The only reason he's striding confidently forward is because of his occlumency.
If he were to allow anything to float freely around his mind, he'd be a mess; sweating profusely and heaving on the floor. Weakness is one of the many things his family fortune can't afford.
Even so, he can't control his heart — the way it's banging against his ribcage as if it's trying to escape. He knows for a fact that Greyback can hear it: the dirty creature's ears are twitching with each of his rapid pulses.
Speaking of dirty creatures.
She won't stop casting her eyes in his direction. They aren't fleeting ones… they are full-blown, long, lingering stares. Over five years of school with her has taught him that she's a schemer. Right now, whatever plan is formulating in her head has him in mind.
Had she not been Saint Potter's sidekick, he would've believed that Granger's first instinct would be to throw him at Greyback and run. Draco wouldn't have blamed her. Not having a wand is unnatural, leaving him stripped and vulnerable. Several times, as their footsteps echo Greyback's lumbering ones through the hollow corridors, he considers offering her up to the disgusting hound.
Except, each time, he'll make an excuse.
Greyback might just be leading them to some fellow Death Eaters.
Draco doesn't want to see her dirty blood, or smell it on the werewolf's breath.
Granger can't die.
That last excuse is something he doesn't understand. The question he'd asked himself when lying about her identity reemerges: why do you want her alive? Not finding an answer, he stops trying to convince himself on letting Greyback have a midnight snack.
There is a more pressing matter at hand, and it starts with Greyback's presence. The werewolf is a Death Eater; the Dark Lord has access to the currently serene castle. How and when, Draco has no idea. He'd been given no warning whatsoever, not a burn on his Mark or even a simple message.
It begs the question of how long he and Granger had been sprawled, unconscious, in the Room of Requirement. Hours? Days, maybe? He doesn't feel hungry, but maybe his nausea is masking that.
The last thing he remembers is her diving, as if she'd seen the golden snitch. The Room of Requirement door was slightly ajar, despite his efforts — under all her colourful array of spells hurtling towards him — to close it. Sheer panic had consumed him, then, at what she would find, and he'd barreled in and pounced after her. That's when the darkness swallowed them whole.
The fact of the matter now, though, is that someone else figured out a way to break into Hogwarts first. Draco has failed his mission, unless he's now expected to murder Dumbledore on the spot. Even if he had his wand on him, he's not sure he would be capable of doing it. He hasn't… he hasn't mentally prepared for it. It's so sudden.
Draco's not sure when they'd started ascending the marble staircases until they're standing outside Dumbledore's office. A traitorous bead of sweat dribbles down the back of his neck.
Greyback turns his head to face them, leering. His bloodshot, lupine eyes rove over Granger. Draco inches, ever so slightly, closer to her. He wouldn't have realized it, if Greyback didn't give him a predatory grin.
The werewolf shifts back round to the gargoyle guarding the entrance of the office.
"Long Live Voldemort," he growls with relish. The gargoyle jumps aside, and Greyback starts prowling up the spiralling staircase.
Granger stiffens next to him. His own mind is reeling. Sneaking a glance in her direction, he drinks her in for the first time since Greyback cornered them. Her face is a sickly pale in the candlelight, her eyes darting around — her mind is trying to make sense of what her ears had just heard, of what her eyes had just witnessed.
They both jump when Greyback's snarl echoes down the staircase: "Did I not tell you to follow me?"
Simultaneously, they clamber up the staircase. Blood-red light is flickering from the top, dancing across the stone panels their feet tap against. Granger's arm and frenzied hair is brushing against his own arm. He breathes in the scent of roses, and his eyes momentarily flutter closed; the whisper of scratching quills and flipping pages drifts within his skull.
But then he is back here.
Ascending to his inevitable destiny.
When he reaches the top, a step after Granger, he blinks.
The only time he had been in Dumbledore's office was in fourth year, when he was questioned about Mad-Eye Moody turning him into a ferret. With McGonagall defending as his witness, it had been a humiliating experience.
Portraits had been pretending to sleep, whilst they eavesdropped on Mad-Eye's husky voice defending his punishment techniques. A magnificent phoenix had been cleaning its feathers whilst McGonagall argued with the other professor. Strange trinkets had puffed smoke, as Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingers pressed together and eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
Now, there are no portraits on the blank, crimson wall; there are no phoenix's watchful eyes meeting his own underneath fiery feathers; there are no trinkets resting innocently on a side table. No McGonagall or fake Mad-Eye, obviously. Most significantly, the person sitting behind the desk isn't Dumbledore… it's a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with waxy skin, watching them silently.
Greyback lingers by the desk, grinning at the students at the door maliciously.
"Found some whelps wandering about the corridors, m'lord," Greyback grunts.
Did he just...
There's a few moments where the man remains silent, Greyback pants, Granger breathes shallowly and Draco's heart stutters.
"Leave us, Greyback." Draco's palms are sweaty, now. Looking disappointed, the werewolf makes for the entrance; Granger is quick to slide out of the way, in front of Draco. Even so, Greyback snorts in her direction before he lumbers downstairs. All the while, Draco's trying to figure out if his brain is just muddled.
He knows that voice.
It haunts his Manor, hissing from any room it makes itself comfortable in. When he's writhing in pain, it's laughing with the Cruciatus. As he struggles to sleep, it slithers through the confines of his nightmares.
Why does he look like, well… human?
"Draco," he says silkily, and Draco slams his occlumency walls more firmly into place. "I hear you're fraternizing with a half-blood." He opens his mouth, then pauses. Something's not right. Whatever he offers could be the wrong move. So, instead, he just shrugs, hoping he won't be punished for insolence.
An icy chuckle forces him to suppress a shiver down his spine.
"Penelope Clearwater?"
A heartbeat. Draco can practically hear her mind whirring.
"Yes," Granger responds, voice steady. For both their sakes, he begs Merlin that she can do occlumency.
"Lies." Draco's blood runs cold. In front of him, Granger tenses. "I eliminated the Clearwater line: the blood traitor father, the mudblood mother and their half-breed spawn." Clearwater had graduated from Hogwarts just last year. Finally free from school, ready to start her life. There had been many rumours of her and that poncy Weasley. Perhaps they were going to move in together.
"And yet, you're just a man." Draco is completely frozen as he stares, dumb-founded, at the back of Granger's head. "When they talked about Voldemort, they made him out to be a lot scarier than you actually are." Does she have a death wish? is what he thinks before wondering how she'd worked it out so quickly. Granger has never seen him before... she doesn't know that something is very, very wrong. Daring a glance at the Dark Lord, Draco isn't a stranger to the flash in his eyes, though they're normally red and serpentine.
She's smart enough to know when she's been backed up into a corner. Evidently, though, her Gryffindor nature just won't allow her to go down without a fight; had she been a Slytherin, she would've proposed a use to the Dark Lord. Spying on Potter is one that immediately comes to mind.
When Granger's head twitches to look at him incredulously, brows furrowed, his stomach does a flip. Surely she doesn't expect him to back her up.
"Is that so, Draco?" the Dark Lord hisses softly. Dangerous. What did he say?
Flipping through his most recent memories, it's all he can do to not recoil.
She can help you spy on Harry Potter, my Lord.
"No," Granger snarls firmly, turning back to the creature in a man's body, "you'll have to kill me."
A pair of black eyes dances between a fiery Gryffindor and a tense Slytherin. Glittering under the candlelight, there are flashes of red across their dark depths as the firelight reflects the crimson walls. The cat is toying with the mice — enjoying every second that passes by.
The thin lips stretch up to refine those sharp cheekbones further. As his deathly laugh rings around the room, Draco glances briefly at the exit.
Then, the next words root Draco to the spot; they cause Granger to gasp, backing slightly into him. In the room's silence, they digest what has just been said.
Like a shadow, Voldemort's words loom.
"I killed Harry Potter fifteen years ago."
