A/N: Hello lovelies, how is life going?

In the first part, Ron is not happy to find Draco in the kitchen. In the second part, Lucius and Severus plan a trap.


CHAPTER 9

April 1998

Draco woke from the sound of soft, female voices next to him. He was so deep under that he needed a few seconds to understand what was wrong with that scenario – there shouldn't be any voices! Adrenaline shot into his veins, and, at once he was wide awake, jerking upwards. His head was spinning wildly, and his neck protested fiercely against the abrupt motion, but he managed to sit up and focus on the two figures in the room.

The picture that awaited him, however, was not what he'd expected. Draco wasn't really sure what he had expected, to be honest.

Hermione and a tall, blonde, and very beautiful woman – Fleur, he remembered – were standing side by side, both a cup of tea in hand, preparing breakfast. They were still talking as if he wasn't there, not acknowledging him at all.

Draco quickly turned his head, his gaze flying through the kitchen, and groaned when his neck protested. Nobody else was there. Judging from long shadows and soft light slanting through the windows, it was still early morning. Light snoring came from the adjacent living room, so Potter was still sleeping. Maybe everyone else was, too?

Carefully, Draco shifted his weight. What should he do now?

As his mother had taught him, he took refuge in good manners. "Good morning," he said with a hoarse voice. "May I help you with anything?" Not that he would be able to. He'd never cooked once in his life. He didn't even know how to prepare tea without his wand. But the offer surely counted for something.

The two women turned around, finally acknowledging his presence. Hermione winked at him, but Fleur's smile was a little strained – not that could hold that against her.

"Non, just sit down. Breakfast will be ready in a bit," the Veela said with a heavy French accent, and because he didn't know what else to do, he obeyed.

Draco remembered her from his fourth year, from the tournament. How did a French Veela and accomplished witch end up in a cottage in Cornwall, sheltering refugees? Potter had mentioned another name, hadn't he? Bill and Fleur. Bill… as in Bill Weasley?

There might have been something about it in the papers, Draco now remembered; his father had raised one eyebrow and had passed the Prophet to his mother, who had snorted and said, "Well, at least he's a pureblood." Then his father had remarked something about blood traitors and Veelas, and that was it.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Draco remembered something else about Bill Weasley. It hadn't been in the papers, but Greyback had been present in his house often enough to tell the tale. Draco shifted his weight, his gaze snapping to the door. Maybe he could run back to his cell before Fleur's husband appeared?

He – Draco – had led Greyback into Hogwarts, who had then attacked the Weasley. Bill certainly wasn't too fond of him. That would explain Fleur's hard smile. Draco really didn't want to find out if the Half-werewolf hated his guts now, if he wanted revenge, or if he didn't blame him after all. His cell sounded more tempting by the second.

However, before the Slytherin could move an inch, Hermione placed a cup of tea and some toast in front of him, then prepared herself a plate and casually sat down next to him. Her elbow almost brushed his arm. Draco froze.

The smell of black tea and fresh toast assaulted his senses, but he couldn't move. It didn't feel right to eat here at the table, where everyone else was eating. It didn't feel right to eat someone else's food, to abuse their hospitality.

"Aren't you hungry?" Hermione asked after a moment, noticing that he hadn't touched his breakfast.

Draco's stomach growled loudly in response, but he didn't dare to move. He cast a quick glance at Fleur, but she' directed her wand at the stove and ignored him.

"It's not poisoned, you know?" Hermione grinned and nudged him.

Draco flinched so hard from the unexpected contact that he nearly fell out of the chair.

"Sorry," the Gryffindor whispered, eyeing him with something like concern in her gaze. Concern! Bloody hell.

Finally, Fleur turned and said in her French accent, "She's right. I'd never poison a guest. Even if I don't like him…" The rest of the sentence was muffled, but he might have heard the words Molly Weasley in there.

He glanced back at Hermione, who smiled encouragingly and not at all like the worst scum was sitting next to her on a chair. He didn't deserve this. But the smell was so delicious, and his fingers practically itched with the need to grab the toast.

Weak, Draco scolded himself but gave in to the needs of his stomach. With shaking fingers, he buttered the toast and put some jam on it. It tasted like heaven.

Hermione made a content sound and bit into her own toast. "Did you sleep well?" she asked conversationally. There was an amused tone in her voice. She hadn't seemed surprised to have found him in the kitchen.

Draco mumbled something inaudible in response, his gaze firmly on his plate, and she asked louder, "Beg your pardon?"

"Potter drugged me," he then whispered, glanced in the direction of the living room.

Hermione laughed as clear as a bell, and he flinched. She would wake the whole bloody house.

"Oh, don't worry. Luna and Dean have left already," she explained, reading his reaction like a book. But it wasn't the Ravenclaw girl and the half-blood Draco was worried about.

As he'd predicted, a loud yawn from the living room told him that Potter had awoken as well. Draco stilled in anticipation, his gaze firmly fixed on the entrance. But the Gryffindor didn't enter the kitchen; instead, the boy shuffled tiredly to the bathroom. Potter didn't seem to be a morning person either.

Hermione and Fleur had meanwhile taken up their conversation again and Draco listened, allowing himself another slice of toast. He was curious what they talked about, but it was oddly normal; they remarked on the good weather and that they needed to do another shopping trip.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Draco hadn't heard such a normal conversation in a long time. At the Manor, it was always about battle strategies, about persons that had been killed and had deserved it, about Dementor attacks, that sort of thing. In Hogwarts, though, you could sometimes hear someone complain about an essay, but normally nobody dared to complain about anything. Everybody just stared silently into their books and tried to keep their heads down, even the Slytherins. When the older students were on patrol duty, they silently prayed to find nobody and see nothing, and when it was their turn to punish some of the students, they hoped they faked the Cruciatus well enough. Except Crabbe and Goyle, of course. Draco hardly recognised them. They loved the Dark Arts; they revelled in causing fear and pain. They were nothing like his old friends anymore.

Not that anyone in Slytherin still had friends. Alliances maybe, but real friends? Everybody just wanted to survive, and to backstab a fellow Slytherin in order to do that wasn't beyond anyone. The only person he'd trusted around there had been Pansy and maybe Theo.

Draco shook his head to clear his thoughts and buttered another toast. Fleur's next words attracted his attention.

"So, how long will you stay? I know you don't talk about it… but I worry. Hermione, you…" she lowered her voice, but Draco could still hear her, "you're not fine."

"I don't know how long we're staying," the witch beside him replied nonchalantly, ignoring Fleur's whispered remark. "We have to do something, but the execution of it is quite difficult."

A strangled sound broke out of Draco's chest that almost sounded like a chuckle. Instantly, bother their gazes were focused in him.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I just thought 'when was the last time something was easy?'" He shrugged. "I can't remember, you?"

Hermione relaxed visibly. "That's –"

Suddenly, loud footsteps announced someone coming down the stairs, and Draco nearly choked on his toast in panic. However, before he could react in any way, Ron entered, froze when he detected Draco, and then exploded. His speckled face contorted in fury.

"What's he doing here?" His voice lashed like a whip through the air.

When he made a move to round the table, Draco jumped up in panic. Automatically, he backed away from the redhead, his eyes searching for possible escape routes, but there was nowhere to go.

"Calm down, Ron," Hermione said quietly. She still sat there, apparently relaxed.

"Did you let him out? Are you insane? He could… he could call You-know-who or escape or…"

"Ugh, shut up, Ron," Potter's voice snapped, entering the kitchen in a fresh shirt, his hair still dripping from his shower. "I let him out."

"What's going on in here? Why's Ron shouting?" a deep voice asked, and Bill Weasley appeared in the door frame.

Draco flinched at the sight of him. Although he'd known what had happened, he wasn't prepared for the sight of the puckered scars across the man's face, which gave him a fierce, dangerous appearance. Bill spotted him at once and narrowed his eyes, but didn't react otherwise. "Oh," he murmured in understanding.

"Why would you let him out?" Weasley hissed and turned to his best friend. "You didn't believe his blatant lies, did you? He's a bloody Death Eater!"

Draco unintentionally winced, stepping further back to put as much space as possible between himself and the angry redhead. Suddenly, his back hit the hard edge of a cupboard. Rationally, Draco knew he was Death Eater, but… something inside him fought against that. He wasn't like Bellatrix, or Rodolphus, or Dolohov or…

"Ron!" Hermione snapped, finally provoked enough to stand up as well.

"He's not a house elf, Hermione," Weasley cut across her. "You can't fix him."

"Leave her alone!" Draco snarled before anyone else could react.

Instantly, all eyes turned to him, and he shifted uncomfortably. "It's not her fault nor is it Potter's. Just take it out on me, okay?"

Weasley glared at him, breathing hard, about to jump over the table and pounce on him, but Fleur's authorative voice stopped him, "Nobody is taking out anything on anyone. At least not in my kitchen!"

Bill's hearty laugh broke the tension. He walked around Ron and Harry to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. "Good morning, darling."

Hermione took the chance to place herself in front of Draco, effectively blocking him from any attacks. "Leave him alone, Ron."

That little move did strange things to Draco's chest, like something inside of him melted. Never had anyone protected him before. Maybe his mother, but… but that was something mothers just did. Hermione, though, was different.

He'd bullied her, and hurt her, and watched her being tortured, and she still stood up for him, expecting nothing in return. Bloody Gryffindor.

"It's okay," Draco said lowly. "I'm going back to… my room."

Everyone exchanged a glance, but nobody objected – although Hermione looked like she might. There probably weren't enough rooms in the house to accommodate him anyway – if even sodding Potter had to sleep on the couch. With his back sliding along the wall, Draco left the kitchen and nearly sprinted down the stairs. But nobody followed him. Nobody came down to lock the door.

So, he closed it himself, lay down on the hard floor, and stared at the little window.


Present

A few days passed – days that nearly drove Draco mad – before his godfather answered.

Half-blood Prince: Jabberwock, we found last H. Archangel, yours is Nagini. Lightning knows. MM. Two weeks.

Draco's breathing accelerated, and he had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to not hyperventilate. Two more weeks. Two more weeks of nearly being killed every day. Two more weeks of watching Hermione being tortured. Were they crazy?

And what was MM supposed to mean? Malfoy Manor?

"Omnia vincit amor," Draco whispered and threw the book in a corner. He wouldn't survive to more weeks. Voldemort was already becoming impatient with him because Draco's intel really was useless. He knew it. But there was nothing he could do. He needed to give him something solid, and fast, or it was over for him and Hermione.

Suddenly, it knocked at his door, and he jumped up. "Mother?" he asked, having recognised her steps.

Narcissa entered, a cool expression on her face. "I wanted to inform you that there will be a gathering tomorrow."

Draco paled. A gathering of Death Eaters. And Hermione in the dungeon.

"I'd hoped Severus would let you re-sit the NEWTs, but apparently the Ministry has to approve that," she smiled bitterly, and Draco knew she'd tried to prevent him from being present tomorrow. But, as Voldemort practically was the Ministry, there was no chance of an excuse.

Draco nodded, composed. "Thank you, mother." He knew he couldn't let his panic show. Now was not the time for panic. (Was there ever a time for panic anyway?)

Narcissa hesitated a moment, her gaze scrutinising. Draco knew she could see his fear in the small twitch of his fingers, the too shallow breathing. Then, she straightened almost imperceptibly. "I almost forgot. There will be a celebration in two weeks to commemorate the…" she cleared her throat, "…Ministry takeover."

Draco raised one eyebrow.

"We offered to hold the reception here," Narcissa added, almost as an afterthought, and Draco understood. There was a plan. That explained Severus' message.

"How thoughtful of you, mother. A great idea," he replied without inflection, turning back to his desk.

A second later, the door closed with a slight click.

Staring at the array of textbooks and parchment on his desk, he tried to figure out their plan. Everyone would come to the reception, from the lowliest Death Eater to the Dark Lord himself. The Malfoy name still carried power and influence, and the chance to visit the infamous Malfoy Manor, the headquarters of Voldemort himself, was too tempting to pass up. A honey trap.

Draco's father would simply lower the wards, and everyone inside was practically defenceless in a well planned attack. The Order of the Phoenix and Potter could end the war, if everything went well.

Draco quickly squashed all feelings of hope that this thought carried. The end of the war. He didn't dare to even think about it.

That battle also meant that Draco had to get Hermione out of here before, or she could be used as hostage.

There was, however, the more pressing matter of surviving the bloody Death Eater gathering tomorrow.

Draco felt a scream building up in his throat. Unthinking, he grabbed the cup with cold tea the house elves had brought him before and threw it against the wall. It shattered, and something inside Draco shattered with it.


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