The Enemy Walks
Draco remembered.
His parents would never exactly have been finalists in any kind of Magical Parents of the Year award but still they had been all the family he had ever had in the world and whatever their misdemeanors, he still missed them. Loved them even.
True, his father had been a cold, ruthless, wretched bastard. The price of prostituting yourself to the Black Arts was the ability to love even your own flesh and blood so it seemed. However, nobody could doubt that Lucius Malfoy had cared about his only son at some level. His only child in general really.
Narcissa had, on the other hand, certainly loved him. In her own fashion anyway, but nothing had ever been more important to her than herself.
Draco still did not know anything about the exact circumstances of their deaths (although he could make a likely guess) and that pained him far more than he cared to admit.
How could you truly mourn the passing of your parents if you had no absolution about their deaths? Knowing of it was not the same as understanding it or at least that was how Draco saw it.
He'd never cried, nor screamed, never done anything of that nature when he'd received the news. It had strangely not entered his head to do so.
What would have been the point?
"Malfoy?"
Am I mourning now? He'd only really thought of his parents in his dreams and even then it had never grieved him…not as it was now at any rate. Draco felt a horrible coldness envelope him and his eyes suddenly moistened.
In his entire life, Draco Malfoy had never shed a single tear…
"MALFOY!"
Draco's eyes snapped open and he stared into a pair of dark orbs gazing intently at him. Sirius had been on the verge of shaking him to snap him out of his reverie.
Without realising it, he'd arrived at the abode of the Weasel and the Mudblood by Portkey.
Oh joy.
"Sorry," Draco mumbled, shaking his head, slightly dazed, causing several silver blond tresses to fall into his eyes, obscuring his vision slightly.
Which was why he never noticed Ron stride towards him in an openly hostile fashion.
Draco couldn't fail however to register the fist that slammed forcefully into his jaw. Malfoy stumbled back in shock and surprise (not to mention pain as well). His right cheek was stinging and Draco gingerly reached a cooling hand to it.
He shot a furious glance at Sirius who had been stood right beside him and had done nothing to prevent Wesley's assault. One look at Black's face however and Draco knew he'd allowed it on purpose.
"What...What was that in aid of?" He gasped, realising the moment the words were out how incredibly stupid they were.
Hermione was clearly fuming at her husband (no doubt she had placed some kind of restraining order on Ron where Malfoy was concerned) whilst Potter seemed to be silently amused.
"That!" Ron spat. "Was a warning! If you think for one mini-second that I trust you in anyway, that I am okay with you being in my house or okay with you in general, know right now Malfoy that you would be severely mistaken! I am not okay with you or any of this really but Harry seems to think you could be of some help to us and I trust this. For now."
Ron panted for breath at the end of his tirade, allowing Draco to finally impart some words on his own behalf.
Strangely, he did not feel insulted or angry at Weasley just…relieved at his reaction. He found that he'd rather they all be openly hostile than pretend to accept him.
Illusions are deceitful. They were my undoing.
"Fine. I can live with that."
Ron was rather taken aback by this tame response. Once upon a Hogwarts time, Draco Malfoy had been fiery to say the least – never without a cutting insult or equally cutting retort.
Now here he was accepting both physical violence and verbal insults from someone he had always considered inferior to himself in an almost meek fashion.
"Well," said Hermione, disgruntled but making an admirable effort to conceal it. "Now that's settled, I want to say how nice it is to have you here…all of you," She added pointedly. Ron snorted but managed to keep his opinion to himself.
Smart move, Draco thought. He knew from experience that it was not a good idea to push Hermione Granger too far.
Ron had clearly learnt that too. Good for him.
Hermione gestured at them all to follow her to the guest rooms she had prepared for them. Sirius had one on his own but Harry and Malfoy were forced to share.
"I'm sorry," She murmured to Harry. "But I didn't think he should be on his own-"
"Meaning you don't want anyone strangling or otherwise murdering him while he sleeps," Harry finished with a chuckle, although really the lack of trust between everyone at the moment really wasn't that funny. Not at all.
He quirked a questioning eyebrow at her.
"What makes you so sure I won't do that?" He added curiously.
Hermione shrugged.
"It's just not you," She said plainly, as if everything were as simple as that in life, which of course, could not be any further from the truth.
"Neither is breaking a potentially dangerous criminal out of prison," Harry pointed out. "Don't worry, I don't have any intention of hurting him though so you can rest easy."
"See!" Hermione hissed.
Draco watched them closely, catching snatches of their conversation now and then. From what he'd overheard (as well as the 'Harry wasn't going to hurt him' part which wasn't as comforting as it should have been) The Daily Prophet had been having a field day with his escape from prison, apparently masterminded by the one and only Harry Potter.
Potter had muttered something about 'not missing this,' whatever that was supposed to mean.
Draco was rather surprised the Ministry had not actually looked here yet, something which Harry himself queried. Hermione's answer, as much as he was able to hear of it, was something to do with her being an Auror although her superior had casually asked her whether or not she had 'heard' from Mr. Potter recently.
"I wasn't exactly lying when I said 'no,'" Hermione said, with an edge. Some point obviously lay behind that comment which Harry got loud and clear but Draco did not.
Recalling Sirius' argument with Harry from that morning however, Malfoy could see a certain pattern emerging.
Something to mull over or at least to help take my mind off things, he mused.
That evening the five of them gathered in the spacious and warmly decorated living room, chairs arranged so they were sat in a slightly haphazard circle, to hear everything that Hermione had learnt over the last few months.
Outside the sky was shot with deep crimson and splashes of purple as the sun had not yet sunk entirely from the sky and Draco allowed himself a small, if brief, smile. How he had yearned to see this sort of beautiful colour again, never dreaming it would ever actually be in the realms of possibility.
Without even a window in his cell, all he'd had to look at for eight whole years was dull, lifeless grey. Even when he had brooded over past events, they had replayed over in his head in shades of grey like old, worn photographs from another, much older time period.
Someone nudged him. With incredible difficulty Draco turned his attention back to the meeting.
Sirius held out his hand, palm up, to Hermione and said, "Briefly, what do you know?"
She ran a hand through her still rather limp brown hair.
"I don't think there's anyway to be anything but brief about it," She confessed. In her hands, she cradled a large pile of parchment that looked in serious danger of toppling to the floor. It seemed to be a lot of paperwork for so apparently little information.
"But nonetheless, here it is – for some time now a group of wizards have been attacking Muggleborns and Muggles themselves. Usually they do so in groups of no more than four and at first we, that is, me and the other Aurors, thought (or rather, hoped) they were merely isolated incidents until it started to happen more and more."
Harry scowled. "I thought that kind of crap would have ceased with Voldemort gone."
Hermione shook her head. "No, there's still those malicious, willing few who will do it on a sadistic whim. The leader may be gone but what he believed lives on in others." Her eyes were blazing as she said all this. As a Muggleborn witch herself it went without saying that this was extremely personal to Hermione.
Harry's eyes had suddenly glazed over, as if he were seeing an event from the past. Draco briefly wondered if he were recalling the Quidditch World Cup where his father Lucius had...no. He didn't want to think about that right now.
"We still didn't connect them to any one particular group or consider that they might be acting under a specific person's instruction until we finally apprehended one of the culprits and he started boasting about some powerful master they all worked for."
"Was he at all specific about this master? Such as what his intentions are?" Sirius queried, already guessing the answer.
"No. But he had a mark tattooed on his left arm." Hermione began riffling through the pages until she found what she was looking for. A few stray pages fluttered to the floor and Draco tried to catch a glimpse of what was on them but Ron scooped them up again before he could make anything out.
Holding the parchment up, she finished in a flourish, "This mark."
The four men leaned in for a better look at the sketch. The mark seemed to be the symbol of infinity enclosed within a decorative circle…no, a serpent. Odd, but on it's own, it didn't really mean that much. Yet Ron felt he'd something like it before, but where he simply could not recall.
Sirius ran a hand through his long dark hair, puzzling over this minute yet possibly vital information.
"It seems to indicate something that is eternal, endless…but what?"
"Maybe someone continuing You-Know-Who's legacy?" Suggested Ron. Hermione gaped at the her husband, appalled.
"Ron! That is so…insensitive! She cried. "I mean with Harry here and all…"
Harry sighed and shrugged. Hermione had always been so protective of Harry. Not that he didn't appreciate it but…well, he was a grown man now.
"It's ok Hermione, really," He assured her. She looked rather doubtful but said nothing more.
"Who would want to continue such a legacy?" Sirius wondered aloud. All eyes immediately fell on Malfoy. He shifted uncomfortably at the attention.
"Well, none of the Death Eaters I knew would do that. I mean, with him gone permanently this time I would very much doubt they would be willing to work under another but...it's possible," He said carefully.
Harry was stung by a very unpleasant thought that came completely out of the blue – what if Voldemort was not truly gone?
No, that's impossible! I saw him die!
Didn't I?
"Why would they use a different mark though, and not the Dark Mark?" Ron was asking. Hermione supplied an answer, pointing out that a new leader would want their own mark or symbol of identification to distinguish themselves individually. To be known for their own unique identity so to speak.
"So why function as Voldemort once did, almost to the letter? That does now seem at all unique, just lazy," Sirius mused.
And so they continued talking earnestly amongst themselves into the night.
Unaware of the eyes that steadily observed them and the fact the one whom they belonged too heard every word that was spoken.
She watched.
"So they think that you are one of his ilk, that you follow in his footsteps. How greatly ironic," The demon hissed to her in her head. She favoured herself a smile then and replied, "Yes, quite so. I see it as an honour regardless," she added, a wistful look coming into her eyes.
She sensed that her demon master disappointed of this.
"Really? Micaela, he failed miserably in his goals...consider what Tom is, or should I say, was to you, surely you are gravely disappointed in him?"
Micaela had never dared to show anger or anything really other than the proper deference to her master but at this great insult she allowed her temper to flare, consequences be damned.
"Not at all," She seethed. "Perhaps he did fail ultimately but he also achieved such great things. He came to a point where he was in so many ways immortal before he was stopped the first time by that dratted little brat Harry Potter.
"He achieved enough for any mother to be proud of."
To her surprise, the demon was not enraged by her own show of temper. In fact, it seemed to amuse him if anything.
"Such are the weaknesses of the mortal mind," He taunted.
"Not for much longer," Micaela assured him. "You shall see to that."
"Indeed," The demon replied.
Harry couldn't sleep. Ever since the thought had crossed his mind that maybe...impossibly…Voldemort was still alive he found that the idea simply would not leave him.
He turned over and gazed at the moonlight streaming in through the window, his back to Draco, who was apparently sleeping peacefully.
But it could be possible, he came back once before didn't he? A nasty, insistent little voice in his head whispered in response to his constant denials. Much as he hated to admit it, he was listening to it.
To Harry's mind, this was all too familiar. The tattoo, the particular selection of victims; As Sirius had said it seemed a much too lazy way for a supposedly powerful wizard to make their mark.
Malfoy had observed that any remaining Death Eaters not currently rotting away in prison would not take too kindly to another wizard apparently duplicating Voldemort, whether he was far more powerful than their former leader or not. Most of them had held some kind of twisted loyalty towards the fallen Dark Lord or so he'd said.
His father hadn't.
That wasn't really fair though. Draco couldn't help who his father had been and where his allegiances had lain.
Yet he chose to hurt me and mine of his own accord.
As William Shakespeare himself had wrote, jealousy was the green eyed monster and just as it had seen Othello destroyed so it had assured the destruction of whatever conscience had ever resided within Draco Malfoy. At least, for a time anyway. Too late did he rediscover it. Too late did he realise his folly.
But unlike Othello, who had been hero, Malfoy had always been…well, a villain to Harry's eyes. Things had been that simple to him once – one side heroes, other side villains.
Only later did Harry come to realise that the lines between good and evil were at best a murky grey.
Harry wanted to fully understand what had truly driven Malfoy back then, when he had been his enemy. He needed to understand because only then would he ever feel ready to forgive him.
It was indeed taking a lot on faith. But so far Malfoy was hardly balking at the idea of forgiveness or helping out their side as one might have (realistically) expected. If anything, he seemed to want it. Something Harry had known he would. Which was strange because, like everyone else, he had suspected an ulterior motive was behind his surrender despite the look of self-loathing he had seen in the Slytherin's eyes.
It begged the question how he had been so sure of such thing.
Just instinct I suppose, Harry shrugged.
Finally, he began to drift off to sleep.
Her silver hair glinted in the moonlight as she stood at the once grand now shabby entrance to what the people in the village below called 'The Riddle House.'
Oh, how Micaela had come to truly despise that name. But not all the blame lay with the arrogant Tom, once her husband.
No, she had foolishly allowed herself to be a slave to her own heart and that had proved costly. Never again would Micaela allow that to happen.
And in any case, my own son, the one he abandoned so callously, saw that he and I were both avenged.
Her followers were beginning to ascend the hill and she watched them steadily for a few moments before pulling up the hood of her flowing black cloak with the intention of deliberately disguising her feminine features.
And for the finishing touch…
"Inclinatus," She whispered, pointing her wand at her throat. Her voice immediately deepened, becoming masculine.
Micaela was now ready to face her acolytes as they gathered in the ebon shadows of the large, crumbling mansion. They lusted for blood and she had given them opportunities to satisfy that lust. But despite what she promised them it was far from her ultimate goal, what she and the demon had plotted together.
In truth, the senseless torture of Mudbloods and Muggles had nothing to do with it at all.
For now though she was content to allow them their pleasures.
"My friends," She greeted in her now baritone voice. None of the ones she had gathered tonight had met their elusive 'master' before and judging from the approving murmurs that ran through the ranks, 'he' was everything they had hoped he would be.
Micaela Riddle almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all.
"Tonight you shall bare witness to a momentous event, for this night we shall finally step out of the darkness, fully and finally, and allow the world to know of our existence. They will know that they should fear us to the depth of their marrow and that we are unstoppable."
The group of wizards and witches alike cheered and she grinned, exalted.
"Tonight we bring death. To them," She bellowed, pointing directly at the village of Little Hangleton. They all turned to gaze at it, the bloodlust emanating from them rising to a fever pitch.
It was truly intoxicating.
"The horrid Muggles will finally know what true filth they are, right before they die." A twisted smile that her followers could not see but probably sensed nonetheless crossed her features and her tone dropped to a deathly whisper.
"By sundown," She intoned quietly but clearly so they heard every word. "Their blood shall run in the gutters of this accused town!"
They cheered again and began to descend the hill, their leader walking behind in steady steps, secretly relishing the chance to punish the townspeople for turning against her all those years ago.
Just as her husband had.
And as she had indicated to her followers, this was truly the beginning.
Of the end. For some anyway.
Draco had no idea what roused him from sleep in the early hours of that morning. All he knew was that he felt strangely fearful of something. Something tangible, yet invisible at the same time.
What this could possibly mean though, he had no idea.
All that came to him was a single thought that did not make any real sense at all to his sleep fogged brain.
It has begun.
Notes: 'Inclinatus' - The Latin word for the deepening or lowering of the voice.
