the angst is strong in this one, kids
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Draco had not Apparated into the front garden of headquarters. He appeared, instead, in Hermione's room.
Before he had even taken in the sight, Hermione was flying into him in an embrace that nearly knocked him off his feet. "You're alive," she gasped, holding him so tightly that he could feel the pounding of her heart. "Are you hurt?" She pulled back and began to examine him, face drained of colour.
"I'm all right," Draco panted. "I'm … yeah. I'm here."
Her panicked expression didn't ease. Instead, small catching sounds came from her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. "I thought you were dead," she said, voice high and shaky. "I r-really thought …"
"I did, too." Draco's eyes stung, but he kept them open, unwilling to blink, needing to drink in the sight of her. Her trembling mouth. The gloss of her watering eyes.
They moved back together, swaying in each other's grip. A strange, hollow feeling was expanding within Draco, as if a bottomless pit had opened up in the centre of his chest. He didn't understand. He tried to remind himself that they were both alive and safe. He tried to feel warmth, to smell or taste anything, but all his senses seemed muted.
"The others?" he managed to ask.
"They're all right," Hermione whispered. "And your group?"
Draco couldn't answer. Staring at the wall, he saw the dark slash of blood soaking through Andromeda's prison clothes. She had died in an Azkaban uniform.
"Draco?" Hermione said, disentangling herself again. Even her lips were colourless now.
"I have to talk to Tonks," Draco rasped.
They found the rest of the Order downstairs. Even magically expanded, the front room was so jam-packed that there was barely room for everyone to stand. Draco surveyed the scene with a sense of great remove. The others were all present, although several were bleeding or cursed. Luna lay on the sofa unconscious. Her burn, apparently more than a simple hex, had worsened since it was first inflicted. Kingsley was tending to her.
Near the steps where Draco stood, Professor McGonagall was saying to Potter and Weasley, "We spread word of the safehouses' locations among the yard. The prisoners should all have Disapparated to one of the four, and Kingsley will finish connecting our fireplaces within the next several days …"
Just then, Percy Weasley let out a yelp, his horn-rimmed glasses slipping askew on his thin nose. He pointed to the door to the hall, where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had appeared.
The sight of his parents only served to make everything feel less real. Draco had never seen them look so afraid. His father's cheeks were stained red as if by sherry, and a copy of last night's Evening Prophet was clutched in his mother's shaking hand. "Where is he?" demanded Narcissa. "Where is my son?"
"I'm here," Draco said hoarsely. "I'm under Polyjuice, Mother. I'm all right."
Tonks and Lupin, who hadn't noticed him upon the steps, whirled his way. "Draco," said Lupin sharply. "What happened? Were the others captured?"
A hush spread throughout the whole room. Draco held tightly to the banister. Suddenly he felt sick. He even felt that it would have been easier to fall in Azkaban than to stand here, the one who had to speak the words.
"They're …" He tried to stop his voice shaking. "They didn't …"
"Where are my parents?" Tonks burst out, forcing her way through the crowd to him. Lupin caught her by the door, holding her at bay.
"They're dead," Draco rasped.
A terrible scream tore from Tonks's throat. She sank downward, Lupin half-bearing her weight.
"How?" Lupin said over her sobs.
Draco recounted as much of the last half-hour as he could. Throughout, there were stifled noises throughout the front room. When he described Wood's and Longbottom's futile heroism, Angelina Johnson began to weep into a pale George Weasley's shoulder. Lupin let out a low, agonised sound when he learned how Ted and Andromeda had fallen.
"Who d-did it?" Tonks demanded, her eyes wild. "Who cast the curses? W-was it Crabbe or Greyback? Rowle?"
Draco shook his head. "Don't know. … I couldn't tell."
Something made him look to his parents, then. To anyone else, they might have looked unaffected, but Draco could discern the tightness of his mother's grip on the doorjamb.
"But Crabbe's dead," Draco went on, numb. "Or as good as. A Dementor Kissed him … it's the only reason I got away."
The words were no comfort to Tonks. She sagged lower in Lupin's grip. Draco could feel his own knees shaking, too. Hermione, several steps above him, made a little movement toward him.
He apportioned more weight to the banister. "They were trying to get back to you." His voice had shrunk to a jerky mutter. "I'm sorry."
He braced for his cousin to look at him with hatred, to accuse him of not trying hard enough to save her parents. But Tonks met his eyes and nodded, and Draco knew it was in thanks. He nodded back, and at the same time that her knees gave out, so did his.
#
HISTORIC BREACH AT AZKABAN
The insurgent group known as the Order of the Phoenix, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent, has struck another blow to Wizarding society—this time at Azkaban Prison.
Near midnight on Friday, saboteurs orchestrated the violent breakout of Azkaban's full population, more than 600 prisoners. The Daily Prophet can exclusively report that the revolt was spearheaded by convict Ron Weasley, 17, a close associate of notorious madman Harry Potter. Other criminals now at large include those responsible for the massacre at Malfoy Manor in December.
Now an already grieving Wizarding community must contend with further losses of life. Eyewitnesses report that the Dementors, who have guarded Azkaban faithfully for many years, were driven out of their senses by the prisoners' revolt. Between the merciless attacks of the Order and the Dementors' confusion, 32 casualties have been tallied so far.
Long famed as an impenetrable fortress, Azkaban had not seen a mass breakout until two years ago, when several prominent members of Wizarding society, wrongfully imprisoned, were liberated. At the time, articles by this paper failed to acknowledge the flawed charges that led to those citizens' unjust sentences (for a full retraction, see pg. 7).
In a Saturday morning address to the nation, Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse said, "With the destruction of Azkaban Prison, so long a bastion of a lawful Wizarding Britain, we fear that the next goal of the Order of the Phoenix—and of its unhinged commander, Harry Potter—is a full-scale coup."
Minister Thicknesse went on to announce a number of new national safety protocols. Firstly, Diagon Alley has again been put under a no-Apparition mandate, in order to increase security at Wizarding London's most historic site. Additionally, as Potter and his cohort can be expected to wield Dark magic without hesitation, the Ministry of Magic plans to release instructive pamphlets covering the basics of Dark magic, which are presently being taught at Hogwarts School to prepare the next generation to protect themselves.
Despite these measures, many across the country remain uneasy about national security. Startling reports within the Ministry suggest that Minister Thicknesse—who has been spotted in public dissolving into unexplained fits—may be buckling under the strain of these high-profile attacks.
"Thicknesse isn't up to it," reported one plain-spoken source in the Minister's office, whom the Prophet interviewed under the condition of anonymity. "I give him three months at most. As for who'll succeed him—Wizarding Britain doesn't need another bureaucrat or Department Head in fancy robes. We need someone who guessed the danger Potter posed and tried to stop it. At this point, we need a bloody saviour."
#
The Order held a memorial that night. All evening, they shared stories and memories of the five fallen.
Draco knew better than to ask his mother if she would attend, despite the fact that she had neither slept nor eaten since he'd brought news of her sister's death. All day she had moved around their tent like a ghost, hand clasped around a cup of cold tea.
Draco didn't know what to make of it. His mother had never shown a hint of emotion toward her lost sister besides disgust or shame. But when he returned to the tent from the memorial, he found his parents gazing into the fire without speaking, and he could practically see recollections shuttered away behind his mother's blue eyes.
"Sit, Draco," said his father, lips barely moving.
Draco did.
"We feared the worst this morning," Lucius murmured. "You could have been killed. You must never allow Potter to drag you into something like this again."
Draco cast about for some excuse. "I didn't realise how far it would go," he said mechanically. "I thought they'd ask me to be a lookout or something. … I was trying to blend in."
"Your life," said Narcissa, "is more important than the keeping of appearances." They were the first words she had spoken since morning.
Draco looked into the fire and felt resentment simmering within him. It made him feel slightly more alive.
"You can't have it both ways," he muttered. "You're the ones who want me to spy on the Order, or whatever it is. Get information back to the Dark Lord somehow so we can re-join. … If I was going to get information out of the Order, they'd need to trust me, which means doing things like this."
"Then you're considering the possibility," said Lucius.
Draco's resentment bottomed out into exhaustion. He couldn't care about his parents' maddening nostalgia for the cause just then. He couldn't even be angry with his mother for concealing everything about Andromeda from him. He had scraped a few hours of shallow sleep throughout the day, but the Dementors had sapped so much of his strength. … He didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to feel. He just wanted to be unconscious.
"I'm considering every possibility," Draco said stiffly. He stood and stalked down the hall to his bedroom.
In the confused aftermath of the battle, he hadn't had time to change. Now he stripped off his robes, still gritty with rock dust, and his sweaty clothes beneath. He rinsed himself in the shower and fumbled his pyjamas onto clumsy limbs, swaying.
He had barely lain his head upon the pillow when he was asleep.
He was sitting in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express. Crabbe and Goyle sat on either side of him, Pansy, Blaise, and Theo Nott seated opposite.
"Really, Draco," Blaise was sniffing, "I don't see what the problem is. I've bought our sweets the past six years."
"I just don't want to go out there, that's all," said Draco dismissively, glancing toward the compartment door.
"But I want an Everlasting Gobstopper," said Pansy with a scowl.
"Yeah," said Theo, "and you owe me about a dozen Pumpkin Pasties."
Draco was beginning to feel agitated. The compartment was swaying. Outside, the countryside was darkening, but the lights inside were growing strangely bright. "I suppose you two are going to say I should buy you Cauldron Cakes?" he said, shooting looks at Crabbe and Goyle.
They laughed their usual grunting laughs. "Yeah," said Crabbe, "that's right."
"Fine," said Draco, standing.
All his friends rose with him. Their faces blurred strangely.
"Go on," said Goyle, folding his arms. They closed ranks.
Draco faced the compartment door. He didn't want to go outside, but he knew he had to.
He drew the door open and stepped out into a dark stone corridor.
The instant he recognised the halls of Azkaban, he whirled around, but the compartment door had gone, replaced by a single torch flickering in a spiky bracket. He began to walk, faster and faster, until he broke out in a run, trying to find an exit, any door at all …
"Help! … Draco, help!" cried a voice behind him.
He turned. Andromeda was lying in the corridor, clasping Ted's hand. Their eyes were filled with pain and fear. Their wounds were pooling upon the flagstones.
Draco tried to move for them, but when he looked down, he saw that his feet had sunk into the stone. Even as he watched, the stones swallowed his ankles. He was being submerged, little by little, and the dark pools beneath Ted and Andromeda were creeping toward him, glittering like garnet in the torchlight. Now he was sunk in to the knees, the stones as cold as icy water …
A rattle at his back. He twisted around and saw a Dementor filling the end of the corridor. It was lifting its skeletal hands to its hood.
Draco tried to grab for his wand, but his hands were trapped in the stone. It was then that he saw four limp bodies sprawled around him. Longbottom, Cresswell, Wood, and the nameless Muggle man. Their faces were all turned in his direction, their unseeing eyes levelled at his own.
Andromeda was struggling more feebly now. Ted had gone still. His aunt reached for him, accusation in her eyes.
"Draco …" she said in a voice that had begun to rattle.
Then the Dementor bent over him. There was nothing but the scabbed grey skin stretched over its hollow eye sockets.
Draco woke up screaming into his pillow.
He twisted and thrashed in his sheets, trying to free himself, his body drenched in sweat. He was freezing, his mind filled with such blank terror that when he stared around the room he didn't understand where he was, or even that he had been asleep.
He tore out of his bed and stumbled into the bathroom, knocking his elbow painfully against the sink. His heart beat hard against his ribs.
Only then, staring at his face in the mirror, did reality begin to come back to him. It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream …
But tears were finally burning their way free. A harsh sob worked its way out of his throat, and he held his right forearm over his eyes so he couldn't see his face. More sobs came, racking his whole frame. There were no lucid thoughts in his mind, only a mix of dark colours. Only the sickly, violent pulse in his stomach.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was fleeing his room, moving through the twins' tent and out into the moonlit garden.
Within a minute he was back inside the kitchen of the Potter Cottage. As he shut the door behind himself, Draco drew slow breaths.
There was the enchanted plate on the wall, where the painted rooster was still pecking at its seeds. There was the table where he and Hermione and Potter had spent months planning in safety.
He wiped his face clean, his hands steadying. There was some relief in the cottage—it had become as much of a home as he had anymore—but now that he was inside, he knew, too, why he had come here.
Doubts coiled around him. He didn't move for the hall. He imagined knocking on Hermione's door, interrupting the peaceful sleep that she sorely needed. When she saw him in this state, she would worry. She might even pity him. Did he really want her to see him like this?
He caught sight of himself in the glazing of the windows. His dishevelled hair and tear-oiled eyelids, the pallor of his skin.
Draco tasted something bitter. Was he really so weak, so childish, running to her for consolation after a nightmare? He was sure Potter and Weasley would never have done it.
He slipped back out into the garden. The moon was nearly full overhead, the starry dome of the sky immense. He told himself nothing was closing in on him, but his heart rate was still elevated, the dream still hovering over him like a hand about to grasp his shoulder.
When something creaked behind him, his heart plummeted. He whirled around, nearly slipping as he took a step back.
Then his frantic thoughts subsided. Hermione stood upon the steps, her eyes red and puffy.
He understood without a word exchanged. He'd pictured Hermione sleeping peacefully in her bed—but he'd been wrong. She'd been lying awake in tears. She'd heard him come into the cottage and known it was him.
She had wanted him near, too.
They moved for each other at the same time. It was not a relief or a kindness, the kiss. It was a painful, clumsy press of mouth to mouth, like resuscitation. Hermione was gripping him so tightly that his ribs hurt, and when she bit down on his lower lip, he felt a jolt down to his fingertips; he wished she would do it again, more forcefully. He steered her away from the door, away from the patio, into the dark little strip of garden alongside the cottage, where the shadows swallowed them completely.
Draco sank against the brick wall and held her close, breathing in the scent of her still-damp curls, allowing his mind to empty. Their hands fumbled, their breath mingled, and somewhere in him, he felt the seed of hope from which had grown his Patronus. It couldn't make him forget, nor even enable him to speak, but it filled some part of the space carved out inside him. For now, that was all he could ask.
#
They began to meet each night. At times, Draco felt that the prospect of his next stolen hour with Hermione was the only thing keeping him afloat, because the nights were filled with variations on the same dream, and the days were nothing short of chaos.
Following the breakout, the Potter Cottage had become something of a tent city, both its gardens quilted with fabrics. Luckily, the number of tents diminished as the week wore on and some Order members relocated to their safehouses. A disused Muggle resort, a mildewed hotel, a crumbling fortress, and even an old monastery had been transformed into places that could hold scores of their allies. Now, each site teemed with Azkaban's former inhabitants.
The procurement of enough food and water to sustain nearly 650 people was a mammoth task, but the Order's network of supporters proved up to it. Before Aberforth's exposure, he had disseminated the Order's drop location to a few trusted allies among the network—and the breakout at Azkaban had triggered an explosion of support. Every day, the cave that served as the drop location overflowed with well-stocked hampers and sacks of staples, which then required distribution to the safehouses.
"The question," said Kingsley during a meeting one night, "is how to organise ourselves. We've finally got real numbers. Now, we've got to move these forces against Death Eaters across the country." He glanced to Ron. "You coordinated them in Azkaban, Weasley. What do you think of them?"
Ron's ears went red at Kingsley asking his opinion, but he answered readily. "I doubt everyone will be up to that. They've just come out of prison, haven't they? A lot of them will be too weakened to fight, or too scared. Then there's others who aren't even for the Order, but landed in Azkaban because they crossed the Death Eaters. Like … like the Parkinsons. They're not about to run out onto the front lines for us, even if we did just save their necks."
Arthur Weasley looked troubled. "I must say, I have to wonder if it's secure, keeping people like that in Order safehouses."
"Yes," agreed Fleur. "Who is to say zey will not give ze location away?"
Broad-shouldered Sturgis Podmore lifted a hand. "I'd be willing to Obliviate their memories of the safehouses. We could return them to London. Could be they'd reintegrate into society."
"No," said Draco sharply. "That'll get them captured and interrogated."
"Here's an idea," said Ron. "What if we sorted them all?"
The Order looked at him nonplussed.
Ron reached for a piece of parchment and scribbled four symbols. "We've got four safehouses, don't we? I dunno—made me think of the Sorting Hat. What if we assign each safehouse a purpose, and move people into them depending on what they'd do for the Order?"
"I think that's a good move, Ron," said Lupin, extending a hand for the piece of parchment. Flanked by Kingsley and a sleepless-looking Tonks, Lupin considered the symbols for a while, then spread the parchment flat on the coffee table so that the whole Order could gather around to see.
"Well," Tonks said, tapping the symbol of the fortress, "this one's obviously right for the people who want to fight. Extra protection in case they draw counterattacks."
"I thought that, too," said Lupin. He pointed to the hotel. "This more comfortable location could be for those who won't assist our efforts, either because they're injured, recuperating, or unsure of their loyalties, but whom we still need to keep safe."
Professor McGonagall peered critically at the parchment, then pointed to the monastery. "This one is centrally located. That would be the best choice for those who wish to write letters to Order sympathisers or assist with supply collections."
Kingsley finally touched the resort. "Then this one should be for the gathering and interpretation of Death Eater intelligence. We can send word throughout the network that any tips on vulnerabilities or enemy activities should be sent here."
So it was decided. Each safehouse was assigned two or three Order guardians who could return to headquarters immediately if an attack were to occur. Draco was glad for it. While the Potter Cottage was still busy after this thinning of their numbers, it was no longer so full of people as to be in danger of collapse. That gave him, Hermione, Potter, and Weasley time to return to their own endeavours.
When they finally had a full afternoon to themselves, they locked themselves into the nursery upstairs. Sitting in the long, thin shafts of wintry light, alone together for the first time since October, Draco felt unexpectedly tense.
Weasley cleared his throat. "Look, before you say anything, I'm sorry for running out last autumn. What I said, just before I left—I didn't really mean any of it."
"You don't need to apologise, Ron," said Hermione, her cheeks pink.
"Yeah," said Potter, "you've made up for it about a hundred times since then."
Ron glanced uncertainly to Draco, who shrugged and said, "You can grovel a little more if you'd like, Weasley."
The others laughed, and the tension in Draco's chest eased. After that, the air felt clearer, and they filled Weasley in on every Horcrux-related event of the previous months. It was a relief to focus on their shared goal again—and Draco had to admit that Weasley proved an excellent audience. He gasped, exclaimed, and swore through their tales of infiltrating Rita Skeeter's house, stealing Slytherin's locket at the Christmas gala, and destroying both the diadem and the locket.
But Weasley was most interested in the silver doe Patronus. "You still don't know who sent it? All these people at headquarters, and it doesn't belong to any of them?"
"We think it's someone who's still undercover, working for the Ministry," said Hermione. "That could be how they got hold of the bequests, you see? If only we could get in touch with them—they could be a real help. Clearly Dumbledore really trusted them."
"And speaking of things Dumbledore didn't tell us …" Potter added, nodding to Draco.
Draco had hardly thought of the Elder Wand in the frenzy of the past few days. Now he withdrew it from his pocket and showed it to Weasley.
When they explained, Weasley's jaw dropped. "No," he breathed. "That's not …? No way."
"It is," said Hermione, eyeing the wand with mistrust, "but as long as it's loyal to Snape, it's dangerous."
"Dangerous? It's brilliant!" Weasley crowed. "If Harry can just beat Snape, then he's got a secret weapon that none of the Death Eaters know about!" A faraway look came over him. "If we can orchestrate something to get Harry into Hogwarts … surprise Snape somehow …"
But Draco had ridden that train of thought dozens of times at this point. "You'll never surprise Snape. Half the Death Eaters and the Order thought he was a double-crosser for years. He'll have been preparing for attacks from any direction all that time." He ran his fingertips over the Elder Wand's engravings. "But I think there must be a way to win the wand without beating Snape in a duel."
"You do?" said Hermione, looking surprised. "Why?"
"Because I used it at the breakout," Draco said. "On the battlements, I lost my wand, and I cast a Patronus with the Elder Wand. A real Patronus."
Draco felt heat creeping up his neck. Even after several nights of their clandestine meetings, he hadn't told Hermione about the Patronus, nor about the feelings that had enabled him to conjure it.
He had no idea how to tell Hermione he loved her. He had no idea if he even should. They had been together for scarcely three months. Was it too quick? And would it show too much? Draco had never been so open with anyone as with her, but the idea of telling her he loved her and receiving silence in return was excruciating.
They already had enough to contend with, now that Weasley was back in the mix. They hadn't yet decided how or when to tell Weasley about their relationship, but they knew they needed to do it before he found out himself.
Weasley's voice derailed these thoughts. "What was your Patronus, then, Malfoy?" he said, breaking into a grin. "Please tell me it was a ferret."
"Very funny. It was a Hippogriff."
"Of course," Hermione said with a knowing smile that made Draco's palms tingle.
"Not bad," said Potter, grinning too. "All right, then—let's talk to Ollivander."
They found the wandmaker in the downstairs bedroom, as always. He had made a full recovery from his imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, except that he was rather jumpier than before, and he had transformed the bedroom into a wandmaker's workshop. Slowly revolving metal tools were situated on a long table beneath the window, and baskets full of wandwood stood lined up along the wall.
Before the battle, Ginny and Luna had been Ollivander's assistants in wandmaking. Now, though, Ginny had turned her efforts back to the pamphlet campaign, the plans for which had expanded tenfold after the Azkaban breakout. Their re-information flyover, scheduled for early April, now included many smaller towns with substantial Wizarding populations, although the riskiest drops would still take place at the Ministry, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley.
As for Luna, she was still recuperating from the burning curse. Ollivander, who seemed to have taken a liking to Luna during their shared captivity, had insisted that in her waking hours she could continue helping with the wands if she wished. When Draco filed into Ollivander's room after the others, he saw Luna dozing on the bed.
They all traded a look. Draco wondered if they should come back when Luna was not present, but she rarely left the wandmaker's side these days. Asleep was likely the best they could hope for.
The others seemed to decide the same. Potter spoke quietly so as not to wake her. "Mr. Ollivander, we have some questions to ask you."
The old man surveyed them, lowering a glimmering strand of unicorn hair. Since they had first questioned him about the Elder Wand shortly after his rescue, he had seemed wary of them. "More questions about the topic we previously discussed?" he asked. "Miss Granger has scheduled me to assist with kitchen duties this evening …"
"We won't take much of your time," said Potter, pointing his wand at the closed door. "Muffliato."
"Very well. What is it you wish to know, Mr. Potter?"
"Is there some other way to win the Elder Wand's allegiance than by killing its previous owner?"
Ollivander looked surprised. "Yes, of course," he said, settling into a chair, his white hair glowing in the light of sunset. "The Elder Wand's allegiance has coincided with murder, but that is likely because of the thirst that it arouses in its pursuers. Among those of us who study wandlore, it is a commonly held opinion that an act of force, of mastery, is sufficient to bend one wizard's wand to another's will."
"Right," said Weasley, "but we mean, you'd definitely need to beat the previous owner somehow? You couldn't just …" His eyes strayed unhelpfully to Draco. "Just hold it for a while, or try to cast spells with it until it warms up to you?"
Ollivander stroked a wisp of hair from his wrinkled forehead. "The connection between wand and wizard is a complex one, Mr. Weasley. Ephemeral connections are forever forming between wands and wizards, mapped along the lines of power, desire, ownership, and surrender. This is not only true of the Deathstick." He sighed. "But if a wand is to recognise a new master, yes: that new master must, in some way, best the old."
"But then—" Weasley said, looking with even more obvious bewilderment at Draco.
Potter broke in. Clearly he didn't want Ollivander to suspect too much. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. We appreciate your help."
"Of course." Ollivander rose, looking pleased that the conversation was at an end. "Excuse me … my dinner duties …"
The frail old man slipped out the door.
Something was stirring in the back of Draco's mind … facts beginning to swirl together, to form into some new truth. He brushed the cool wood of the Elder Wand in his pocket. The new master must best the old … yet the wand had worked for him …
But before he could speak, someone else broke the silence. All four of them leapt and whirled toward the bed. Draco had completely forgotten Luna was there.
"Were you talking about the Elder Wand?"
Luna was lying on her side, her protuberant eyes half open, her hair straggly from several days in bed.
They all exchanged startled looks. "Why, have you heard of it?" said Weasley.
"Of course," she said with a bit more strength, almost conversational. "But I have to admit, I'm surprised that you four have heard of the Deathly Hallows."
"The what?" Weasley asked.
Draco stared at Luna. He knew they'd heard the term before—but where? Had they come across it in a book somewhere during their research? He racked his brain, trying to remember the source.
Hermione beat him to it. "The Deathly Hallows," she whispered. "Rita told us … Bathilda heard them talking about it."
In a trice, all four of them were crowding around Luna's bedside. Potter crouched to her eye level and said urgently, "Luna, what is that? What are the Deathly Hallows?"
"Oh, the quest for the Hallows is a very ancient one. My father is a longtime Quester," she said, taking her wand from the bedside table. "I'd like to join someday, too." With her wandtip she traced a fiery symbol in the air, one they all knew well.
It was a line enclosed by a circle, both enclosed by a triangle, resembling a triangular eye.
"Questers believe that the Hallows are described in the Tale of the Three Brothers," Luna went on. "I'm sure you heard the story growing up, Ron, Draco. … The Elder Wand is at the centre, you see?" She pointed to the line. "The circle represents the Resurrection Stone, and the triangle is the Cloak of Invisibility. Brought together," she said with dreamlike finality, "they make a wizard the Master of Death."
#
As Draco followed the others back upstairs into the nursery, none of them spoke. Even after the door was locked, the nursery placed under Muffliato, the silence lingered.
"So," said Potter after several minutes. "Dumbledore wasn't just trying to tell us about the Elder Wand. This was what he meant. This was what he and Grindelwald were after. … The Deathly Hallows."
"Come off it," said Weasley, looking horrified. "You think he wanted us to find all three, on top of the Horcruxes? Blimey, not asking much, was he?"
"Hold on," Hermione said with open incredulity. "All three what? You two can't really believe that this—this Resurrection Stone exists?"
Potter went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Dumbledore didn't need us to find all three Hallows," he said quietly. "He knew we already had one."
"What?" said Draco sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Dumbledore borrowed my parents' Invisibility Cloak before they died," said Potter. "Remember what you said about my Cloak? How it was strange it's lasted this long? It was passed down through my family. Dumbledore must have realised what that meant. He knew it was one of the Hallows."
Something strange was happening in Potter's face. There was a light in his green eyes that Draco had never seen there before. The closest thing had been the consummate focus that Draco had—unfortunately—sometimes seen before Potter beat him to the Snitch.
"Harry, wait," said Hermione with dismay, but Potter pushed on without pausing:
"So, Dumbledore knew we had one Hallow already. And then in his will, he left us another."
"He—did he?" said Weasley weakly.
"Yes." Potter fished the Snitch out of the mokeskin pouch around his neck. "This Snitch. I've been wondering for months what it means, why he would have left it to me. It says I open at the close, but what could fit inside it that could do any good? I thought maybe a dose of Felix Felicis, or something … but it all makes sense now."
Potter's voice was rising, the fire in his eyes burning more brightly. "Dumbledore showed me a memory last year of the Horcrux he destroyed, the ring. There was something engraved there, and Riddle's grandfather was bragging about it. It was the sign of the Hallows. I'm certain. … The stone in the ring was the Resurrection Stone—and after Dumbledore destroyed it, he left the Stone to me. In here." Potter held up the Snitch. "He accounted for two of the Hallows."
Draco pictured Dumbledore penning his will. He pictured the old man's dying hand laid beside the parchment … the ancient fingers inscribing the sign of the Hallows into The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Cloak … Stone … Wand.
The last piece clicked into place in Draco's mind.
Time seemed to stop. His nerveless hand slipped inadvertently into his pocket and closed around the Elder Wand.
"You're wrong, Potter," he said, voice low. "He accounted for all three."
The Gryffindors faced him, Hermione and Weasley incredulous, Potter alert. "How?" said Potter sharply.
"That night on the Astronomy Tower," Draco said. "When you and Dumbledore got there … I disarmed him." He drew the Elder Wand from his pocket. "I disarmed Dumbledore."
All the air seemed to have gone from the room. The others didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe.
Draco looked down at the glimmering stick of wood in his palm. It was why the wand felt so correct in his hand, as much as his own ever had. It was why the Patronus had come. They didn't need to win the wand's allegiance from Snape. The convoluted path of the Elder Wand had already brought it back to its master.
"And Dumbledore knew that," Potter whispered. "So, all we had to do was find the wand. It would have been easy, if he'd been buried with it—and you and your family were supposed to be kept safe at headquarters … he all but left us a map."
Draco nodded. He should have felt victorious, triumphant, excited. Yet as he regarded the Elder Wand, he only felt distant from himself. Strange collisions seemed to be happening in his mind, hypotheticals drifting into and out of being. If he'd only known the unbeatable wand was under his control, he would have used it at Azkaban from the start. Would things have turned out differently? Might he have been able to cast some obstruction that had prevented Wood and Longbottom from throwing themselves into the fray? Could he have charmed the whole group to run more quickly—to escape?
In the final minutes, what if he had been able to overcome Crabbe, Greyback, and that Ministry wizard? Perhaps, with the Elder Wand, he could have cast a shield, grabbed Andromeda's arm, and run, knowing they could survive the battlements.
He bit down on his tongue, tasting longing, frustration, bitterness.
But then he heard his aunt's voice whisper in his memory. Don't look back, she'd told him. They had been her last words.
It took a mammoth effort, but Draco dragged his mind out of the swirling sea of hypotheticals. He was alive. Hermione was alive, the Order, his friends, his parents. He had to turn his mind forward, to focus on the potential of the wand. … It was a crucial tool. It might be the key to the future, even if it could never unlock the past.
"I've got to get this open." Potter's voice was so hoarse with excitement it was practically a croak.
Draco looked up. Potter was turning the Snitch over and over in his hands. The fever in his gaze had intensified; he suddenly looked like he hadn't slept in days. "This is the key. Master of Death. That's what Dumbledore wanted me to become, so I could defeat Voldemort. This is the only way."
"Harry, no, it's not," Hermione insisted, looking to Draco and Ron for backup. "Please, just think about this logically. The way is to destroy the Horcruxes. Maybe he left you the ring in there and maybe he didn't. Maybe Dumbledore even believed it was this … this Resurrection Stone. But nothing can help us beat Voldemort if we don't find and destroy Hufflepuff's Cup, then kill Nagini."
The words hardly even seemed to reach Potter's ears. He moved his head in an indeterminate sort of way, eyes still fixed on the Snitch.
"She's right, mate. Come on," Weasley urged. "We've got to keep our heads on straight. If Malfoy's right, we've already got the wand, and that's the most important one, isn't it? We can use it to beat You-Know-Who, in the end. Forget the Stone—we've got to finish off those Horcruxes."
But Draco saw the way Potter's body had rotated toward the crib in the corner of the nursery, and he knew, then, what Potter meant in all this.
"It's not going to bring them back," Draco said.
Only then did Potter's focus seem to jar from the Snitch. His shoulders hunched defensively.
"Your parents," Draco said. "Dumbledore. Sirius Black. … My aunt and uncle." His throat tightened. "Look, I get it, Potter. I wish there was a way to … if I'd …" He gripped the Elder Wand tight.
Don't look back, whispered Andromeda's voice.
Draco's resolve hardened. He pushed on. "But they're all gone. And if we don't find the next Horcrux, other people are going to join them."
Potter gave his head a frustrated shake and went back to the Snitch. "You're not listening," he said with agitation. "Don't you get it? If we open this, we can ask Dumbledore himself what he wanted us to do! I've seen things like this before. Priori Incantatem. It saved my life fourth year. It didn't bring them back, but I could see them again. They were there. … Parts of them are still here."
Potter's head shot up again. "Maybe," he said, voice rising in excitement, "Dumbledore had a guess about where to find the cup, and he wanted us to contact him using the Resurrection Stone!"
None of them had anything to say to this pronouncement. Draco met Hermione's eyes and saw the sadness there, and he struggled to conceal his pity, knowing how it would incense Potter.
But Potter must have sensed the feeling from all of them. He stood, anger in his face, and shoved up his glasses. "Fine, then. I'll figure out how to open it myself."
With that, he stormed out of the nursery, leaving Draco, Hermione, and Weasley behind.
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thanks for reading! reviews always make my day :)
-sw