Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Harry Potter. I do have a tumblr now. I'm AduroWrites over there. I'm trying to put fic updates there. Semi-successfully so far. I also don't know how to tumblr… alas, I am old. Editing notes at the end!
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"He jus' needs more time ter get used to the saddle," Hagrid proclaimed. He wiped his brow and dropped against the fence in exhaustion. The posts creaked under his considerable weight but held firm.
Draco swiped at his own face with his sleeve. It was a cold morning, but Orion had given them both a workout. Draco had pulled off his coat fifteen minutes ago, and he was still overheated. Sweat was beading at his hairline. His shirt was damp with it and with melted snow from being tossed into a snowbank by the thestral. He glared at Orion. The thestral chuffed and tossed his head. He continued to prance about the pen, not tired in the slightest.
"He's used to the saddle," Draco said. "He's just not used to the saddle and me." He thought for minute, fingers tapping in his usual pattern.
"What are yeh thinkin'?" Hagrid asked slowly.
"We need to introduce the new elements separately."
Draco stepped towards Orion, hands out, even as Hagrid fumbled over a few words of caution. Orion allowed him to approach and unbuckle the saddle. Draco pulled it off and then grabbed the reins. Orion wasn't wearing a true bridle. It was more of a hackamore, because the thestral wasn't used to a bit yet. He let Draco lead him to the fence they were using as a mountain post, but then froze as Draco carefully found his seat. There were some riders who enjoyed riding bareback. Draco wasn't one of them, but he could ride without a saddle if needed. Draco held his breath, waiting for the thestral's revolt. It didn't come.
Orion held still. His wings rustled a bit and his head tipped to the side as he considered this new predicament. From across the pen, Hagrid looked equal amounts pleased and worried. Draco cautiously squeezed his legs tighter and Orion took a few halting steps forward. He froze again when he realized that the weight on his back stayed with him.
"It's just me," Draco said, patting the side of his neck.
Orion's ears twitched back towards him, and then he snorted as Hagrid pulled out a piece of jerky.
"Come 'ere, boy."
Orion jerked forwards, the snack far more important than his passenger. His neck extended, but Hagrid backed up, encouraging him to walk further. Orion finally kicked into a trot to snatch the treat. Hagrid pulled out another piece and continued to walk him around the pen until all the jerky was gone. Once Hagrid held up his hands, the signal for 'no more', Orion gave a short buck and then sped into an easy lope, hoofs kicking higher than strictly necessary. It was an attempt to dismount him, but not throw him. Draco kept his seat and tried to minimize any extra bouncing, which might spook the thestral further. As soon as Orion slowed, Draco took the opportunity to slide off. There was no point exhausting Orion's patience.
"We'll train without the saddle," Draco told Hagrid.
The half-giant looked apprehensive. "Yeh sure?"
Draco nodded. "Just to start." He grabbed his coat and clamored over the fence, ready for a shower and clean change of clothes.
"Well, alrigh' then. Thanks fer helpin'."
Draco returned Hagrid's wave and headed back towards the castle. He was aware that something was wrong as soon as he stepped inside. It was far too quiet for a Saturday. There should be students running about, playing in the halls or chatting in the window seats or making out in the alcoves. But the halls were nearly empty, and the students that did pass by were tight-faced and moving quickly, shooed back to their dorms by the Ravenclaw prefects, Goldstein and Patil.
"What's going on?" Draco asked.
Patil scoffed. "Like you don't know."
Draco raised an eyebrow and turned to Goldstein. He and Anthony had always gotten along, at least, as well as could be expected when he was a Malfoy and it was Goldstein's goal, since first year, to become an Auror. Not just any Auror, but a Detective-Auror. He was obsessed with mystery novels and true crime radio programs. He'd all but memorized the entire collection of Sherlock Holmes and quoted it incessantly.
Goldstein crossed his arms and stared down his nose at Draco, an obvious affection of a detective in a murder-mystery production. "Graffiti on the third floor, the typical slurs against Muggle-borns. That's your style, isn't it, Malfoy?"
The Ravenclaw often pushed Draco into the role of villain, the foil to his own cliché protagonist. Draco found he didn't mind the stereotyped casting. It was all camp with Goldstein, obvious satire and exaggeration. There was no maliciousness in it.
So Draco gave an equally theatrical scoff and turned up his nose. "Graffiti? That's bit plebian for my tastes."
Patil flicked her braid over her shoulder and shot them both a glare. As Goldstein's partner, she'd seen too many of their interactions to find them anything but irritating.
"I don't suppose there were any spelling errors?" Draco continued, arching an eyebrow. "That would certainly narrow down your suspects."
"I won't be fooled by your attempts to thwart suspicion. I'm wise to your slippery ways." Goldstein's lips twitched as he tried to maintain his glare.
"Thwart suspicion? Please. Anyone ill-cultured enough to use graffiti as a way of expressing themselves is hardly a criminal mastermind."
"That's exactly what a criminal mastermind would say. I don't suppose you've got an alibi for the past few hours, Malfoy?"
Draco gestured to the state of himself, tussled, disheveled, and uncomfortably cold and damp. "Isn't is obvious? Detention. I have an eyewitness with an impeccable reputation to speak on my behalf."
"Rather convenient, isn't it?" Goldstein's lips twitched again.
"Alas, you've caught me. As a criminal mastermind, I landed myself a detention so that I'd have an alibi while I graffitied the school, the punishment for which is a detention."
Goldstein was full on grinning now. "So, it all comes out. I knew I'd catch you one day."
Patil put her hands on her hips. "It's nothing to laugh about. And whoever wrote that graffiti is going to get a lot more than detention. They're lucky if they don't get expelled."
The smile faded from Goldstein's face, which meant Patil was telling the truth. He met Draco's gaze and serious wasn't a good look on him. It made his face pinch in weird ways. "You should talk with your house. Rein them in."
Draco felt the stirring of irritation. "What makes you think it's Slytherin?"
"See for yourself. Outside the Transfigurations classroom."
The two prefects left to hunt down more wayward students. Draco headed up the stairs, intent on seeing it himself. He passed a gaggle of seventh-year Hufflepuff girls on the way. They were whispering among themselves as they hurried towards their dorm. They spared him a suspicious look, which was entirely expectable, but a couple of them gave him a double-take. He saw Rosaline nudge her friends. A few of them snuck glances back, their faces turning red when he caught them looking. Giggles broke out.
Draco looked down at himself. What were they – oh.
Draco had thrown on an old school shirt for detention. It was tight across his shoulders now, and the white cotton had turned transparent from the melted snow. It was plastered to his chest.
Well. That was alright then. He'd rather have those looks than the typical suspicious glares.
Draco considered charming himself dry, but he figured the disheveled look offered some proof to his alibi. And as he reached the third floor, he could see Darla up ahead with Chloe Baxter. They'd clearly taken a detour on the way to their tower to see what the fuss was about. They passed by him, heads ducked down, but their eyes flit over and lingered on his chest for a moment. Draco pretended not to notice, but he couldn't help the smirk from sliding onto his face.
Filch was up ahead, at the end of the third-floor corridor. Claire Jameson was standing in front of him, trying to shoo back a collection of younger students.
"You've been told to return to your dorms," she insisted. "Go on now."
The students weren't listening. They were jostling forwards, edging her back, necks craning to peek at the wall. She was doing a terrible job of commanding them, but it could be intentional. If Draco was correct about her loyalty, she'd want more students to see whatever hateful messages were painted on the walls.
Draco hardened his footfalls as he approached, his boots thumping against the stone. "You've been given instructions."
The students jerked around. Draco knew their names and faces; it was simple enough to memorize the student body from the Sorting Ceremony. Two second-year Gryffindors, two second-year Hufflepuffs, and a third-year Ravenclaw. No Slytherins, he noted. Then again, Slytherins would have been smart enough to return to their dorms as soon as instructed so they wouldn't fall under any undue suspicion."
"Leave," Draco snapped, "before I start docking points."
The students were quick to obey, hustling by him without a word. These students didn't have accusation in their eyes. They looked scared. Draco felt his steps quickening. What had made everyone so disturbed?
"All students are supposed to be in their dorms," Claire said, voice apologetic. "Prefects too."
Draco ignored her. The paint came into view and he stopped in shock. It wasn't just a hateful message, it was a large, jagged picture of a snake emerging from a skull. A Dark Mark.
Except, it wasn't really. The actual design of a Dark Mark was more complex than most people realized. The snake should have been twisted into a figure eight with spotted scales. This snake was only coiled, and the scales were striped. The skull should have been grinning; this one appeared to be yawning. The whole picture should be done in shades of black-and-white, but this was done in such vibrant hues that it looked oddly cartoonish. Draco didn't think this was the work of a shoddy artist. This was someone who was drawing a design they hadn't seen before. Or – he tipped his head to the side and squinted – perhaps someone who'd only ever glimpsed a Dark Mark.
"You're not supposed to be here," Filch said, voice sneering. "I've got work to do."
He dunked a brush into a bucket of sudsy water and Draco left him to it. He retreated to the Slytherin dorms where the Pureblood group was gossiping about the mark. A few were even talking, openly, about the Dark Lord and joining the Death Eaters when they were of age. They were clearly emboldened by the mural. Some of the neutral students were trying their best to ignore the chatter while they worked on a group project, but he could tell the conversation disturbed them. Draco couldn't see any signs of Blaise.
The students were allowed out of their rooms by mid-afternoon. An inquisition was launched to find the culprits and Draco had to give his alibi to three different professors. Dumbledore gave a stern lecture before dinner than night. No suspects had been named, although Draco found the entire Gryffindor house was glaring in his direction, convinced he'd gotten away with yet another crime. In Draco's opinion, who ever had left the Dark Mark wasn't a student. It'd been put up too close to McGonagall's classroom. No student – particularly no Slytherins – would be stupid enough to risk her wrath. But he also couldn't see Jameson doing it, despite his belief she was somehow working for the Dark Lord. She'd been incredibly cautious in maintaining her cover so far. This sort of stunt didn't fit her modus operandi, as Goldstein would say.
Draco puzzled over it the next day, finding it hard to concentrate on his homework. Then again, Warrington and Nott and the others in the Superiority group were hardly helping. They were loud. They were rowdy. They shoved their way through the Common Room and set hexes for their classmates who they judged to be less than desirable. Nott looked to Draco every time he dropped a hex, as if he was waiting for Draco to object. Nott clearly wanted to fight with him. He wanted to call Draco out for cowardice or betraying his blood. Draco didn't say anything. Nott had his cronies all riled up, and they'd side with him in a challenge. It would be an all-out war, and while Draco believed he would come out the victor, it would draw a lot of attention. Draco wanted to avoid that.
But there were other ways of getting rid of Nott. A potion slipped into his glass of pumpkin juice to cause a moderate bout of vomiting, or the faintest sprinkle of itching powder in his sheets to keep him from sleeping. Or, perhaps most difficult, a mood-altering spell, cast to give him a few days of lethargy.
He mulled over those options before a better opportunity presented itself in Potions class. He and Nott were brewing partners, and they were working on a delirium antidote. It was a tricky potion, because the smoke could easily go caustic. When Nott's back was turned, Draco cast a quick-freezing charm on the powdered unicorn hoof before dropping it in. He walked over to the potion's ingredient shelf, ostensibly to grab the fig root they needed. He saw Nott turn back to the potion. The ice on the unicorn hoof kept it from dissolving right away and kept the potion a clear blue color. Nott, assuming it hadn't been added, measured out a scoop and dropped it in. The potion began turning an appropriate pale yellow, but then, as the ice dissolved around the first addition, it turned acrid. Thick yellow smoke billowed up into Nott's face. He stumbled back with a curse and started choking. The other students retreated in alarm.
Snape, with reflexes honed from decades of brewing, immediately cast a venting charm. It wasn't enough to save Nott, who dropped to his knees as he gagged. Snape had Draco take him up to the infirmary. Pomfrey clucked her tongue while she grabbed her potions for smoke inhalation and declared he'd have to remain there overnight.
The Slytherin common room was quieter that evening. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, even some on the Pureblood side. It was an effective way to restore some peace, but because his response had been covert, he hadn't gained any support from it. If Draco truly wanted supporters, he'd have to come up with some sort of goal, and he didn't have one just yet. Perhaps that was why he found himself wandering up the Equality meeting that Wednesday night. He walked up with Blaise, who took Draco's company and his position on the Neutral group to mean that he was actually questioning his allegiance to the Pureblood Superiority group.
"Muggles were the first to form governments based on the concept democracy," Blaise rattled off. "It took wizarding culture over a century to follow their lead and to do away with monarchies. Wouldn't you say we're better for it?"
"Malfoys are direct descendants of the French monarchy," Draco said flatly. "Many of my ancestors were beheaded in the uprisings."
A comment like that used to cow Blaise. Now he just gave him an unimpressed look. "When governing power is held by one person, or one family, the rest of the population will rise in protest because that is unsustainable, unethical, and leads to an unequal distribution of wealth."
Draco raised an eyebrow. He hadn't thought Blaise was interested in the philosophy of government. He followed him into the classroom and watched him be greeted by the other Equality students. Blaise appeared to be something of a celebrity among them, which was good to see. Draco didn't want to have to rescue him again.
Draco's own presence caused some consternation. Potter's face went red with anger. Weasley looked confused and Granger outright aghast. In fact, the entire Equality party seemed torn between shock and horror.
McGonagall, the faculty advisor, was quick to approach, condemnation written across her features. "What's your purpose here, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco shrugged a shoulder. "Damned if I know. It said on some sheet that I was supposed to visit each group, though why I'm supposed to visit this one, I don't know. It hardly seems worth the effort."
McGonagall stared at him. "Are you saying that you are a member of the Neutral Party?"
"Is that the one?" Draco looked down at his shirt and brushed away an invisible piece of lint. It served two purposes. One, it irritated McGonagall. Two, it allowed him to look away from her ire. Draco wasn't easily intimidated, but he had no qualms in admitting that the Gryffindor Head of House made him nervous.
"Ms. Granger, would you please get the list of party members and bring it to me?"
Granger was quick to comply, always eager to be of help. Draco watched McGonagall scan the list, her lips pursing when she spotted his name. "Very well, you may remain for the meeting," she said stiffly. "But I will have no unnecessary interruptions or comments, is that clear?"
"As Trelawny's crystal ball," Draco drawled and slipped by her before she could say anything else. He headed to the desks in the back of the room. The rest of the Neutral Party had already gathered, but Draco never sat with them. He picked a seat a few rows back and spotted Bill in the corner of the room. He was another of the faculty advisors. Bill gave him a grin; Draco returned a nod.
He slumped in his chair as the meeting began and pulled out a quill and piece of parchment. Ostensibly, he was taking notes. In reality, he was writing his Arithmancy essay. But his attention was pulled to the debate. The Equality group tackled their discussion with far more rationality than the Superiority group. They talked about equality in terms of morality, but also from a basis of research and science. They talked about philosophy and the inherent rights of humanity. When the Neutral Party raised questions about the decline of cultural heritage, one of the rallying cries of the Superiority group, they offered suggestions of introductory classes to help Muggle-borns acclimate to the culture and additional holidays to promote traditional celebrations. They also pointed out the ways in which Muggle-born wizards and witches had assisted society, not detracted from it.
Draco pretended not to be impressed. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and glared at the room at large. The glare turned genuine when the subject of war was broached. It was brought up innocently. The hour was nearly over and Potter and Weasley had begun goofing off. Granger reprimanded them before McGonagall could. "There is a war going on. Let's try to concentrate, shall we?"
"It's not a war," said Weasley. "Not yet any way. There haven't been any real battles."
"War," said Granger primly, "is an armed conflict between groups that involves death and destruction. I think it fits the definition."
"Well, it doesn't feel like a real war yet," said Weasley. "I mean, what are we fighting for right now?"
"Our lives?" Potter asked.
Granger shook her head. "It's more than that. We're fighting to rid ourselves of a tyrannical monster who wants to take over our country and rule our lives. This is about freedom, the freedom to be governed by who we want, the freedom to live in peace, and the freedom from discrimination."
There were a few cheers of agreement from the Equality group.
"Doesn't war usually involve more death and destruction?" Weasley asked, still on the war question.
"It'll get there soon enough. Once the battle begins, even the people who want to stay out of the conflict will have to pick a side." Granger gave a meaningful look at the Neutral Party.
"All-out war should be avoided at all costs," Isobel challenged from her seat. "Do you have any idea what the casualties would be otherwise?"
"This isn't just about the freedom for Muggle-borns," Granger returned. "It's your freedom too. You've heard what the Superiority group thinks. They want to set up a hierarchy based on blood-purity. A lot of you are Half-bloods and you're going to have to pick. Freedom or death."
Draco nearly snapped. He dropped his chair down with a bang, not caring that he got glared at by the entire room – Neutral and Equal alike.
"It does appear that's time is up for now," McGonagall announced, checking her watch. "But this is an interesting topic that's been raised. Please think about how the proposed Superiority laws will impact you, your families, and your friends for next week."
The students got up to leave, already talking among themselves. Draco remained seated, too irritated to think about navigating the crowd. He watched the room empty, noting that Bill was hanging back.
"You okay?" Bill asked, once they were alone.
Draco turned to him. "You're all so bloody arrogant! You're just as bad as the Pureblood group!"
"How's that then?"
"Saying that we all have to fight. It's no different than the Death Eaters."
"No different?" Bill asked. "The Equality group is fighting for the rights of everyone. The Death Eaters are fighting to give power to Voldemort, and if he wins –,"
"I know what happens if the Dark Lord wins," Draco said. "Let's think about this, shall we?"
He got up and erased the board in the front of the room. Bill followed, perching on a desk in the front row.
"A quick breakdown of statistics," Draco said. "Seventeen percent of the wizarding population is Pureblood, roughly thirteen percent is Muggle-born. That leaves a good seventy percent who are Half-blood or some fraction of half."
"I thought there were more Purebloods."
Draco huffed out a laugh. "It depends if you count by the second, third, or fourth generation rules."
"You count by the fourth generation?"
"Malfoys count five generations back."
Bill shook his head. "Of course you do."
Draco turned to the board. "Let's say the Dark Lord takes over right now." Draco wrote 'Dark Lord reigns' on one side. "For easy math, let's say there are only a hundred wizards in England. Under the Dark Lord's rule, all seventeen Purebloods live in luxury. That means you too, Bill."
"Sounds nice."
Draco smirked and wrote down 17: alive. "Let's also say that the Dark Lord kills all the mudbloods. He wouldn't, because he'd end up devastating the economy, and most likely they'd be forced to work menial jobs or they'd flee the country, but we'll go worst case scenario on this and say that all of them are dead." He wrote 13: dead under 17: alive. "That leaves us with seventy Half-bloods who work middle-class to upper-class jobs, depending on how pure their blood is. But they're still alive."
70: alive followed the tally, but then he erased it. "We'll, he'd probably kill Potter too, so it's only sixty-nine who live, but the point is that total, we get eighty-six people still alive." He wrote down 86: total alive and circled it.
"Sounds plausible," said Bill.
"It's a logical assumption. Of course, this is if everyone just laid down their arms and gave up. However, let's say there is war. Let's even say your side wins."
He wrote down 'War' on the other side of the board. "Over half of the Purebloods are Death Eaters, so that's nine people dead or kissed by the dementors when this whole thing is over. Unfortunately, another four were convicted of abetting the Death Eaters, falsely accused, or killed trying to save their loved ones, so they're dead as well."
13: dead was the first count on that side.
"Now, there are quite a few half-bloods who are Death Eaters or Pureblood supporters. I put the count around 20 percent."
"Really?"
Draco nodded. "Twenty percent of the seventy half-bloods is fourteen, so that's another fourteen dead or kissed."
14: dead was put under the 13: dead.
"The war would brutal. Say that each of the twenty-three dead Death Eaters manage to take out at least one non-Death Eater before they go, that's another twenty-three dead right there."
23: dead was added.
"And we have to factor in casualties, which is typically around seven percent."
7: dead joined the tally.
"If we do the math for survivors," Draco wrote down the total and circled it. 43: total alive. "Forty-three people live in that scenario. Compare that to eighty-six. We''e talking twice the number of dead."
"Are you saying that all of the Muggle-borns should give up? That they should abandon their country, or resign themselves to a life of servitude, or even sacrifice themselves so that not as many people die in an unjust war?"
Draco put down the chalk and stepped back. "I don't know."
"What would you do, if you were a Muggle-born in this scenario?"
Draco shrugged. "Leave, probably."
"You wouldn't fight?"
"I don't… there are so many people who don't want to fight, who just want it all to stop. What right does thirteen percent of the population have to demand that everyone fights to protect them?"
"If no one fights, even Purebloods will suffer. Life, dictated on someone's terms, isn't really life."
"Or maybe the people trying to avoid a conflict love life more than you."
"How so?"
"Imagine you and Fleur get married this winter," Draco said. "Congratulations. You have a baby, my sympathies. He's got her hair, thank Merlin, and your eyes. You name him Arthur after your dear old dad. So you don't get confused at family reunions, you call him Arty. Unfortunately, Death Eaters attack. They hold you, Fleur, Arty, myself and Snape hostage. They say that if we give them the baby, we will all be set free. If you don't, we all die."
"Rather unpleasant."
"Who's going to care the most if Arty dies?"
"Myself and Fleur."
"What if the Death Eaters ask me and Snape to make the decision to give up Arty? Is that fair?"
"No, you don't love him as much. It's an easier exchange."
"Exactly. You all," Draco gestured out at the room, "are valuing freedom over life. But there are those of us who love life more than freedom."
"It's an interesting argument, but I don't think it holds."
"Why not?" Draco took a seat across from Bill.
"Because we're not animals," said Bill. "Life, for human beings, is all about the ability to choose and make decisions. That's what sets us apart from other creatures. We have the ability to choose a career and our friends and what clothes we wear and how we treat other people. We can choose to be kind and ethical, or we can choose to become Death Eaters and murderers. For humans, life and freedom go hand-in-hand. If you take freedom away, we lose our humanity. That's what's really at stake here."
"If every person deserves freedom, then Granger does not have the right to insist that I fight for her when her freedom is impinged. Because that's taking away my freedom."
"The freedom to do nothing."
"Precisely."
"Is that why you're part of the Neutral group? You want to do nothing?"
"What else would you have me do? My father, my friends, and my culture all demand that I fight for the Dark Lord, while you and the rest of the Gryffindors demand that I fight for some vague notion of freedom. But I'm the one that risking everything, aren't I? If Granger dies fighting for freedom, that's because she had nothing else to lose, but I do! I have a life, and a future, and a family."
"You have more to lose because society has given you more," Bill said. "Based on nothing but your name and what you were born with."
Draco sighed. "Are you going to turn this into a lecture about privilege?"
"No, but only because it seems you know the lecture already."
"I understand that being born a Malfoy has given me advantages. I am not blind to that. That's not what I'm trying to say."
"What are you trying to say?"
Draco looked away for a moment. He chewed his lip and felt his fingers begin to tap out their pattern, 1 to 2-4-3-5. He looked back at Bill. "Well, if Granger fights in this war, if Potter fights in this war, if even you and your brothers fight, you won't be facing your family in the battle, will you?"
Bill opened his mouth, then shut it. A look crossed his face, too quick for Draco to decipher.
Draco's fingers sped up. "Granger demanded that I go to war for her. She's essentially asking me to kill my father. Or my classmates. Or what few friends I have. Why should I do that for her?"
"You shouldn't." Bill said it so adamantly that Draco blinked. Bill smiled at him. "You don't believe your classmates in the Superiority group when they tell you to fight. You're aware when they're arguing from emotions or when they're reciting propaganda. Why are you taking what Hermione says at face value?"
"Isn't it what you all believe? That everyone must fight for freedom and justice and equality. Everyone must sacrifice their lives for the greater good?"
"Is that really what you think of us?"
Draco shrugged.
"First of all, you all are children," Bill said.
Draco frowned. "You don't have to sound so condescending."
"I'm not being condescending. I'm concerned."
"Sure sounds the same."
Bill rolled his eyes. "As children, all of you are too young to fully understand the consequences of war, so your arguments are moot to begin with. Secondly, none of you have any life experience separate from your families. You are arguing for viewpoints that you were raised with but that you haven't had the chance to examine on your own. Thirdly, there is no instruction being offered to any of you. You're being asked to participate in a debate of two disparate beliefs without any education or guidance, and all that's done is allowed the loudest voices to carry in a veritable echo chamber."
"You're angry," Draco realized.
"I'm not –," Bill paused and reconsidered. "Maybe I am. The purpose of this debate was to create a meaningful discussion where students could reconsider their beliefs, but it was apparent at the last debate that we haven't been successful in providing that opportunity."
"What's your solution then?"
"We teach and instruct and keep all of you safe until you're of age."
"Technically Granger's of age. And isn't your brother of age now too?"
"In a couple of months."
"It's not as if we're all magically adults when we turn seventeen."
"I know. I just…," Bill trailed off and shook his head. "None of you have to fight. That doesn't have to be how you show your allegiance to either side. And you, Draco, you have so many options available to you. You could be a Healer or an attorney or a reporter. Hell, you could even be a teacher. You don't have to fight. I don't want anyone to think that they have to fight."
Draco let out a breath. It was a comfort to hear. No one else was saying anything like it.
"Forget what everyone's telling you for a moment," Bill said. "What do you think should happen with all of this?"
Draco frowned as he thought. His eyes slid to the board.
"Don't look at that," Bill said. "I understand these are reasonable assumptions, but they're still assumptions. And your logic was flawed anyway."
Draco whipped around to Bill. "What?"
Bill grinned at the venom in his voice. "You said that you don't value freedom as much as the Equality group."
"I don't."
Bill's smile grew. "Draco, if you don't value freedom, why have you been keeping your genius a secret?"
"Because –," Draco cut himself off. Because if he revealed his genius, Lucius would become demanding. The Dark Lord would become demanding. Expectations would be heaped onto him. He'd be trapped into a career he didn't want or forced into a role he didn't want to play.
"You've kept your freedom by hiding yourself from the world," Bill said, his voice soft. "Your entire life has been a secret, all for the sake of maintaining your freedom. That proves that you value it, perhaps just as much as every member of the Equality group."
Draco swallowed hard. There was no way to refute Bill's logic. He'd valued his own freedom over the wishes of his father, over the expectations of his family, and over the call of the Dark Lord. He'd done that for himself, because he wanted the freedom to make his own path. Bill was right. He was risking his life for freedom, and he was baffled that he hadn't realized that before.
And if Draco was risking his life for his freedom, didn't it make sense that Granger was doing the same? And that the other Muggle-borns would follow her example? They wanted the freedom to rise in the wizarding world, to be respected, to be accomplished. And Zabini wanted the freedom to make friends with everyone, despite blood purity and social status. Pansy wanted freedom too. The freedom to secure her own future, not dependent on marriage or gifts from lovers. Why shouldn't they fight for those things the way Draco did – or defy culture and society and family the way that Draco had?
Draco felt something settle into place in his head. If Draco wanted to buck tradition for his freedom, then so should others. But Bill's words were also a comfort. He didn't have to fight. Not if he didn't want to. Bill didn't expect it of him, and Draco found that he trusted his judgement. As his brain settled, the tension in his chest – the tension that had been present since Lucius announced he'd receive the Dark Mark – finally eased. He took in a breath, the first comfortable breath in a matter of months.
But then Bill flinched. His hand jerked towards his arm before he stopped himself. Draco knew what that meant. It was a sobering reality. While Draco was deciding to do away with fighting, Bill was risking his life.
"I have to go," Bill said, getting up and grabbing his things. His movements were brusque but his face was concerned. "Are you going to be okay?"
"You're the one going to spy on the Dark Lord."
Bill gave a tight smile. "You looked lost in thought for a minute there. We'll talk more tomorrow, alright?"
"Sure."
Bill left with a quick step. Draco sighed and sat for a minute more, just enjoying the reprieve he felt. It was almost a heady feeling. But the relief faded when he returned to his room. There was an imperious looking owl perched on his desk with a letter from his father. Lucius wished him happy holidays, belatedly, and hinted that the Malfoy family might have cause for celebration in a few weeks' time. He closed with a reminder of the "event" to occur once school let out.
The owl left without waiting for his own letter, meaning Lucius wasn't reply. Draco felt a flash of anger. Lucius was dictating the most important moment of Draco's life and there wasn't even room for a discussion?
Draco burnt the letter and turned in for the night, but sleep didn't come. His mind burned with the injustice. He'd finally felt some relief only for it to be stripped in a matter of minutes. He tossed and turned in his bed, sometimes catching a brief moment of sleep, but then waking again, clear-eyed and angry. He finally gave up on sleep in the middle hours of the night. He pulled on a set of clothes, grabbed his cloak, and stalked out of the dorms. He left the castle through a side door and made his way to the dead tree by the lake.
It was a cold night, but clear. A million stars sparkled in the black silk sky and a few misty clouds drifted in front of the pale gold moon. The snow gleamed bright on the ground. Draco stared out at the lake, perfectly calm, reflecting the equanimity of the heaves, and felt an irrational anger at its peacefulness. He picked up a fistful of rocks and hurled them into the lake, one after the other, stirring up great ripples that threated to drown the silvery reflection of the moon. But the lake was vast, and the ripples dissipated too quickly for any real satisfaction. Draco sighed, the sound of his breath echoing across the water. He picked up a few more rocks, but this time sent them skipping across the surface. Or at least, he tried to skip them, but he'd never been any good at it. The most he got was two skips. He chucked the rest of the stones and walked back to the dead tree. He sat down to think.
A few hours ago, he'd begun to think about a chance to live his life without fighting, but now he was faced with the reality that he wouldn't be allowed to walk away. He was going to have a battle on his hands, no matter what he chose. He shifted to look up at the stars. He could name fifty different constellations, but in this moment, had no desire to do so.
oOoOo
Bill arrived at the Death Eater meeting and immediately knew something was afoot that he hadn't been aware of. It was happening more and more lately. It wasn't a deliberate attempt to keep Snape out of the meetings, although Bill knew there were suspicions on the Potions Master. But Voldemort was spending most of his time in France, and had turned his focus on France, and as such, many of the British Death Eaters were left out of meetings. It was frustrating, because Bill already had to piece together what was happening at each meeting. Now he had to piece together what had happened at one or two meetings previous.
They were in a new house this time, a large, old manor home that appeared to have been abandoned at one point. A full wing of the manor only held empty rooms while the furnished areas housed an eclectic variety of furniture, making Bill think it was recently brought in. There were some maps and papers left lying about on a table in the study, which was currently full of 'groupies', relatives and friends of the actual Death Eaters. Voldemort only marked select followers. It allowed for greater secrecy. Bill weaved through a couple of Death Eater wives to take a peek at the maps. They showed the layout of the French prison Bastion. Voldemort was planning a jail break then.
A scream sounded from the empty side of the Manor. It was a sound of agony and Bill immediately knew what had caused it. He was getting used to the screams of the Cruciatus curse. He pulled in a bracing breath and followed the screaming, picking his way through the groupies and entering what once might have been a small ballroom. There were a dozen Death Eaters standing in a semi-circle around three prone prisoners. The prisoners were all male, middle-aged and older. They all wore a guard's uniform that was wrinkled and tattered and stained with blood and other bodily fluids. It appeared they'd been held for several days. Bill was willing to bet that they worked at the prison.
He memorized their faces as best he could, and then turned to the Death Eaters around them. Only four were established Death Eaters. He recognized Nott Sr, Jugson, and both Carrows. The rest were new recruits, painfully young and dressed in the red robes of trainees. The senior Death Eaters were instructing them how to cast the Cruciatus.
Bill looked to the front of the room where Voldemort was watching, perched on a chaise lounge and smiling as he watched the proceedings. Bill knew that not every trainee would receive the Dark Mark. Voldemort often tested the recruits, trying to determine which were the strongest, the most devious, the most loyal. Bill hadn't been able to learn all of their names, but he knew their faces. All male except one. All under the age of twenty, most of them under eighteen.
Severus and Lucius stood at the Dark Lord's side, watching as well. Severus looked as he usually did, impassive and stone faced. His fingers curled into fists to keep from flinching when the prisoner's screamed. Lucius' eyes were narrowed as he watched the trainees cast the torture curse. He didn't flinch when the prisoner's screamed.
"You have to mean it," Nott told a boy, who couldn't be more than sixteen. "You have to feel the hate and disgust for your victim."
The boy cast again. His victim screamed, louder than before. Nott slapped his shoulder in congratulations.
Bill tucked himself against the wall and tried to tune out the screaming. Voldemort would applaud at times, or call out encouragement in his slithering voice. Bill noted which recruits got the most praise and which were jeered. He noticed that the young woman – girl really, she looked just of age – received the most taunting and the least instruction. Her Cruciatus was a weak thing, barely leaving her wand before dying out. Her intended victim whimpered more out of fear than actual pain.
"What a joke," one of the recruits laughed. "I hope you're a better shag than you are a caster, because the only way you're going to stick around here is by spreading them." His hand dropped to grope her arse. She pushed him off with a curse, but the Death Eaters laughed, even Alecto Carrow. There was no solidarity amongst the women who had managed to make it to the Dark Lord's side. She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to cast again.
Bill watched with some surprise as Lucius broke away from the Dark Lord to approach her. The other recruits pulled back to let him pass. He stepped behind her. His voice was pitched low, enough that Bill had to creep closer to over here.
"Don't listen to him," Lucius was saying, tipping his head towards Nott. "It's not about hate. Ask yourself. Why are you here?"
The girl swallowed. Bill noted she was near tears. "To serve the Dark Lord and reclaim my country from Mudbloods."
"The man in front of you is not a Mudblood. This is someone from an old family. You don't hate him, do you?"
She shook her head in answer.
"So how do you cast the Cruciatus if you do not hate your target?"
"Anger?"
"That's a possibility. Let's see how your friends do." They watched as Nott and the other Death Eaters continued to instruct their recruits. They advised the trainees to connect with their anger and hatred. They encouraged them to kick and hit and spit on their prisoners. They praised large expressions of emotions and rage. Bill saw the recruits casting more and more powerful spells that fizzled out quicker and quicker as their energy flagged.
"Do you see?" Lucius asked.
The girl nodded. "Is it a matter of building stamina?"
Lucius shook his head. "The Unforgiveables are not meant to be cast from emotion. They are not about anger or hate. They are about control. Control over another's body, control of another's mind, and ultimately, control over another's life. Now, tell me, what do you need to have control?"
"Power."
"Precisely." Lucius reached out and directed her to point her wand at the prisoner in front of them. "You are here to serve the Dark Lord and grow his power, and in doing so, you will grow your own. To cast a Cruciatus, you must revel in your own power. Try again."
"Crucio!" the girl called, voice strong and clear. The spell hit, bright and vivid, and her captive screamed, loud and piercing. And he kept screaming, his body writhing and shaking on the floor. The other recruits tuned to watch, their own faces twisting in envy. When she finally ended the curse, she was breathing heavily and sweat had turned her fair hair dark, but her eyes were bright with satisfaction.
Lucius gave the girl a nod and stepped back. The other recruits turned to their casting with renewed vigor.
Severus crossed the room to join Lucius. "You don't usually take an interest in teaching,"
Lucius was silent for a moment, and then he shrugged a shoulder. "Her name is Mirabelle Bonnet. I knew her father. He lost his wealth in service to our lord during the first conflict. Rather than face the loss of his family's estate, he drank of vial of poison. It's their home we're in now." Lucius tipped his head up to view the faded and crumbling mosaic on the ceiling. "I attended many a gala here. He was a good business partner. The least I can do is offer her a few tips to help her hold her own amongst the… rabble."
He gestured out at the group in a dismissive sort of wave. He was, Bill realized, unimpressed with the selection of recruits. He looked over to Voldemort, wondering what the Dark Lord thought of his child soldiers. But Voldemort wasn't looking at the trainees. His red eyes were flitting between Lucius and Mirabelle and there was something calculating in his gaze that made Bill's skin crawl. He was relieved when the meeting was over and he could escape back to Hogwarts. He wrote down everything, as he always did, and the details were easy to recall. He remembered the sound of every scream. He remembered every look of disgust, every bigoted slur. He remembered the guard's faces. Their pain. Their terror. Their anguish and helplessness and tears and sobs.
He turned the pages over once he had finished, not wanting to see them anymore even though he still had to put them into a code. He couldn't bring himself to look at it again. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, tossed it back, and then collapsed onto his bed. His body felt sore. It always did after hours of tension and hypervigilance. He closed his eyes and sleep dragged him under.
He dreamed. First he dreamt of numbers dancing across a board, and then he dreamt of Death Eaters lining up to practice their Cruciatus on everyone Bill had ever loved. And then Mirabelle stood in front of him, wand pointed at his chest and Lucius stood behind her and whispered into her ear, "Power."
But it wasn't Mirabelle anymore; it was Draco standing in front of him. His eyes were cold. His lips were twisted into a sneer. "How many people have to die, Bill?"
No one, Bill wanted to say, no one had to die.
But the words were stuck in his throat. He couldn't talk. He couldn't even scream.
Draco leveled his wand at his heart. "Crucio."
Bill jolted up out of bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded in his chest. He reached up to rub his face and his hand came away slick with sweat. He staggered over to his desk and grabbed his wand to summon a glass of water. He drank quickly, spilling some over his chin. He dropped into his chair and forced his breathing to slow, begged his heart to calm down. He drank more water, slower this time. He told himself he was safe. He was at Hogwarts. He would put up a code tomorrow and the French authorities would be alerted and those three men would be saved. They could catch Death Eaters in a jail break. It would all work out. It would all be okay.
His body slowly relaxed, but he still felt warm. He walked to the window and leaned his forehead against the chilled glass. It was surprisingly light outside for being in the middle of the night. The moon was nearly full and reflecting bright against the snow. The lake shimmered as the moonlight caught on the waves. No. Those weren't waves. Those were ripples.
Bill's eyes went to the shoreline. There was someone outside, throwing rocks into the water. Bill recognized the pale head of hair.
His conversation with Draco seemed like it had taken place a week ago, not earlier that evening. He remembered how Draco seemed to think about his words, seemed to consider his arguments, seemed to be relieved at a prospect of a life without battle. He wondered if it was enough to change Draco's mind or if Draco would join the new recruits and practice his Cruciatus on innocent men as well. He wondered if Draco knew how to cast the Cruciatus, if Lucius had given him the same lesson he'd given Mirabelle.
He watched as Draco attempted to skip a few rocks and failed miserably. He sat down by the dead tree and Bill sat down on the window seat. He wondered if he ought to call him in. Bill grabbed his notes from the meeting. He might as well put this into code now. If Draco weren't back by the time he finished, he'd order him in.
The process took half an hour, and by the time he was finishing the code, he could see Draco stirring. He watched him return to the castle and then he returned to bed. He hoped the terrors he'd seen tonight would fade in the morning light.
oOoOo
Author's note: First - if you'd prefer the story without these notes, which are spoilery - go check out the story on Ao3. I'm AduroWrites over there.
Man – let me tell you, it was fun to revisit this chapter. But also a little intimidating. I remember the first time I posted it and I got a bunch of different responses to the debate. Some people really liked Bill's arguments, others didn't find them that compelling or logical. It's always interesting writing characters in a debate because, well, it doesn't mean that any of them are necessarily correct. Draco's trying to predict the future and Bill's arguing about the nature of humanity. But still, it was fun to add in a few more beats into that conversation, so let me know what you think this time around. Are you more convinced by one or the other?
This last section might be a little rougher because I added it in last minute. I wanted to do something with the Death Eaters that's a little more compelling and to show a bit more of the animosity between Lucius and Voldemort. Also, I'm aware that the big showdown of Bill and Draco is coming up in a few chapters, and I want to start laying the groundwork for that now, so it's less OOC and a little more convincing. For that to happen, we need to see Bill falling apart a little bit sooner and to allow the traumatic events that he's witnessing to start to have an effect on him. Anyways, let me know what you think of the changes!
