Chapter 4: Date the Girl Who Clouds Your Judgment

Complete and utter chaos. There really was no other way to describe the scene unfolding before Draco's eyes. His father had woken him and told him to portkey home, that the Irish's celebrations were encroaching on their tent and it was no longer safe to remain. He was going to stay and help to restore order. In a tired daze, Draco took the proffered talisman and fled their tent.

It quickly became apparent that the proceedings were not the doing of the Irish celebrants. The entire campsite was ablaze, flames licking in every direction and catching the next dwelling on fire. Draco ran, scanning the hectic crowd for a face he recognized. Bodies loomed overhead, screams of pain and terror searing across the sky.

A crowd of men, dressed in black and donning pewter masks marched down the center of the rows, fireballs and colourful curses exploding across the space before them. Draco had only ever happened upon a similar mask once in his life, when he'd ventured too far into his father's private study. His father wasn't fighting for the Ministry. Draco knew this in his gut. Though he couldn't see him, he knew his father was in the crowd of masked men. Was it his wand trained on the Muggle campground owner? On the Muggle's children?

Vomit swelled in his throat, disgust surging through him. How could his father do something so heinous? Throngs of panicked people, magical and muggle alike, spilled toward him in varying states of undress and disorientation.

Though he hadn't seen her since the pandemonium began, only one face swarmed in his mind. Granger. Draco watched as muggle women—were they women? Some seemed barely older than he—were levitated high into the air, their knickers on display for all below to view. Loud cheers erupted from the crowd of evil beings.

Humiliation. It was their goal, and given the way the girls wept while the men tried desperately to snatch them from the air, their tactics were working.

Draco had never seen anything so grotesque in his life. More and more people fled the scene, bumping into him. Children stood around, crying and forgotten by their elders. Fire roared into the skies, coming close enough that the embers singed his clothing. He should run. Get away from here and take the portkey home. No doubt his mother would be expecting him.

But he couldn't leave. He was glued to the spot as he tried to find her, or any sign of a Weasley. Hell, he'd take Potter's ugly face right now, if it meant reassurance that she was safe. The horde of people was starting to thin, most everyone well into the forest by now. The flames were closing in, bodies of muggles crumpling in heaps between them.

The closest Death Eater trained his wand on the forest behind Draco, and only when he saw a hand dart out from under an onyx robe and a flash of cornsilk hair, did he finally turn and bolt into the thicket of trees. The Death Eater's hex flew just past his ear, his father's quick save a lucky one. He heard the roar of flame and suddenly, the forest around him was ablaze.

His feet carried him faster than he'd ever moved without a broom as he darted and dashed between tree trunks and bent branches. When he finally felt the cool air surrounding him once more, the threat of flames momentarily dissipated, he stopped to catch his breath. His wand in hand, Draco bent forward on his knees, coughing and sputtering up ash and smoke.

He should have left when his father gave him the chance. Instead, here he stood, his judgment clouded by the need to see her. To ensure that she had made it away from his father and his posse. Draco had grown up listening to the whispered tales and hushed laughs at parties. He knew the kind of horrific things Death Eaters did to muggles. To women.

He felt sick as he leaned back against the nearest tree. His breathing slowly returned to normal. The flames seemed to be creeping slowly into the forest—Ministry officials must have contained them to give bystanders a fighting chance. He clenched his eyes shut, wetting a handkerchief to wipe away the soot from his face.

Footsteps cracked over the twigs and leaves of the woods, and his head snapped up. Never in their history of rivalry, had Draco been so happy to see Potter's mess of raven hair and Weasley's dopey face. But as they emerged from the trees, with Granger in tow, he nearly collapsed.

He felt a smile spread across his lips, though his guests deemed his smile untrustworthy from the start. Now isn't the time for groveling. Draco cleared his throat and pushed away from the tree, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't feel half as confident as he hoped to come off. Weasley was saying something rude, and he responded mechanically, though Draco couldn't repeat his side of the banter if someone put a wand to his head.

"Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?" He nodded toward Granger, his eyes locking with hers. He remembered how the green and gold danced over mahogany in the right light. A blast sounded behind the trio and green light flared to life, dancing over the trees ominously.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, jutting her chin in sheer defiance. Bloody Gryffindors. Constantly choosing fight over flight.

"Granger, they're after Muggles. D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air?" Draco hoped she could hear the urgency in his voice. Still, her eyes searched for any sign of deceit. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of whooping cheers. "Because if you do, hang around…they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."

Potter spouted off at the mouth about her magical capabilities. Draco shrugged, trying to convey every thought to her mind. He wished he knew Legilimency. "Have it your own way, Potter. If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are."

Hermione grabbed at either boy and pulled them along. It seemed that even Gryffindors had a sense of self-preservation when outnumbered by an unknown foe. Draco reached into his pocket and pulled the gaudy trinket his father had made into a portkey. It was still illuminated, though barely so. His time to escape was running out. Just as he touched the warm metal surface, emerald light shot into the sky and a crude Dark Mark appeared.

Draco gasped and dropped the portkey, retrieving it just as it's transportation powers were coming to a close. He felt it squelching behind his navel and then he face-planted on the marble floor of his ancestral home. His mother rushed to his side just as his father's boots hit the floor next to his head.

"You idiot boy," his father bellowed, grabbing him up by the scruff of his collar and into a standing position. "I gave you that portkey to leave immediately. What were you waiting for?"

Draco only gaped at him, irritation and fear swelling within him. "I—I"

"Lucius, you're bleeding," his mother interrupted.

The two Malfoy men looked down to see drops of blood seeping into the grout between the marble floor tiles. His father let him go to pull his sleeve back. His mother shrieked and Draco turned away from what appeared. His father's Mark, bloodied as though carved anew, writhed across his arm. "He's back, Cissy."

"How?"

"I don't know. Tonight was only meant to be an example, a reminder, of what will happen if these Mudbloods continue to infiltrate our heritage. But this—" he wiped a shaking finger over it, smearing his own blood over pale flesh, "-he must be alive, if not in body, then in soul. Only he can make this happen."

"That's impossible," his mother whispered.

For the first time in his life, Draco could see genuine fear in his parents' faces. He was back—the Dark Lord—and his parents were not pleased with the shocking turn of events. He managed to gulp down the unease welling in his throat and the sound turned his father's attention on him.

Draco was prepared for a lashing—verbal or otherwise. What he was not prepared for was his father's arms wrapped around him in a crushing hug. "You have no idea what danger you put yourself in tonight, son. What made you hesitate to follow orders?"

He had no explanation, at least none that he could give his father. His mother seemed to sense his reluctance and she put a hand to her husband's shoulder. "Lucius, he's tired. Tonight has obviously been eye opening, and I'm sure Draco has a lot to think about when it comes to his actions this evening."

If he so much as uttered the word "Granger," his father would lock him in the dungeons and ship him to Durmstrang at the start of the school year. His mother simply looked at him as though she could read his thoughts. He heard her voice whisper through his head. "Careful, Draco," it seemed to say.

Careful, Draco. You wouldn't want him to think you'd like to date the girl.