that much about yourself?"
"See here," Zabini burst out, "No need to get preachy on us, Malfoy. All this hostility is bad for my health. We don't have any sinister intentions towards you, and we just wanted to talk and find out what you were thinking, yeah? Can we just discuss things nicely among us?"
Taken aback, Draco nearly let his mask slip. Was he being serious about hostilities being bad for his health, and discussing things nicely? But Zabini was smiling serenely, although Nott had shot him a vicious glare that could be comparable to a basilisk, Bulstrode looked supremely anxious, and Parkinson was unreadable.
"Why do you want to know?" he countered, unable to think of how else to respond to the truly odd and un-Slytherin turn the conversation had taken.
"Don't," began Nott, glaring at Zabini.
Zabini shook his head. "Don't you see, Theo? It's the only way we can get him to trust us enough."
Internal trouble. I wonder what exactly is going on? Draco narrowed his eyes, assessing just exactly how loyal the Slytherins really were to their families and to the Dar- to Voldemort. Because it sure sounds like they aren't as loyal as they appear to be. Maybe they're beginning to see the inconsistencies and the lies that Voldemort spouts. But he didn't dare hope unless…
"Oh, fuck you boys and all your internal politics and double intentions," Pansy snapped suddenly, her face coming alight with a passion that Draco was familiar with but had seen rarely in the girl. Blazing with confidence, she turned to Draco. "What Blaise is trying to say and Theo too—all of us—we're frankly sick of being our family's pawns, some of us are being asked to do things we'd rather not, and we want to know why you left and how you did it without being offed." There's the crude, blunt Pansy I remember, Draco thought, stunned. Zabini applauded softly, and Draco frantically searched for the right response—
"Thank Salazar you lot have finally grown a brain," he blurted.
There was a brief frozen moment where Draco felt his knees grow weak in horror at his own bold and uncensored statement, and then—unexpectedly—Pansy began to giggle. "There's the Draco I know," she snorted in an uncanny echo of his own thoughts just seconds earlier.
With that, the tension in the room broke. Nott relaxed, just a fraction, and Bulstrode visibly calmed. Zabini wiped his brow dramatically. "Whew, that was hard work," he said.
Draco eyed the group. "I can give you advice on how to go about solving your problems, and I can tell you my opinions on what you should do, but if you decide to leave—it won't be easy, and it might have some serious consequences," he warned them. "I hate to say it, but the stubborn egocentric trait that runs in the Malfoys really lessened the impact for me."
"Never thought you'd be glad for it," Pansy stated wryly. Draco flapped a hand lazily at her. "Hush, girl. I need to have some reputation left."
"So, what would your opinion be?" asked a quiet voice. Draco turned his head to look at Millicent Bulstrode, who had been silent until now. He met her eyes squarely, and she tilted her head slightly and stared back at him. Her entire countenance was serious, and she leaned forward a little as if already straining to hear what he had to say. I think she's been having a lot of trouble at home. She looks the most…weary, or wary—both, I think. But looking at each of the Slytherins he'd been friends with, or at least conversed with on a regular basis just a year ago, Draco could see that it was not just Bulstrode. Each of them showed hints of fatigue, of ever-present (although now subsided) suspicion, and above all, an unvoiced need for things to be relatively simple again. Simplicity—when being Slytherin and Pureblooded meant only that they had to have certain airs and manner, when families had been there to take care of you and not to demand things of you, and when school was a time to learn and to socialize, not to network frantically and spy on others. Damn Voldemort with a pox. He's the one that's doing this us. I got out of it, but these people were just like me. I have to help them if I can.
Affirming his resolve mentally, Draco folded his hands on his lap and leaned forward, and began speaking. He spoke of how he had been given the task of killing Dumbledore—they knew, and viewed him with solemn, fearful eyes. I could have been the one ordered to kill a headmaster, a teacher, a friend, their fear said. Draco spoke of his own confusion and terror, his raw feeling of inadequacy coupled with his instinctive recoiling at being the instrument of death. They were still, motionless in their seats, but Bulstrode and Nott both had flinched, minutely. Have they already dipped their hands into blood? Draco wondered with pity. He spoke of how he had built a wall, a shell around himself, ready to do away with himself just to bring blessed oblivion. What is peace? Their tense bodies, listening ears, calculating minds—never peace, no, not even in sleep when someone else could kill or curse you. Draco spoke of a cataclysmic realization of his own pitiful state of being and wrongness. He didn't dare look behind him, where, in the form of a beautiful ghostly girl who was no doubt both shocked and moved by the events unfolding before her, his cataclysm sat.
He spoke of his resolve, despite the consequences he knew could and would happen. He measured the hooded emotions and repressed glances between them. I could go to Azkaban, like Evangeline Cain did, whispered their thoughts and blank faces. Draco spoke of the spilling of his soul at the Headmaster's feet, and thought of another man who had, in a private talk just a bit before the horrible attack, professed to have done the exact same thing. They listened, rapt and slightly nauseated at how easily it could have been them—and Draco wasn't the only one whose expression described his complete shock at the kindness and support Albus Dumbledore had extended to him, even upon hearing the extent of his sins.
He did not tell them about the Order, or his participation in it. That was confidential, and Draco was fairly certain that if they did end up approaching someone—McGonagall being the logical choice—she would extend them an offer of joining as well. Or, rather, the offer of consideration for initiation. The High Council were very picky about the characters of those they allowed in. But he told them about Dumbledore's assistance in his summer plans, down to the back up plan of the portkey snitch he'd used when the Death Eater attack had finally occurred and robbed the Wizarding world of one of the best men—flawed, but great nonetheless—that it had seen in a century.
Before they left, subdued and thoughtful, Draco insisted on them swearing secrecy on everything they had heard. "You mentioned that there are others who may want a way out as well," he told them. "That's all very well and good, but I can't trust them. I can't trust you very much, in fact. How do I know that you won't spill to your family or someone who's connected back to him? Even if you didn't mean to—there are ways of getting the truth from your lips that you are unwilling to give." He glanced at them meaningfully, and Pansy had the grace to flush at her own un-Slytherin honesty. Still, it had been the catalyst for the opportunity to win his friends from serving death, and if he could do it he would risk what he had.
They swore, and Draco, sending a silent thank you to Skye for all the research he'd done over the summer, cast a particularly useful if rather out-of-style spell that would do nothing to them irreparable if they broke their secrecy, like any of the normal oaths, but rather just warned them by a slight burning sensation on their tongues and notified him by the same persistent burning feeling to his ears. I can't do anything to stop them from purposely betraying me, but at least I'll have some warning. And I can't do anything about potential Legilimency attacks. Although at least those are rare—as far as I know, only Dumbledore, Voldemort, and…Uncle Severus, were Legilimens. Oh, I suspect one or two of the Order members might be as well. But it's not a requirement of training like Occlumency is.
When they had left, Draco waited a long minute—to make sure they had really left, and weren't lingering or coming back—before turning apprehensively to his bed where Skye had been sitting the entire time. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he certainly wasn't prepared for the sight that confronted him.
Skye was sitting cross-legged, gravely wiping her face with one sleeve. When she took her arm away, Draco saw that she was smiling brightly, although her eyes were reddened with crying—crying?—and so was her nose. I didn't know that translucent skin could still look that red, he thought fleetingly in fascination. "Skye? Are you all right?" he asked awkwardly, hurrying back to her. "What's wrong? Did I say something wrong or do something I shouldn't have?"
"You dolt!" Skye sniffed, blinking away the last of her equally transparent tears and allowing a grin to spread all over her face. "There's nothing wrong! It's all right! I'm so proud of you, Draco dear! Your friends are being truthful, I think, about wanting to get out, and they're serious about it. You'll have actual friends to support you, and things will get better, I just know it!"
Draco hesitantly seated himself on the bed next to Skye, facing her. "You're sure? I was okay, you think? I didn't know what to say, really. And Pansy was really just like she's always been, so I responded the way I would have before…"
Skye elbowed him to no effect. "You were great, Draco. I think they'll probably take your advice, or at least do something about their situation and not just passively accept it now. You've given them hope." Then her voice turned from the loving, bolstering tone to something suddenly ferocious. "Now, tell me exactly what history you are referring to with Pansy Parkinson. This instant."
"What? Ah—" Draco hastily scooted back an inch, eyeing his spirit girlfriend with trepidation, knowing that he'd definitely messed up somewhere there. "Uh, nothing. Really. I mean it. Nothing's happened," he said quickly.
"Don't lie to me, Draco Malfoy," she snapped. "I can just feel you oozing panic. Tell me!"
"Nothing—I really mean it," Draco insisted. "Yeah, okay, there was the Yule Ball but that was because neither of us wanted to go stag and we were friends. Then there was a bit of a crush Pansy had on me back in third year, but that was really short, and we were just friends really. She's got a bit of a sharp, acidic tongue and a wicked sense of humor, but she's nothing compared to you, Skye. Besides, I never liked her that way. I swear!" Draco pleaded, sweating bullets and trying to dig himself out of the hole he'd fallen into.
Skye glared at him. Waited.
Finally, just when Draco was about to collapse from anxiety, she smiled and relaxed, and his breath released in a whoosh of relief. "Fine, I believe you," she told him. "But—but—if I find out something funny happening between you two from now on, there will be hell to pay, I swear to you Draco Malfoy. You haven't been acquainted to the full wrath of a Corwin yet."
Gulping, Draco raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing. Nothing funny. I promise. Just helping out a friend, kay Skye?"
Relenting, she shot up out of his bed and smiled down at what presumably was Granger's kneazle judging from the way the sheets seemed to wrinkle even more and some ginger hairs appeared as tiny indents in his mattress told him the cat was standing. "Come on, Crooks," she murmured. "Let's get you back down to your mistress and thank her for her loan and her help, and inform her of what took place. I think she'll be very happy." Dutifully, Draco trailed after Skye, nearly tripping on the way to the door over a warm furry body that mewed indignantly at his ill-treatment, and they wended their way down to Granger's office.
--break--
Severus raised his eyebrow at the discomfited man before him, face impassive even as his thoughts reeled under the strain of keeping it together without a bout of projectile vomiting. His migraine was dulled now, but his stomach very much sensitive, and even the least scent made him want to rid himself of the little bit of water and crackers in his system.
As bad as he felt, Antonin Dolohov still looked worse. He was pale and haggard, and walked slowly wherever he went. And he bore a long, wicked-looking scar—Hermione's return mark for the one she probably still bore. An eye for an eye… "You've been trying to get my attention for the past week, Dolohov. What is it you wish to know?"
"Cut the shit, Snape," Dolohov grunted. "You saved my life, or so Bella says. The Life Debt—it doesn't feel like it ought to."
"And how would you know what a Life Debt feels like? Or have you had your sorry ass hauled from the brink of death more than the once?" Severus snapped back, fast losing his patience for the man who had nearly killed Hermione when she had still been a child, still mostly defenseless against a grown Death Eater. He almost wished he had left the man to die in a sorry bloody heap on the floor—it would have saved so much trouble!
"The same way you yourself knew, no matter what you said, that you owed James Potter a Life Debt," Dolohov shot back.
The air stilled, froze. Into the crackling antagonism that had pervaded the library, Severus drilled his ice-cold black eyes into Dolohov, and when he spoke it was with a tense, crackling power that Dolohov could have sworn filled the room until there was no air to breathe, no room to move or flee. "Careful, Dolohov," he murmured, his voice suddenly three volumes softer than normal and very dangerous. "You are bound to me by ancient magic, and ancient magic often has a mind of its own. It would be very tragic for you to cross the Veil so soon after I saved your unworthy life. If I were you, I would tread—very lightly—around—me," he finished softly, gaze glinting harshly.
The tableau was broken by Cain.
"Severus—ah, there you are," the youthful boy called cheerily, and Dolohov jerked violently, went whiter if possible when he jarred the healing scar, and without a word turned and left the library. "Hullo, Dolohov," Cain greeted the reticent man as he passed by. "Oh, Severus, I was looking for you. Have you recovered from the failed experiment?"
"Certainly not enough to continue, not if you wish the best quality. There is also a risk that my physical and magical wellbeing could affect the more sensitive ingredients of the experimental potions. And I've already told you—I'm out of certain ingredients I'm at the moment trying to locate."
"Can't you just…money, or anything to speed the process of finding the blasted ingredients?" Cain asked petulantly.
"Fresh dragon's blood, drawn in the correct way for the highest potency?" Severus sneered. "It is obvious you did not learn much from Advanced Potions your seventh year. Fresh dragon's blood, the highest quality that our Master demands, is rare. Even rarer if it's from the Chinese Fireball, since it is extraordinarily difficult for any of the blood to make it to Britain in a timely manner. The international delivery service between China and the British Isles are unforgivably slow and rife with Ministry interference."
"Yes, yes, well see what you can do," Cain interrupted impatiently, obviously uninterested in the mini-lesson. "The Dark Lord is planning something fun for the foot soldiers, but he also expects something substantial from us by around Halloween."
"That's in barely less than a fortnight," Severus observed neutrally. Dammit, I knew they were doing something for Halloween! I have to let Hermione know—I wonder if Cain knows what they're up to?
"I know. That's why we must hurry," Cassius Cain muttered.
"What are they planning for the ranks?" Severus asked, his tone detached.
Cain sighed dramatically. "I find it unnecessary and a waste of resources," he exclaimed. "However, the Dark Lord considers the feelings of the lower ranks when he plans his attacks. Apparently, my dear sister Evie will not be kissing everything that moves." He shrugged, eyes brilliant and uncaring. "They were speaking of a possibility of contracting with you, before she was captured, you know," he said slyly.
Contracting—"What?" Severus demanded.
"Marriage, of course. My parents were quite interested in your accomplishments for our Lord."
"I am not interested in any alliance or relationship," Severus snarled.
"You'd do well with one in our family," Cain insisted.
"I will let you know when I am ready to brew again and when I hear back from the man procuring the dragon's blood," Severus fairly spat and strode away, not looking back. Evangeline Cain, my wife? Never. He felt a spurt of disgust and pure terror. Ambitious, corrupt, powerful, and dark—not even her looks would convince me to bed the viper, let alone wed her! Never, not even if I have to find another woman to marry temporarily to be uneligible. Intelligent luminous brown eyes and soft, tangled wild hair sprang into his mind and Severus cursed himself, the Dark Lord, and the entire race of Cains as he stormed his way back to his rooms, took a dose of Dreamless Sleep, and welcomed oblivion several hours too early.
A.N.: I'm so sorry that I temporarily disappeared without any warning! I have had a sudden deluge of exams, papers, and projects in the past two weeks and have only just resurfaced. This chapter was written in my study breaks, and the next chapter will probably take longer than the customary week to write because I'm going out of town and might not have much computer access for the week. I will, however, be on track after that. My apologies once again!
