Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : ) 

Spoilers: All FIVE books!  Profanity warning. 

The Secret Keeper

by fantasm

Love can sometimes be magic. But magic can sometimes...just be an illusion."-- Javan

Chapter 3: Illusions and Delusions

In a flurry of green ash, a pallid face appeared in the embers of the living room fireplace 

"Bring me the boy," its voice rumbled, causing the whole room to tremble.  The elderly House Elf, who had been polishing the silver mantelpiece above the fires fell backwards in fright. 

"Oh, Master," it groveled, face bowed the floor, "Kreacher lives to serve the Dark Lord."

And it spun around and ran off to find the boy.

***

The Dark Mark on Draco's forearm suddenly burned as if it were being traced with a acid-dipped, razor sharp quill.   

A year ago, he would have cringed in pain, reeling around the room while gripping his the mark under a trembling hand, absolutely beside himself with the excruciating pain

But this occurred every time Lord Voldemort was angry or feeling particularly prideful.  So this occurred very often.

He ordered a House Elf to carry away his breakfast, suddenly having lost his appetite seeing the Dark Mark glowing furiously on his arm.  He had numbed himself to the pain of having the brand, but the angry contrast of his pale skin to the ugly black mark on his arm still unnerved him.  He preferred never to look at it.

Dishes crashed to the floor behind him.  Turning, he saw Kreacher, tripping over his own large feet in order to get to him as fast as he could, his humped back stooped over even more than usual.  He had crashed into the House Elf that had been carrying his dishes to be washed, and they both were on the floor, long limbs tangled in a mess. 

"Master," he panted, "the Dark Lord waits for your presence in the living room."

The House Elf pointed a crooked finger in the direction of the living room.

"I know where its is," Draco replied crossly, hungry, but now unable to finish a decent meal, "This is my home." 

"Son of most beautiful, righteous Narcissa Black," whimpered the sagging House Elf, "Old Kreacher is so unworthy to serve you."

And as Draco strode out of the kitchens to the living room, he could hear Kreacher punishing himself with a iron pan.

***

"Seven long months your parents and I have searched, but still no Potter," the face seethed, tendrils of flame shooting out and caressing to caress its pale cheeks.

Voldemort's red eyes flashed dangerously in the fire, and the wall of flame danced even more frantically.   

"That is unfortunate to hear, Master."

"We have searched in every home, in every street, every store, every conceivable place for Potter and Dumbledore- and because I am the Dark Lord and my intelligence far surpasses that of your Headmaster, I now how to find them."

The dark imprint on his forearm burned even hotter.

"Of course, Master."

"Have you ever heard of the term "Secret Keeper," before, Draco?"

"Vaguely, sir," he replied, wondering where this conversation was leading to.

"The Secret Keeper represents a difficulty because the secret can only be given willingly.  Such was the case with Potter's wretched father, Wormtail sought me and gave me the information voluntarily.  However- that was a special case.  This time will be very different.  The Keeper will not willingly give us Potter's position."

He scowled as he said these words, and the flames around him rose frantically with his anger.

"If there was anything I could do to ease this terrible burden upon you," Draco began earnestly, knowing at the same time there was nothing he could do.

Voldemort's scowl suddenly transformed into a pleased grin. 

"In fact, there is something you can do."

"The Mudblood.  She must be the Secret Keeper.  This magic is so ancient, so complex, that even the Imperius Curse can not extract Potter's location from her.  The Cruciatius curse may drive her mad and then the information will be lost to us forever."

"Then how do we-"

"How do we?  No, this is your mission.  Make her want to give you this information." 

"H-how can I do this, Master," he sputtered, all the while knowing full well what was expected of him. 

The Dark Lord seemed to ignore him altogether.  

"Narcissa was the top debutante of her time.  Exceedingly beautiful, charming, from one of the purest Wizarding lines in Britain.  But who did she unquestionably choose to marry in the end?"      

Voldemort smiled at his rhetorical question.  And with a sly voice, almost as an afterthought, he added- 

"You see, Draco, the Malfoys have always been good with women…"

***

Later that evening, Hermione lay among the rats in the cellar on the stone floor once again, after her brief moment of freedom (if you call being under the Imperius curse freedom, she added bitterly).  She counted the droplets of water that fell through the leak in the ceiling as the met the floor with a plop as if it were the most important occurrence in the world.  It was best to stay this way, mind concentrating on the most trivial of things- because that way, there was no room for things that actually bothered the crap out of her.

Like how Harry wasn't crashing through the ancient windows of the Malfoy Manor in attempts to save her (they were sealed and heavily jinxed, of course, but still, why wasn't he?).  Or why she had no idea what day it was, or what time of day it was, because the damn cellar was the same pitch-black whether it were morning or night. 

Or how she actually, for that ghastly split second after she overcame the curse, still wanted to kiss the Mudblood-hater.

Even recalling that shameful memory made her want to cast the Cruciatius spell on herself for a nice full minute so that she would have the appropriate punishment for this unforgivable sin.  Unforgivable curse for an unforgivable sin.  It made sense in her mind.   

But since she was without a wand, the best thing to do was to completely forget about the incident until she had a wand in her possession.  Then she could cast the Cruciatius spell until she was properly insane, and would never have to recall the moment ever. 

And until then, the best course of action was to count the water droplets.  The sound of metal sliding against metal vaguely interrupted the plight of the raindrop-counting.   

A single beam of light first bombarded Hermione's vision, and it slowly fanned out to illuminate the whole room.  She had a visitor.  She turned her face to blinding door, and saw a pair of fine leather shoes.  Definitely not Harry's.

And her eyes trailed upwards to the finely spun white robes, shining with silver trim, and to the face-

Draco.

She abruptly rolled on her back so that she was facing the wall, playing dead, hoping that she would blend into the ground and he wouldn't notice her.

"I've arranged for new living arrangements," he said, strangely cordial, a little too nicely for Hermione's liking.

She would have preferred it if he snarled at her as per usual, and said something along the lines of, "Rot in Voldemort's clutches, Mudblood," as he slammed the door on her once again, cackling madly like the Wicked Witch from Snow White.  She giggled despite herself. 

Draco disdainfully stared down at the unkempt savage by his feet and wondered what sort of honors he would received from the Dark Lord when this impossible task was accomplished.  Not only was she a Mudblood, she was now also a complete insane Mudblood, laughing to herself in the darkness.

"You probably need something to eat, first," he said to her, although he wasn't quite sure that she could hear him.  Or if she even knew he was there.  A combination of hunger, sleeplessness, and the Imperius Curse had probably affected her mind. 

She continued to lay, immobile, back still facing him.  Sighing heavily, bent down, hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her step after step until they were complete out of the darkness of the cold cellar and together, stepped into the light.

***

"Checkmate."

Blaise gave a very unladylike shriek of laughter, and applauded herself merrily.  Pansy was just no competition, even in something as trivial as chess.  Pansy merely cast her eyes down at her destroyed chess pieces, wondering why she allowed herself to play against Blaise in the first place.

And also wondering why Blaise had been one of her best friends for the past six years was another question she had in mind, but she didn't dare dwell on it.  Because if she wasn't there, who did she have?  Draco?

 If only she did.

"Oh, you're not even going to congratulate me?" Blaise asked in a mock-disappointed tone, finely shaped eyebrows drooping slightly as the corners of her painted lips tugged down into a pout.

"You congratulate yourself enough for the both of us," Pansy muttered, sweeping the chess pieces back into their starting positions with a flick of her wand. 

"You know, you're an extremely poor loser."

 Pansy remained silent.

"I mean, you should be used to it by now, right?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Well, you know… like with grades and stuff, and… of course, you're not all too popular with the boys… especially Draco.  You've been all caught up on him for the majority of your life, and here you are at his house and no action between the two of you?  That's… really sad, I'm sorry, Pansy…"

She trailed off, giving Pansy a pitying look, as if she were suddenly the most sympathetic person in the world.  That was another thing she added to her checklist- Most Beautiful Girl in the World, Richest Girl in Britain, and now- Mother Theresa.  She smiled inwardly, wondering if there was anything she couldn't do. 

"And I suppose you're having better luck with him?" asked Pansy, fuming dangerously.

Blaise immediately blushed, pale cheek flushing with a becoming pink, and she curled a tendril of dark hair around her finger mock-nervously.

"Well, I don't want to brag or anything, but…"

She giggled, extremely pleased with both herself and the scandalized look on Pansy's face. 

"You're…. You're a fucking liar," Pansy screeched, although she didn't quite believe what she was saying.  It was very characteristic of Draco to do this.

Blaise lost her giggly demeanor immediately. 

"Oh?  Just because you can't take defeat-"

Pansy abruptly rose from her chair, causing it to topple over behind her, and the chess board to go crashing against the floor.

"Draco will never be yours," she said resolutely, staring at the shocked expression on Blaise's face with an overwhelming surge of hate.  "And I'm going to make sure of that."

***

Later that night, the dream had returned.

Draco was thrust back to the lake, but at the same time, was painfully far from it.  The creature remained, moaning and wailing horrible from the middle of the lake.

But he had seen this all before, nights ago, and he wanted to see more.  And he did.  Within its long, spindly fingers, something was moving; wriggling desperately to break free.  And he had never heard the moans, the unnerving wails so clearly as he did at this moment-

"Yoran swa!" it seemed to cry, its voice still garbled in the dream-mist, as if its voice were traveling through water.  "Yoran swa!"

And right when he felt he was getting so close, the dream escaped him again, erupting into the same nothingness, leaving him as confused and unfulfilled as before. 

***

Author's Note:

I wrestled in some plot  : )

Thanks for reading!