Better Be Slytherin
XLV
Tojours Pur

Draco dreaded going home for Easter holidays but mid-March came along quickly and suddenly he had no choice. His stomach knotted with anxiety, he noticed himself trembling the entire train journey back to London. The thought of seeing the Dark Lord made him feel nauseous – he wanted to be back at Hogwarts were he could block everything out, where he was relatively safe and where all he had to worry about was maintaining his reputation as faithful servent of the Dark Lord in front of the Carrows. His days were easy; the nights harder, that was when everything came to him. The worry over his parents safety, over Pansy or anyone else finding out what a traitor he was, over his own life...

He briefly kissed Pansy goodbye at King's Cross station and apparated home with his trunk without saying anything to her. He knew she was worried, perhaps even suspicious, and he knew he couldn't shut her out forever. Would she get bored? Move on to someone else?

His feet hit ground, hard, and the familiar scent of country-side hit him, the sky was rapidly darkening, it had been a beautiful blood red sunset and the clouds had looked like they were on fire but the sky was now deep blue like a vast neverending sea. Far, far in the horizon over the countless meadows and fields, he could see the contours of Stonehenge. He turned around to face the high iron gates. For a moment he stood there, envisaging his childhood home, a place he'd always loved, always taken for granted, that he now had started to resent. And he imagined it as he'd known it all his life – well-kept, respectable, impressive and alive in its grandeur. He remembered distantly, as if in another life, how Narcissa had hosted garden parties and when invitations for ballroom feasts came with different owls every month. It was around the same time as he would brag to his school mates about how good he was at flying, his stories ending with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters, and when he had gloatingly opened package of sweets from home at the Slytherin table. How easy, care-free, privileged life had been.

The manor was now merely a shell of its old splendor. As were his parents.


The first half of the holiday was uneventful to his massive relief and gratitude. The Dark Lord didn't show his face - his aunt mumbled something about him being 'abroad' but Draco had the distinct feeling that she hadn't a clue about their master's whereabouts, or activities either for that matter.

One day Pansy came over in secret through his fireplace and they spent the entire day in bed. It was just what he needed and the sky outside was dark grey and gloomy – if he hadn't known it was midday he would've guessed it was nighttime – so there was no point going outside anyway. He supposed it was down to the Dementors.

He trailed his fingers into hers, entwining their hands and held it up to his mouth and pecked hers absentmindedly. The day reminded him of a similar day nearly two years ago in fifth year when the two of them had pretended to be ill just to miss a full day of lessons. They had spent that day in bed too. It had been a June day, possibly even his sixteenth birthday, because he remembered receiving famous Quidditch player Adrian Lynch's old Quidditch gloves which had been signed by him, as an undoubtably very expensive and hard to get present from Pansy. She'd used her fathers influential contacts to acquire it, and she'd had her House-Elf wrap them in dark green paper with a pattern of moving broomsticks and Golden Snitches on it.

That had been back when they hadn't really known each other. Not like now. They were a world away from that now. It was a time when they sneaked out to snog in broom cupboards and sent each other cheeky notes which they had enchanted to fly in the classrooms. At that time Draco had felt like they knew each other very well, seeing as they had been classmates and friends for five years and shared their first kiss but compared to now, they had been nothing back then. Now he couldn't picture being without her.

He remembered how during one of those kissing sessions in Snape's storage cupboard (they hadn't been able to control themselves to wait until they got to an upper corridor that time), how they had been caught red handed by their head of house who had come to his cupboard for spare boomslang skin only to find his own Slytherin prefects and favorite students severely misbehaving.

Draco remembered how Snape had rolled his eyes and clipped, "Out. Twenty points from Slytherin, each. If I ever find you two in a similar situation again I'll write to your faher, Draco."

Draco, who had been sniggering smugly, instantly felt abashed, and Pansy giggled while Snape grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out into the dungeon corridor. Hearing Pansy laugh, Snape's dark eyes turned to her instead. "And your mother."

Pansy's smile faltered and she gulped. "Sorry professor Snape," they had said in unison.

Young, naive, carefree and innocent (as innocent as they'd ever been, he thought – more innocent than now at least).

He was brought out of his reverie by Pansy moving beside him in the huge bed, reaching out to his nightstand.

"You've still got this?" She had picked up a framed photo of them taken at the Yule Ball a few years ago, and was grinning at it. He looked at her for a few seconds, a surreptitious glance at her, not being able to help himself. She was wearing his old Quidditch t-shirt from third year, emerald green with the faded silver letters of MALFOY across the back. It brought him an odd sense of pride.

"Found it lying round." He shrugged in an off-hand manner, but felt his cheeks go slightly warm.

"And you gave it the best place in the room?" she sneered. "You love me..."

"Shut up," he grinned.

He would never admit to her that he in fact did. But he now knew that he did. Because she was his ally and she had been for as long as he could remember.

"I was so keen to get off with you after that," she grinned playfully. "When we were younger. When we started fifth year."

He smirked.

"But now…" She said. He frowned. Then, understanding… His fingers found hers again and he nestled them together with his own, simultaneously as his body drew closer to hers and he nuzzled his face in her neck. He knew what she meant and he meant it too, they didn't have to say it. In fact, saying it was slightly daunting.

She kissed his chest and reached out to touch him and accidentally touched the part of his arm where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. It stung badly, and he winced and closed his eyes. Luckily she didn't see.


His anxiety actually subsided because he didn't see Voldemort all Easter and even Bellatrix was rarely at the manor, he wasn't sure why – either she preferred to stay with her husband in his shabby northern cottage (Draco somehow doubted it) or her and Lucius had argued again (more likely).

On the second to last evening of the holidays he was even daring to hope he wouldn't have to see the Dark Lord at all thus successfully avoiding him since Christmas. It was looking up. Just as he'd thought it, it shattered.

He was occupying one of the large armchairs in front of the ornate fireplace, enjoying a glass of Fire Whiskey with his father. Their relationship had been more than strained after their drunken confrontation over Christmas, which was why they sat there quietly. The silence seemed to echo across the dark purple walls lined with portraits. The only source of light in the room were the burning candles of the huge chandelier in the ceiling. When he heard quick, thundering steps through the hall outside, he was at first, relieved, that someone would break his and Lucius' awkward situation. But at once he heard that something was not right. Not only were there the confident, gliding steps of his mother and the fast, heavier steps of his deranged aunt, but there was also muffled voices and what sounded like the dragging of a body. He froze and felt his heart beat quicken.

The doors burst open and Narcissa entered, followed by a group of people including Bellatrix, Greyback (Draco's stomach turned over) and a few rugged and shabby wizards in cheap dirty robes, unshaven and smelling vaguely of old alcohol – they must be Snatchers, he understood at once and they had three prisoners with them who were struggling so badly he couldn't see their faces

"What is this?" drawled Lucius.

"They say they've got Potter," said his mother's cold voice. "Draco! Come here!"

His heart leapt and he felt the familiar surge of anxiety hit him. Potter? Please do not let the idiot have gotten himself caught? His mind was racing as his eyes flew to the prisoners half hidden in the darkness. And why was one of those stinking Snatchers cradling a long silver sword? His mouth dry, he walked towards his mother and the rest of the newcomers, and Greyback pulled one of them towards the chandelier so Draco could see him in the sudden light.

Draco stared, his eyes glued to the prisoner. His insides froze.

The man in front of him was swollen, misshapen and scarless, but there was no doubt in Draco's mind. Potter had always had unkempt hair but it was now long, wild and dirty. He smelled like he hadn't showered in months, his face was bigger than usual, scratched and lopsided – something had been done to it. But for all that, Draco had gone to school with him for six years, and he had doubt whatsoever that this was Harry Potter. He didn't even need to search for the scar, or imagine those slim green eyes with glasses on. He looked nothing like the boy Draco went to school with, yet those piercing green eyes were unmistakably his... How many times he'd looked into them while sneering and taunting, or just before attacking the boy with either wand or fist. Draco could hardly say he knew Harry Potter well, but there was no denying, he'd looked into those eyes enough times to be absolutely sure.

This could be none other than Harry Potter. He was sure of it. He glanced sideways at the other prisoners, and sure enough, there was the Mudblood Granger looking equally un-showered, and the Blood-Traitor Weasley glaring at him.

"Well Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?" he could feel his father's rapid breathing on his face, and instantly he was torn between wanting to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord to restore his family's former glory, and releasing Potter for a chance at defeating the Dark Lord. Shit. Potter had been avoiding eye contact but now for a split second their eyes met.

Draco was stunned, speechless, his mouth so dry he felt like he couldn't open it, and his mind racing. Why was Potter here? How had he let himself get caught? What would happen to Draco, to Harry, to everyone, if the Dark Lord got him? What had Potter been doing for the past ten months?

"I can't- I can't be sure," was the only thing that came out of his mouth.

Bloody Potter. Seemed like his nobility had rubbed off on Draco despite everything.

Draco was frightened to look at Harry. He turned around and walked away, to his mother by the large fireplace. He looked at her and wished he could portray everything he was feeling through mere eye-contact. Help me, mother.

"Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven…"

He knew all of this, and Lucius voice only made the pressure deepen. It's all over,he thought despairingly, Potter has been captured and the Dark Lord will win and I will forever be a slave to a mad man. His father was staring at him expectantly and his mother mildly questioning, and… Worriedly?

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He loved them, he did, more than anything, but the last time he had done what his father wanted because it was expected of him, it had ended up disastrous.

The Snatchers and his father began arguing among them, and Draco met his mother's eyes.

And suddenly, he knew what he must do. He couldn't say that yes this was in fact Harry Potter, he couldn't – the words wouldn't escape his mouth.

He decided he would say nothing, and he felt like vomiting again. He wanted to leave this room so badly, and began thinking of excuses to do so. Bellatrix and the snatchers began arguing, Lucius got involved too, and soon Bellatrix was bringing Potter, Weasley and Granger into it, all about a certain sword and whether or not to call the Dark Lord, it all happened too quickly for Draco to follow. He did understand however how the Snatchers were all turning on each other, the disloyal self-serving low-lives; they all just wanted their own piece of the cake.

Then, "take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback," Bellatrix ordered. "All except he Mudblood."

Weasley and Potter screamed in protest, but the werewolf was already dragging them across the room to the stairs leading to the cellar. Draco was frozen, his heart beating rapidly, watching what was happening apprehensively.

"Crucio!" His aunt bellowed and Granger screamed. Draco winced.

"How - did you - come by - the sword?!"

Granger's screams filled the room and Draco looked away. His father was staring right at the scene, not even slightly wincing. For a moment he was torn between feeling weak – why could his father handle this but Draco himself couldn't? – but then he felt oddly grateful for not handling watching torture well. Did that mean he was a better person than his father?

"Crucio!" Bellatrix screamed again and Granger writhed unnaturally on the floor and wailed. It unsettled him.

Bellatrix's knife shone against Granger's exposed neck. A few drops of blood erupted, and for a split second he was surprised, or rather, assured. He had nearly thought her blood would've been an ugly colour or foul-smelling. But her blood didn't seem dirtier than anyone elses. Her blood didn't seem filthy... It looked just like his own.

And then he realised there wasn't anything particularly filthy about her. The only thing filthy in this room was his own aunt torturing a young girl. An old classmate of his... a girl the same age as his own girlfriend... Someone loved this girl, he realised. That freckly ginger loved Granger, just like Draco loved Pansy. And his aunt was torturing her for a reason that he couldn't even remember or understand anymore...

He just wanted it to stop. He hated it. Power – something he had always enjoyed and strived for, he now realised, was vile.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, to protest, Weasley and Potter burst into the room and starting duelling them. Lucky, because Draco forgot to protest. If he had, he would probably have died that night.