They brought me to Dumbledore. Not to the Ministry, not to Azkaban…to Dumbledore.
"Is this what you teach children to do, Dumbledore? Kill their own fathers?!" one of the Aurors screams at the old man.
I close my eyes and let the tears flow down my face unchecked, waiting for the kind-eyed Headmaster to condemn me.
"The boy is overwrought, Carmen!" Dumbledore booms. I jump badly at the volume and menace in his voice. "He was captured by Voldemort and then witnessed his classmates and teachers being slain! His mother abandoned him not even a year ago, and now, to have his father taken away as well! You should know better than to taunt a child who is in such a state!"
"You think his actions are justified by a bit of misfortune?" the Auror shoots back. "The War has taken its toll on all of us, but we are not murdering people because of it!"
"You are a pureblood wizard!" Dumbledore thunders. "You know as well as I that there is no greater shame for a pureblood than to be stripped of his magic!"
"It is no less than Malfoy deserved!"
"Judgment is not ours to render, Carmen. If you would recall the Rites du Mort of ancient pureblood law, any pureblood that is stripped of his magic and does not wish to live may legally be executed by one of his own kin."
"Malfoy didn't ask to be killed!"
"He did!" I wail, slipping off the chair the Aurors threw me into. "He begged me to kill him and I didn't want to do it!"
"Then why did you, foolish boy?!" the Auror called Carmen cries, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me violently.
"Take your hands off him, Mister Everrett." Dumbledore's voice is colder than ice.
"I am arresting him for murder!" he says, grabbing me roughly by the wrist and jerking me to my feet. I sag against him. I can't handle any of this. I can only cry and cry and cry and keep thinking that I killed my father. I killed my father. My God, I killed him…!
I lunge for Everrett's wand with only one thought in my mind. I manage to wrest it from him and I point it to my own chest.
"Avada—"
But before I can get the rest of it out, something hits me. The wand flies from my hand and I topple backwards. The back of my head smacks into the arm of the nearest chair, and mercifully, all goes black.
* * * * * *
I had hoped that I was dead. But if I am, I must be in Hell, because Albus Dumbledore is the first thing I see when I open my eyes.
"Good day, Mister Malfoy," he says. "Are you feeling well?"
I do not answer him. I squint against the midday light and look around. The room is done in beige tones and a bit of black. I am bundled in blankets in a massive bed. Across from me there is a wooden bureau with a collection of hourglasses on the polished surface. Three are turned over and running, and the remaining six are waiting for a purpose. Overall, it is a comforting room. But it is definitely not part of Hogwarts.
"Where are we?" I ask. My voice is rough and unrecognizable.
"Where is not relevant," Dumbledore says, favoring me with a small smile. Ah. That means it's someplace secret that I shouldn't know about.
"Is he awake, Albus, or are you talking to yourself again?" a familiar voice fills the room. I look over to the door, and cannot believe who I see there.
"Professor Snape!" I gasp, shocked. And why shouldn't I be shocked? I'd gone to the man's funeral not two months before. Although, now that I think about it, it was closed casket, and we never quite found out how or why our Potions Master died just two weeks after the defeat of Voldemort.
"Hello, Draco," he says smoothly. The corners of his lips twitch; if I didn't know better I'd say he was repressing a grin.
"You're…you're supposed to be dead," I blurt.
"To most of the world, I am."
"Why?"
He shares a glance with Dumbledore before walking up to the bed and sitting on the edge.
"You know I was a Death Eater, Draco."
I nod. My father had told me as much.
"What you don't know was that I was a double agent."
My eyes widen. That is a very thin line to walk, and he must have walked it well, because he's still alive.
"So when the War ended, I no longer had to worry about Voldemort killing me. But the other Death Eaters were not dead, and many of them managed to escape the first Auror sweeps. There were two attempts on my life…and both brought the Death Eaters much too close to Hogwarts. So the Headmaster and I agreed upon a mutual solution."
"Faking your death."
"Precisely. My job was over, and I think you know I never really took to teaching. No one would miss me, in any case. So I am free to live my life, and Albus no longer has to worry about renegade Death Eaters invading Hogwarts."
"What did you tell the Ministry?"
Dumbledore chuckles, and Snape shoots him a dirty look.
"That I was killed by an exploding cauldron."
I actually feel myself smile. Of all the ridiculous things to say…a world-renowned Potions Master killed by one of his own cauldrons! Well, I suppose it served its purpose. That sort of thing would be much too ugly for an open casket.
"Well," Dumbledore says, slowly getting to his feet, "I hope you don't mind staying with Severus until you are well enough to return home."
My smile fades as I recall the circumstances of my being here.
"Am I in trouble?" I ask softly.
"No, Mister Malfoy, you are not. Your actions were not illegal, and once Mister Everrett saw how distraught you were, his desire to press charges evaporated."
"And…was there a…a funeral?" I feel so bleak saying the words.
"I saw to it that your father received a proper burial in the Malfoy family cemetery."
I swallow the lump in my throat and fight back tears.
"Thank you, sir."
Dumbledore nods and turns to leave. But as he's going out the door, he pauses.
"One more thing, Draco. Your mother returned for the funeral. She wants to see you."
My mother.
I remember the day I realized she was gone. I did not speak to her much when I was at school anyway, so it wasn't strange that I didn't get any letters from her. But I did send one just before the winter holidays to remind her that I was coming home. I didn't receive a response, but then, it wasn't the sort of letter that required one. I went about my business as usual. But when the train arrived at King's Cross, there was no one there to greet me. I thought maybe she was simply running late. But midafternoon slowly turned into a cold, bleak night, and still I was alone. The only other person waiting was Hermione Granger. Her parents came around seven o'clock.
She looked back nervously as her father picked up her luggage and they began to leave.
"Um…Draco?" she said at last, somewhat timidly. "Is someone coming to get you?"
I think she expected me to snap at her and call her names like I usually do. But I didn't. Instead, I just sighed and answered,
"No one's coming, because there's no one left."
I just got on the train and went back to Hogwarts. I moped for the entire holiday, even after presents inexplicably appeared at the end of my bed on Christmas morning. I'm sure they were meant to be anonymous, but a student can't help but recognize the handwriting of his teachers. One was from Dumbledore – a huge bag of Honeydukes sweets, naturally. Another was from Remus Lupin, of all people. He'd come back to teach DADA that year; his gift was a book that was charmed to write stories of your dreams if you kept it under your pillow. I wondered why he gave me a gift at all, and one day I worked up the courage to ask him. He didn't seem surprised that I knew it was from him. All he'd said was that he knew what it was like to be alone, and that sometimes the smallest, silliest gestures were the ones that mattered most. He was dead two months later.
So my mother has come back. I suppose it was only her sense of propriety that made her do so. Either that, or the hope of pilfering more valuable things from the Manor since my father isn't around to deny her. Indeed, she must not have much of a sense of propriety if she is willing to abandon her only son.
"I don't want to see her," I say darkly, my fists clenching the blankets.
Dumbledore nods.
"I thought you might say that. You needn't worry about it, then. I will see you when school begins."
And with a small nod, Dumbledore exits the room and leaves me with Snape, the man who has risen from the dead.
* * * * * *
I don't want to leave the bed, and Snape doesn't force me to. He simply asks that I perform a thorough Scourgify on myself once in a while and that I eat well enough to maintain my current weight. It's not that he doesn't care; oh no, quite the opposite. I have never witnessed him handle anyone so delicately. It is as if he knows something that I don't.
I've spent many days staring at the ceiling. It isn't overly interesting, but it is blank, which serves my purpose. When I look at it, I can think, because there is nothing to distract me.
I ponder many things; sometimes my thoughts are quite mundane, and other times they are wild, roiling things rushing through my mind too fast for me to remember.
But today I don't feel like thinking. There is a soft thunk as one of the hourglasses turns itself over. I have gotten used to the periodic sound; it is strangely comforting, as is the whisper-soft sound of sand filtering from globe to globe.
Expending more effort than I have in at least two weeks, I turn myself around in the bed so my feet are where my head would normally be. I prop my chin in my cupped hands and contemplate the hourglasses.
There are nine of them. I ruminate on why Snape decided on nine; does it have some sort of special significance for him? They are all different sizes, shapes, and materials, as well. Only three of them contain real sand; one is pale white sand, another has sand that is so red that I wonder if it is from Mars, and the last is darker, more mineral-laden sand – sand that had once been a mountain. The other hourglasses contain an interesting assortment of substances; one is tiny crystals that shine like rainbows, one is a thick, viscous liquid that is a color that seems like it shouldn't exist in nature, and still others are full of curious things like glass beads and small, polished stones. The two largest are at opposite ends of the bureau and loom over the others like pillars. The one on the left is made of dark ebony wood and is by far the strangest of the nine. Inside it is a snake, mottled with startling green and yellow patterns and coiled tightly in the shape of a spiral. When it is turned over, the snake slowly slinks down to the bottom section and begins its spiral anew. The other hourglass is made of pale birch wood that circles around the seashell-shaped globes in a double helix. This one contains small seashells, none of them bigger than your pinky nail. They are an interesting collection. I wonder if they reflect Snape's personality or mentality in any way. He always seemed such a plain, settled man. Until now, he was a flat character in the drama of my life.
"Which one is your favorite?"
Snape's voice breaks through my musings, and I lament the loss of my ability to tune out his voice. Then again, he no longer speaks in that teacher's drone, so I can't help it.
"I don't know," I answer, and rest my head in the comforter. "How does the snake live?"
"It's not real. Looks it, though, doesn't it?"
I nod into the bedclothes.
"So what inspired this great outburst of movement?" he asks, gently sarcastic.
"I needed something new to look at."
"This is an entire house, you know. Not just one room."
I am silent, and he knows that I am not ready to leave the room just yet. He is quiet, as well; I lift my head to look at him, and notice that he's staring at the hourglasses.
"Which is your favorite?"
He tilts his head to the side, and then stands and picks up the one with the white sand inside. He takes a seat in his usual spot on the edge of the bed, cradling the delicate object in those masterful hands of his.
"It's the smallest and the plainest of the collection, but it's also the most significant."
"Why?"
"Because it was the first."
I turn my head toward him and rest my cheek on my arms; I sense a story coming on. Normally he surrenders anecdotes or histories to me quite willingly, but this one is apparently not so forthcoming. It must be very personal.
"Draco…" he pauses and sighs, swiping a hand through his hair nervously. "When I…first realized the horror of what I was doing in the name of Voldemort, I went to the only person I could. Everyone else was either gone – dead - or no longer wanted anything to do with me. I was not even sure that Dumbledore would want to deal with me, but at least if he didn't…well, it would ensure me a quick death. But he listened to me; he took into consideration more than just the fact that I was a Death Eater. He considered what had driven me to plunge myself into such…reckless, mindless bloodshed. And he gave me a chance to redeem myself, to remake myself…he forgave me. Forgiveness, Draco. Gandhi once said that the weak can never forgive; forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. I never understood that quote until that moment. I knew I had done the right thing. You see, Draco, Voldemort, or shall we say Tom Riddle, was never able to forgive his father for being a Muggle. But Dumbledore…he didn't judge me. He forgave me, even though I had wronged him and countless others. He is the strong one of the two. Voldemort was merely skilled at propaganda and hooking those who were missing something in their lives…it is amazing how quickly a downtrodden man will abandon his morals when he is given a cause and a bit of praise."
Snape stops to take a shaky breath. By now I have closed my eyes. I do not need to see him; doubtless his face is full of regret, pain, and misery. Instead I let his mellifluous voice carry me. In its absence I cannot resist a few questions.
"Who is Gandhi? And that still doesn't explain why that hourglass is your favorite."
"Gandhi is a story for another day. I can give you a book about him, if you like. And as for the hourglass…" he pauses again, sighing. "The time right after my turn was a dark one. Death Eater activity shot up. People were dying left and right. Members of the Order, squibs and half-bloods and muggle-borns, even a few unfortunate purebloods…and I had to be there to watch it, even assist it, even though I was no longer possessed by the mad passion that had once controlled me. It ate at me, day after day, and I don't know how I even lasted as long as I did. One night, not long before the Potters were killed, actually, the Dark Mark burned and I simply…lost my mind. I tried to…remove it, to cut it out of me, literally, but when the first layer of skin came away it was still there; it was burned into me down to the bone. Voldemort was inside me, with me…forever. I couldn't stand the thought, so I…took measures to end my own life. Of course they found me, and I obviously didn't die, but oh, I did not want to live. I wouldn't leave the infirmary, not even when Voldemort summoned me. It is partially my fault that the Potters died; the meeting I missed was the one during which their fate was discussed. Had I known…perhaps someone could have taken steps to prevent it. But if it had not happened, Voldemort never would have been defeated, or at least…delayed, and I would be dead for sure. If things had kept going the way they were, I would have found a way to kill myself, even under Albus's nose. It was a mixed sort of guilt…but just the knowledge that Voldemort was gone, really gone, was enough to make me willing to give life a try again. But I was still far from all right, and still I toyed with the idea of suicide, and Dumbledore knew it. One day he came to me with this hourglass. He said that inside that hourglass there was Time; pure and simple Time. And sometimes Time runs out or Time stops, but it must always start again, and all it takes is one small reversal. And so it is with life; there are times that one may lose his thirst for life, or may just need to stop living for a while…but life is the only thing we are given without expense, and the only thing we can truly control for ourselves, and to let it end would be a most foolish thing. So you can be in limbo, but you must learn to live again, even if you don't feel the way you did or have the things you had – even if your life has been drastically altered, it is still livable, and worth exploring. And so he gave me the hourglass, and said that anytime I am tempted to give up, I should turn it over and let the sands remind me that there is something worth living for, even if it is only the simple greed of keeping what is mine – my life."
He turns the glass over in his hand, and the sand begins to rush down to the bottom at a slow, steady pace.
"Watch closely, Draco. This is your life…and right now, you're letting it slip through the cracks. You're letting your Time move on without you. And believe me when I say that every moment lost is a moment you'll wish to have back someday."
Before I can comment, he stands and places the overturned hourglass on the bedside table. A moment later he is gone.
I stare at the white sand for the next hour, my mind blank and overwhelmed. But when the last grains sift through the opening, I feel strangely empty and wish that the enigmatic Snape would come back, so that I felt like I was alive and not just a permanent lump in the guestroom's mattress.
* * * * * *
I nearly scare the pants off him the next morning, when I meander down to the kitchen for breakfast. His wand is between my eyes and he is halfway through a jinx before he realizes that it's me. Apparently I have inherited my late father's ability to sneak up on people.
